A Family Affair: Spring: Truth in Lies, Book 2 (4 page)

He’d been in a foul mood for the past twelve days and it had nothing to do with work or appointments or breakfast. It had to do with
her:
Greta Servensen. Two Sundays had passed with no visit to the tidy bungalow, no lemon meringue pie, no mother cutting him the look with her voodoo eyes, and no kids staring at him as though they couldn’t quite make out why he was there. Hell, he couldn’t fault them on that one. He’d never been able to figure out why he ended up at the Servensens’ dinner table every Sunday like friggin’ clockwork, but he had. And damn, if he hadn’t looked forward to it, especially when the mother was flitting off with her old cronies to some knitting party where they made a bunch of socks and scarves for the needy. Then, he could relax and Greta’s smile would spread and light up his heart. Even the kids, Arnold and Elizabeth, acted happier when the “police” wasn’t in residence. But it didn’t matter now because he’d gotten the boot.

Three hours and a speeding ticket later, Harry slammed the door to his office and tossed his client files on the desk. He eyed the decanter in the corner and glanced at his watch. Before Chrissie left and put him in charge, he would have been on his third scotch and to hell with drinking before noon. But now he had other things to consider, like being a responsible adult
whom people depended on for paychecks, insurance, 401K’s. If he were honest about it, which he often wasn’t, he’d admit he liked people needing him. It felt good, especially when he could deliver, which he’d been doing since the day Chrissie handed him her father’s pocket watch and headed to Magdalena for good. He missed Chrissie, wished she’d take a trip here with that husband of hers, Lily too, so they could see what The Windy City was all about. Lily would love seeing the city from the rooftops. And Michigan Avenue? What wasn’t to like about that. Even Nate, hermit that he was, would enjoy a good bowl of penne or a plate of beef carpaccio.

Of course they wouldn’t come, not with Gloria breathing the same city air. The one upside to Chrissie’s move was not being obligated to attend those blasted, ridiculous dinners Gloria insisted on, even after Charlie’s death, as though she were serving two dozen people. It wasn’t as if she actually prepared anything or ate more than a bite here and there. The woman just liked the idea of pretending she was a showcase for family and commitment. And control, couldn’t forget that. Gloria
Blacksworth was all about bending people and situations to fit her needs.

But she hadn’t been able to control Chrissie. The girl had escaped and found a life far from the destructive grasp of a manipulative mother. Still, he missed Chrissie.
A lot. Harry picked up the phone and punched out her number, relieved she was only a phone call away.

“Hello?”

“How’s my favorite girl?” Harry settled in his chair and kicked his feet onto the edge of the desk.

“Uncle Harry! I was just thinking about you.”

He smiled, his mood lifting as he thought of her in the small office she’d rented, or off with Lily as the child click-clicked her way to new memories with the early birthday present he’d sent her last month: a camera. “And what were you thinking? How sad you are to have abandoned this old fool?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you planned to visit this summer because Lily’s been asking. She wanted to call the other night to tell you about a movie with a talking dog named Harry, but I told her it was too late.”

“She can call whenever she wants. I like talking to her. We understand what it’s like being the youngest kid.”

“Oh, please. And don’t you dare tell her to call whenever she wants, because you have no idea what you’re saying. I once told Lily I’d make her breakfast whenever she wanted, meaning after seven. She woke me up at three in the morning, begging for pancakes.”

Harry pictured that scene and smiled. “Unless you’ve improved, you had a hard time in the kitchen when you were fully awake. I can’t imagine what you’d produce waking up from a dead sleep.”

“Well, it was only toast. The pancakes had to wait a few more hours.” She laughed. “And I’m getting better. Miriam and Nate are very patient teachers.”

Her voice slipped into his heart and pulled it apart. He really missed her, and talking on the phone actually made it worse. Still, it wasn’t about him or what he wanted. It was about Christine and her life. “You sound happy, kid.”

