by Mary Campisi
“So, I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know you while you cozy up to these people like you’re their new best friend? Are you going to tell them who you are, too? Because I don’t think they’ll all be so welcoming.” He thought of Nate Desantro and his pointed questions that bordered on interrogation. That man would definitely take issue with this.
She shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. Leave it alone, Grant. If you don’t, I’ll have to start asking questions about William.” Her expression smoothed, took on a knowing look. “You have the same cowlick, the same ears, the same walk. Add in the mechanical aptitude and the similarities are downright scary, aren’t they?”
Chapter 9
Nate grabbed the mail from the passenger seat and hopped out of the truck. One of these days Christine might remember to check the mailbox, but so far, no luck. She’d left the urgency to follow news and correspondence when she said good-bye to Chicago. Besides, she insisted most of the news she cared to hear about could be learned from Pop Benito, who handled local goings-on, and Uncle Harry, who still read four newspapers every day. Both men made sure they provided good coverage on those fronts, “just in case she needed to know.”
He opened the front door and smelled cinnamon. Lots of it. What was Christine cooking, and why? They’d made a loose pact early on in their marriage: unless it was a recipe he or his mother had preapproved and shown her how to prepare, she was not making it. That might sound harsh, but his wife had burned enough meals, ruined a pan or two, and smoked them out of the house more than once. She was a lot of things, almost perfect, but the woman could not cook. Fine by him. Everyone had their talents and it was best not to stray from them without a significant amount of practice—with an instructor. If the worst thing about Christine Blacksworth Desantro was her inability to fry an egg or make a solid marinara sauce, well, he could live with that. He tossed a flyer for landscape services on the coffee table, stuffed the two pieces of mail in his back pocket, and worked his way to the kitchen. No pots on the stove. He flipped open the oven. Nothing there either. Nate looked in the fridge. Nope.
A flurry of giggles from the backyard caught his attention and he glanced outside. Christine sat in a lounge chair several feet from the deck, blowing bubbles while Anna giggled and smacked her chubby hands at them. Soon there’d be another baby. More chaos. More junk in the backyard. And he wouldn’t change a thing. Nate opened the door, stepped outside. Anna spotted him first, her giggles shifting to shrieks of excitement as she ran toward him, her short legs moving double time. “Daddy! Daddy!” He made his way down the deck steps, scooped his daughter in his arms, and kissed her cheek.
“Hey, little girl.” He planted another peck on her cheek as she squealed and thrust her arms around his neck. When he reached Christine, he leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth. “Hi, babe.”
“Hi.” She touched his jaw. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Anna squealed again and tried to wriggle from his grasp. “Out,” she said. “Out!”
“Okay, okay.” Nate eased her to the ground and said, “Go find Daddy a pretty pretty.” This was code for whatever looked like a flower but wasn’t in “Mommy’s flower beds,” which usually meant a dandelion. Nate had caught a lot of grief a few weeks ago when he’d told his daughter to find him a flower and she’d yanked three tulips from her mother’s favorite flower bed. That’s when they’d come up with a code name. He sighed and sank into a lawn chair next to his wife. Apparently, conversation was all a matter of interpretation, and he was still learning to interpret.
“You’ve sent our daughter on a real hunt.” Christine laughed, rested a hand on his thigh. “She’s going to try to bring you every dandelion in this yard.”
Nate smiled. “Stubborn like her mother; refuses to quit until the job’s done.” He rubbed his jaw, slid her a glance, and asked in a casual voice, “Speaking of job, were you cooking?”
“No.” Her lips pinched, the small nostrils flared. “I know the rules.”
“Babe, we agreed.” His wife’s tone said she might have agreed, but she didn’t like it.
“I know.” She shrugged, lifted her chin in a way he recognized as “silent protest” and said, “Some things require a bit more work than others, but that doesn’t mean a person should give up. What if you’d stopped building dressers after the first one because you couldn’t get the drawers to close? You wouldn’t be where you are now.”
