A Family Affair: Spring: Truth in Lies, Book 2 (8 page)

He coughed, waited for her to smile or maybe slug him in the gut. She did neither.
Merely stared, her expression as closed as a poker player’s. Harry shifted from one foot to the other, dug around in his pants pocket, and pulled out the crumpled note card. “I figured you’d give me that look, you know the one that says you think I’m full of bullshit. I made a few notes so I could keep it all straight in my head: the reason I came, what I wanted to say, why I wanted to say it.” He stopped, scanned the other sentences he’d written and determined they were equally ridiculous. “Oh, hell, I don’t know why I’m here. I want things to be the way they were.” He gestured toward the house. “The dinners, the late-night snacks.” He paused, his voice gentling. “Talking to you. I miss that. Can’t we get that back?” She squared her shoulders and studied him, her bottom lip quivering the tiniest bit. What was wrong? Had he frightened her? Said too much? Maybe he should have—

“I think you should bring your appetite and your talks to the young woman who lost her earring in your bed.”

So much for Greta being afraid of him. He’d mistaken the quivering for fear when it was anger disguised behind those full lips. She was still pissed about Bridgett. Maybe he could cajole her into a good mood. “Bridgett isn’t much in the kitchen or in conversation.”

She snorted.
“Obviously.”

Obviously?
What was he supposed to do with that comment? It was pure sarcasm, filled with female venom. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.” Was he, Harry Blacksworth, actually confessing this? She raised a brow that implied he was lying. “I’m done with her.” There. Read between the lines.
I’m interested in you. Can’t you see that?

She sniffed. “And what on earth does that piece of information have to do with me?”

Okay, that was enough. This was why he avoided long-term relationships and female entanglements that led to comments like Greta’s. She knew exactly what it had to do with her and yet she expected him to sit down, pat her hand, recite a sonnet or two, and tell her exactly what it had to do with her. In great detail. Repeatedly. Harry met her stare and said, “You’re right. It has nothing to do with you. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll see you around.” He turned and started for his car, anxious to get the hell out of here. Who said a man couldn’t be comforted by a drink and a stranger? He planned to do both tonight, anything to not think of Greta Serevensen.

“Harry.” She was beside him, close enough for him to smell her h
oneysuckle scent.

“What?” He would not notice the wispy strands of blond hair trailing along her neck, or the flush of her cheeks, and certainly not the timid smile hovering about her lips.
Full lips. Pink lips. Lips that could take him to heaven.

“May I see your card?”

“What?” He stared at her, confused.

She pointed to the crumpled note card in his hand.
“The card. May I see the notes you wrote for me?”

“I didn’t write notes for you.” Damn straight on that. “I wrote them for myself.” He paused, stumbled around, and ended with, “So I could keep my head together, but it was all bullshit anyway.” He laughed, folded the card in half, then half again. “You know me, Harry the
bullshitter. You deserved better.”

She ignored his attempt at humor, kept her gaze glued on his. “May I read what you wrote?”

No. If she read it, she might notice how desperate he’d become and how it all started and ended with her. “It’s nonsense.”

She held out her hand, small, efficient. “Please?”

It was the
please
that did it, coupled with the sincerity in her voice and the honesty on her face. This was about trust and Harry hadn’t seen much of that in his life aside from what he shared with Christine. Still, for some bizarre and totally unfathomable reason, he wanted to trust her. He placed the crumpled-up, folded card in her hand and looked away. “It’s just bullshit,” he muttered.

She unfolded the note card and attempted to smooth it out. “Sometimes, if you look hard enough
, you can pick out bits of truth from the, uh,” she paused and finished with an uncharacteristic, “bullshit.”

“Or sometimes it’s just straight bullshit.” He vowed to keep his thoughts in his head from now on, not in any written or verbal format, which could then be retrieved and misinterpreted or properly interpreted by someone else. Namely, someone who was not meant to see or hear what was going on in Harry’s messed-up head. He slid a glance her way. What the hell was taking her so long? Was she memorizing every word? Damn. They were only notes, nine of them, and most weren’t even complete sentences. “Can’t understand my writing, can you? Mrs.
Gimball flunked me for penmanship and Mr. Torpin told me I did not possess the proper skill set to create a sentence, let alone a story.” His attempt at a laugh fizzled. He couldn’t take it any longer. “I lied to you,” he said.

That stopped her. She glanced up, brows pinched, eyes wide.
“About what?”

