by Mary Campisi
Pop eyed him with a no-nonsense look and said, “You’re not worried I’ll forget how to string a tree, or maybe wonder why there’s even a tree in the living room?”
His son stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Alzheimer’s.” Zing! Let the boy deny that one. “Isn’t that why you’re really here? You want to take me back with you and toss me in one of those old folks’ homes where I can’t grow basil or sit in my underwear.”
“Pop. Listen.” He cleared his throat, twice, tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“I’m listening, but I’m not hearing anything.” Before Tony could regroup and spit out a tale coated with more sweetness than a sugarplum, Pop said, “You think the people in this town are going to let you take me away?” He snapped his fingers, ignoring the twinge of arthritis in his thumb. “Just like that? Because you’re my son?”
“Miriam Desantro called me because she was concerned.”
Now he was getting all huffy like he used to when he didn’t get his way. Too dang bad. “Miriam Desantro made a mistake.”
Tony ignored him. “I made a special point to get here as soon as I could. We need to get you checked out, make sure there’s not an issue.”
“Issue? If something doesn’t feel right, I’ll see Doc Needstrom. He’ll know what to do; been practicing for almost as many years as you been walking this earth.”
“That does not make me feel good. The man is ancient.”
“He knows what he’s doing.” It was Pop’s turn to get huffy. “Getting old doesn’t mean getting stupid.”
“I didn’t say that. Miriam was worried and called me.”
Pop rubbed his chin and pictured his son’s expression when he learned about Lucy. Those sad eyes were going to get a lot sadder. “Hmm.”
“Look, Pop, can you just work with me? I want you to go back to San Diego with me and get some testing done. That’s it. If everything checks out, I’ll bring you back home.”
The boy couldn’t look at him when he said the part about bringing him home. That was because he didn’t intend to bring Pop back to Magdalena. Nope. Pop would bet two boxes of pizzelles that his son planned to keep him in California in one of those fancy places they called retirement communities. Well, that was a big no-thank-you. Tony might think he had to worry about Pop, but once he found out he was going to be a grandpa, he’d really have something to worry about. “All that bellyaching you just gave me about your marriage falling apart, were you trying to get my guard down because you thought it would make it easier to talk me into hopping on that plane?”
“Of course not.”
But Pop didn’t miss the darting eyes or the extra puff of air in the words. Dang, but the boy had been trying to play him! “Your mother would be awful sad to hear you’re still fabricating to get what you want, even after all these years.” He stared at his only son and said, “This is the first time since I lost her that I’m glad she’s not here. It would be too painful for her to witness you trying to con your old man.”
Oh, but the boy didn’t like that. He gripped the arms of the flowered chair, dark eyes narrowed, and spat out, “I am not trying to con you. You know I don’t like coming to this town, but I suffered this damned snow to get to you. Can you try not to be so ungrateful?”
Pop sat back in his chair, crossed his hands over his belly, and nodded. “Ungrateful. Hmm. I can try, but I’m going to protect what’s mine, like my freedom and my house.” He held up a hand before Tony could start yammering about how inconvenienced he was to be in Magdalena. “I’m not going to California for Christmas. I’m staying right here and you’re welcome to spend it with me,” he paused, added, “and Lucy.”
Tony glanced at the portrait of his mother hanging over the mantel. “Pop—”
“Not your mother, your daughter.”
“Lucy’s coming here?”
Oh, but there was a heap of confusion on his face, thicker than molasses in a jar. “She’s not coming here. Lucy is here.”
Chapter 4
Anthony would always remember the second he learned his daughter was pregnant. His father had refused to expand on his comment that Lucy was in Magdalena, saying only that he’d see the truth soon enough. Cryptic words, coated with double meaning. When had Pop worried about trying to bury messages in his words? He’d always been a “say it like it is” kind of guy, no sugar, no toppings. But this thing with Lucy, well, that had a whole different feel about it, from the bushy, pinched brows on his father’s face to the gentleness in his voice, as though he were protecting her. But from what? Something school related? Hard to imagine when she was an honors student. Health? Of course not; she was twenty years old. What then?