He never should have told her about his failed attempts. Okay, so he’d built the drawers a little too big to fit the cabinet, but he’d made new ones that did fit, and by the next project he had the process down. Christine couldn’t say the same. She’d made several attempts, and every single one had ended burned, underbaked, overbaked, and all but inedible. Yet, he’d stomached most of them, choked them down with a smile and a lot of water. Because she’d been so damned eager to please him, but it was more than that. Christine hated to admit defeat—to anything, even a recipe. When he realized that, he put the moratorium on the cooking because victory came in many forms, not always in the kitchen. But here she was, miffed he’d given her the boot.
“I smelled cinnamon.” He paused, his gut twisting at the possibility that his wife might not have been honest with him. After the Natalie Servetti incident that almost destroyed their marriage, Christine insisted they not keep anything from one another, even if it meant feelings got hurt. So, he’d told her about the kitchen restrictions, and she’d gotten ticked. Maybe that hadn’t been what she meant when she said they should be completely honest; maybe he’d been too honest. Nate clasped her hand, gentled his voice, the sound of their daughter’s squeals in the background as she ran around the yard, a bunch of dandelions in her hand. “The cinnamon,” he said again. “I smelled it.” He tried for humor. “Is it a new body scent?”
She sighed, her shoulders relaxing. “No. It’s the new air fresheners Tess wanted me to try.” Christine wrinkled her nose. “Smells pretty cinnamon-y, doesn’t it?”
Nate smiled, dragged their joined hands to her belly. “Yeah.” His chest squeezed with relief. And then, because he wanted to please his wife, he opened his mouth and said the words he hoped he wouldn’t regret later, “If you want back in the kitchen, go ahead.”
She eyed him, her tone stiff. Still ticked. “Will I require supervision?”
Oh, what the hell? He had a strong stomach and smoke alarms. Nate forced a smile. “No supervision.” The smile she gave him burst with happiness, almost made him offer more culinary privileges, like using her own recipes, but he stopped. A man could only take so much heartburn.
“Thank you.” She brought his hand to her mouth, kissed his fingers.
Anna ran toward them, dumped a pile of mangled dandelions in his lap, and clapped her hands. “More?”
Those blue eyes buried him every single time he looked at her. Soon there’d be another baby, claiming his heart, hugging his soul. “Yes. Now bring Mommy some.” When she ran off in search of more “pretty pretties,” he eased back in his chair, felt the poke of the mail in his jeans pocket digging into his back. He reached around and pulled out two letter-sized envelopes, one a request for a donation of some kind, and the other handwritten in lazy cursive, no return address.
“What is it?”
“A letter.” He held it up, stared at the script. “No return address.”
Christine gripped his thigh. “Nate.” Her voice matched her expression: nervous. Dread-filled. “Let’s read it together.”
He wanted to tell her that was a bad idea, that he was her first and second line of protection, and learning the contents of the letter right now would kill his ability to protect her. But he didn’t because the set of his wife’s jaw told him she was going to read the letter with him, and not a half second after. Nate tore into the envelope, snapped open the letter, and stared back at Gloria Blacksworth’s elegant scrawl, so different from the lazy script on the envelope. He sucked in a deep breath and began to read.
&nbs
p; The town views Nathan Desantro as a pillar of integrity and strength, a man who will do anything to protect his family, but what about the family he had before he married my daughter? I’m talking about his wife, Patrice, and the unborn child they might have shared. When Patrice left Magdalena, she was pregnant with his child. While she miscarried weeks later, the question that should be asked is, Did Nathan Desantro know his wife was pregnant with their child when she left town? If he knew, why didn’t he try to stop her, or better, go after her? He does not seem the type of man to let anything get in the way of what he wants. And if he never knew, well, that is yet one more sad testament to a bad marriage. I don’t really know what to think about a relationship like that. I will say I’m not thrilled my daughter is married to a man who might not be able to detect a relationship problem.
So, what is the TRUTH? Imagine Nathan Desantro’s life if a child had forced them to stay together—whether the child lived or not. Would duty have kept them together? I have no idea, but one thing I do know is that Christine would NOT be in Magdalena and I might still have a daughter who talked to me. I wonder what Christine will think when she learns about the pregnancy her husband might or might not have known about. He could tell her anything, but the question my dear daughter must ask herself is this: Is it the truth?
