A Family Affair: The Promise; Truth in Lies, Book 7

by Mary Campisi

  “What do you mean?” She’d learned more about Grant’s family life in the ten minutes with his sister than she had the entire time she and Grant were together. Would things have been different if he’d been able to share his parents’ issues and expectations with her?

  The woman swiped at her eyes, swallowed hard. “Grant’s sick. He’s dying. It’s the real reason he’s come here.”

  “Dying?” The words crashed into Maggie’s brain, pounded through her body with such force she grew dizzy. How could he be dying? He looked so healthy…

  “The house he’s living in is for you and William…when the time comes. You’ll inherit all of his assets, and he’s got plenty, and there’ll be a scholarship fund for your son. My brother would never want you to know he’s sick because deep down, Grant wants to believe you can still love him for himself, like I’m guessing you once did. But I can’t take the chance that you might turn him away and he doesn’t have time to wait.”

  Grant was dying? “What’s wrong with him?”

  His sister offered a faint smile. “That I can’t share. It has to come from him.” Pause. “When he’s ready.”

  “I see.” But she didn’t. Grant Richot, the wonder boy who had once had the whole world waiting for him, was dying.

  She touched Maggie’s arm, gave a gentle squeeze. “Please. I think you loved him once; can’t you find it in your heart to love him again, even for a little while?”

  ***

  Ben Reed looked out for Bree. He was just that kind of man, and it had nothing to do with his job as a police officer. Oh, but Gina was one lucky woman, and very soon, they’d be a family of three. Perfect. Bree sniffed, pushed away thoughts of Leslie and Brody. Would the pain ever go away, or was she doomed to live with an instant replay of her husband and mistress together for the next thirty-plus years? If her friends knew who Leslie really was, and what Bree had forced her to do—share intimate details of her affair with Brody—they would not be happy.

  Well, she wasn’t happy either. Not one bit. In fact, she was miserable, and the more she thought about Leslie’s play-by-play history with Brody, the more miserable she became. Why had she felt the need to know? Did she really think it would make whatever he’d done less wrong? The answer gobbled her up, forced her to admit the truth as it spewed out a big yes. She’d rationalized, justified, and held on to the hope that her husband’s actions hadn’t been as bad as she imagined. Oh, they’d be bad, but not horrible, not insurmountable. Not unforgiveable, because a wife did not want to remember her husband as a lying, cheating scumbag, especially if she loved him and had three children with him. And that’s why Bree had refused to believe that Brody Kinkaid, love of her life, had committed such a sacrilege to their marriage vows. Maybe a kiss or two, a touch, okay, lots of touching, but not sex. Except there had been sex, lots of it. And now, thanks to Bree’s sick need to visualize, the images lived right in the center of her brain, popping out at odd times, refusing to go away, demanding to be viewed.

  When the doorbell rang, Bree had her hands in meatloaf mix and her brain stuffed with images of Brody having sex with Leslie. This time it was the missionary position. Ten minutes ago, Leslie had been on top. An hour earlier, they’d been in Brody’s truck, with Leslie’s face in his lap. “Dang it all!” Bree washed her hands at the kitchen sink, wiped them on a dishtowel, and made her way to the front door with the sign above it that read We Are Family. Ben Reed stood outside, handsome as ever in his police uniform and aviator sunglasses. Bree opened the door, gave him a real smile, not the fake ones she’d been tossing out to well-wishers and the curious. “Let me guess. You’ve come for a glass of passion fruit iced tea and a chocolate chip cookie.” She paused, her smile spread. “Or three.”

  He stepped inside, removed his sunglasses, and grinned. “I am a little thirsty, and if you have any cookies lying around…”

  “Come on in. Mama sent over a batch of double-chocolate chip cookies yesterday.” She turned and made her way to the kitchen and the pitcher of iced tea. Gina couldn’t resist a chocolate chip cookie. She couldn’t resist a peanut butter cookie either. Or a thick hunk of lemon cake. Or double-fudge brownies. Not key lime pie either. Ben said his sweet tooth was not going to sabotage his wife’s healthier eating habits, so he kept the sweets out of the house, and foraged for goodies at Lina’s Café, Barbara’s Boutique and Bakery, and Bree’s house.

