by Mary Campisi
Christine scooted off the couch, made her way to Bree, and hugged her. “Oh, Bree, we’re so sorry.”
“I know.” She tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t budge in the right direction. “But there’s more, and when you hear what it is, you might not be happy.” She looked straight at Gina who stared at her as if she had an idea what was coming next. Had Ben said something to her? Of course he had; Ben was her husband and wanted to protect her. “I know the woman Brody was having an affair with; she’s the 9-1-1 Mystery Woman. It’s Leslie Maurice,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Leslie?” Tess scrunched up her nose, narrowed her gaze on Bree. “The woman you brought to the picnic?”
Bree nodded, waited for them to figure out the rest. “Uh-huh.”
“But she’s…” Tess shook her head, finished with “…pregnant.”
“Uh-huh.”
Now came the gasps. Then the silence. So much silence, Bree thought she might suffocate from it.
Gina spoke first. “Wow. I did not see that coming.”
Christine cleared her throat. “You’re friends with her, aren’t you?”
Bree lifted a shoulder. “Sort of.”
“Wow,” Gina said again.
“I’m a nut case, huh?” Bree waited for them to comment, and when they didn’t, she said, “I know it’s sick to want details, but I did. She just showed up at my door one day and told me who she was, and how she thought I was this old hag who didn’t love my husband and refused to have his children.” She let out a cold laugh. “Do you believe he told her that? I wanted to know every detail, and she told me.” Bree’s voice split open, oozed pain. “Every. Little. Detail.”
“You need to stop asking her,” Gina said, anger in her words. “Stay away from that woman; no good is going to come of this.”
Bree swiped at the tears slipping down her cheeks to her chin. “I can’t do that to her. At first, I didn’t care about her or how sad she was; I just wanted to know how long she’d been sleeping with my husband, and I wanted the details. All of them. Leslie was so desperate for a friend, she told me everything, said how sorry she was, how I didn’t deserve what happened. She was a victim as much as me.”
“I don’t think so,” Gina spat out.
“She’s got issues. Emotional and psychological. Men used her; Brody wasn’t the first.”
“What’s she going to do about the baby?” Tess hadn’t spoken until now. “Is she going to keep it?”
“I think so.” Bree took in the desperate look and longing on Tess’s face. That poor girl would take any child, even one that belonged to Brody’s mistress. Imagine that child in Magdalena? Would he or she have Brody’s blue eyes, his ruddy complexion, the square jaw? Could there be a worse nightmare?
“Tess.” Gina shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I know.” Tess nodded, looked away. “I know.”
Christine spoke next. “I’m sorry Leslie has issues, but I’m not comfortable with you having a relationship with her. The woman doesn’t sound stable. Where’s her family? She did not appear from nowhere.”
Christine was almost as suspicious as Gina, but who could blame her? Finding out your father had a secret family tucked away for fourteen years would make anybody jittery. “She has an older brother somewhere, but I don’t think they’re close.” What had she said about the brother? Not much, though Bree had been more interested in Leslie’s relationship with Brody than her relationship with her family. Still, next time she saw Leslie, she’d inquire about her brother, at least ask his name and profession.
“I agree with Christine,” Gina said. “You should stay away from this woman.”
“I can’t abandon her now.” Bree darted her gaze from Christine, to Tess, landed on Gina. “She’s pregnant. And besides, I have to find out what she’s going to do with the baby.”
“Ah,” Gina said. “You mean you have to track her because you don’t want evidence of Brody’s indiscretions floating around town. Too easy to figure out.”
Bree shrugged, looked away, and murmured, “Maybe.” But there was no maybe about it. The truth was stuffed right in the middle of Gina’s words. Bree could not “unfriend” Leslie Maurice until she knew her plans, long and short term, for herself and the baby. Was she going to give it up for adoption, keep it, and keep her mouth shut? The woman seemed sincere, apologetic, and genuinely interested in a friendship with Bree. But there were times when she caught her staring, gaze intense, lips pinched, body so still it scared Bree, made her wonder what really went on in the other woman’s brain, made her wonder, too, if Leslie didn’t wish she were Brody Kinkaid’s widow.
