by Mary Campisi
***
Twenty minutes later—across town
Miriam Desantro scooped a spoonful of chocolate chip cookie dough onto a cookie sheet. She’d promised to make a batch for Lily to take to Pop and his granddaughter because Lily wanted to give them another choice besides pizzelles. According to Lily, these cookies would do the trick, but Miriam didn’t think so. Pop loved tradition as much as he loved those pizzelles, and they were part of the Benito tradition.
Family brought tradition, and the Desantros were expanding their family and their traditions. In a few months, another Desantro child would join Anna Nicolina. Oh, how she wished Charlie were here to experience the joys of grandparenthood. The soothing lullabies, the silly rhymes, the soft touch of skin to skin…the coos and babbles…so precious, so innocent. He would have loved Anna Nicolina, and he would have loved watching his daughter as a mother. Miriam blinked hard, placed three more scoops of cookie dough on the tray.
I miss you, Charlie. I miss you every single day. You would be so proud of Christine, so happy for her. She’s a good mother, a good wife. If only you could have lived to see all of this…share it with us…But if you had lived, none of this would have happened…not Nate and Christine, not Anna Nicolina or the next baby Desantro…and that pain would have been even greater than losing you…
The doorbell rang, providing a welcome distraction from thoughts of losing Charlie versus losing her son’s family. Miriam set the spoon aside, wiped her hands on a dishtowel, and made her way to the front door. Greta had promised to stop by with a container of homemade sauerkraut and applesauce with cinnamon. Lily would wrinkle her nose at the sauerkraut, but she’d ask for extra helpings of Greta’s applesauce. Miriam smiled, shook her head, and opened the door.
“Hello, Miriam. It’s been a long time.”
The smile froze, cracked, and fell apart as Miriam stared at a member of one of New York City’s wealthiest families—Candace Prescott. The sister she hadn’t seen in almost forty years.
The End
Many thanks for choosing to spend your time reading A Family Affair: The Promise. I’m truly grateful. If you enjoyed it, please consider writing a review on the site where you purchased it. (Short ones are fine and equally welcome.) And now, I must head back to Magdalena and help these characters get in and out of trouble!
If you’d like to be notified of my new releases, please sign up at my website: http://www.marycampisi.com.
Want to take a peek at the secrets inside Gloria’s notebook? Click here
Bonus Material: Excerpt from The Way They Were
(prequel to A Family Affair: The Secret)
It's all about that second chance...
The Way They Were is Book Two of That Second Chance Series. (These are stand-alone books tied together by a common theme—belief in the beauty of that second chance.) This book is also the prequel to A Family Affair: The Secret, Truth in Lies, Book Eight.
They promised to love one another forever, but tragedy tore them apart. Now, destiny may just bring them back together.
At eighteen, Rourke Flannigan and Kate Redmond thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together—until a family tragedy tore them apart. Fourteen years have passed, and they’ve both carved out separate lives hundreds of miles apart—hers as a wife and mother, his as a successful, driven businessman. But once a year, Kate pulls out a red velvet journal and writes a letter, which she’ll never send, to the man who still owns her heart. Once a year, on the anniversary of the first and only night they made love, Rourke permits himself to read the annual investigative report detailing an ordinary day in Kate’s life.
When a subcontractor at one of Rourke’s holding companies is killed, Rourke decides to pay the widow a visit and offer condolences, never dreaming the widow will be Kate. As they embark on a cautious journey of rediscovery, one far greater than they could have imagined, secrets and lies threaten to destroy their newfound closeness—forever.