  Ben pulled out a chair, eased into it, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Where’ve you been hiding? I haven’t seen you in over a week.”

  She shrugged, placed three double-chocolate chip cookies on a small plate. Other than her father and Ben, there hadn’t been a man in the house since the funeral. She missed the deep voice of a man, the low rumble of laughter; heck, she even missed the ravenous appetite most men brought to the supper table. But that was all gone, along with memories of a husband who’d once loved her.

  “Bree? You okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine.” She slid the plate in front of him, handed him an iced tea and sat down. “How’s Gina?”

  “Big,” he said around a mouthful of cookie. “And getting ornery.”

  That made her smile. “It’s called pregnancy and hormones, silly.”

  “Oh, I know about the hormones.” He grinned, snatched another cookie from the plate. “And when I forget, my wife reminds me.”

  His words might sound like a complaint, but the sparkle of his blue eyes and the gentleness in his voice said he loved her. “Bet you can’t wait for the baby.”

  His gaze grew so bright she had to look away. “I can’t wait to hold her.” Pause. “Or him.”

  Bree nodded, picked at a scratch in the table. Brody had gouged it into the wood with a paring knife when he was chopping an onion for burgers. Straight through the shiny finish, leaving a quarter-inch gash where the finish had once been. “It’s a true miracle. Just you wait and see.”

  “First Gina, now a baby. I’m a lucky guy.”

  “Yup. Sure are.” Darn you, Brody Kinkaid, why couldn’t you realize how lucky you were to have me and the girls? Why wasn’t it enough? Huh? Why?

  “Bree.” Ben covered her hand with his, spoke in a soothing voice like she did when one of the girls was afraid. “I need to talk to you about Leslie Maurice.”

  Leslie? Why did he want to talk about her? Did he know Leslie was the 9-1-1 Mystery Woman, and if so, had he figured out she had been having an affair with Brody? When Rudy Dean came to the house that night to tell her about her husband, he’d been so respectful, no prodding, no pointed questions, just a sadness in his words that was at odds with his usual gruffness. The next day, Rudy Dean’s wife sent a coffeecake to the house, and his son, Jeremy, made a chicken pot pie. If Ben had known the truth about Leslie Maurice, Bree figured enough time had passed that he would have broached the subject by now—maybe not come right out and asked, but drop enough hints to maintain the confidentiality issue.

  And now here he was, sitting at her kitchen table, munching double-chocolate chip cookies and telling her he needed to talk to her about her husband’s mistress. Of course, he hadn’t actually called Leslie that. Not yet. “What about Leslie?”

  He hesitated, said, “How well do you know her?”

  She shrugged. “How well do you really know anyone?” Hmm. Wasn’t that the truth? You could sleep beside someone for years and not have a clue what really went on in their head or their heart. Ben eased his hand from hers, sat back, and crossed his arms over his chest. He had a fine body, lean and toned, not the mass of muscle on muscle like her husband. But, she’d loved that heap of muscle, loved the raw strength that could lift her in his arms like she was a five-pound bag of sugar. Had he hefted Leslie into his arms like that, too, twirled her around until she grew dizzy, and then planted kisses on her neck?

  “You know what I mean. Gina told me you brought her to the picnic at Cash’s and introduced her to everyone.” He rubbed his jaw, his gaze narrowing on her. “Wish I’d been there
. I would have liked to meet the woman.”

  “Really?” What did he know and what was he trying to figure out? “Why?”

  Those blue eyes turned to slits, the brackets around the mouth deepened. “I’m a cop. I check out strangers who pop up in town and start hanging around my wife’s friends. I don’t like that, not unless I’ve done my due diligence and given them the okay.” He paused, his lips flattening. “So, tell me how you know her.”

  Bree ran a hand through her hair, sighed her annoyance. “We met…at Sal’s. I was picking out yogurt for the girls and she was looking for provolone cheese.” Why was the left side of his jaw twitching like that? “She’s from around the Syracuse area. A nurse. Works at Renova Community. Pediatrics.”

