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

by Mary Campisi

  Richot’s face lit up, one-hundred watt bright. “Hi, William. Your grandma asked me to pick you up.”

  “Okay.” He turned to Jack, gave him a hug. “Thanks for letting me drive the forklift, Uncle Jack. And for showing me the milling machines.”

  Jack ruffled the boy’s hair, grinned. “Next time we’ll check out the punch presses.”

  When Richot and William left a few minutes later, Betty sighed, her thin lips pulling into a slow smile. “Now that is one fine-looking man.”

  “Don’t go getting all dreamy-eyed and silly.” Jack lifted the bill of his ND Manufacturing ball cap, scratched his head. “Nothin’ worse than a silly woman spouting off this and that about a man, right, Nate?” He turned to him, blue gaze narrowed. “Why do you think that guy was so interested in William?”

  “I thought he was very polite,” Betty chirped.

  Jack sliced her a look, said, “You can’t see past the blue eyes and the blond hair. Besides, I’m not asking you, I’m asking Nate.”

  “I don’t know.” He had his ideas, though, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to share them with his friend.

  “You think he’s got an eye on Maggie?”

  So, there it was. Jack could smell an intention from a mile away. Nate shrugged, caught Betty inching closer, and motioned Jack to follow him into his office. He closed the door, sat on the edge of his desk, and said, “Betty’s a bit more inquisitive than usual. I think Richot got her pulse racing.”

  Jack sank into one of the chairs on the other side of Nate’s desk and scowled. “That woman’s more interested in gossip than doing a full day’s work.”

  “She’s loyal, though, and that’s hard to come by.” He’d eased up on her after Christine offered the possibility that maybe Betty latched onto other people’s joys and sorrows because she had no real family of her own. Why would a person want to grab onto somebody else’s sorrow if he could avoid it? Hell if he knew, but his wife was much better at this stuff, saw things he didn’t, and he trusted her.

  “So, getting back to Richot. Is he sniffing around my niece? I didn’t like the way he lit up like the power company when he spotted William. What man does that unless the kid belongs to him, he’s a pervert, or he’s after the kid’s mother?” Jack scratched his jaw, said, “I’d say I could ask my lame-brained sister, but Lorraine has never been known to possess much common sense.”

  Nate poked around the issue. “Would it be so bad if Maggie were interested in him?”

  “Hell, yes.” He blew out a disgusted sigh. “Men like that aren’t interested in a small-town girl who runs around in scrubs and a ponytail, except for a way to pass time. And Maggie doesn’t need a broken heart. She already got one of those when that husband of hers died.” He shook his head. “Damn shame to go like that and so young. Makes her an easy target.”

  Nate might have agreed if he hadn’t witnessed the way Richot acted when he’d asked him about Maggie. Kind of like a lovesick puppy on the skittish side. Oh, there was something between Richot and Maggie, or there had been back in college, and while his wife might be the “relationship” person, Nate knew what “interested and ready to get more interested” looked like. And Grant Richot was definitely preparing for a heightened level of engagement. Jack must have sensed this, because he did not seem to want the man around his niece. “You don’t think the guy could be genuine?”

  “Genuine what?” Jack crossed his arms over his belly, scowled again. “Genuine bullshit? Yeah, I’ll give him that, but genuine about Maggie? Nah. David was about as exciting as a cardboard box, but at least you knew what it was and what it wasn’t. No way can you say the same thing about Dr. Fancy Loafers.”

  Nate shook his head, grinned. “Since when did you get so damn judgmental? Just because the guy’s a doctor and his clothes probably cost more than my truck doesn’t mean he can’t fall for someone like Maggie.”

  Jack shook his head, studied him. “Is that you talking about him and Maggie, or you talking about you and Christine?”

  “Maybe both.” Nate didn’t need a reminder of the rough start he and Christine had, the preconceived ideas about her, starting with arrogant and spoiled, and ending with heartless and self-centered. But his wife had been none of these, and it had taken almost losing her to realize that. People with money and breeding weren’t enemies—at least, not all of them. Gloria Blacksworth, however, was a number one enemy, even if she wasn’t breathing any longer.

