by Mary Campisi
“I’m not interested in Charlie’s money.” She sighed, shook her head. “It’s never been about the money.”
“Well, maybe he thought it was.” How could she pretend she had a right to those memories, a right to a life that belonged to his family?
Lily Desantro eased back in her chair and steepled her fingers under her chin. “Charlie said you could be a tough one, that you hid your real emotions under your suit jacket.”
“You don’t know anything about me. And I don’t want to know anything about you. I’m here to do a job and then I’m going back to Chicago and I’m going to forget I ever heard the name Lily Desantro.”
“Lily?” The woman’s face turned white beneath her tan. “What does she have to do with this?” Her fingers grabbed at the cross, squeezed.
“What are you talking about?”
“Lily. You know about her?”
“What? You’re Lily. Aren’t you?”
“Hardly.” Nate Desantro stood in the doorway, a tall mountain of a man in a red flannel shirt. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You couldn’t just go back to your rich little world and leave it alone.” He took a step toward her and stopped. “Lily Desantro is my half sister. She’s yours, too.”
Chapter 6
Christine was more beautiful than her pictures, with her glossy black hair and fair skin. Miriam could see Charlie in her: the straight nose, the movement of full lips, the blue eyes, even the way she folded her arms over her chest and tipped her head to the left as though trying to assimilate words she couldn’t or didn’t want to understand.
Dear God, Miriam hadn’t wanted this. And Nathan, standing in the doorway like an avenging angel, had just spoken the words that would change all of their lives. There was no going back now, no pretending around it. The truth had spilled from his lips, infiltrated Christine’s body, settled in her brain.
“I...don’t understand.”
Of course she didn’t, but in reality she did, though not on a conscious level, at least not yet. That would come later, when facts and feelings meshed together to form a new truth, unwelcome yet necessary. People made statements daily that bought them time while they tried to absorb words, replace old beliefs with new discoveries, all the time hoping in the subconscious realm for life to return to its previous state.
“Christine,” Miriam spoke softly, leaning toward the young woman who was now clasping her hands together, fingers pressed into flesh, knuckles white. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”
“A sister?”
“Seems you’re not an only child after all.”
“Nathan. Please.” He shrugged, folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorway.
Christine stared at him, then turned to Miriam. With the exception of the white knuckles and the tiny skip in her breath, a person would never know she’d just been told she had an illegitimate sister. “How old is she?”
“Mom—”
“Thirteen.”
Perhaps Christine hadn’t expected this answer. Perhaps she’d thought the child would be much younger, a few years at most, a recent indiscretion, not one spanning more than a decade, almost half of Christine’s life.
“What’s her full name?”
“Lily Eleanor…” Miriam hesitated, then added, “Desantro.”
“My aunt’s name was Eleanor.” She stared at one of Miriam’s bowls, a curly maple filled with lavender. Her voice slipped. “She died when I was thirteen.”
“I know.”
“That’s when he went to the cabin.” Her voice dipped lower, as though she were chronicling events, not for them, but for herself, trying to fill in dates, gaps, trying so hard to make sense of the situation. “He said he needed to get away.”
“He loved your Aunt Ellie very much.”
“Where is she? Where’s Lily?”
“She isn’t here.” Nathan stepped into the room, filling it up with his voice and his presence. He was much taller than his father had been, broader, more muscular. “Lily isn’t your concern.”
“My father left her a third of his estate.” Now she sounded more like the young executive Charlie had earmarked as his successor. “I think I have a right to know the person who’s being given this very generous gift.”
“We don’t want your money. We just want you to leave us alone, go back to Chicago and forget you ever heard our name.”
“My father willed Lily a huge sum of money. It’s my job to see that it’s disbursed. And to make sure there aren’t any loose ends.”
“In other words, to pay off the Desantros to keep quiet.”
“No.” But Miriam saw the way Christine’s gaze broke away from Nathan’s cold stare for the briefest of seconds before turning back to him. His words might be coarse, but they were true.
“No? Really? You came out of the generosity of your heart, to do right by my mother and sister?”
“I came to do what needed to be done.”
“That I believe.”
There was hatred in his voice. He had always held such animosity toward Charlie, made horrible vindictive accusations against him that had destroyed any chance of a relationship between the two men. He’d spent years comparing Charlie to his own father, disregarding one, eulogizing the other. If he only knew.
And yet Nathan let a soft side of himself spill over into his feelings for Lily as he became brother, friend, protector. It was all three of these that fought now to keep what he deemed the only truly good person in the world safe.
“I have a right to see her.”
“Right? You want to talk about rights? Your father didn’t think about my mother’s rights or Lily’s rights when he left them every month, did he? He didn’t care about Lily’s right to have her father there on Christmas morning to watch her open gifts, or her right to have him in the audience with all of the other fathers while she and her class put on their annual Easter special. And what about the right to carry her father’s name; didn’t she deserve that?”
