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

by Mary Campisi

  He clenched his jaw to keep from saying things he’d later regret. Pain and loss had a way of tossing out cruelties in an attempt to stop the bleeding of a wounded soul, but he wouldn’t do that to Maggie. He loved her, would always love her even though she didn’t feel the same way about him, had only been with him out of obligation. There were questions swirling in his brain that demanded answers and the least she could do was give them to him. When he’d regained his composure, he asked, “Why didn’t you come to me? I would have told you my sister has issues, that she’s spent time in a psychiatric institution. I would have told you she tried to take her life, that she’s very fragile and has trouble functioning when her world doesn’t turn out the way she thinks it should.” Should he tell her about Leslie’s pregnancy, courtesy of Brody Kinkaid, and subsequent miscarriage? No, he couldn’t do that to Bree Kinkaid and her family.

  “I was afraid.” She paused, looked away. “And I guess part of me had an excuse for being with you and not feeling guilty about it.”

  “Because I was dying?” he bit out. When she nodded, he said, “And the guilt? What was that about? David rescuing you and then having the damn bad luck to die, and me waltzing in for the spoils?” A shrug was all he got, but that was all he needed to know; he’d hit the target. Curiosity got him. “What was I supposed to be dying of—cancer, heart, what?”

  “She wouldn’t say, said it had to come from you.” Pause, a sniff. “When the time came.”

  “Ah, when the time came. This sounds worse than a bad soap opera. Maybe we can rewrite a few lines and I’ll die, and then come back as a twin brother, or maybe I won’t die at all. It will be a dream or a nightmare, depending on how you look at it. Gone one second, and bam, back the next. Bigger, better model.” He needed a scotch; no, he needed three scotches. But that would have to come later, when all that remained in his soul were lost hope and shredded dreams…and the knowledge that Maggie had only been with him out of fear and pity. Grant clasped his right hand, felt the scars. These scars were nothing compared to the ones Maggie Finnegan Cartwright would leave in his heart, his soul.

  She moved toward him, hands on hips, lips pinched. “Do you know how many nights I’ve lain awake, praying you’d tell me what was going on with you, so I could help? From the second she told me you were ill, I tried to find signs of it, weakness, bruising, cough, anything. When you were sleeping, I checked your back, your legs, your arms…any part of your skin I could see. Felt for lumps.” Her eyes glittered with emotion that could have been anger, pain, sadness, or all three. “Do not tell me I don’t care because that is just not true.”

  He wanted to believe her, wanted to believe she could care about him without blackmail and a sob story. Or the promise of money. “Did my sister say anything about this house or a financial settlement if you stayed with me?” Oh, she didn’t like that question. Whatever emotion had been in those eyes before had switched to pure anger—hot, destructive, ticked. “Well? Did she?” Just tell the truth, that’s all I want to know. I won’t blame you. I’ll forgive you. Just say it. But she didn’t. Instead, she took offense to the question, a tactic employed by those who wanted to avoid an answer they knew wouldn’t be pleasing to the listener.

  “How could you ask such a question? Have I ever been about money?”

  No, he couldn’t say money had mattered to her—then. However, a sick husband, medical bills that remained long after his death, a paltry life insurance policy that did little to help, and a son could change a person’s view on money and its importance. “Humor me, Maggie. Did Leslie mention money to you and what you might be entitled to once I’m gone?”

  She could stare with the best of them, maybe win at a hand or two of poker, too, because this woman erased the emotion from her face and he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he knew what Leslie had told him. His sister lived in her own fantasy world most of the time, but he didn’t think she’d lied about this.

  Maggie looked away, let a single word fall from her lips. “Yes.”

  His chest squeezed, his lungs burned, but he pushed on. “And?” He wanted details, all of them.

  “Grant—”

  “Just tell me. Did she lay out a plan to sweeten the deal? Maybe say you’d get the house and some cash?” He paused, rubbed the knot at the back of his neck. “Lots of cash. And William would have a scholarship fund and pretty much whatever else he needed?” He met her gaze, zeroed in on the faint blush creeping over her cheeks. A guilt blush is what it looked like to him. “Well?”

