by Mary Campisi
“Bree?”
Leslie’s voice floated to her, quiet, nervous. Bree looked up from the plate of lo mein, met the woman’s gaze. “What?”
“I promised to tell you whatever you wanted to know about me and Brody, but it’s not helping you. It’s only making you feel worse. That’s what happened to me when the men I loved cheated on me.” She sucked in a breath, her eyes so bright Bree had to look away for a second. “Don’t let that happen to you. You’re a good person, you deserve better.”
Bree bit her lower lip. “You’re right. I do.” Brody Kinkaid had destroyed their marriage, damaged a good hunk of her self-esteem, but she did not have to let him live inside her like a boll weevil the rest of her life. She could shut it down. Now. Stop with the obsession to know everything about Brody and his mistress. He’d scarred her but good, made it impossible to trust another man, but so what? She didn’t want another man. Period. Bree set down her fork, squared her shoulders, and offered Leslie Maurice the first real smile since she met the woman. “I’m done interrogating you like you’re part of a police lineup. Details and dates aren’t going to make what Brody did go away. All they’re doing is making me bitter, and I will not let that man own one more moment of my life.” Her smile spread, her voice softened. “You deserve better, too, Leslie. If you decide to let another man have a chance, don’t let him own you. Okay?”
The words had been meant to provide comfort and encouragement, but Leslie Maurice’s face scrunched and tears poured out like a rain barrel with a hole in it. “Oh, Bree.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Bree moved to the couch, sat next to Leslie and put an arm around her. Who would have thought she’d be consoling her dead husband’s mistress? Certainly not Bree, who would have sworn on ten bibles that Brody Kinkaid had never been unfaithful, not in thought, word, and absolutely not in deed. Goes to show you just never knew.
Leslie pulled away, gave Bree the saddest, most pitiful look she’d ever seen and said, “I’m pregnant.”
***
Grant met Tess Casherdon in the produce aisle of Sal’s Market. She’d been trying to pick out a pineapple and when he spotted her holding one in each hand, brows pulled together, frown on her pretty face, he offered to help. The offer led to an introduction and when she learned he was the new owner of Judge Tomichelli’s place and a doctor, she somehow wheedled his marital status out of him. That led to an invitation to a cookout at her house where he’d meet a few of the town residents. He’d almost declined the invitation to the Casherdons’ picnic, especially when Tess hinted she had someone she wanted him to meet. A widow named Bree. He’d wanted to tell her the only widow he was interested in had dark hair and blue eyes, first name Maggie. But of course, he didn’t. And besides, he’d had plenty of attempted fix-ups come his way and he’d learned the fine art of diplomacy and deflection. Smile, nod, appear interested, and then inform the proposed fix-up that you weren’t ready for a relationship, not a long-term one anyway. That usually got them running, though there were those who didn’t care, who would take whatever he was offering, whenever he offered it, for however long. He’d gotten involved in a few of those, but the overall experience had been so ungratifying that he sidestepped future ones.
The widow named Bree might be looking for another husband—or not. She might not be on the hunt at all, but the victim of matchmaking attempts from an overzealous friend. That would really be awkward, and under different circumstances, Grant would decline the offer. But this was an opportunity to meet other people in town, ones who might know Maggie and be willing to share a few stories about her. That would make the awkwardness of a possible fix-up well worth it.
So, he’d accepted and now, here he stood, sipping a cold beer and enjoying the smell of roast pork on an open pit. He’d never been much of an outdoorsman, preferred indoor stoves and flushing toilets, but there was a certain simplicity and comfort about finding oneself practically immersed in the woods: the trees, the animal sounds, the scent of pine, fresh air, and nature. He’d met Tess Casherdon’s husband and an attractive pregnant woman named Christine Blacksworth. No husband, though a casual glance at the woman’s left hand, indicated there was one, somewhere. There was another pregnant woman too, Gina Reed, married to a police officer from Philadelphia who was on duty tonight and wouldn’t make it to the cookout. Grant had been about to inquire after the due dates of the pregnant women when a young boy in a neon-green cast ran toward him, face flushed, eyes bright.