Chapter 13
The sound of the front door closing woke Maggie. She glanced at the clock. 6:22 a.m. Someone was downstairs, and the only other person who had a key was her mother. Why would her mother be here at this hour?
“Maggie? Maggie?”
It was her mother. She darted a look at Grant who sprawled spread out on his stomach, arms extended, pillow half covering his head. Naked. Exhausted. A swirl of heat burned through her, settled between her legs, made her remember last night…what they’d done…the pleasure they’d given each other…
“Maggie?”
The sound of her mother’s footsteps on the stairs jerked Maggie back to her current issue. She flew out of the bed, grabbed her robe, and stuffed her arms into it, fastening the belt as she opened the bedroom door. “I’m here.” She kept her voice quiet. Her mother did not need to know Grant had stayed the night…and the two before that. If William continued his camp-out with his cousins in Uncle Jack and Aunt Dolly’s backyard, Grant might stay tonight, too. But one look at her mother’s smeared make-up, disheveled hair, and wrinkled clothing said Lorraine Finnegan was in a bad state, so much so, she might not even notice a man in her daughter’s bed.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” Maggie made her way down the stairs to the third step from the bottom where her mother clutched the railing, shoulders slumped, blue eyes filled with pain.
“Oh, Maggie, what have I done?”
They were not going to have a conversation on the steps, with her mother teetering toward hysteria and Grant within earshot. “Come on, let’s go sit in the living room and you can tell me about it.”
Lorraine sniffed, followed Maggie to the couch, and eased onto it as though it took all of her energy to do it. “I should have taken William last night, then none of this would have happened.”
“Mom.” Maggie clasped her mother’s hands, said in a gentle but firm voice. “What happened? Was it Herb?”
A nod, a sniff, and then, “I love him so much my heart aches, and now I’ve ruined everything.” She swiped at her eyes, mindless of the black mascara and eyeliner streaking her cheeks. “Why did I have to lose him to see the truth?” Her small body shook, head bent, as grief poured through her. “I lost him, Maggie. All these years, he’s been waiting for me, and now it’s too late.”
“What happened?”
Her mother shrugged, swiped her eyes again, smeared more mascara and liner on her face. “We were having turkey sausage and sweet potato fries on the grill, Herb’s specialty. I made a key lime pie. It was so peaceful on his deck: the sun shifting through the trees, the warm night air drifting in, just the two of us talking, eating, laughing. I commented on how it felt close to Heaven, right then. Almost perfect. Herb finished his beer, set it on the glass table between us, and told me every day with me was Heaven and asked if I wanted to move in with him.”
Herb Carey had been trying to get her mother to marry him for eight years. She’d refused all three of his proposals, spaced two years apart, citing her need to maintain her independence. There was another reason, though nobody could quite figure it out; maybe Lorraine couldn’t even figure out why she continued to turn him down when she obviously cared about him. The two-year mark was up next month. Maybe he’d proposed a month early. “Move in and marry him?”
Fresh tears spilled down
her mother’s cheeks, dripped to her chin, her neck, onto her shirt. “We didn’t get that far because your mother opened her big mouth and started rearranging his place. Move the monstrosity of a kitchen table he inherited from his mother to the curb and get one of those round high-top ones with the padded metal chairs. You know, the kind they have in the magazines. Trendy. The back burner on his stove doesn’t work, so I suggested a new stove with a stainless-steel exhaust fan, and if you go that route, you really should match all of the appliances…”
“Oh, Mom.”
“I know.” She hiccupped, shook her head. “What an idiot, huh? But I didn’t stop there, oh no, not your mother. I went through the whole kitchen, told him that for a plumber he sure didn’t have anything fancy, not like the faucets he installed at Grant Richot’s house. He didn’t like that, turned all red and said he wasn’t Grant Richot, but I didn’t take the hint. I told him maybe he should be more like Grant.” Another shake of her head, a quiver of her full lips. “Why would I say that when I know Herb’s sensitive about his belly and thinning hair? Why did I not just keep my mouth shut?”