“Nate?”
Patrice had been pregnant when she left? Did she know? Had she planned to cut Nate out of his child’s life, raise the baby alone, or worse, let some unsuspecting sap fill the role? The thought squeezed his gut, squirted bile to his throat, forcing him to swallow hard.
“Daddy!”
Anna grabbed his knee, tugged at his jeans, her expression so pure, so innocent. Would his other child have harbored such innocence? His child. The one he’d never known about.
“Nate.” Christine clasped his hand, squeezed. “Look at me.”
He dragged his gaze to hers, didn’t try to hide the pain. “I can’t believe it. No matter what happened between us, she had no right to just leave.”
“I’m so sorry.” And then, “What are you going to do?”
That was easy. “Find out the truth.”
***
Nate knocked on Joan Miller’s door and waited. He hadn’t called because knowing his ex-mother-in-law, she’d refuse to see him. She was a real piece of work, with ten kinds of excuses for why her life had turned upside down. How about because of the fifth of gin that kept her company every morning and every night, with afternoon breaks, too? The woman had been a drinker long before he and Patrice got together, and he heard she’d gotten worse, heard she had cirrhosis and skin that was yellower than a dandelion. He didn’t care about any of that; all he wanted was the truth behind the letter he’d read, or as close to it as his ex-mother-in-law could come.
The chipped door creaked open and she stood before him, face yellow, pale blue eyes sunken, lips colorless. Pop said she’d been a looker in her younger days, before drink and the wrong men stripped her beauty, left her mean, empty, and desperate.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Joan.” He eyed her cotton bathrobe, stained at the cuffs, wrinkled. “Did I wake you?” The need for answers forced him to remain civil. Christine and his mother told him cooperation could be achieved with a small show of concern and politeness. Neither were his forte, especially when faked, but he had a mission.
“No.” She shook her dark head, ran a hand through the short curls. “I was resting, that’s all.” Those pale eyes fixed themselves on his face, tried to burrow inside his head. “What do you want?”
“I’d rather not have this discussion on your front steps.” He lowered his voice. “I doubt you would either.”
The eyes narrowed, the lips pinched. “I’m a busy woman. My time is very valuable.”
Ah, she wanted money. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet. “Of course you are.” Nate held out forty dollars, which she snatched up so fast she almost scratched his hand. What was it with him and mothers-in-law? Couldn’t one of them be human? Half-human?
“Five minutes.”
She turned away from the door and he followed her inside to a more unkempt version of years ago, not unlike the woman. The smell of stale coffee and cigarettes smothered his senses, made him want to state his business and get out fast. But this woman held secrets he needed, and if he had to jump into a pile of manure, neck-deep, to get answers, then damn it, he’d do it.
His ex-mother-in-law eased into a nubby rust-colored recliner and gestured for him to sit on the couch. “Well? What do you want?”
Nate sat on the edge of the couch, clasped his hands, and said, “Was Patrice pregnant when she left me?”
A flicker of something passed across her face, disappeared before he could identify it. “Pregnant? Why would you ask such a question?” She tilted her head, studied him. “Problems at home with the rich one? Hmm. Did the Blacksworth girl figure out you’re not the big catch she thought you’d be? That underneath all that honor and integrity you love to wear, you’re still just a man?”
If he didn’t need answers, he’d tell her to go to hell. But he did need them for his peace of mind. “This has nothing to do with my wife.” He paused, returned the stare. “But I do think it has to do with Gloria Blacksworth.”
The gasp told him his hunch was right. Joan clutched the recliner with bony fingers and sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not too fond of you, but that woman is pure evil.” She blinked hard. “Why would a person prey on someone’s weaknesses? Can you tell me that?” She eyed the fifth of gin on the coffee table. “I have an illness, you know that.” Her voice cracked, split open with pain. “I try, but…” She grabbed a tissue, swiped her nose. “I try,” she said again, “but it’s got a hold of me and it’s not letting go.”