“I am.” She sighed. “A little aggravated with some narrow-minded thinking in this town, but I’ve figured a way around it.”

“No doubt.”

“So, will you
come visit? I miss you.”

“Me too.”
He hesitated, figured what the hell and said, “Any chance you might consider a trip here?” He’d been really good about not asking, but this thing with Greta had him off his game and vulnerable, though he’d be damned if he’d ever admit it. Christine waited so long to answer he almost asked again, but before he could, she spoke.

“I’m not ready.”

That meant,
I’m not ready to face my mother.
“She try to contact you?” When Chrissie first left, she told him that her mother called five and six times a day, then five and six times a week, then letters, and who knew what Gloria’s current modus operandi was? He’d bet she had the private investigator tailing Chrissie. That would be Gloria’s style, all wrapped up and served to her in a monthly report.

“No, she hasn’t tried. And you?”

“Nope.”
Thank God for that
. “Okay, now that I completely ruined this conversation, I might as well toss it in the garbage and light a match. Are you ever going to be ready?”

***

Gloria Blacksworth sipped her coffee and flipped the page of the magazine. She’d stopped reading the newspaper years ago, too much doom and gloom, and all before lunch. Who needed that when there was enough tragedy in a person’s life to fill a Dumpster? She bit into her toast, rye with cherry jam, spread thin. The new girl had almost figured out Gloria’s food specifications. She was not quite as adept as Greta Servensen, but then she wasn’t eyeing Harry Blacksworth either. Since Greta’s forced departure, there’d been four cooks. Why was a cook so hard to find? The requirements were not that complicated or unattainable, were they? One must possess a general knowledge of kitchen appliances, have an aptitude for baking, and know how to prepare a good roast. One could certainly refer to a book for guidance, couldn’t one? And a cook must understand politeness, modesty, and what constituted an overall geniality. Was that so very difficult? Apparently locating such a person was a monumental task and one that should not be treated lightly. The first cook after Greta had thought it acceptable to try on jewelry found in the master bedroom, as long as she didn’t leave the premises with it. The second had the disgusting habit of sampling everything she made, to the point of presenting a meal that had been decreased by half. The third asked if the young woman in the picture on the mantel was Gloria’s daughter. Of course it was, but that was not the point. Gloria did not need a reminder of the hole in her heart, especially when delivered by a servant.

This new one was a quick learner. She was twenty-three or
-four, young enough to serve as a brutal reminder that Gloria’s skin wasn’t as firm and supple as it had once been, her hair unable to achieve the color and luster of a younger version without hours of treatment, and her eyes were no longer those of a hopeful twenty-something. Age and living had trounced Gloria, sat on her with such heaviness she’d not been able to spring back as quickly or as well as she’d once done.

No matter, the girl displayed respectfulness, punctuality, and adequate culinary skills—ha! How sad that the term
adequate
would be applied to Gloria’s vocabulary. Her name was Elissa Cerdi, but it was easier to think of her as merely “the cook” unless it was necessary to address her directly.

“Mrs.
Blacksworth?” The cook stood a few feet away, arms at her side, a cautious smile on her face. “I need to run to the store to pick up a few things for tonight’s dinner. Would you mind if I left now?”

“Aren’t you supposed to prepare for the week to minimize trips?” Greta had never left her post and run willy-nilly all over town in search of food items. She’d made lists, been organized, and efficient. And Harry
Blacksworth had ruined it all. Damn that man.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we were low on strawberries. If you don’t want me to leave, I can substitute the frozen ones.” The girl’s voice softened. “My grandmother used to do that, said it worked in a pinch if money was short.”

“Well. Money isn’t short and frozen isn’t fresh, is it?”

The girl blushed. “No, Mrs.
Blacksworth.”

Gloria sighed. “Go if you must, but don’t get lost and check the menu for the rest of the week. I don’t want you coming to me tomorrow because you’ve run out of lemons.”