Maggie glanced toward the stairs, relieved Grant hadn’t overheard the conversation, or the references to his home or his person. “Herb knows you care about him. I’m sure things will be fine once you both settle down.”
“He told me to get out, Maggie. I’d started mentioning a few changes he might consider upstairs when he pushed back his chair and told me to leave, said if I needed to rearrange his life that much, then maybe I should find a man who didn’t mind being rearranged because he did.”
Well. Not only was that not a marriage proposal, but Herb had withdrawn his invitation for Lorraine to move in, and he’d suspended the relationship. “Give him time.”
“Time for what? To realize I’m ungrateful and selfish and he should be glad to be rid of me?” She rested her head against the back of the couch, looking worn and dejected. “Why can’t I ever be happy with what I have? Why do I always think I need just a little bit more and then life will be perfect?”
Maggie didn’t have an answer, knew her mother didn’t expect one. She’d wondered the same thing every time Lorraine Finnegan turned her nose up at what was offered, countering with a revised “deal.” How many times could you do that to a person before they stopped asking? She thought of Grant, asleep in her bed upstairs. If his sister hadn’t paid her a visit and given Maggie a wake-up call, would she and Grant still be at odds with each other instead of enjoying what time they had left?
“Mom, you know I love you and want what’s best for you, but you’ve got to figure out why you keep pushing Herb away and why you’re never happy with where you are in your life. If you can’t accept him the way he is, with his belly and his thinning hair, then let him go so he can have a chance to find happiness.”
“I can’t stand the thought of him being with anyone else,” she sniffed. “Vivian Donahue has been after him for years; I’ll bet the second she finds out we’ve had a tiff, she’ll be at his door with a blueberry crisp.” Lorraine cleared her throat, sat up. “I’m going to march right over there before Vivian does and apologize to Herb.” She paused, added, “After I clean up a bit. I will not have that man seeing me like this, as though I’ve fallen apart.”
Which you have. Maggie laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “Mom, this is not about besting each other. It’s a partnership, and it’s scary to admit the other person can hurt you, but you have to trust each other.” Trust. Interesting she should use this word when she struggled with it herself. But it was the truth, and there was no use denying it. If you didn’t trust a person, no matter what the relationship, you didn’t stand a chance.
“I know.” A smile slipped from her, reminding Maggie of the mother who said no roadblock was big enough or high enough to stop her from getting what she wanted. “Trust,” she repeated. “Are you talking about you and Grant?”
When Maggie fumbled for a response, her mother laughed, ran a hand through her hair. “Of course you are. I can tell by the red cheeks.” Another smile, a nod. “You could do worse than Grant Richot. That man will make a woman forget her senses.” Pause. “And not regret it either.”
Now her mother really sounded like her old self, and that put Maggie on guard. Nobody knew how to scrape past layers of evasiveness to get to the truth like she did. “Mom, we’re talking about you.”
A raised brow. “Are we?”
More heat, creeping along Maggie’s neck. “Yes. We are.” And then, because she had to try and squelch her mother’s questions, she added, “Grant and I are friends.”
That comment registered not only a raised brow but something close to a smirk. “If you say so.”
Lorraine Finnegan might as well have called her a liar and a fool, because that’s exactly what her words and her tone implied. Still, whatever was happening between her and Grant wasn’t anyone else’s business, especially the woman sitting next to her. For that reason, she pressed on, determined to sidetrack the inquisition. “I do say so. Grant Richot and I are friends.”
Perhaps she would have been almost believable had the man in question not taken that exact moment to appear at the top of the steps, hair less than the usual perfect, polo shirt half tucked in. Barefooted. And smiling. “Hello, ladies. How about I make us some breakfast?”
***
Grant had never considered himself a matchmaker, would rather jump in a frigid lake than attempt to figure out what made couples compatible. But Maggie’s mother needed help, and Grant figured he could provide that help without a lot of fuss. All he had to do was act matter-of-fact about the request that would get Herb Carey to his house, and once inside, they’d have a man-to-man, straight shooter talk. First, he had to get him here, and telling him he had an issue with the kitchen faucet should do the trick. When Herb showed up the next afternoon, Grant was ready for him, armed with a list of questions about the faucet, and a list of questions about Lorraine Finnegan, too.