The “what” revealed itself moments after Lucy entered the house, her winter jacket and hat dusted with new snow, a cautious smile on her face. Tony had jumped up from his chair and made his way to his daughter, burying her in a hug. He’d never been a parent to scold and comment on choices and shortcomings, and now he almost wished he had been. Then, it would be in character for him to demand to know what she was doing at her grandfather’s and why she wasn’t in school, finishing exams. The best he had was a lukewarm “Imagine my surprise when your grandpa told me you were here.” She’d darted a glance at Pop, who nodded twice.
It had been a signal, he realized that hours later as he dissected the event. The signal had been followed by Lucy shrugging out of her jacket, pulling off her hat, and turning toward the coatrack. As she reached to hook the jacket, her sweatshirt hugged her middle, exposing a small, yet very present ball where her once-flat stomach had been.
Lucy? Are you pregnant?
That had been the beginning of more than he wanted to hear. Yes, his only daughter was indeed pregnant, and no, the father of the baby would not be involved. Yes, she intended to stay in Magdalena until the baby was born, maybe even after, and no, she would not be returning to college.
Anthony had volumes of questions but before he got warmed up, Pop stood and announced they had a dinner invitation to Harry and Greta Blacksworth’s house, whoever that was, and if they didn’t get on the road this very minute, they’d be late.
And now, here they sat, in a house that would have gotten noticed in upscale areas like La Jolla or Del Mar, surrounded with enough food to last three days and feed thirty people. Lasagna, spaghetti and meatballs, plates of olives and cheese, antipasto, salad, bread. Anthony recognized Harry Blacksworth as the man he’d seen earlier today in the cashmere coat and plaid scarf carrying the bags of presents. The bigger question was who was this Harry Blacksworth guy and why was he in Magdalena? That one made no sense, none at all. Who would do that? Anthony sipped his wine, a fine merlot he recognized as high-end, and took it all in. It would be a lot easier if he had a program to refer to the cast of characters in this room.
Miriam Desantro sat next to her son, and a woman named Christine, who was married to the son and somehow related to Harry Blacksworth. The son’s name was Nick or Nate or maybe it was Matt. The girl with Down syndrome sitting at a smaller table with the other children was Miriam’s daughter, but Miriam’s husband hadn’t been the father. Who was the father? Did anyone know? The kids at the table with Miriam’s daughter belonged to Harry Blacksworth and his wife, but the guy looked a little old to have a baby. Still, from the look of his clothes and the perennial smile buried in the tanned face, he looked like a reformed playboy. The wife was a looker, too. Greta or Gloria. Or was it Goldie?
Pop knew them all and they all knew him. They knew Lucy, too, and not only that, they knew about the baby. Even the little blond girl with the curly hair who looked like Blacksworth’s wife knew about Lucy’s baby. Anthony sipped his wine and considered the fact that strangers knew more about his daughter’s current situation than her own parents did. How sad was that?
“Bet you had a real shocker when you got off the plane,” Harry Blacksworth’s mouth worked into a wide smile. “This isn’t California, that’s for sure
.”
The man was right about that. “No, it certainly isn’t.”
“We don’t mind a little cold and snow.” This from Miriam’s son.
“I’ve never been a fan of either.” Though there had been a time when he might have adjusted… Were they really going to sit here and talk about the weather? Maybe they were being polite and that’s why no one mentioned Lucy’s condition or her father’s ignorance of it. Anthony drank more wine and tried to blot out the last few hours. Near impossible, especially with all the chatter and references about people and places he used to know, didn’t know, or didn’t want to know. At least no one mentioned her.