“Hi, Grant!”
“Hey, William.”
“You two know each other?” A mountain of a man in jeans and a T-shirt sliced him a look filled with suspicion, challenge, and a trace of curiosity.
“Sure do. Grant helped me when I broke my arm.” William paused, added, “And he’s friends with my mom.”
“You don’t say?” The man’s tone said he was curious about the first and second comment.
“Yup,” William went on, unaware of the man’s intense stare. “Mom’s not here. She’s working.”
“Nate Desantro.” The man held out his left hand.
“Grant Richot.” How many times had people offered a handshake only to be mortified when they realized he couldn’t reciprocate in the usual manner? Not this man. He’d made his assessment and then adjusted his strategy. There was a lot to be said for a man who considered a stranger’s feelings. Nate Desantro could have shown his dominance with that handshake and pointed out Grant’s weakness, but he hadn’t.
William looked from one man to the other. “Can we show Grant the woodshop?”
Nate Desantro scratched his jaw, turned to William and spoke in a voice that said in-charge-and-not-to-be-questioned, “Go on ahead and we’ll catch up to you. Don’t touch the table leg in the lathe.” The boy took off in a run-skip toward a big wooden building leaving the two men alone. Desantro eyed him. “How do you know Maggie?”
Grant had prepared an answer for the inevitable time when someone from Magdalena would pose the question, and he’d figured the more he repeated the answer, the better he’d get at the presentation. He was good at using the right tone, inflection, look, all of it blended to feel so real. Hadn’t Grant used this several times after the accident that claimed his wife and his occupation? A smile, a nod, an acknowledgment that life did go on and in time he would heal, even when he didn’t believe it? But Grant hadn’t expected the first time he had to answer the question would be to a no-nonsense guy like Nate Desantro. The man would smell the fabrication ten miles away, and that left no choice but the truth, or at least part of it. “I met Maggie while I was in med school and she was an undergrad.” That much was true. “She was always in the library, even more than I was. I knew right away she wasn’t a big-city girl; I come from a small town, too, and we’re easy to spot.” More truths. “The way she painted Magdalena made me want to live there.” He shrugged as memories of those late-night talks filled him. “It wasn’t practical, though, because pediatric neurosurgeons need to be in a city, not a small town tucked away in the woods. Still, I thought about what it would be like. Then Maggie showed up one day and told me she was leaving school and heading home. No explanation, nothing.” Here’s where he massaged the truth. She’d told him she was leaving school and heading home after she lost the baby—after she relieved him of his commitment to marry her. And he hadn’t done one darn thing to make her stay. He hadn’t wanted her to stay, serving as a constant reminder of how close his life had come to taking a nosedive into marriage and parenthood, years before he was ready.
Nate Desantro scowled. “She came home because she was pregnant.”
“What?” How could he know?
The scowl deepened. “She was pregnant with her high school sweetheart’s baby. A rushed marriage and we all pretended we didn’t know why, but everybody knew. Plus, she’s my foreman’s niece.” He shook his head. “She is so damned smart, planned to become a pediatrician, but the pregnancy ended all that.” He pinned Grant with another stare. “That d
oesn’t explain how you ended up here. Did you two keep in touch?”
Something in the way he asked the question put Grant on alert. Was Desantro trying to find out if Grant and Maggie had been in contact when she was married? Hard to tell, but he had to shut down the idea before it turned into a possibility, and the only way to do that was with more truths. He did not want to give Nate Desantro a reason to become more suspicious than he already was. “Until I came to Magdalena a few weeks ago, I hadn’t seen her in eleven years. My life had imploded, and everything I thought I’d achieve by my age was gone: my wife, my career, my future.” He held up his right hand. “I had a great job, but I wasn’t the go-to guy anymore. I was the second-in-command, and I’ve never done well in that role.” He shrugged, dropped his hand to his side. “Guess there’s not much call for a brain surgeon who struggles with a potato peeler. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone do what you used to do, not even half as well?” Nate Desantro remained silent, his eyes on him. “It’s debilitating and the more you surround yourself with it, the worse it is, the worse you are, until you feel useless and worthless. During one of my particularly bad periods, I remembered what Maggie said about Magdalena, how it was a haven of hope, comfort, and second chances. I needed to feel that.”