That Second Chance Series:
Book One: Pulling Home (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Promise)
Book Two: The Way They Were (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Secret)
Book Three: Simple Riches (Also prequel to A Family Affair: Winter)
Book Four: Paradise Found (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Wish)
Book Five: Not Your Everyday Housewife
Book Six: The Butterfly Garden
Chapter 1
“Once a year, I will pretend you are mine.”—Kate Redmond Maden
Journal entry—May 4, 1997
It has been six hundred and thirty-three days since I last saw you. When you left, I destroyed all the pictures of us—everything—first out of anger, then despair, and finally, fear. I didn’t want to remember the thick silkiness of your hair beneath my fingers, or the tiny chip in your bottom front tooth…I didn’t want to remember there was ever an us, but your voice, your touch, everything about you, has consumed me for almost two years.
I’ve forced myself to wait until today to write. This has proved the hardest task of all. This is a special day—my daughter’s first birthday. Her name is Julia. Her eyes are just like her father’s—the color of a summer storm. She’s the reason I have the strength to write this letter and not mail it. (Where would I mail it anyway?)
Where are you?
Do you ever think of me?
Do you ever wish things had been different?
Clay is good to me and I try to be a good wife to him. I try. He’s an honest worker. A family man. He even changes Julia’s diapers and reads her Good Night Moon at bedtime. I pretend I don’t see the hurt in his eyes when he touches me and I flinch—not so much anymore, just a little. He’s always gentle, but he’s not you. Nobody’s you.
How can I go on living like this—wanting you, thinking about you, wondering where you are and who you are with? And why you could not trust our love enough to get us through what happened? The pain is so deep I think sometimes it will ooze out of me and I won’t be able to stop it. But I have to. For Julia’s sake.
Where are you???? You promised me nothing would ever separate us. Were those words only to get me into bed? I won’t believe that. I can’t.
I chopped my hair off right after you left and dyed it red, but when I looked in the mirror, I still saw my mother’s face. I am not my mother! What happened was not my fault but you blamed me, didn’t you? And then you walked out of my life. I hate you—hate you—HATE YOU! That’s not true. I love you. But you don’t care, do you? I’ll never love anyone else this way. Not even my husband. How sick is that? Clay saved me and all I had to give him was one tiny promise. Never mention your name again.
Not much. Unless your name was in every breath I took, every moment of my waking thoughts, every pore in my body.
My tears keep smudging the ink and I can hardly see what I’m writing. But I still see your face, right here in front of me, as though six hundred and thirty-three days had not passed, as though I could turn around and you would be standing there in your old faded jeans and Rolling Stones T-shirt—as though everything were normal.
No one talks much about what happened anymore unless someone new passes through. Then the gossips start whispering like scattered leaves. I’m sipping Chardonnay 1991, remember? I plan to save this bottle and toast us once a year when I open this book and write you letters I’ll never send. I bought this book when Julia was six months old. I told Angie (remember her?) it was to keep track of Julia’s milestones. But the way she looked at me, she knew it had something to do with you. Somehow, she always knew.
I waited six more months to write in it—six, long, tempting months. But there was Julia to think about. And what good would it have done anyway? So I hid the journal in the back of my closet, inside a shoebox, and spent the next several months devising a plan. I’d dig it out on Julia’s first birthday while she was taking her afternoon nap, and the cake was in the oven, and the chicken was marinating for the dinner I’d planned for Clay’
s parents. I’d lock the bedroom door and pour myself a glass of Chardonnay from the bottle tucked away in the closet behind my dresses. Then I’d sprawl on the bed and ease open the first blank page. And dream about how life could have been. If you hadn’t left me.
It’s the only way I can survive the years to come. Once a year I’ll permit myself to think of you, not in anger and hatred, but with the truth—with a love that cries for you, hurts for you, and a memory that stops with the last time we made love and erases the blood-stained sheet covering your mother’s body. Once a year, I will pretend you are mine. And it will be enough. It will have to be.
***
Fourteen years later.
Kate Maden watched her husband rifle through the dresser drawer in search of his Syracuse T-shirt. He called it his lucky shirt, but Kate knew a tattered orange and blue T-shirt had nothing to do with Clay’s success. Hard work and a will as strong as his twenty-two-inch biceps were what made Clay Calhoon Maden “lucky,” but there was no use telling him that.
