by Mary Campisi
Her attempt to treat it like nothing more than a handshake angered him. He’d done a hell of a lot more than kissing with more women than he could remember, but none of them had been entrenched in family history like this one.
“So, let it go, okay? You were trying to make me feel better, and since you aren’t much for words, you tried something else.” She lifted her shoulders. “And it worked; I’m not crying anymore. Okay? I’m all better.”
“Shut up,” he said, pulling her toward him. “Just shut up.” When his mouth covered hers this time it was demanding, possessive, his tongue fierce between her lips, searching, taking, leaving no doubt that he wanted this kiss, that he would make her want it, too. He continued until she whimpered against him, locked her fingers behind his neck, and pressed her body into his. He gentled the kiss, his tongue mating with hers, sucking, pulling her into his mouth.
“Nate,” she breathed his name.
He cupped her buttocks, pressed her against him. “Don’t think, just feel.”
“I can’t think...”
“Good.”
“This is insanity.”
“I know.” His mouth was on her neck now, working its way inside the opening of her shirt to more skin, beautiful, glorious skin.
“Nate?”
“Hmm?” He flicked open the top button of her shirt. Who would have thought flannel could be such a turn-on?
“Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.” And that bra, low-cut peach with lace…front clasp…his favorite…
“Nate, look at me.”
The desperateness in her voice yanked him back, forced him to meet her gaze. “Are you okay?”
“I just want you to know that right now I’m not thinking about who you are or who I am, or why we should never be together.” She reached out and stroked his cheek.
He kissed her then, a swelling of need that gripped his soul, swirled into his consciousness, consuming him and yet at the same time warning, Beware...beware...
But he didn’t hear the words; his heart was pounding too loudly, his need beating too fiercely against his body as he slowly unbuttoned Christine’s shirt and began the delicious free fall into oblivion.
Chapter 21
The sweetness of brown sugar and cinnamon drifted through the house, crawling up the stairs, seeping through the small cracks in the windows to dissipate in the spring air. Miriam was baking cinnamon rolls, Christine’s favorite. Actually, she’d acquired several favorites since she’d begun visiting Magdalena: marinara sauce with linguine, meatloaf smothered in gravy, vegetable soup (with a rutabaga for sweetness), pumpkin rolls, and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Four months ago, she didn’t know the difference between a rutabaga and a parsnip. But Miriam had taught her this, had taught her, too, about cooking from scratch, what constituted “a pinch” and how to use a rolling pin.
At home, the kitchen was reserved for people with foreign accents, who wore white uniforms and white shoes. But Miriam’s time in the kitchen was a form of art, created with mediums such as flour and eggs, used to convey her caring for others, friends as well as family. She whipped up chicken noodle soup for the neighbor with a cold, spaghetti sauce and homemade noodles for the widower who still couldn’t force himself to cook a meal without thinking of his deceased wife, banana and pumpkin breads for the church. The giving went on and on; names and faces didn’t matter. It was the need that took precedence, weighing heavily on Miriam’s soul, luring her back into the kitchen until she’d created food for their family, their cause.
But food wasn’t the only pull of this room. The warm, unassuming presence of the woman herself let Christine ease into conversations she’d never had with her own mother. Why do some women feel their only value is in their body? Why do they continue to stuff their shapes into too-tight dresses, their feet into stilettos, their brains into closed vaults that can’t breathe and subsequently suffocate? Why do they tuck and nip and smooth when the ultimate beauty isn’t on the surface at all? And why do they not see this?
“Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“I’ll get it.” Christine slid out of her chair, picked up her cup. “How about you? Are you ready for another?”
“This is my second pot,” Miriam said. “Decaf or not, I think I’ve had enough.”
“You could sleep until six some morning, you know. You won’t shrivel up and disappear. Trust me, lots of people don’t see daylight until much, much later.”
“But there’s nothing like the silence of early morning. Your father used to love to sit on the back porch with his first cup of coffee, just gazing out at the hills. He looked so peaceful then; I would watch him from the other room, wondering what he was thinking about, where his mind was. I always wanted to know.” Her voice drifted off.
“Didn’t you ever ask?”
She set down the hot pad she’d been holding. “Once, in the beginning. It was too painful, so I never asked again.”
“Still, most women wouldn’t stop at one time.”
“There were too many parts of our lives that we couldn’t change. I didn’t want to start questioning him again because I knew once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d want to know every detail: what kind of coffee cup did he use, where did he have his shirts laundered, his hair cut? The questions would never stop and I wasn’t going to do that to him, to us.” Her gaze was honest as she added, “Or to myself. I loved him and I was not going to destroy that with questions I had no right asking.”
Christine opened her mouth and the words fell out, “Blacksworth and Company mug, Custom Dry Cleaning, Mario’s.” It was the least she could do, one small gift.
“Thank you.”
“If there’s...anything else you’d like to know, maybe I can help.”
Miriam nodded, her eyes wet.
Life was filled with so many twists and turns, like the sides of a prism, giving off light; what seemed wrong before seemed almost right when viewed from a different angle.