  “Hmm. That girl’s made you soft.” Jack chuckled, rubbed his jaw. “Good thing, too, because you needed softening up, and Lily couldn’t do it all by herself.” He stretched his arms over his head, yawned. “I think I’m gonna have a chat with Maggie, see what’s going on. If it’s all on the up-and-up and she’s got a sparkle in her eye for Dr. Fancy Loafers, maybe I’ll pay him a visit, too. Find out what his intentions are…no harm in that, is there?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be subtle.” About as subtle as his sister, Lorraine.

  “You got that right.” He eased out of the chair, adjusted his ball cap, and pointed to the door. “Betty would want to tag along if she knew I planned to pay a visit to Dr. Fancy Loafers.” He paused, pulled his thin lips into a frown. “Probably prepare her own set of questions, like where are you from and do you think you have a future with Maggie Cartwright? Maybe even, are you gonna have children of your own?”

  “Now that’s nosy,” Nate said. Betty had always been curious, maybe a bit too curious at times, but she’d never meant anyone harm. He thought of Gloria’s notebook locked in the middle drawer of his desk...pulsing with life…ready to attack. He’d wanted to burn the damn thing, but it wasn’t his to destroy, though maybe it was time to entrust it to someone who could protect the town from what lurked inside.

  Chapter 11

  Pop stared at the notebook resting on Nate Desantro’s thigh, white with fancy roses on the front. Looked innocent enough, but he’d spent enough years on this earth to know that looks meant nothing. A rattlesnake was still poisonous. He scratched his neck, like he did when his psoriasis was acting up, which happened when he set to worrying about a tornado blowing in—and not the one the weatherman talked about. Nope, this one was brought on by people, but in this case, just one. Gloria Blacksworth. The woman still tormented the town from the grave and it looked like that had been her intent. Lung cancer or not, she was going to make all of them pay for welcoming Charlie to their town. Not that they all welcomed the man, because Pop sure hadn’t, but they hadn’t given him the boot either. “You telling me that there notebook could list the misdeeds of half this town?”

  “Could be,” Nate said, those dark eyes turning to soot. “I’ll bet the woman hired that investigator to get dirt on as many people as he could. And I’m not so sure Gloria confined the dirt to this book.” He blew out a sigh, filled with enough disgust and anger to blow the dang notebook off his knee if he had a mind to do it. But the boy didn’t seem to want to let the book out of his sight.

  “We think she might have arranged to have someone send letters, like the one Nate received the other day, and the one sent to Greta a while ago about Uncle Harry.” Christine Blacksworth frowned, clasped her husband’s hand. “It’s shameful and part of me feels responsible because my mother’s punishing the town that embraced me and my father.”

  Pop nodded, took in the tears, the sadness clouding her face. The girl did not deserve this, not when she’d done nothing but stand up for herself and claimed the life she wanted and the man she loved. She’d claimed Lily as her sister, too. It didn’t get more honest than that. “Some people have black souls, Christine, no matter how much they try to shine with fancy jewelry and bloodlines. Black is black. Your mother had a mean streak in her that was hell-bent on going after those who got in the way of what she thought she deserved. Nobody deserves anything, especially respect and love. Those have to be earned, but your mother thought she was entitled.” He wouldn’t tell them about the letter Rex MacGregor received because that would
be betraying a confidence, and Pop couldn’t do that. But he could imply, that he certainly could do. “Just so you know, Nate and Greta weren’t the only ones getting letters. Now don’t go asking me to spill the beans on who I’m talking about because you know I can’t tell.”

  “Damn that woman,” Nate mumbled under his breath. “She really was evil.”

  “But she can’t get you unless you let her.” Pop lifted a pizzelle from the tray, nibbled. All this talk about Gloria and her meanness made him hungry and jittery. Pizzelles calmed him right down. “Have one,” he said, gesturing to the tray he’d made that morning. “Fresh made and tasty; can’t guarantee they’ll still be around once Lily gets here.”

  “Thank you.” Christine took two, offered one to her husband, who shook his head, and then accepted it anyway.

  Was the man going to hold it for his wife, in case she wanted another, or would he eat it because she’d given it to him? Couples made interesting “people watching” and Pop didn’t like to admit it, but his Lucy could always get him to do just about anything, even after he made a ruckus about not doing it. Nate and Christine Desantro belonged together, and if Pop could help them and the town by guarding this dang notebook, then so be it. “I give Joan credit for shooting straight with you.” Pop pointed his pizzelle at Nate. “The old lady has her own issues and she could have bold-faced lied to you, but she didn’t. That’s got to count for something, don’t forget that.”