Harry pointed at the note card in her hand. “That. It wasn’t for me. I was trying to help a friend.” Yeah, he liked the sound of that better, made him appear noble, strong, not a gutless wimp with poor penmanship and a bad case of the
hots for a woman he shouldn’t want. Greta’s lips curved at the corner. Was that a smile? Why? She didn’t believe him? Thought he was making the friend story up? Give him a minute and he’d railroad her with his sweet talk. Before he could get a line out, she butted into his thoughts.

“This friend, does he have a name?”

Harry shrugged. She was a shrewd one. “Of course he has a name, but I can’t divulge it.” He paused, added, “You’ve met him.”

“
Ahh. From the restaurant?”

She sounded intrigued. Good. He’d play along.
“Right. He only came in a few times but he was having real problems with this one woman.” He shook his head, falling into the tale. “He had it bad, but he was not the settling down type.”

Greta nodded. “Was she?”

“Hell, yeah. She was the kind you took home to your mother.”

“And that was a problem?” Her voice turned soft, encouraging.

“For a guy who flunked relationships 101 and had women lining up for him since he was fifteen? Oh, that was a big problem.”

“But he wanted to be with this woman?” Her eyes grew bright. “Maybe have a relationship with her?”

“He never came out and said he did, but you don’t give up the twenty-five-year-olds and start and end your day thinking about this woman if you don’t want a relationship.” He paused, met her gaze. “Do you?”

Her mouth opened and he honed in on her tongue.
Pink, wet, tantalizing. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What?” Damn, he couldn’t think with her so close, talking in that soft voice, that tongue darting in and out around her words. And that honeysuckle scent grabbing at him…Harry loosened his tie. “Don’t you think it’s hot out here?”

“I think it’s perfect.”

The way she said it made it sound like she was talking about a lot more than the weather. Did he want what she might or might not be offering? Of course he did, but with a woman like Greta, it came with conditions.
Lots of them.

“‘I’m turning over a new leaf. Obviously, there was a misunderstanding. Let’s get coffee.’” Her lips twitched, but she kept on reading that damn note card. “‘Trust me, this time for real. I miss the times we used to spend together, don’t you? I miss your pie
.’” She looked up and said, “I miss your pie?”

Heat rushed
from Harry’s neck, splattered his face, made his eyes water. “What do I know about that kind of stuff? I told you I was helping a friend.” He let out a laugh. “He was so desperate, it was pathetic. What kind of guy gives up a steady bed partner who makes no demands on him other than an occasional piece of jewelry and dinner?”

Greta’s lips pinched. “Someone who wants more in life than sex and penne with spinach and garbanzo beans.”

“What?” That was his favorite dish and she knew it. “Are you talking about me?”

She folded the note card and stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans. “Oh, I think we are talking about you. I think we’ve been talking about you, don’t you, Harry?”

He stared at her, debating how to answer. Before he could convince himself that admitting anything resembling an emotional attachment spelled disaster, he sucked in a deep breath and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

When Greta smiled, her eyes lit up, her face turned pink, and she actually sparkled. She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll go
slow.” She spoke as if he hadn’t bedded hundreds of woman, as if she was the first one. Maybe in some ways, the important ways like honesty, trust, and fidelity, she was.

“I like slow. I can do slow.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said in a soft, sultry voice. “I’m sure you do it very well.”

Was Greta making sexual innuendos?
His Greta? She’d never done that before. He smiled. Maybe this relationship thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Harry sat in Greta’s kitchen with a glass of iced tea and a ham and Swiss on rye. He’d tried to tell Greta he wasn’t hungry, but the woman had the sandwich ready for him two minutes after he walked through the door, so what choice did he have but to eat the damn thing? She’d been so pleased when he’d taken a bite and given her the thumbs
-up. He guessed this was new territory in building a “relationship”. Thinking about the other person and wanting to please her, out of bed.

Since the afternoon he’d made a fool of himself at Greta’s front door with that ridiculous note card, she’d been extra gentle with him, like he was a wounded duck who couldn’t find its way back to water. He was no damn duck and he wasn’t wounded, but there was something about her warm hand on his and that smile that calmed him more than a double scotch.