“Aha!” He yanked the T-shirt from the drawer and tossed it on the bed, then pulled open a second drawer.
“Looking for these?” Kate dangled a pair of thermal socks in her right hand.
Her husband’s sunburned face broke into a grin as he snatched them up and said in a voice that held the tiniest hint of a drawl, “Babe, what would I do without you?”
That was Clay’s way of saying I love you. Not a sophisticated proclamation or a grand gesture marked by diamonds and roses. Just a look that spoke of commitment as strong as the equipment he used to tear down the sturdiest building. Any woman would be honored to have such a man by her side.
“I’m thinking this job could get us carpeting and a new washer,” he said as he sat on the edge of the flowered comforter and pulled on a sock. “How about a front loader?”
“You don’t mind the drive?” He was a 5:00 a.m. rise-and-shiner, but an hour’s drive on top of an early start time was a lot to ask.
“Nah. Every mile is that much closer to getting you that Berber carpeting.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “You just decide whether you want plain or one with those fancy designs.”
“Clay.” She ran a hand over the reddish stubble on his chin. “I have you. And Julia. I don’t need carpeting to make me happy.”
“You deserve more,” he said, “but it’s the best I can offer.”
“Clay—”
“Gotta go.” He gently set her on her feet and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll call you after the interview.”
When he’d gone, Kate straightened the comforter and picked up his work clothes—jeans, flannel shirts, thermal socks. The only suit he’d ever worn had been the department store pinstripe on their wedding day. She thought of her husband’s callused hands, his weathered skin, his bad back. He was a hard worker who believed in honor and the strength of a man’s word. He’d given her so much more than any other man—including the one who’d broken her heart.
***
Clay pulled up to the job site as the sun inched over the treetops. This was his sixth day and he’d decided to gain an hour on everybody so he could get home early. He pulled the gear from his truck, grabbed his thermos, and hopped out, whistling Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” as he made his way across the grassy lot. This job would net him the carpeting, the washer, and a hefty down payment on the eternity ring on hold at the jeweler’s. Wouldn’t Kate just croak? So, it wasn’t Tiffany’s; it was stamped with commitment and not even Tiffany’s sold those.
As he made his way toward the building, a battered Ford pickup barreled down the side road, kicking up gravel and dust. It squealed to a stop beside him and Clay’s foreman jumped out. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”
“Hey, Len.” Clay raised a hand at the grizzled man in denim and flannel. “Thought I’d get a head start so I can make it home in time for Julia’s choir recital. She’s doing a solo.”
Len Slewinski scratched his chin and spit on the ground. “You reckon to break union rules by starting here without the rest of the crew?”
Clay grinned. “Pretty much.”
The older man shook his head and spit again. “Stubborn as your daddy. You know they say the owner of this here building is real persnickety about rules and regs.”
“Well, he’s not here, is he? There’s just me and you, and we’re not talking.” Len had worked with the Madens for twenty-eight years in spite of a bum hip, a stiff knee, and last year’s double bypass.
“I don’t like it, boy. That pretty little wife of yours wouldn’t like it either.”
“That’s why you’re not going to tell her. What are you doing here two hours before starting time?”
Len kicked a clump of dirt and coughed. “Skip asked if I’d post watch for him seein’ as he’s taking Shirley to Niagara Falls this weekend.”
“Let me guess. Another honeymoon?”
Len nodded. “You got it. Most women only get one honeymoon ’less they switch husbands. I told him he better not say a peep to Loretta ’cause I’m not leaving my own bed and I sure as hell ain’t leaving my john for some foolish fanciness.”
“Women like that sort of thing now and again.” Maybe he should take Kate to Niagara Falls. They could ride Maid of the Mist and eat Chinese like they had on their honeymoon.
“Mostly they start squawking if they hear somebody else is doing it. That’s why she can’t find out.”