“Maggie was right, it’s all of those things, but it’s not city life.” He paused long enough to let Grant know he wanted to make a point with this next part. “And it’s not for everyone.”
Maybe not, but Magdalena had Maggie and William; they were his hope, his comfort, his second chance. Nate Desantro didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t seem to expect one. “Let’s go find William.” They made their way to a freshly stained barn that, once inside, was anything but a barn. Band saws, planers, jointers, and table saws….all set up. There were different types of sanders and a huge dust collection system in the sanding area. But what pulled Grant in and held his attention was William, his small body still, gaze intent, looking inside a machine, as if envisioning the transformation of the oak log into a table leg.
“Nate? Nate?” Christine Desantro, beautiful, blue-eyed, and pregnant, peeked inside the barn. She smiled at them, her gaze landing on her husband. “Cash just took the pig off the spit. Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
There was something about her that spoke of class and elegance, and she seemed an odd match for Nate Desantro. But the way she said his name and the glitter in his eyes when he looked at her said they didn’t think they were an odd couple at all.
“Okay.” He glanced at William. “We’ll come back after dinner.”
“Promise?”
Desantro nodded. “I promise.”
“Bree’s here,” Christine said as they left the barn and made their way toward the house. “She brought a friend with her.”
Mention of the widow Tess Casherdon hinted she wanted Grant to meet put him on alert. He hated to be rude, but he wasn’t interested in any woman but Maggie.
“Bree lost her husband recently,” Christine said, turning to Grant. “They have three little girls and it’s been so hard.”
Her husband coughed, cleared his throat. “The guy was sure something else.” Christine shot him a look that caused him to shrug and made Grant more than curious about the comment.
“Howdy, ya’ll!” A tall, strawberry blond waved a hand at them, her smile spreading across her face. She was long and leggy and reminded Grant of a flight attendant he’d once dated. “The girls are with their grandparents tonight, but I brought a friend.” The “friend” had her back to them in conversation with Tess Casherdon. Grant took in the dark hair, the full curves, the tanned skin. The woman reminded him of his sister and when she turned, he knew why.
Bree’s friend was Leslie.
The losses in his life—his wife, his profession, his hope for a future—had taught him how to hide his true feelings, paste a mask of casual indifference on his face, even when he felt raw and exposed or totally off balance, like now. But seeing his sister staring back at him was a shocker. From the expression on her face, she hadn’t expected to see him either.
Leslie recovered first, thrusting a hand at Christine. “Hi. Leslie Maurice.” Grant waited as his sister acknowledged the Desantros. Why was she here in Magdalena? And how did she know this Bree woman? He’d told Leslie to stay away from this town, not to give anyone reason to grow suspicious of her connection to Brody Kinkaid. The wife was floating around somewhere and he didn’t want to risk Leslie running into her. Why couldn’t his sister for once in her life follow the plan without the drama? Why did her actions always end in a mess—in his lap? He had to get her away from these people before she revealed something he didn’t want revealed, like the fact that they were brother and sister, or that she was the 9-1-1 Mystery Woman.
“And who are you?” Leslie asked in a gentle voice as she held out a hand to William.
“William Cartwright, ma’am.”
Her gaze narrowed the slightest bit as she took in the eyes, the chin, the nose, the hair, pausing when she reached the ears. A slow smile inched over her lips, spread until it almost split open. What was she doing? Why was she smiling like that and studying William as if she could see inside to his DNA?
“Hello, William.” She nodded at the boy, honing in on her target. “You must be what, ten, eleven?”
“Ten going on forty,” Nate Desantro said with an exaggerated sigh and a wink. “Knows his way around a machine shop already. Give him two more years and he’ll be building his own tractor.”