  “Uh-huh.” He rubbed his jaw. “Where’s she live?”

  “Renova.”

  “Hmm. And this woman drove nineteen miles to Sal’s to buy provolone cheese? Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  “No, not every grocery store carries it. Some only have the basic ones like mozzarella, or Swiss, or cheddar.” At least that part was true. She decided to embellish a bit more. “Do you think every grocery store carries gorgonzola or Brie?” She forced a laugh. “Spelled b-r-i-e.”

  “I’m sure they don’t.” He sighed. “So, you had a conversation with a random woman you met at Sal’s in the dairy aisle and then you invited her to a cookout?”

  “Right.” Smile. Smile. Keep the smile in place.

  “When did she tell you she was pregnant?”

  The smile flopped and her shoulders slumped. She opened her mouth to tell him another tale, anything, so long as it wasn’t the truth, but nothing came out. Even the dang lie wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Bree.”

  She stared at the gouge in the table, swiped a hand across her face. “Huh?”

  “When Gina told me about your new friend, I got suspicious. This is a small town; everybody knows who’s coming and going, who should be here and who shouldn’t. Then she told me the woman’s name.”

  “Hmm.” Leslie. She ran a finger over the gouge, rubbed hard, but it didn’t blend into the finish. No different from trying to blend Brody’s wandering with his marriage. Didn’t work.

  “But I didn’t have to warn you about Leslie Maurice because you already knew, didn’t you?”

  ***

  Bree Kinkaid stared down at her husband’s grave. Grass had begun to sprout from the rectangular spot of dirt where sprays of roses had long since withered and died. Pots of geraniums rested at the head of the grave, in the area where the headstone would be once Zeb Nance finished with it. Another few weeks, Zeb had said, his tone apologetic when she’d called to inquire about it. People wanted to remember their loved ones with flowers and headstones and weekly visits. Bree had believed she’d be among those people, trekking to the cemetery every week, sometimes twice a week, to talk to her beloved husband, to laugh, to cry, to mourn all that was, and all that could have been. Brody’s headstone would have read, My One and Only, Beloved Husband and Father. Gone too soon. But not anymore. The words Zeb inscribed would be nothing but Brody’s name and the date of his birth and death. That’s it.

  She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Are you ready?”

  Leslie Maurice nodded from across the narrow span of the grave, unfolded the slip of paper in her hand. Both women wore large, black sunglasses that shielded their eyes and matching red scarves around their necks, a symbol of unity against the man who had betrayed them both.

  “Okay, here we go.” Bree cleared her throat and signaled for Leslie to join her. “The promise I make this day. Means my love is here to stay. In all the months, even May. Nothing will stand in the way. Of the promise I make today.”

  When they finished, Bree held up her paper and read, “The promise you made that day was not a promise but a lie. It meant your love will die. In all the months, even May. Selfishness and betrayal would stand in the way of truth, fidelity, and family. Of the promise you made that day.” She sucked in a breath and said, “Your turn.”

  Leslie inched closer. “The promise you made that day was not the one that’s here to stay. That promise changed. In all the months, especially May. Cheating and lying filled the day. Of the lying promise you made that day.”

  Bree nodded, knelt by one of the potted geraniums, ripped the poem into several pieces, and stuffed the scraps in the dirt, ignoring the dark smears on her hands. Leslie knelt by the second pot and did the same with her poem. Then, both women stood and examined their work. Tiny bits of paper stuck out of the dirt of each pot. They would disintegrate soon enough, victims of water, sun, heat; gone, as though they had never existed. Bree wiped her hands together, glanced once more at her husband’s grave before turning toward the hill that led to her car. She clasped Leslie’s hand, squeezed, and said in a strong voice, “And that is the end of that.”

  ***

  Betty Rafferty was loyal, dedicated to her job, and protective of those she cared about most: Nate, Jack, and those dogs of hers. She’d named them Sid and Fran, said they had their own personalities and favorite television shows. Sure they did. Nate didn’t care if Betty dressed the dogs in pajamas and tucked them into cradles, as long as she didn’t run her mouth about his personal business or Jack’s. Or babble about the latest goings on in Magdalena, usually having to do with a relationship issue or a situation gone wrong. Beneath that curly gray hair, the woman had antennae that shot out when information was within earshot. How Betty knew so much or why she cared about knowing it at all was beyond him, but Jack said it was in her nature, like strands of DNA.