“She won’t hear it from me. Tell you what, why don’t you go fetch yourself some of those fried eggs over easy at Sophie’s? That way you can say you didn’t see anybody breaking code and it’ll be true.”
Len jawed on the idea for all of three seconds. “You got yourself a deal. Be careful, boy. Just ’cause you done it your whole life don’t make it safe. Them scaffolds is tricky. Fifty feet is still fifty feet.”
“Got it.” If Len didn’t stop yakking, Clay would lose his early start.
“See you in a few.” Len threw the truck into gear and bumped down the dirt road.
Clay headed toward the building, calculating the time he’d already lost. Damn, he’d have to work fast. He could secure the side section before Len got back. He entered the building through a side door and flipped the light switch. A stark expanse of beams, metal, and cement were all that remained of Jennings and Seward Faucet. Len said the new owner planned on putting some of those high-end condos in here.
A spark of anger surged through him as he thought of all the people who used to work in this building, people who had mortgages, tuition, and grocery bills. They’d lost out because China could make faucets cheaper than upstate New York. What kind of jobs could a high-end condo give to a machinist?
The rich kept stuffing their pockets and the poor fell deeper in debt. As a boy, Clay had never thought about which group he belonged to—his parents made sure he and his brother had a new jacket every winter and enough food on the table for seconds. Things changed the summer a rich kid from Chicago moved to Montpelier and taught Clay just how much he didn’t have.
Clay sucked in a breath and pictured the first blow of the wrecking ball as it slammed into the building in a moving, swaying dance of destruction culminating in a rubble of steel and concrete. Len said Clay had the deadliest aim he’d ever seen. Maybe because he pictured the rich kid’s pretty-boy face each time he swung.
Clay tossed his gear next to the scaffold and rummaged through his bag for his safety harness. Damn. He must have left it on the front seat of the truck. He glanced up the scaffolding to the top. In all the years he’d been demolishing, he’d only needed his harness twice. His Syracuse T-shirt and skill would keep him safe. He grasped the first rung of scaffold and heaved himself up.
***
Fifty minutes later, Len returned with a fried egg and bacon sandwich for Clay. “Clay? Where are you?” He scanned the beams and scaffolding in search of his boss. “You in the can?” Len made his way toward the back door and the three port-a-pot
ties lined up like little blue boxes. “Clay?” He pulled open each port-a-potty door. Empty. Well, empty except for the smell of bad business. Dang, where the hell was he? Len stepped back into the building and scanned the area a second time.
It was then he spotted a crane hook swaying thirty feet away, just a slight sway, not enough to make a dent in a tin can. “Clay?” Len forgot his bum knee as he broke into an awkward run. “Clay!” He stopped short when he reached the crane. “Jesus, God Almighty.” The boy lay sprawled on the concrete, arms and legs flung out, neck bent too far to be natural. A small pool of blood circled his head like a red halo.
Len knelt beside his friend, knowing before he touched him that he was dead. “Jesus, God, and all the saints.” Len crossed himself and felt Clay’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He rocked back on his knees, swiping his eyes as he stared at the red-brown stubble on Clay’s jaw.
How the hell had this happened? In all the years he’d been with the company, they’d never lost a person. And now this. Len’s gaze flitted over Clay’s back. A blue SYRACUSE splashed across it in bold letters. Where was his harness? A sliver of panic inched up his legs and landed in his gut. Where the hell was his damn harness?
Len pushed himself up and blew out a steadying breath as he made his way to Clay’s truck and yanked out his safety harness. The boy was not going to be remembered as the reckless fool who got himself killed because he hadn’t worn a damn safety harness. That would make him nothing more than a statistic for an insurance company, and Clay and his family deserved better than that.
Chapter 2
“Money is all those kinds of people want anyway.”—Diana Flannigan
“Mr. Flannigan? Excuse me, sir, but your niece just called again.”
Rourke Flannigan glanced up from the financial reports spread out on his desk. Niece? Oh yes, Abigail. “What did she want this time, Maxine?”