  “Yes,” she bit out. “Yes, to all of it. Is that what you want to hear, whether it’s true or not? Then fine, your sister told me we’d inherit everything once you died.” Those green eyes narrowed on him, spit fire. “All I had to do was let you get to know William, and let you be part of our family. What difference did it make, right? You were going to die of some illness she wouldn’t divulge, and it wasn’t going to take too long either. She hinted at a year.” Maggie nodded, those full lips pulling into a smile that froze his soul. “A year isn’t a long time for all that money, do you think? And she said there’d be more if I slept with you.” Her laughter squeezed his heart, ripped it apart. “Why not, I thought. I slept with the guy for free, why not get paid for it?”

  “Stop it.” She was trying to hurt him now, make him pay for his accusations.

  She lifted a brow, stared. “So now you don’t want to hear what we talked about?”

  “I just want the truth.”

  Another laugh, a scowl. “Whose truth, Grant? Yours? Mine? Your sister’s? I told you the truth.” She paused, studied him. “Why couldn’t you believe me?”

  Grant shoved his hands in his pockets, frowned. “Think about what you just said, and then ask me again why I’m questioning what you told me.”

  “You need to leave.”

  “Little too much truth for you, Maggie?”

  She glared, repeated, “You need to leave—now.”

  He opened his mouth to apologize for his harsh words, ask her to give him a chance to explain the reason, but most of all give them a chance to start over. Be a real family. But nothing came out. Maggie hugged her arms to her middle, turned away, and shut him out of her life. Grant stared at the slender shoulders, the shiny hair, the curved hips, wished she’d loved him as much as he loved her. And then he was gone.

  ***

  Jack Finnegan hadn’t been married for almost forty-seven years and raised five children without learning the value of silence. A person could tolerate only so much idle chitchat and nonsensical blabber before he had to get away, find a place where he could recharge and unwind. Usually alone, though once in a while, with company. When Jack grabbed his fishing pole and tackle box, Dolly didn’t ask where he was going or when he’d be back.

  He’d felt the need to get away this afternoon, had clocked out of work, packed the truck, and picked up William on his way to Boon’s Peak, Nate’s favorite fishing hole. Dolly had fixed them a couple of peanut butter and banana sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade, and beef jerky. Didn’t get any better than that, unless they caught a trout or two and had them for dinner tomorrow.

  “Uncle Jack, what’s going on with Mom?”

  Jack squinted at his great-nephew, took in the boy’s ND Manufacturing cap, the scrunched-up nose, the frown. The boy sure was a worrywart. “What do you mean?”

  William shrugged, dragged his gaze to the fishing line that bobbed in the water, waiting for a trout to bite. “She’s acting weird. I heard her talking to Grandma the other day and then she started crying. And the last two nights when Grant came to pick me up for a baseball game, she didn’t come outside and talk to him like she always does.” His voice dipped, swirled with concern. “He didn’t ask about her either, and he always asks about Mom.” He slid a look at Jack. “You think they had a fight?”

  “Dunno.” Sure as hell sounded like it.

  “Huh. What would they fight about?”

  “Dunno.” But if I’m a guessin
g man, I think I do know.

  William scratched his jaw, eyes narrowed like he was searching hard for an answer. “You think they were fighting about me?”

  “Nah.” Why did kids carry that blame, like they were responsible for the knucklehead actions of adults? Damn, but it was a shame and Jack wasn’t having the boy wallow in guilt that wasn’t deserved. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “Oh.” And then, as if the kid didn’t have enough to ponder, he asked, “You think they like each other, like boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  Bingo! Jack lifted a shoulder, stared at his line bobbing in the pond. “Could be. What do you think?”

  “Maybe.” And then, “Is that weird?”

  “Do you think it’s weird?” Jack squinted at the water, waited for William to process his answer.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Pause. “Grandma says Grant’s a better catch than the wide-mouthed bass that won you first place last year.”

