by Mary Campisi
Grant listened to Jack Finnegan’s backwoods philosophizing, waiting for the next lesson to spill out of the grizzled man’s mouth. So, Nate Desantro hadn’t always been happy and married, nor had the other men. It sounded like they’d all spent time desperate and miserable, pretty much like he felt right now. “Are you telling me to go see Maggie and work things out?”
Jack Finnegan sighed and shook his head. “No, I’m telling you to get over your hissy fit, go see my niece, and either make a commitment or pack up and leave town.”
***
Maggie clocked out of work and made her way toward the hospital exit. It was becoming almost impossible to keep her emotions under control when she was around other people. Gina Reed had started watching her two days ago, her dark eyes a mix of sympathy and suspicion, as though she had a pretty good idea Maggie’s subdued behavior was tied into a “relationship issue.” Why wouldn’t Gina recognize it when she’d had her own share of troubles with Ben Reed before she became Mrs. Reed? Uncle Jack was another one who’d begun to study her, slipping in comments about “making things right” and “finding the nuggets of happiness in the manure.” Of course, her mother had witnessed Maggie’s breakdown, the horrible, gut-wrenching tears, but no matter how many ways Lorraine Finnegan asked, Maggie would not give details other than to acknowledge Grant Richot was behind the tears.
The real surprise was her son. William could figure out the insides of a kitchen mixer but struggled to decipher an emotion unless someone pointed it out. Yet, he’d come to her yesterday, his sun-burned face serious, and deciphered her mood and her situation with the simplicity of a ten-year-old and the wisdom of an eighty-year-old.
You haven’t laughed in five days, and I heard you crying when you were talking to Grandma. The last time you cried like that was Dad’s funeral. Grant doesn’t ask about you anymore, and he gets a weird look on his face when I say your name, like his stomach hurts. Can’t you just be together like you were before?
Oh, William, it’s not that simple.
Why? Grandma has a boyfriend; why can’t you?
Honey—
I like Grant. I’m okay if you want to be with him…like boyfriend and girlfriend…
She hadn’t seen Grant since he confronted her about his sister’s blackmail scheme, including his supposed terminal illness. Maggie had trusted his sister more than she’d trusted him. She should have told Grant about the threats and the illness claim, but fear and guilt had stopped her. Maybe it was too late for them; maybe he’d see her actions as a betrayal he couldn’t forgive.
But she had to try, had to ask his forgiveness, and confess the truth—she loved him, wanted a life with him, wanted him to be part of William’s life. Maggie was so engrossed in what she wanted to say that she didn’t notice the man leaning against her car holding a pink gift bag until she was a few feet away.
“Grant?”
“Hello, Maggie.”
The sunglasses made it impossible to see his eyes, though the tone in his voice and the unsmiling lips told her this was a serious visit. How serious? Had he come to say good-bye? Tell her he didn’t want to see her again, that the betrayal had been too great? Or maybe he wanted to inform her he planned to fight for the right to be part of William’s life. She glanced at the pink bag in his hand. A farewell gift? Or something else? Maggie opened her mouth, pushed out the words. “I was actually on my way to see you.”
“Oh?” The brackets around his mouth deepened. “Did your uncle give you a lecture, too?”
Was there a trace of humor in that question? “Uncle Jack came to see you?” That could only be bad or worse; no wonder Grant had an almost-annoyed look on his face. There was never any telling what Jack Finnegan might say given the circumstances or the moment.
“He came, stood right in my foyer.”
“And?” She was pretty sure the Richots did not have anyone like Uncle Jack in their family tree. They did, however, have an emotionally unstable female named Leslie Maurice.
Those full lips twitched. “He gave me a piece of advice from the Jack Finnegan School of Wit and Wisdom, though I had to pick around a bit for the wisdom part.”
She shook her head, hid a smile. “No doubt.”
Grant removed his sunglasses, hung them on the edge of his polo shirt. “Do you know what he told me?”
“I’m not sure I want to know.”
Those blue eyes turned bluer. “He told me to get over my hissy fit, come to see you and either make a commitment, or pack up and leave town.”