“Yes, Mrs. Blacksworth.” She nodded, backed up toward the kitchen. “Thank you. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

I’ll be back in a jiff
. Christine had used that phrase when she was a teen and wanted to convince her parents to let her take off to this place or that, citing her leaving would barely be noticed because she’d return so quickly, they wouldn’t even miss her.
I’ll be back in a jiff.
Gloria’s breath caught in her throat, sucked out by the cook’s words and the horrible realization that Christine would not be back in a jiff. She would not be back at all.

“Mrs.
Blacksworth?” The girl inched toward her. “Are you unwell?”

Yes, yes dammit, I’m bleeding inside, my heart torn apart and left in shreds
. Gloria cleared her throat and sat up straight. “I’m fine.” As fine as a mother could be when she had a daughter who shunned her. How could a child pretend a parent didn’t exist? Gloria sniffed. How indeed? Did Christine merely transfer the title of “mother” to that Desantro woman? Did that woman enjoy special dinners with Christine, even a Mother’s Day card as Gloria once had? The thought of Christine attempting to replace her birth mother with her father’s mistress was unconscionable and disgusting. But the truth lay in the empty seat next to her. It had been months since she’d seen or heard from her daughter, and it would be many more before she did—if at all.

No one could replace a mother
; didn’t Christine understand that? Had pride and that damnable Harry Blacksworth convinced her she was better off pretending Gloria didn’t exist? There was one way to find out, and confrontation was more friend than foe right now. Yes, indeed it was. A kernel of a plan burst through her, spilled out.

“I’m planning a trip out of town for a few days. I’d like you to stay here and tend to my orchids.” It was not a question, but a statement.
I’ll be out of town. You’ll be watching my orchids.
No one ever challenged her, at least not since Harry Blacksworth, and she hadn’t seen that sad excuse for a human being since Christine left.

The girl bit her lower lip, hesitated. “Do you know when you’d be leaving?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Does it matter?” How could she know when she’d only conjured up the idea a minute ago?

More lip biting, accompanied by a brilliant flush and a bit of hand wringing. “It’s my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary next weekend. I told them I’d babysit my little sister so they could celebrate. They’re staying downtown.”

“How nice.” Twenty-five years. Comprised of what? Love? Hate? Compromise? A mistress or two?

The lip biting stopped. “They’re so excited. They never go anywhere and this is a big deal.” Her eyes grew bright, her voice soft like she was recalling a fairytale. “Dad ordered a dozen roses for the hotel room and plans to attach a pair of diamond-chip earrings to them.” The fairytale continued. “Mom got him a watch and had the date inscribed and a message that says, ‘Here’s to twenty-five more
’.”

“How romantic.”
Charles had purchased her a two-carat diamond pendant for their twenty-fifth anniversary. She’d chosen it, of course, but he’d been more than willing to visit the jeweler’s and pick it up.
Happy Anniversary, Gloria
. Charles had held out the silver-wrapped box and given her a smile that was reserved, withdrawn, and empty. She should have snapped the box shut and thrown it at him, spewing a line of curses that would shock him. Oh, she’d certainly wanted to, yes, she had. But then what? Then he might have done the unthinkable—he might have left her. And so she’d lifted the necklace from the velvet-lined box and handed it to her husband. He’d gently placed it around her neck, fastened the clasp, and not once did he touch her. Not a hand on the shoulder, a brush of fingers across her neck, certainly not a kiss. There had been nothing but the weight of the diamond necklace and years of discontent holding them together.
Happy Anniversary, indeed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs.
Blacksworth, but I have to babysit my little sister next weekend, so if that’s the date and you can give me specific times, I’ll see if I can fit it in.”

Gloria blinked. “Fit it in?”

A nod. A bit of lip biting. “Yes. I’ll try very hard to accommodate you.”

“Why
, thank you.” The girl was accommodating her? Well. “I’ll wait until after your parents celebrate their anniversary so you won’t be distracted. Orchids require great care. I have several of them.” One for every month Christine had been gone.