  Damn Lorraine and her big mouth.

  “What does she mean by that?”

  “She means she’s crazy and doesn’t know any better.” Jack let out a loud sigh, muttered a few curse words under his breath, too low for the boy to make out. Lorraine was a trying woman, even if she was his sister. “You can’t compare a person to a fish. Remember that, boy. A fish is a lot trickier to catch and a lot quieter, too.” Jack scratched his stubbled jaw, considered what he’d tell his sister when he saw her again; it would start and end with Stop filling the boy’s head with foolishness.

  William laughed. “Grandma says she wants to get married on a boat. I think she means one of those cruise ships.”

  “Of course she does.” Lorraine would be the type to go in for the fanfare and flash. Nothing was ever simple or easy with that woman. “Next she’ll be talking that poor fool into taking a honeymoon on some island where people sip drinks from coconuts and run around half-naked.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yup.” Jack shook his head, tried to blot out images of his sister and Herb Carey on some island, minus sensible clothes. The thought was enough to give him indigestion and he hadn’t even started on the beef jerky yet. “So, what about this Grant fella? Tell me about him.”

  “He likes to build stuff, like me. Said he has a whole bunch of parts in his basement: motors, switches, gears, old radios, VCRs.” He paused, asked, “Uncle Jack, what’s a VCR?”

  “It’s an old-school DVD player.”

  “Oh.” The boy’s voice grew excited. “He’s going to take some of those things apart, figure out how they work, then build some really cool stuff from them. Did you know that no experiment is ever a waste? That’s what Grant says. He says you learn from all of your projects and your mistakes. That the most important part of learning is curiosity because that pushes you to ask questions and figure things out.”

  “Huh.” The boy didn’t sound like he minded having Grant Richot around. In fact, William and Dr. Fancy Loafers seemed to have a lot in common. An awful lot. Including Maggie. Question was, why the argument? Something didn’t smell right because he’d never known Maggie to avoid a problem or cry over a man, and the boy said she’d done both. Now why was that?

  “Grant said after I get my cast off next Tuesday, he’ll take me to the junkyard to pick out parts for the sliding patio door project. He said…” The boy’s voice drifted off, stalled. When he found his words, there was a heap of confusion mixed in, more jumbled than the junkyard he was talking about. But in the center of it was the answer to the puzzle he’d been after. “I’ve been talking about Grant a lot.”

  “Yup.” Mr. Junior Analysis at work.

  “I think that means I’m okay if he and Mom like each other.” Pause. “Like boyfriend and girlfriend,” he added. “But what I can’t figure out is why they’re not talking to each other.”

  Jack had let the poor boy wrestle with this issue long enough. Relationships on a good day were a pain in the butt, but on a bad day, when nothing was lining up—least of all the reasons behind the problems—well, that was pure misery. That’s when somebody else had to step in and make a person see reason, and he was that somebody. He rested a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and said, “How about I pay this Grant a visit, see what’s what?”

  Chapter 16

  Grant hadn’t spoken to Maggie in six days. Why did it bother him so much, make him restless and irritated? He’d gone eleven years without talking to her; what was six days? The answer smothered him, stole his breath, and squeezed his heart. These last weeks with her and William had given him hope, shown him what family could be, how real love could make a person believe in second chances and starting over. And now it was gone.

  Had he ever had it with Maggie, or was it all one-sided, with him so head-over-heels for her he didn’t even realize he was being played? Maybe this was payback for all the tears women had shed in their attempts to claim him. While he’d treated them to fine restaurants, expensive jewelry, cross-country and overseas trips, when the fun was over, it was over, nothing personal. But Maggie wasn’t like those women. She was personal. And he’d been desperate to be with her, had never thought she might be in it for his money or to keep his sister’s threat quiet.