  So, when Grant Richot walked into the office in his fancy clothes and blond good looks, Nate pictured Betty honing in on that million-dollar smile, peering through her cat-eye glasses as she asked, “How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for William Cartwright. His mother said he’d be here.”

  “Ah. William.” There was a question and an assessment in those words. “You must be the new man in town. Grant Richot, is it?”

  She said the name as though she’d just finished reading his personnel file and liked what she saw. Must have heard he was a big-time doctor. But who’d told her and what else had they divulged? Nate didn’t like idle chitchat or the opinions people formed about others based on it. So, how had Betty heard about Grant Richot? Nate sure as hell hadn’t told her, and he doubted Jack had either. Maybe she’d seen him at Lina’s or walking around downtown. A man like that wasn’t somebody who went unnoticed, especially in a town like this, where jeans and T-shirts or flannels were universal wear and dress shirts and slacks were for weddings and funerals.

  “I am.” Pause, a smile spreading all the way across the room. And then, “Your name?”

  Nate shook his head. Betty would melt all over the attention like butter in a hot skillet. “Betty Rafferty. Pleased to meet you, Grant.” She oozed with the “Betty Rafferty” charm she liked to say she was known for, though nobody but her had ever seconded such a claim. “How do you know William?”

  Nate didn’t miss the split-second hesitation at the question, a pause that reminded him of the conversation he’d had with Richot at the Casherdon picnic. The man said he’d been friends with Maggie in college, but something in the way he said it made Nate wonder if they’d been more than friends. He’d shut down the thought as soon as it leached into his brain because people’s secrets weren’t his business, unless those secrets had to do with him and his family. That was personal and that was his business. But whether or not Grant Richot and Maggie Finnegan had a relationship before she became Maggie Cartwright was not his business.

  “I knew his mother in college.”

  “Oh.” And then, “Really?” Tsk, tsk. “Sad that Maggie had to drop out of school and piecemeal her education. Still, you have to give her credit for finishing, and what with taking care of a husband and child.” She let out a laugh that ended on a sigh. “We all loved David, but he lived in his own wo
rld, wouldn’t know his right shoe from his left if Maggie didn’t point it out to him.” Pause. “You think that’s a sign of genius?”

  The man coughed, offered up a polite answer that said he wasn’t touching that question, no matter what. “Could be; there are a lot of different ideas on what constitutes a genius.”

  “Bet there are, yes indeed.” Her voice slipped a notch. “Bet you’re in that category, too, considering you’re a brain doctor.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said, surprising Nate with the humble words. “I’m good at memorization.”

  “Takes a heck of a lot more than that to do what you do,” she stumbled on that last part, corrected, “I mean, did. What you did.”

  Leave it to Betty to stick both feet in her mouth. Nate pushed back his chair and made his way to the receptionist area where Betty stood, her face ten shades redder than one of Pop’s beefsteak tomatoes. “I see Betty’s conducting interrogations again.” He nodded at Grant, held out his left hand. “Don’t tell her anything unless you want to read about it in the paper.”

  Richot grinned and shook Nate’s hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “You two know each other?” Betty asked, miffed she’d missed that detail. “And I’ll have you know, Nate, that I have never once divulged information to the Magdalena Press. Zipped,” she said, imitating the action against her lips.

  Nate raised a brow, rubbed his jaw. “Jack might not agree with that, Betty. Should we ask him?”

  “That old ornery sourpuss,” she huffed. “What’s he know? He’s always got an opinion and never a good one.” She tossed a smile at Grant Richot. “Has a soft spot for William, though, yes he sure does.”

  The shop door leading into the front office opened and the “ornery sourpuss” walked in with his grand-nephew. William removed his safety glasses, spotted Grant standing on the other side of the receptionist area, and waved. “Hi, Grant!”