“Uncle Harry?” The girl, Lily, tapped him on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Blacksworth nodded, his expression serious, and when the girl finished, he pulled her into a bear hug and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you for reminding me, Lily.” He winked at her and turned toward the adults. “We’re having a Christmas Eve get-together here. I’d hoped to have it at Harry’s Folly—” he frowned and shrugged “—but we’ve run into a few glitches.”
Whatever that meant. Anthony had no idea what the man was talking about. He’d like to corner Miriam Desantro for a few highlights and explanation, beginning with why she called him about his father’s health and then changed her story. She’d certainly been avoiding him since he walked in the room. Well, he was used to that; hadn’t he dealt with executives who didn’t like salesmen? And Rosalyn’s friends were only interested in people in the fashion industry. None of that had ever stopped him from securing meetings and getting results. Miriam would be no different. One way or another, he was going to talk to her and find out what was going on.
“I told you not to buy that place, Harry.” Pop shook his head and sighed. “Told you no good would come of it; that the blasted place had a curse on it, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“You think everything has a curse on it,” Harry said. “Poor business decisions have nothing to do with curses.”
The Desantro man cleared his throat and slid a look at Harry. “It’s more a string of bad luck. Five owners and five husbands dead.” He saluted the table with his drink and said, “Bad luck all the way around.”
Pop looked at his son and said, “Remember the old Rettinger place? Milt Rettinger died five months after it opened; slipped on a wet floor and cracked his skull. Now that was a piece of bad luck. You left shortly after Joe Hogan and his wife took it over.” He shook his head and made the sign of the cross. “Joe was laying a new floor when his ticker stopped. Thirty-eight years old and three babies at home.”
“I think your son does not need to hear our sad stories,” Harry’s wife said, her voice soft and smothered with an accent. “Harry and I have faced a few obstacles getting Harry’s Folly ready for its grand opening.” Her blue eyes sparkled when she smiled at her husband. “But we won’t give up. We will see it opened and we will break the bad luck streak.”
Pop made the sign of the cross and said, “Amen to that, Greta.”
The woman’s smile spread. “This is our first Christmas in Magdalena and we want to honor it by inviting family and friends to our house for Christmas Eve dinner.”
Harry nodded at Anthony. “You, too, Tony.”
“What? Oh, no, thank you, but I won’t be here… I mean, we won’t be here.” He stumbled over the words, tried to catch his daughter’s attention, but she was busy twirling a mound of spaghetti onto her fork. Anthony cleared his throat, determined to rework his meaning. “Thank you, again, but we’re spending our Christmas in San Diego.” Pause. “Me, Lucy, and Pop.”
“No, Dad. We’re not.”
“Lucy.” He wished she’d go back to twirling her spaghetti instead of creating enough drama for a reality TV show. “This really isn’t the time to have a discussion.”
She met his gaze, held it. “I was pretty clear earlier. I’m staying with Pop, here in Magdalena.”
Like hell she was. “You’re a pregnant, twenty-year-old child. You have no idea what you want. And Pop shouldn’t be here either. He needs to open his eyes and realize he can’t live alone any longer.” He regretted the harshness of his words the second they left his mouth, but it was too late to yank them back. Anthony glanced around the table. Harry Blacksworth fiddled with his fork. His wife had developed a sudden fascination with a piece of red onion in her salad. Miriam Desantro studied him with an expression that said, fool, while her daughter-in-law dissected a meatball. Miriam’s son mimicked his mother’s stance, but his expression said, fool and idiot.
And then the Desantro man opened his mouth. “Your father and daughter want to stay here.”
If Anthony didn’t look at the man’s eyes, he could formulate an answer, even get it out. He settled his gaze on Desantro’s right cheek and said, “This is a family matter.”
“And in this town, family is about more than blood.” Pop stared down his son, his expression fierce, determined. “These people at this table are family, Tony. My family. You need to respect that.”
“Anthony, I started this whole misunderstanding and I’m very sorry for that.” Miriam Desantro’s voice covered the table with regret. “May I speak with you in the kitchen? I think we both have a few things that need to be said.”