“Christine.” The sadness lifted from her face, shifted to concern.
“Yes?”
“I know it’s none of my business and I just gave you a big talk about not asking questions, but I care about you, and Nate’s my son. I don’t want to see either one of you get hurt.”
She should have known Nate’s call last night wouldn’t be the end of the conversation. What mother wouldn’t inquire when her son told her the daughter of the man he’s hated for years is staying overnight? And when she’d come in the back door this morning, hair still wet from a shower, Miriam had glanced up from the pot of soup she was stirring and offered a quiet smile, nothing more.
What to say? I don’t know what’s happening between us? Last night he touched me in a way no man’s ever touched me before? I woke up in the middle of the night just to look at him, this stranger lying next to me who’d stripped my defenses?
“Nate’s a wonderful person, kind, considerate, caring, but there’s a hard streak running through him that keeps him from forming relationships, lasting ones, anyway.”
She did not want to hear this, not right now. “Miriam—”
“Hear me out, Christine. Please. You’re Charlie’s daughter; I would do anything to protect you, and Nate, well that goes without saying. But a mother sees her child’s shortcomings, even if she doesn’t admit to them very often.”
“Miriam, this is all very premature. We…I…”
“You know Nate’s never forgiven your father for not choosing between his life here and the one in Chicago. He still doesn’t understand that for me, those four days were enough. Maybe I should have told him the truth about his own father, how living beside him after Anna died was lonelier than being alone, but I couldn’t bring myself to shatter the illusion he’d created. But I’m afraid he might try to punish your father through you.” She took a deep breath and pushed out the words. “Do you understand what I’m saying? He harbors such hate, I worry he’ll use you just because you’re a
Blacksworth.”
Miriam’s words hit Christine, throwing her whole world off center. Had he merely been using her last night?
“And then I worry, too, that perhaps it isn’t that at all, perhaps Nate’s falling for you. I remember how he used to stare at your pictures when Lily showed him her album, the ones of you a few years ago and more recent. Maybe it wasn’t all hate he felt when he looked at you; maybe deep down it was an unwilling attraction.”
“Would that be so bad if he were attracted to me?”
“It could be if you didn’t share that same attraction, or”—her smile was sad, pained—“if he fell in love with you and a cruel twist of fate forced him to live a life he condemned your father and me for all these years.”
“But if we loved each other—”
“What, Christine? If you loved each other it would be enough, like it was for your father and me? No, it wouldn’t be enough. It would be the worst form of torture for him. That’s why, deep down, I don’t think he’ll let himself love you, Christine and that’s what scares me most.”
***
Gloria sipped her Chardonnay and took in the surroundings, pleased that even now, several weeks after the accident, her presence still evoked a kind of quiet command among the employees of The Presidio. It was evident in the number of trips Armand had made to her table, inquiring about the food, the service, for God’s sake, the butter rosettes. Was the prime rib pink enough for her liking? Had the waiter seen to her needs? Did she prefer butter rosettes or perhaps a cream pat substitute? The poor man spoke with an earnest concern but underneath she saw it for what it was—fear.
He was afraid of her. They were all afraid of her. Sad, that such lavish attention could be garnered on the person posing the greatest threat. And she knew that Armand and his entourage were petrified that she’d take them to court, cry to the judge over the surgery, the pain, the agony of rehab she’d endured, all because of a slippery step at The Presidio. There was power in this, great power.
Harry Blacksworth was fit to be tied that she was now almost as much a regular as he. She secretly delighted in his obvious aggravation, though she remained civil, even cordial during their encounters. Being at odds with her dead husband’s brother in such a public venue would only lead to questions.
“Mrs. Blacksworth, may I get you another Chardonnay while you wait for your guest?” Armand stood before her looking very European in his black suit, a maroon silk scarf tucked into the breast pocket.
She handed him her glass. “Thank you, Armand, I think I will.”
He flashed her a smile and took the glass. The bow was almost imperceptible, but she noticed it. The man’s deference to her must infuriate Harry. It certainly cramped his style. She’d heard he’d taken to having his lunch at Mi Hermana’s Ristorante most days. Good. Let him think about her every time he passed The Presidio. Harry Blacksworth thought he was the only one who could make a person’s life miserable, but he was wrong. It might take her longer, but she’d see to it that she disrupted his life, even if it was as simple a consideration as where to have lunch.
He had no right to tell her how to handle her own daughter. Christine was her daughter, hers, and no amount of threats from him would change that fact. If he thought she was going to sit by and watch Christine make a mess of her life, then Harry underestimated her.
The meeting with Connor this evening, masked as a casual dinner engagement, was all part of the plan. Connor was Christine’s future—handsome, attentive, heir to a fortune, a man she cared about and would come to love eventually, though never obsessively. The perfect combination for a comfortable life.
“There you are, Gloria.” Connor Pendleton shrugged out of his trench coat and sank into the chair beside her. “Sorry I’m late.” He flashed her a smile. “I was talking to Tokyo.”
“That’s quite all right. I understand.”
“We’re close to doing a deal with them that could open up the market in Asia.”