“Ah.” Leslie said, nodding. “My brother’s like that. He can tear anything apart and put it back together.” She laughed, added, “Except for relationships. He hasn’t had much success with those.” She turned to Grant, eyes bright, knowing. “And you are?”
For a split second, Grant almost ended the charade but stopped. Leslie was up to something and it was better to find out while he might still be able to stop whatever she’d started. Bad enough she’d poached some woman’s husband and the guy had died, but to walk into the town where the woman and her children lived, attempt to befriend people? That was madness, even for Leslie, and it was dangerous. Grant fixed his gaze on his sister, held out his left hand, and said, “Grant Richot.”
“Oh.” She shook his hand, squeezed, and let go. “Nice to meet you. Are you new to the area?”
Damn you, Leslie, what are you doing? “Relatively.”
“Have you met Bree?” Leslie turned to the strawberry blond whose expression switched from sad to cheerful when she heard her name. The woman was no more interested in meeting him than he was her. Relief filled him, pushed aside wariness, but it only lasted for the space of three breaths, the amount of time it took for his sister to say, “This is Bree. Bree Kinkaid. She promised to help with my pregnancy.” Laughter fell out, choked the air from his brain. “Yeah, I’m pregnant.”
It took forty-eight minutes for Grant to get Leslie far enough out of earshot from the rest of the group, and she didn’t make it easy. His sister did her best to avoid him, chatting with her new friends, laughing at the pregnancy comments from the other women, especially the ones from Bree. What would Bree Kinkaid do if she knew Leslie was the mystery woman who’d called 9-1-1? And a baby? This was twisted on so many levels. Leslie had a lot of explaining to do and he had a lot of questions. “You’re pregnant with Brody Kinkaid’s baby?”
“Shhh.” Leslie darted a glance at the group sitting several yards away, enjoying after-dinner talk and chocolate fudge brownies. Grant had barely been able to chew his hamburger, and forget the brownies. “Not so loud. Everyone will hear you.”
Grant shoved his hands in his pockets, studied his sister. He had no idea how her brain worked most of the time: the irrational decisions, the disjointed conclusions, the desperate assumptions—none of it made sense. Why couldn’t she follow the plan he’d lain out for her? He’d found a place where she could have a fresh start, away from bad memories and people who had broken her heart and crippled her soul. She had a
job as a nurse, a luxury condo, a new start. And what had she gone and done but gotten involved with a married man and become pregnant. Her psychiatrist had said more therapy would benefit her, but she’d resisted and Grant had given in. His sister had lost her fiancé and her father within a span of a few days; who wouldn’t be fragile? Maybe so fragile you might try to harm yourself? But maybe it really had been more than that, much more. Grant lowered his voice, tried to smooth out the irritation. “That’s Brody Kinkaid’s wife.”
“I know.” She sniffed at him like she thought him ridiculous for stating the obvious.
“You had an affair with her husband, got pregnant with his child,” he continued, waiting for the moment his sister would tear up and admit her mistakes. She didn’t. Not at all. Leslie frowned, lips flattening to a straight line and spat out, “I loved him and he used me, just like he used Bree.” Her voice filled with sadness. “Why do men make promises they can’t keep?”
“Leslie, you and Bree can’t be friends. You know that, don’t you?”
Her blue eyes glittered. “She knows.”
The woman knew Leslie was her husband’s mistress? He eyed his sister, said in an even voice, “Knows what?”
“I told her all about me and Brody, and it turns out he was lying to both of us.” Her face shone with hope. “We’re supporting each other through our grief, and she’s going to help me through my pregnancy.”
This was twisted. “Leslie, you can’t do this.” He ran a hand through his hair, tried to stay calm. “Tell her you don’t need her help, that you’ll be fine, and cut it off.”
“No.” She stared at him, her gaze firm, her stance defiant. “I won’t. I need someone to get me through this and it can’t be you, Grant. Not again. You’ve done enough.”