“He said that?” Of course he had. Uncle Jack wasn’t the type for fancy words or sparing feelings, especially when it came to family. “I’m sorry. My uncle had no right to say that to you. He’s very protective and can’t stand to see me unhappy.”
“Are you unhappy?” he asked, his voice shifting to a low rumble that swirled through her. When she nodded, he smiled. “I know the feeling. And don’t apologize for your uncle’s behavior. He was right.” The smile spread to include both dimples. “That’s why I’m here. Oh, I think I would have figured it out in another week or three, but who knows what shape I would’ve been in by then? Miserable, ornery, in bad need of a shave and shower.”
Maggie laughed, the ache in her heart shrinking. “I’ll buy the miserable and ornery part, but not shaving or showering? Not possible, not you.”
He shrugged, a dull red inching from his neck to his cheeks. “I was in pretty bad shape. I love you, Maggie. I want to be with you and William and any other children we’re lucky enough to have. I’m really sorry I let my sister’s actions tear us apart. Your uncle told me to make a commitment or leave town.” He hesitated, touched her cheek. “I’m here to make a commitment. I want to marry you, and I’ll wait as long as I have to, but I want our second chance.”
The tears started then, trickling down her cheeks to her chin. So many tears: tears of joy, tears of love, tears of hope. “I love you, Grant, and yes, I want to marry you. We’ll have to go slow and let William get used to the idea of us together. He really likes you, even told me he was okay with us being boyfriend and girlfriend, as he calls it.” She smiled, stroked his cheek. “We’ll get him used to the idea of husband and wife next.” She leaned on tiptoe, kissed him softly on the mouth. “And we’ll have our second chance.”
Grant pulled her to him, kissed her with a fierceness that spoke of love and loyalty, promise and commitment, and a lifetime together. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her lips. “I need to feel skin, lots of it. Let’s go to my place.”
“I’m supposed to have dinner at my mother’s tonight. William’s already there.” She trailed kisses along his jaw, worked her way to his neck.
“Call her and tell her you’ll be late.” He pressed her against his hardness until she moaned. “Something tells me Lorraine will understand.”
Maggie sighed, squirmed against him. “Something tells me she will.”
Grant eased away, handed her the pink bag. “For you.”
She peered inside the bag, pulled out a double-pink African violet. “It’s beautiful.”
“My father’s favorite,” he said, his voice dipping in sadness.
Maggie settled the plant back in the bag and removed the second gift, a double-fudge brownie with caramel and chocolate chips, the kind Grant gave her the first time she met him, the kind they ate in bed after they made love. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
“Yes, it is.” His gaze turned hot, settled on her lips, slid to her breasts, her belly, lower still. “Absolutely perfect.” He eased his gaze back up her body from her hips to her belly, her breasts, her face. “We can be at my house in less than ten minutes, undressed in five…”
She smiled, her heart opening up, her soul drenched with hope. “Now that sounds absolutely perfect.” And in less than twenty minutes, it was. Absolutely. Perfect.
***
“Daddy? What are you doing here?” Bree stepped into her office, stared at the sight of her father stuffed into her office chair. A
big man like that looked downright uncomfortable in the sleek, ergonomic chair Bree had ordered. “Daddy?” she said again. “What’s going on?”
“I was driving by after breakfast and thought I’d stop in and see how you’re doing.” Rex MacGregor could not lie and, on the rare occasions when he attempted it, his face turned scarlet and betrayed him. Like now.
“That is so not the truth.” Bree sighed, set her overlarge handbag on the desk and tapped a foot. “Daddy, are you checking up on me?”
The scarlet shifted to purple. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Your mother said you aren’t eating enough, and if you’re not careful, you’ll turn into skin and bones.”
Doubtful. Three babies had stolen the possibility of “skin and bones” but if a person didn’t clean their plate and ask for seconds, plus dessert, well, that was a downright insult to the cook as well as an unhealthy approach to food. That’s what Daddy’s side of the family did, all big bruisers who would have made solid linebackers, the women, too. Well, Bree was not going to become a linebacker, and besides, she might “eat like a bird,” as her mother put it, but she did eat. Losing a husband could steal a person’s appetite, and learning he had a mistress could bury it. “I’m fine and I’m capable of doing my own work.” She glanced at the papers spread out in front of him. “Are those the projections for the Androvich deal?” She’d been working on them for two weeks and had made several phone calls to Gracie, the CEO of Androvich Lumber. Why was her daddy looking at them?