  The boy shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Pop cut him the eye, said in a voice that let Nate know forgiveness went hand in hand with apologies. “She’s got her own demons, and it’s not for us to judge.”

  The brackets around his mouth eased. “I know.”

  Nate Desantro was as hard as garden soil before the first tilling, but there was a soft side to him, too, that used to be reserved for Lily and his mother but now included a wife, a baby girl, and one on the way. Friends, too. From what Pop could see, the boy had his own posse of male friends, something Pop never thought he’d witness. But miracles happened every day. “What do you want me to do with the notebook?” Now there was a question.

  “Read it,” Christine blurted out. “All of it.”

  Pop squinted at the notebook resting on Nate’s thigh. “Hmm.” There was some serious weaponry inside that book, some capable of harming a relationship, a name, an entire family. The damage could be temporary or permanent; who could say? Would it be slow like aphids eating roses, or fast like a Japanese beetle on basil? He wouldn’t know until he opened the first page, and then the second, the third, all the way to the end, and by then, the poison from the tales would saturate his brain, fill him with a sadness that one person could harbor such hate.

  But what of the revelations? Would he be able to remain immune to them, not judge the actions of those inside the pages, not judge the people, some of whom could be his friends? He didn’t know, had a sudden rush of discomfort in his gut that had nothing to do with the pizzelles and iced tea. Pop glanced at the portrait of his dear Lucy. Heaven help us, and all the saints, and you too, because I don’t know if I can do what they’re asking.

  “Pop?” Christine touched his hand. “Are you okay?”

  He rubbed a hand over his forehead, cleared his throat, darted another look at Lucy’s portrait. “I don’t know if I can do this. Once I open that book, it’s all over.” He blinked hard. “If that woman’s got as much dirt on the people in this town as you think she does, I don’t want to know about it.”

  “Okay.” This from Christine. “It wasn’t fair to ask you.”

  “No, it isn’t fair,” her husband said. “But you’re the best choice. You might look at a few people differently, but you wouldn’t judge, and you might even find a way to help if they’re beating themselves up for whatever they did. You wouldn’t use it against them, and you sure as hell wouldn’t use it for personal gains.”

  “I absolutely would never do that,” Pop vowed, his voice firm, his conviction strong.

  “There could be very damaging information in this notebook,” Nate said. “Christine doesn’t want to read it, and I wanted to burn the damn thing, but she thinks selective knowledge of the contents will help us fight what’s inside.”

  “And I’d be the one giving you the selective knowledge by figuring out what’s gonna cause a thunderstorm and what’s gonna be a tsunami?” Pop would have to learn to catalog the contents into secret and extra-secret, but maybe he could help a few individuals in this town get past old wrongs.

  “Yeah, something like that.” Nate nodded, squeezed his wife’s hand. “You’d be the warning; tell us if there was something dangerous in there to a person’s life, family, relationships. It’s been in my desk drawer for months, but with this last letter, we’re not waiting for the next one to land in someone’s mailbox. We don’t know how we’ll handle telling the person involved, but we’re working on that.”

  Christine glanced at her husband, smiled. “And we’re going to figure out who’s sending these letters.”

  “How you plan to do that? Get the ex-cop and the cop working on it?” Actually those boys might do a dang good job. Cash Casherdon was nobody’s fool; the boy had grit and enough street smarts to outwit the person sending the letters. Ben Reed was Mr. No-Nonsense and Pop bet he could spot a lie fifty-two feet away. The more he thought on it, the more he liked the idea.

  “Yup, that’s exactly what we plan to do.” Nate bit into the pizzelle he’d been holding for the past several minutes, the one he indicated he didn’t want. Goes to show: a good partner could convince a man to do just about anything. Pop looked up at his Lucy, smiled. All right, all right, I hear you. If you think I should take on the job, I’ll do it. He turned to Nate and Christine. “Count me in. I’ll read the notebook.”

  ***

  Grant knew women almost as well as he knew his surgical instruments, and three seconds after he spotted the dark-haired woman studying him from across the produce aisle of Sal’s Market, he knew her type; determined, entitled, persistent. He turned back to the asparagus he’d been selecting and hoped she’d go away. Of course, he figured she wouldn’t. That type never did.