  He guessed he’d have to do something about their situation soon because they couldn’t go on like a divorced couple, sharing William. The boy wasn’t ignorant. Grant had caught him watching him, asking a question or two about Maggie and waiting to see what Grant would say—which was nothing. Lorraine Finnegan had called to tell him how sorry she was about the whole mess and vowed on her engagement ring that Maggie cared about him, and then she’d inquired as to the reason for the big fight. Oh, she’d been casual enough, slipping the question between a sigh and a “God bless you” but the fact that she’d asked meant she didn’t know. Well, she wasn’t going to hear it from him.

  When the doorbell rang, Grant sighed and considered not answering. Cynthia Carlisle had visited twice, once with a basket of fresh-baked blueberry muffins that she tried to pass off as her own, which proved a lie. If a person’s going to fabricate her baking skills, she should make sure to remove the store tag from the plastic wrap on the bottom of the baked goods. The second visit had been last night around 10:00 p.m. when Cynthia showed up on his doorstep with a bottle of scotch and a dress that was so low and so tight, he wondered how she sat, and if she did, how she didn’t fall out of it. He didn’t give her an opportunity to show him but accepted the bottle, pleaded a headache, flashed a weak smile of apology, and closed the door. Once he heard the click-clack of heels on the porch steps and tires screeching out of his drive, he opened the bottle and proceeded to make good on the story of the headache.

  The doorbell rang again, followed by banging and a rough “I know you’re in there, Richot. Open up.”

  Grant looked out the window, recognized the wiry figure in the ball cap and jeans. Jack Finnegan, Maggie’s uncle. He opened the door, met the older man’s icy stare. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Save the niceties; this ain’t a social call. Can I come in? I wouldn’t ask, but what I got to say shouldn’t be blabbed on a front porch.” Grant nodded, held the door open as Jack Finnegan stepped inside, stopped.

  “Care to sit down?”

  The man crossed his skinny arms over his chest and shook his head. “Nope. What I got to say can be said standing.” His blue gaze sliced Grant from top to bottom, followed by a scowl. “What’s going on between you and my niece?”

  Grant stared at him, eyes narrowed, voice stiff. “That’s not your business.”

  “I’m making it my business. Maggie’s had enough heartache, and I ain’t gonna sit by so some smooth-talking fancy man can waltz in and do a number on her, then toss her in the garbage like three-day-old takeout.”

  “That is not what happened.” Grant clenched his fist, fought to stay calm. Maggie’s uncle had it all wrong; she was the one who’d done a number on him.

  Jack Finnegan lifted a shoulder, said, “Maybe, maybe not. Har
d to tell when neither of you is talking. The only one saying anything is William, and he’s not as naïve as you and Maggie might think. He’s picking up clues, matching pieces, studying them. Ain’t gonna be long before he has his answers, like one of those math problems the boy’s always after. Then what are the two of you gonna do? Huh?” He flipped back his ball cap and scratched his forehead. “Start a big fairy tale about how much you loved hearing Maggie talk about this town and had to check it out yourself?” He laughed at that. “That’s about as true as me liking my second daughter’s apple pie.” Another laugh, then a scowl. “You two got history, it’s all over your faces, but it’s the history that’s got me wondering. I’m not looking further because it ain’t my business unless you’re planning to do her wrong; then I’ll make it my business.”

  “What if she’s the one who’s done me wrong? Did you ever think about that?” That made the older man pause, scratch his forehead again.

  “Can’t say as I considered that option.”

  “Maybe you should.” Damn right you should. Maggie played me. Big time.

  “Huh.” And then, “There’s a lot of young men in this town that had their hearts stomped on by the women they loved. Not saying they didn’t deserve it, but it was a damn ugly sight. Ugly sound, too. Nothing’s worse than a man in pain, howling like a wounded dog, lashing out at everybody, especially the one who done him wrong.” He nodded, and a smile flitted across his lips as if remembering. “Nate Desantro’s one, Cash Casherdon’s another. Ben Reed, too. And I hear tell Harry Blacksworth took one of the biggest falls, but that was back in Chicago, so I can’t say I witnessed it. But those other men were pitiful creatures. Didn’t know if they’d stay miserable, licking their wounds, or if they’d figure out how much they needed their women.”