“You got a beautiful home here, Dr. Richot,” Herb said. “It was a real treat to work on it.”
“Thank you.” Grant smiled, ushered the man inside. He hadn’t expected that the short, stocky plumber with the beer belly and the shock of thinning red hair would be Lorraine Finnegan’s significant other. “I’m really enjoying it, but the faucet in the kitchen sink is spraying all over.” Maybe because he’d removed a washer so he could justify a phone call to Herb.
“Sure thing.” Herb’s brown eyes softened. “Let’s take a look.”
Grant led him into the kitchen and watched as Herb laid down his toolbox and began checking the faucet, turning it on and off, trying the sprayer. “Hmm.” He unscrewed the sprayer, studied it, and discovered a missing rubber washer. “That’s strange.”
“What is?” Grant asked the question even though he already knew the answer. Washers didn’t just disappear, especially on new faucets.
“The washer’s missing.” He scratched his head, looked up. “Did anybody happen to take this apart?”
Grant shook his head, kept his expression unreadable. “Nope.”
“Huh.” Herb fished around in his toolbox, found a box of rubber washers, and took one out. “Let’s see if this fixes the problem.” Herb turned on the faucet and a stream of water poured into the sink. “Good as new.”
That was too quick. Grant should have disconnected a few hoses under the sink and maybe done something to the dishwasher, too. Now what? He had to think fast or Herb Carey would move on to his next job. “I hear you invited Lorraine Finnegan and her grandson into my house.”
The plumber’s face turned the color of his hair. “I did, Dr. Richot.” He stumbled over his next words, his face turning three shades redder. “I’m awful sorry for taking liberties with your home. I shouldn’t have done it, but other than the Blacksworth house, I’ve never been involved with anything like this. It’s a real work of art.”
Grant waited to comment until the man wiped a beefy hand over a sweat-streaked
forehead and looked away. “Does Lorraine Finnegan mean that much to you that you’d risk your reputation for her? Because people don’t like having their homes opened up for spectators to gawk.” Not that he cared if all of Magdalena paraded through his home, but right now Herb had to think he did, so he’d open up about Lorraine.
Herb’s gaze slid back to Grant. “I’m sorry, Dr. Richot. Real sorry for my actions.”
“Herb? What about Lorraine? Did she ask you to give her a tour of my house?” Grant pictured the woman sweet-talking her plumber boyfriend, running circles around him with her smiles and her words.
He shook his head, said, “No, but that woman has a way of getting you to do things you never thought you would, and making it seem like it was your idea. Drives me crazy.” He blew out a long sigh, frowned. “Plain crazy.” Another sigh. “But I guess we don’t have to worry about that anymore.” Herb turned back to the faucet, wiped it down with a soft cloth.
“Oh. Why is that?”
Lorraine’s estranged beau let out a long sigh. “We’re not seeing each other.”
“I see.” Grant studied the back of the man’s head, waited for him to kneel to close up his toolbox. “You don’t sound too happy about that. Big fight?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” He stood and turned to face Grant. “Real big. Fireworks big.”
“Those are the worst.” As if he had any idea. Women didn’t fight like that with him, not until he’d told them good-bye, and then he didn’t stick around to hear them. He wasn’t that man anymore and Maggie wasn’t like those women. “What’d you fight about?”
“Decorating. Can you believe that?” Herb ran a hand through his thinning hair. “She wanted to rearrange my whole house, throw out my mother’s kitchen table, and make the place look like one of those kinds you find in fancy magazines. I wasn’t having it, and I told her so.” He darted a glance at Grant, said, “We got into it and she said for a plumber, I sure didn’t have fancy faucets and such like you have in this house; told me I should be more like you.” He laughed. “Look at me, Dr. Richot. How on this earth am I going to be more like you?”