  “Excuse me? Are you Grant Richot?”

  So predictable. He pasted a smile on his face, glanced up, took in the green eyes, the full lips. Diamond studs, silk blouse, linen slacks. Money and beauty made a winning combination in most circles. But Grant didn’t travel in those circles anymore, hadn’t in years. “I am.” His smile spread, giving him an extra second to assess the woman. There was a tone in her voice that spoke of culture and breeding. Add those to money and beauty, and the woman would have her pick of eligible men, if she were so inclined. And from the look in her eyes, this woman was definitely inclined and interested in a man. Why him? She didn’t know anything about him. Even if she’d learned bits and pieces from the residents of Magdalena, what could she possibly know about him, the man behind the M.D.? He could answer that without thinking: she didn’t know anything about the real Grant Richot and, furthermore, she didn’t care that she didn’t know.

  Now that he’d bet on.

  The woman glanced at his right hand, then lit up the grocery store with her smile. “Cynthia Carlisle.” Pause, “My family owns the Carlisle auto dealership in town.”

  As in, my family has money and that’s my money, too. What would she say if he told her his father had been a pastor and his mother a piano teacher? “Nice to meet you, Cynthia. I’m not in the market for a car, but thanks for letting me know.”

  Her low, throaty laugh spilled over him, tried to latch onto his senses. “You don’t need to be in the market to visit,” she said. “I’ll be happy to give you a test drive.”

  I’ll bet you would. “Thanks.” He glanced at the asparagus in his hand, said, “I’ve got to get going, I’m already late.” Not exactly, but it could be true if Maggie had agreed to dinner with him. Which she hadn’t, but if she had, he’d be running behind because chicken took time to marinat
e.

  Cynthia Carlisle gave him the once-over, slow and steady in case he didn’t pick up on the perusal, which he had. “I’m throwing a party this Saturday. Why don’t you come?” Before he could decline, she clutched his arm, leaned close enough for him to smell her jasmine perfume, and said, “Everyone will be there. People you’re going to want to meet. They’re all my friends.” She squeezed his arm, leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “Say you’ll come.” She brushed her lips over his earlobe. “Please?”

  Grant didn’t jerk back or remove the hand clutching his arm, though he wanted to do both. He’d learned years ago that the way to control the situation was to pretend it didn’t affect him. “Thanks for the invitation.”

  “So, you’ll come?” She didn’t wait for a response, reached in a small handbag, and removed a business-size card. “Here’s the information.” One last smile and then, “See you Saturday at 7:00 p.m. You won’t regret it.”

  She turned and walked away, a seductive sway of hips and hair: an invitation to look, touch, enjoy. Grant sighed, shook his head, and concentrated on the asparagus in his hand. There had been a time when he’d been lured in by women like that—the hunter and the hunted. It hadn’t mattered which he was, as long as he wasn’t “the trapped” and after the close call with Maggie Finnegan, he’d made sure he was never in that position again. When Jennifer came along, he was at a point in his life where the chase was getting old; he wanted more than sex and seduction. He’d actually wanted a relationship, marriage, a child or two. It had all been so damned easy with Jennifer, the plans and possibilities for their futures and their careers, limitless. Finally, Grant could stop pushing forward to that next goal; finally he could take a break and be happy.

  And then it had all ended, and the life he’d planned had spiraled and crashed, landed him back with the first woman he’d really cared about, maybe the first woman he’d loved. There’d been several “Cynthia Carlisles” looking for a place in his life, but there’d never been another Maggie Finnegan. He pondered that thought the rest of the afternoon as he put away the groceries, made a marinara sauce, and began working on plans to motorize his sliding patio door. Life had settled into a slow pace that was a welcome reprieve from years of grueling work, deadlines, and limited sleep. But it couldn’t continue, not for more than another few months, because at some point Grant would have to decide if he were going to return to the Stevens Institute or resign. If he did resign, then what? There was always consulting; he’d had a number of offers, and the travel could prove interesting, yet taxing, if he had a family. Teaching was another option, but that would most likely mean a university, and Magdalena’s closest postsecondary option was a community college in Renova. Lecturing, writing for medical publications, choosing an administrative position in a hospital were all possibilities.