She meant the bottle. Everybody in Magdalena knew Joan Miller loved her gin, knew she’d give up just about anything for one more drink, including the truth or a lie, depending on which got her a bigger bottle. “You’re talking about Gloria Blacksworth, aren’t you?” Nate asked, his tone gentle, encouraging.
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Gloria Blacksworth.” She leaned back against the headrest of the recliner, muttered, “Evil woman.”
“What did she do, Joan?”
“Made me break a promise.” Her lips quivered, flattened, eyes glittering with tears. “A promise that wasn’t mine to break.” A tear slipped down her cheek, first one, then another. She swiped at them with her tissue, bony shoulders shaking. “She pretended she cared about my—” she flung a hand in the air “—situation. Said she had her share of problems and it helped to talk them out. Problem was, she started pouring and I started talking and when she left, I didn’t know any more about her than when she walked in my door carrying a brand new fifth wrapped in a blue bow.”
That sounded like Gloria, the grand manipulator. “So, was Patrice pregnant?”
Joan nodded. “She made me promise to never tell you, said she was getting out of here and if you found out about the baby, you might try to force her to stay. She hated it here; you know she did. Set her sights on some big executive, hooked up with him right away.” She paused, drew in a breath. “Patrice told him he was the father, and as soon as her divorce papers were final, she married him.” Her voice drifted, slipped into a mountain of sadness. “Lost the baby a few weeks later. Sad time.”
That was my baby. Mine. Not some damn executive’s. He forced his voice to remain calm when he asked, “Nobody thought I should know?”
Joan snorted. “You and Patrice were a disaster together. The best thing she did was leave you, because you never would have left her. That damn honor of yours would have forced you to stay married, even though you were miserable.” She eased out of the recliner, made her way to the coffee table and the bottle of gin. “Want a drink?”
“No thanks.” He eyed her as she poured gin into a glass and gulped half of it. Not a cough or sputter. When she finished it off, she poured another.
“Why did that woman have to force me to break a promise?” She eyed the contents of her glass, shoulders slumped, lips pulled down. “I had to tell Patrice, just in case Gloria Blacksworth got it in her head to expose her. Know what I got for trying to protect my daughter?” She sniffed. “Cut out of her life, that’s what. As nice and neat as a surgeon removing a tumor. Patrice said I couldn’t be trusted, said I’d sell my soul for the next bottle.” Her voice drifted, spilled with pain. “I love my daughter, even though I know she’s embarrassed by me and my—” she eyed her glass, squinted “—habits. Guess this was an easy way to get rid of me without the guilt clinging to her.”
A tiny spec of sympathy inched through Nate, made him almost want to help her. “You should have told me.”
“Told you? Do you mean about Patrice being pregnant or Gloria Blacksworth’s visit?”
“Both.”
“Oh, Nathan, why do you always have to ride the white horse?” She made her way to her recliner, sank into it with a sigh. “If I had told you, what then? Would you have tried to keep her here, or run after her, ruining both your chances for a better life?” Joan sipped her drink, eyed him over the rim of her glass. “You wouldn’t be married to the Blacksworth girl, that’s for sure. You and Patrice would be miserable, and you’d make whatever children you had miserable, too. Think about that.”
Amidst the woman’s alcohol-soaked brain was truth. Nate would not be with the one person who had changed his world, made him want to be better, and taught him what real love meant. His chest ached just thinking of life without Christine and Anna. Okay, Joan was right about that, but what about Gloria and her damn manipulative ploys to control outcomes and situations she didn’t like? Nate could have stopped her. “Why didn’t you tell me about Gloria so I could shut her down and boot her out of Magdalena?”
Her laugh hung in the air, thin and shrill, deflating before him to a drawn-out sigh. “From what I recall with that Servetti mess, you’re no match for Gloria Blacksworth. Besides, she wanted me to do a whole lot worse than break a promise.” Pause, shake of the head. “She wanted me to lie, and not just a doesn’t-matter one, but the kind that destroys lives.” Joan finished off her drink, smacked her lips. “I might be a lot of things, most of them pathetic, but I was not going to do this.”