“I’m very happy for you.”
“I’m heading to London next week.” He nodded to Armand as he placed a bourbon on the rocks in front of him.
“I love London.”
“I’m working on a possible merger. Huge deal. I want Christine to go with me, Gloria.”
“Have you asked her?” She slipped a cigarette from its case. Let Armand tell her The Presidio was “No Smoking.”
“Not yet. I can’t get a minute alone with her anymore.” He sipped his bourbon. “You know how she’s been these last few months. Ever since Charles died, it’s like she doesn’t recognize her own life. She flits off to that damnable cabin every month without even thinking about it, but if I ask her to go anywhere, she turns me down flat. What the hell’s going on, Gloria?”
She lit her cigarette, inhaled. “Perhaps you need to make your intentions known.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve done quite a bit of talking, you say you love her, you want to be with her, but what have you actually done to prove it? Sometimes, women want action more than words.”
“I’ve tried that. Remember the trip to New York? She refused to go, said it interfered with her other trip, though how the hell that became a regular thing, I’ll never know.”
“Connor, buy the ring.” She could picture Connor and Christine’s wedding photo in the Chicago Tribune.
“You think so?”
Christine Blacksworth Pendleton, what a powerful name. “Of course I do.”
He finished his drink and reached for her hand. “Thanks, Gloria. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Her smile widened. It was wonderful to be appreciated. “We’re going to be family, Connor. We’ll stick together you, and I. You’ll see, everything will be just fine.”
Chapter 22
She was already counting the hours until she could leave again. What was it that pulled her to Magdalena even when she was hundreds of miles away?
There were the obvious reasons: Miriam and Lily, but what else? What part did Nate play in her increasing desire to return? He stole great gaps of time throughout her day, filling her mind with memories, hopes that he might call her, confess he was thinking of her, too, perhaps tell her he missed her, and then the enormous stretch of revelation...confide that he couldn’t wait to see her again.
Of course, he didn’t call.
Was Miriam right? Had he been using her to punish her father?
There was one other possible reason for her growing attraction to Magdalena.
Her mother.
She just wouldn’t stop pushing and pulling, making demands, even if they were subtle. Greta cooked five pounds of prime rib and I need you to come for dinner tonight...bring Connor, too...I bought us tickets to the theater...Come, keep me company...Bloomingdale’s is having a sale...let me buy you that new coat you’ve been looking at...
The quiet demands bombarded her until she ignored the phone, let her mother’s words fill her voicemail with dates and times. Was this how her father had felt? Had her mother overtaken him like a sweet elixir seeping into his veins, suffocating him with excessive consideration? Or had that merely been control?
The fact that Christine was sitting at The Presidio right now, waiting for Connor to meet her for dinner was, in some way, her mother’s doing. He might have called Christine, even made the reservations, but her mother was behind it.
“Christine.”
Connor. His teeth were so white, his skin a deep golden bronze, even in spring, all the results of bleaching kits and tanning beds. She tried to envision Nate sticking a bleaching tray in his mouth or cramming himself onto a tanning bed. It would never happen.
“It’s great to see you.” His husky voice spilled over her, lending just the right inflection to speech, pitch, expression. He leaned down to kiss her.
She turned her face just in time so the kiss he’d intended for her lips grazed her cheek. He smiled and straightened as though her action was acceptable, even normal.
/> “I’ve missed you.”
She couldn’t say she missed him, too. It would be too great a lie. She looked down at her wine glass, fingered the stem. “You said you needed to see me, that something had come up and you needed to talk to me right away.”
“That’s right. Something has come up.” His smile faded. “Something of a most urgent nature.”
“What? Is someone in your family ill?”
“No, nothing like that; you know my family, fit as race horses.”
“Ever since Dad died, I get nervous when people say they have something ‘urgent’ to tell me.”
He reached for her hand and covered it with his. “I do have something urgent to tell you, but I’d like to think it’s going to make you happy, not nervous.” He laughed, stroked the back of her hand. “Well, it might make you a little nervous, but it’s a good nervous.”
“You got the Tokyo deal.”
“I did. Pendleton Securities is acquiring Rendo Investments.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“The old man’s pretty pleased, but you know he’ll never come right out and admit it.”
“I’m very happy for you.”
“Thanks. But that isn’t the urgent news I wanted to discuss.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black box and laid it between them.
She forced herself to breathe. “What is it?”
He flipped open the box, angled it toward her. “It’s our future. Marry me, Christine.”
An enormous marquis diamond ring rested in the center of a cream satin lining. It winked and glistened in the light, haunting her with promises she didn’t want, tormenting her with a love she couldn’t accept.
“Say something.”
“I... I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘I’ll marry you, Connor. I’ll be your wife’?”
She knew he meant well, and that in his own way, he loved her. But it wasn’t enough. He’d give her diamond rings, necklaces, trips, houses, cars, probably even a child or two, but he’d never be able to give her the one gift she needed: himself. That would be reserved for Tokyo and London and all the other cities and business engagements that would mark him as a world-class businessman, capable of negotiating and facilitating the ultimate deal.