“I—”
“Do not talk to me about rights.” His breathing came hard, fast. “I have stood by and watched my mother give up every right she ever possessed and whether she did so willingly or not is not the point. Your father was the reason, and he should have been man enough to make a choice.”
“Nathan, please. Stop.” A sharp pain throbbed along the right side of Miriam’s temple, a full-blown migraine threatening to explode. She massaged the pounding with two fingers, all the while keeping her eyes on Charlie’s daughter.
When Christine spoke, she directed her words at Miriam. “All I want to do is disburse the money and gain your assurance that you won’t contact my family.”
Miriam nodded, the sharpness of the headache piercing her brain. She would not be offended that Christine might think her capable of such duplicity. After all, what could she expect?
“If my mother wants to accept the money for Lily, that’s her business.” Nathan moved closer, stopped within a few feet of Christine. “And maybe that will ease your conscience, knowing you’ve paid money for your father’s indiscretions. I’ll accept that, but then I want you to leave Magdalena and forget you ever heard the name Lily Desantro.”
***
She had a nice ass. Face wasn’t bad either. Harry leaned against the counter, watching Greta Servensen bend, turn, stoop, and reach as she prepared the evening meal. Lamb with sage, party of four, he wasn’t invited. He’d only stopped by because he’d promised Chrissie he’d check in on her mother. Gloria was busy “exfoliating,” Greta told him, and wouldn’t be available for another twenty minutes.
He reached over the counter and grabbed a mushroom stuffed with crabmeat. Damn, Greta was a good cook, pretty, too, in a scrubbed-clean sort of way, no frills, no makeup. Was this her preference or was it a prerequisite to work for Gloria Blacksworth? Couldn’t permit the hired help to be more beautiful than the boss now, could she?
Harry didn’t have much occasion to see a p
retty woman sans makeup and every other beauty product known to the cosmetic world. The women he entertained—about town and in bed—wore full armor: mascara, lipstick, eye-shadow, bronzers, fake nails, fake hair, dyed and extended, fake boobs, too. But Greta looked natural, fresh, and for some insane reason this turned him on. She was a nice woman. He reminded himself that she had kids, a 1992 Toyota Corolla with a dented front fender, and a mother who lived with her. He downed the rest of his scotch in one swallow.
“Mr. Blacksworth, would you like a piece of Black Forest cake?” She was bent at the waist, all curves and hip, one hand clutching the refrigerator door as she looked at him.
He shook his head, tried to ignore the panty line under her white uniform. “No. And my name is Harry, not Mr. Blacksworth.”
She nodded, her smile slipping.
Was she afraid of him? Why? Could she see inside his sick mind, tell that he was having perverted fantasies about her?
“Harry?” His name sounded soft and breathy on her lips, her accent giving it a sensual bounce. “Mrs. Blacksworth will be a while yet. Can I get you anything?”
Oh, yeah, Greta, how about that tongue to start? “No.” He lifted his glass, saluted her. “This is all I want but I’ll get it myself.” Harry pushed away from the counter and hurried out of the kitchen, straight to the liquor cabinet. He poured a drink, swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut. Another three and he’d be ready to face Gloria.
If he hadn’t promised Chrissie, he’d be sitting in his hot tub at home with Bridgett. But Chrissie had fallen apart on the phone last night, going on and on about a half sister. A thirteen-year-old kid? What the hell was Charlie thinking?
“Hello, Harry.”
Gloria entered the room in a sweep of peach silk and heavy perfume. He hated that stuff she wore. It clogged his sinuses, gave him a damned headache. He’d told her before, several times, but she said it was a Neiman Marcus exclusive, and it was Charles’s favorite.
“Well, if it isn’t the grieving widow.”
“You said you had something to tell me about Christine.” She walked to the liquor cabinet, poured herself a scotch, no ice.
Harry straightened, swirled the liquid in his glass, and said, “She’s having a tough time.”
Gloria sipped her scotch, two healthy sips, one right after the other. “We’re all having a tough time right now.”
He sat down at one end of the couch, wondered how Charlie had tolerated all the florals and stiffness of this furniture for so many years. What was wrong with honest-to-God leather? You could sink into it, let it mold itself to your body, surround you. Or even some fabric with pillows, the soft, squishy kind that reshaped itself with a person’s body. But this? Chintz or whatever the hell it was, no pillows, no extra padding, nothing but a designer label and a hard frame? Kind of like Gloria.
“Tell me about Christine.” She lounged across from him on a pink-and-cream flowered chair. He watched as she flipped open a small black case and pulled out a cigarette.
“Ah, what would Charlie say?”
“Go to hell.”
He laughed. “Glad we can be so familiar with each other.”
She sucked in a long drag, blew it out through pursed lips, her pink-tipped fingers resting on the arms of the chair, cigarette dangling.
“You know how she felt about Charlie,” he said, suddenly not interested in baiting her, wanting to be done so he could get out of the house, breathe in fresh air.
“I expected it would be difficult for her.”
“He was like God to her.” He shouldn’t have let her go there alone.