What an understatement. He’d landed in the middle of a disaster and the woman who’d put him there was about to explain. Well, she had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, starting with why she didn’t call and tell him his only daughter was in Magdalena and she was pregnant. Anthony pushed back his chair and stood. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard since I got here.” He glanced around the table at the curious and not-so-curious faces and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
He followed Miriam into a kitchen that was the size of Pop’s whole house. What was Blacksworth’s story and what was he doing here? Before he left this town, Anthony would find out.
Miriam sat on a chair at the granite island and apologized again. “I really am sorry, Anthony. I didn’t mean to cause such problems for you.” She shook her head and the stone earrings she wore dangled against her neck. “Pop asked me not to say anything and I couldn’t go against him, not after I’d misjudged his actions.”
“So you hung me out to dry?” He leaned against the island and studied her. She was a good-looking woman, tall and lean with an earthy quality that made him think of fresh air and fields of wildflowers. The skin on her fingers was cracked and stained with a rust color, the nails blunt and unpolished. Rosalyn would never in ten thousand years leave the house with naked fingernails. Red, fuchsia, pink, navy, olive, even black were colors of choice, but naked? That was like asking her to walk outside without her “face” on. There were a lot of criteria his ex-wife insisted upon and deemed essential to her existence: full makeup and hair, coordinated wardrobe including shoes, no flip-flops, no sweatpants unless they were designer, and absolutely no costume jewelry. She said if a woman couldn’t afford real pearls and diamonds, then she was missing out on the true beauty in life.
But Miriam Desantro didn’t look as if she bought into Rosalyn’s mantra, not at all. As a matter of fact, Miriam seemed the type to rebel against women like his ex-wife, opting instead for a man’s watch and comfortable shoes, definitely not designer. He’d known her years ago, had kept in touch since his mother’s death, calling every few months for an update on his father with the understanding she’d contact him sooner if there was a problem. The old man had passed inspection every time, fit and ready to walk another stretch of mile in the high tops and sweat outfits Anthony sent him. But then Miriam called and told him about the missing pizzelles and the Alzheimer’s concern, and now here he was.
“This isn’t about me, Anthony. You’ve got a lot on your hands right now, with your father and Lucy and the divorce—”
“What?” He leaned in, stared at her. “How did you hear about that?”
She leveled her hazel eyes on him and said, “Lucy told us. Actually, she told us quit
e a bit more than that. She’s one confused young woman and she’s going to need you by her side until she can straighten things out.”
“So I’m supposed to sit by and pretend I’m not upset about this pregnancy?”
“Of course not. But try not to judge.” Her voice dipped. “Give her some time and see if she opens up to you.”
For a split second, he wished he were dealing with his father’s health instead of his daughter’s pregnancy. He’d take the old man for testing, meet with doctors, develop a plan, and pick up his medication. That was doable, all within the realm of a son helping his father. Society accepted it, even applauded the child for coordinating the care. But what could he do for his pregnant daughter? Everyone would know. Then what? He knew nothing of pregnancy and baby classes, and could barely remember Lucy being a baby. What was he going to do?
What the hell was he going to do?
“Here. Drink this.” Miriam eased a glass filled with two ice cubes and an amber liquid toward him. When had she gotten them drinks? He’d been so preoccupied with his dilemma he hadn’t noticed, and he usually noticed everything.
He took a healthy swallow and enjoyed the burn. Bourbon. Two more of these and he might be calm enough to head back into the dining room and face the crowd. Or not.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it now,” Miriam said, tracing the rim of her glass with an index finger, “but things will work out.”
Anthony picked up on the first part of her words and ignored the second. “You’re right. It doesn’t seem like it.”
Before Miriam could respond, the kitchen door opened and Harry Blacksworth appeared carrying a tray of lasagna. “Don’t think either of you are leaving without leftovers. We’ve got enough food to feed half the street for three days.”