“I thought I’d take a gander and maybe offer up a pointer or two.” Pause, another flush of red. “Michael Androvich said to call anytime with questions.”
“Yes, Daddy, he did. But he meant for me to call and speak with his sister, Gracie, the CEO of Androvich Lumber. Of course, you wouldn’t know about that conversation because you’re supposed to be retired.” She placed both hands on her hips, stared him down. “Aren’t you?”
He nodded, not much more than a slight dip of his red head, but she saw it. “Your mother and I are worried about you,” he said, his voice quiet, gaze fixed on the Androvich paperwork.
“I’m fine.” Her parents’ questions had skyrocketed these last few weeks, pretty much since the appearance of Leslie Maurice in Magdalena. Who is she? Why is she here? Did you say she lives in Renova? They’d darted glances at one another, sending a secret message that Bree pretended not to see. Why had their voices shifted when they said Renova? Were they thinking of Brody in a hotel room there? Were they wondering if this stranger had a connection to their dead son-in-law?
“Baby Girl, you’re not fine. You’re carrying a weight on your shoulders that’s too heavy.” He pushed out of the chair, made his way to her. “Let your Mama and me help carry that burden.” Her daddy’s blue eyes filled with tears. “I can’t stand to see you hurting like this. Please.” He placed a work-roughened hand on her cheek. “Please let us help you.”
Did they know about Brody and Leslie? Had they figured it out? Bree sipped in air, tried to stay calm. She’d wanted to spare her parents from the pain of learning their daughter had married a man who betrayed her, betrayed their family. Parents shouldn’t be saddled with that knowledge seared in their brains, leaving a scar that would never disappear. The least she could do was protect them from that. But maybe it was already too late; maybe they knew a lot more than they let on. “You and Mama have helped so much; the childcare, the meals, the errands. But you can’t come here and take over because I have to learn how to do it. I like this business, Daddy, and I’m good at it. Business is about people, and I understand that.”
He nodded, clutched her hand. “You always were a people person; could walk in a room and light it up with your smile. And when you laughed…” His voice drifted, covered her in sadness. “Well, when you laughed, it made a person’s heart swell. Everybody said so.” Those blue eyes narrowed and his voice cracked when he said, “And he stole that from you. That bastard stole that from you.”
“Daddy?” There was a lot of anger in those words. Was he talking about the way Brody acted like a sore loser when he got the boot as president of the company, or was he referring to something else? Something much worse?
“We know, Bree.”
If a person could measure the hurt in someone’s words, her daddy’s would stretch from here to Renova. There was no use pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about because the truth was there, smack in the middle of his sad eyes. He knew what Brody was doing in that hotel room, knew too that the 9-1-1 Mystery Woman was Leslie Maurice. She guessed she didn’t give her daddy enough credit for figuring out things like this, but he was no fool. Bree nodded, let out the sigh that had been waiting to escape since she spotted him at her desk, and said, “Okay.”
“He’s lucky he’s dead, Baby Girl,” he said in a voice laced with danger. “I would have made his last breath a lot more painful.” He clenched his fists, his blue eyes shifting to ice as he added, “With my bare hands.”
Bree stared at her father, tried to figure out if he meant that last part. That was the thing about her daddy; he was big and strong with a deep voice and a take-charge attitude. Men did not want to get on his bad side and made certain they didn’t. But Mama ran the roost. She was the one you never wanted to cross and she was the only one who could get Daddy riled, maybe make him carry out that promise with his bare hands. Still, Mama wouldn’t have wanted Daddy to end up behind bars, so she wouldn’t have let it get to that. She might have told him to land a punch or two on Brody’s face, work his way down to his privates, might even have hauled off and landed a punch herself. But they’d never know because Brody Kinkaid was dead. Gone. Buried.