“He was still just a man.” She took a quick puff on her cigarette and said, “He wasn’t God. He was human, subject to human frailties, just like the rest of us.”
Human frailties. Is that what shacking up with a mistress for fourteen years and having a child with her was called?
“I tried to tell her for years that her father disappointed and let people down, just like the rest of us. But she never saw that; no, all she could see was her father in his three-piece suit with his briefcase and his fancy words. He never scolded her, never once told her no, not even the time she brought those four girls home from college at Easter break when she knew we had plans for Florida. I’d been waiting for months to get out of the cold, and then, Charles cancelled the trip”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that. He said we’d take a long weekend after they left.” She lifted her glass, took a quick sip, the words slipping through her lips faster, spilling into the air, as though she were incapable of stopping them. “Of course, we never did.”
“Oh, but Charles thought it was fine for the girls to stay with us, invited them to church and Easter dinner, even took them to the office and introduced them around. And not once did he apologize for canceling our trip.” She tapped the ashes of her cigarette in a blue glass ashtray. “He said we should be grateful our daughter still wanted to come home and if she brought a few friends, then it only meant she was comfortable with our home and…”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “And?” So she’d finally realized she’d revealed shades of a marriage she hadn’t wanted to reveal.
“Nothing.” She straightened in her chair, snubbed out the cigarette. “Do I need to call Christine?”
“No. She’ll be fine.” How the hell could he say that with a straight face?
Gloria nodded. “I just want her to know, eventually, that if I was,” she paused, “firm at times, there was a reason for it.”
Harry swirled the scotch in his glass, said nothing.
“I just want her to know that,” she repeated.
What did she expect him to do, agree with her, take sides and say, Yes, Gloria, you were firm because Charlie couldn’t be; he was a sap when it came to discipline. Did she think he would actually go against his brother? He’d done that once in his life and he’d paid for it, was still paying for it. She could go straight to hell if she thought he’d ever say anything against his brother again.
“Chrissie’s worried about you,” he said, changing the subject. “She made me promise to stop over and make sure you were okay.”
“Oh.” She sank back in the uncomfortable flowered chair, put a hand to her throat, the skin smooth and tanned, the diamonds on her left finger glistening. “Well, I’m managing.”
He wanted to laugh in her face, tell her he knew she was managing; he’d witnessed that the other night at the benefit when she was parading around the floor, wearing Charlie’s death like a cloak to gain sympathy and attention.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you think he meant nothing to me.”
Harry merely lifted his glass and sipped his scotch.
“I loved him.” She pushed the emphasis into the words. “I loved him.”
“Of course, you did.”
“Don’t patronize me. You’ve never loved anyone in your life, other than yourself.”
She was wrong there. He loved Christine, and that’s why he’d never revealed the truth about Gloria, a truth that would destroy the family. It was because of Christine that he’d been silent.
And it was because of her he would remain that way.
Chapter 7
Christine rolled over, reached in the direction of the urgent ringing until she located her cell phone. “Hello.”
“Christine? Are you okay?”
“Connor.”
“Jesus, are you all right? You sound terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you don’t sound fine.” He paused, and she pictured him rifling a hand through his thick hair, once, twice, a nervous habit he employed when he found himself in a situation he couldn’t control.
“I was sleeping,” she said, pushing herself up on her elbows.
“It’s five o’clock in the afternoon.”
She heard the recrimination in his voice; five o’clock was work time; business deals got made at five o’clock, even
on vacation.
“I just fell asleep.” Should she tell him the real reason? I just found out I have a half sister? No, the Pendletons were very particular about bloodlines and heritage. They would not take kindly to learning about an illegitimacy. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t telling anyone about Lily Desantro.
“You must be really bored,” Connor said, chuckling into the phone. “Didn’t you bring your laptop? At least you could stay connected to the real world while you’re out there in the boondocks.”
“It’s here,” she said, surprised she hadn’t opened it yet, not even to check the Dow. “I’ve just been busy.”
“Oh?” He sounded intrigued. “Doing what?”
Driving seventy-eight miles to track down my half sister... confronting my father’s mistress... and her son. “Well, for one, trying to figure out how to operate a tub with a rubber plug.” She tried for humor, anything to avoid the real question. Connor only wanted to know when she’d be on her way back to Chicago.
His next words proved this. “So, when are you coming back? I’m still hoping you’ll come to New York with me.”
“So I can work the deal with Glen Systems for you?”
“No, of course not.”
But she knew the truth, heard it in the split-second hesitation. He might want her there because he cared about her, but he also wanted her friendly personality seated right beside Niles Furband when he tried to land the deal. This should have upset her, and the mere fact that it didn’t worried her most.
“Will you come? It’s the twenty-sixth.”
“I don’t know.” She still didn’t know what she was going to do about the situation here. Should she just leave? Tell Thurman Jacobs to disburse the funds and be done with it? But what about the girl? Could she let her walk around without ever seeing her, without knowing if they shared the same color hair, the same cowlick on the right side of their forehead, the same blue eyes, Blacksworth eyes?