“What can we do to help? Tell us.” The hands he’d vowed could destroy a person rested on her shoulders—gentle, comforting.
Bree worked up a smile, blinked hard. She would not cry one more tear for that cheating man. Not one. She blinked again, said, “You do so much for me already and I am so grateful for that. I never pictured my life like this, but here I am and I have to figure it out, Daddy. Same with getting past the pain; that’s something I have to do on my own.”
Epilogue
Pop set his tea and three pizzelles on the end table, sat down, and eased Gloria Blacksworth’s notebook onto his lap. He’d avoided reading the dang thing as long as he could, knowing once he opened it, the contents of the pages would leach into his brain like fertilizer, sprouting all sorts of ideas and notions. Most of which he did not want fertilized or sprouted. Nate said there were tales in here that could destroy a person, even whole families. He fingered the edges of the book, traced the rose pattern on the cover. “Imagine that, Lucy,” he said to the portrait of his wife hanging above the mantel. “Roses on the cover of a notebook that’s gonna contain enough damage to ruin our town. Nate said I gotta read it, said I’m the only one who won’t judge.” He sighed, fixed his gaze on his wife’s face, the blue eyes, the half smile, the peaches-and-cream complexion. “But you’re the only one who knows I have my moments where I’m judging just like the rest of them, especially if it’s kin. Human nature, I guess.” He shrugged, thought of his son and the years when Pop couldn’t understand or accept the boy’s choices. Things were better since Anthony made it home for Christmas and felt the pull of the town and their acceptance of him. Maybe things were better because Pop finally accepted his son, or maybe it had to do with that Casherdon woman. Didn’t know, didn’t care, as long as his boy was on the road to finding peace and a slice or two of happiness. One more sigh, a quick sign of the cross, and Pop opened Gloria Blacksworth’s notebook.
Six tissues, two cups of green tea, and seven pizzelles later, Pop closed the book. Now he understood why Nate wanted to burn the dang thing, couldn’t say he blamed him. But the boy had come to him for damage control and Pop aimed to do that. Gloria Blacksworth might be ashes in an urn somewhere, but the woman still lived and breathed revenge. She was a crafty one, dropping bread crumbs here and there, making statements t
hat might or might not be true, leaving just enough doubt to make a person wonder. There were a lot of shockers in the book, but Pop wasn’t getting all antsy about them because they might not be true. And, if they were, they might stay buried unless Gloria Blacksworth decided to use a messenger to send letters like she’d done with Nate and Rex MacGregor. Question was, who was the dang messenger; better yet, how had this investigator fella, a Lester Conroy, slithered into town and what alias had he used to gobble up information like a chicken racing after feed? Those were the keys and Pop vowed on his dear Lucy’s sweet smile that he’d find out.
“I’m fit and ready to do battle, Lucy. Since the day I landed in the grass and Lily found me, I been eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I don’t mean just a pizzelle or three. Plus, I’m staying out of the high-noon sun like I promised you I would. I mean it; no more foolishness from Angelo Benito.” Pop nodded at his wife’s portrait and smiled. “I still got fight in me and there’s a battle coming to town, I feel it in my bones.”
A general had to know his weaknesses and secure the fort, which meant he had to talk to Miriam Desantro, warn her about the threat that might loom ahead, but first he needed to find out if it was true. Pop rubbed his jaw and shook his head. “That story’s a real whopper, and if it’s real, people are gonna look at Miriam like she’s a stranger. Withholding information and pretending aren’t as bad as bald-faced lying, but dang close, don’t you think? And what’s Nate gonna say if this is all true and he never knew it? Not good, Lucy.” Another shake of the head and a sign of the cross. “Not good at all.” Pop reached for the phone to call Miriam; time to have a chitchat and find out if she belonged to a family that would make the Blacksworths look like poor relations. He’d only punched out three numbers when his granddaughter’s voice stopped him from hitting the next number.
“Grandpa?” Lucy stood in front of him, slender hands on her big belly, the expression on her face a mix of nerves, excitement, and fear. “I think my water just broke.”