He’d been to her house four times since “the talk”; two of those included dinner with the whole clan. Elizabeth was a miniature version of Greta, blonde, blue-eyed, but damn those sticky hands. She giggled every time she called him Mr. Harry, so much so that Greta blushed and explained when a four-year old called someone Mr. Harry, it meant just that, Mr. Hairy. Whatever.  As long as the kid didn’t throw up on him or expect him to read bedtime stories, he was good. The boy, Arnold, was eight and a bruiser but shy and clumsy. Poor kid needed some work in the self-esteem area. Maybe he could start by ditching his name and using initials instead. Harry would have to find out the kid’s middle name and maybe he could make a few suggestions.

And then there was Helene.
The witch of Chicago. Harry didn’t care if she thought he was a degenerate; he was a degenerate. Or had been, until recently. It would take a good amount of scrubbing and a few hundred hours of practice to make him a decent human being, but he’d give it a go. The old lady could look down her wide nose at him, mutter in German, and never address him directly, and he was fine with that. But screw around with Greta, demean her with snide comments about her clothes or the meals she prepared or didn’t prepare? Those were fighting words. The old bag even picked on poor Arnold and little Elizabeth, calling them brats and ungrateful. Harry vowed the next time she started up, he was going to forget his pledge to clean up his mouth and let her have it, starting and ending with the F-word.

“Mr. Harry?” Elizabeth stood in the doorway, dressed in pink shorts and a purple polka
-dot top. “Mama said you’re taking us to the zoo today.”

“That’s right.” How the hell he’d volunteered for that job was not worth considering. Wouldn’t a shrink have a blast with that one?

“I like the elephants.” She took a few steps toward him, her sneakers lighting up as she moved. “Do you like elephants?”

“Sure.” Damn, he should have gone on that safari to Africa when he was twenty-five. Then, he’d tell her a thing or two about elephants. Instead, his knowledge was limited to what he’d seen on television and the circus he’d attended as a kid. He’d never made it to a zoo, never had a desire to see animals locked up and kept from roaming free and doing what they would. Maybe it reminded him too much of marriage, cage and all, especially the part about not being able to roam free and do what came naturally.

“Arnold likes the monkeys. They poop all over the rocks.”

“You don’t say.” Harry scratched his chin and nodded. “Guess they don’t have toilets, huh?”

She giggled and bounced toward him, stopping when she was a step away from his feet. Her blue eyes sparkled, just like her mother’s. “No, silly. Monkeys don’t use toilets.”

Harry grinned. “At least they don’t have to wait in line.”

She giggled again, her face lighting up. “Mr. Hairy,” she said in a singsong voice. “He’s kinda scary.” Next came the hopping from one foot to the other and hand clapping. “Mr. Hairy, he’s kinda scary.” She held out her hand and said, “Dance with me.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just watch.”

“No, I want you to dance. Arnold won’t ever do it. He’s no fun.” She hop-hopped back and forth, twirled around and clapped. “Mr. Hairy, he’s kinda scary.”

It was catchy in a ridiculous way, but so what? He’d known entering into a “relationship” with Greta, whatever that meant, was going to be foreign, and hell, maybe ridiculous. At least the kid had rhythm, and she could hold a note. Harry shook his head and stood. What the hell? Elizabeth clutched his hands and hop-hopped.
“Now you, Mr. Harry. Hop on one foot, then the other. And sing, ‘Mr. Hairy, he’s kinda scary.’” The first hop was the worst because he knew he looked like a fool, but after that, it was kinda fun.

That’s how Greta found them, hopping around the cracked linoleum kitchen, singing a silly song about Mr. Hairy being scary. The second Harry spotted her standing in the doorway dressed in white shorts and a blue top that matched her
eyes, he clamped his mouth shut, planted both feet on the floor, and cleared his throat.

“Mama!”
Elizabeth clutched Harry’s hand and tried to make him move. “Mr. Harry was dancing with me.”

Greta’s lips twitched. “I see that.”

The child smiled up at him, her small hand lifting his in the air so she could twirl underneath his arm. “Singing, too. He’s a good singer. Do you want to hear him sing?”

“I’m sure she doesn’t.” Harry twirled her once more and released her.
“Unless she likes the sound of a sick frog.” Elizabeth giggled and grabbed his hand. “We’re going to see the elephants, Mama. Mr. Harry likes elephants, too. Not monkeys, like Arnold.” She scrunched up her nose. “They poop on the rocks. Mr. Harry said that’s because they don’t have toilets, but I said monkeys don’t use toilets!”

“Well.” Greta didn’t even try to hide her smile this time. “This is going to be an interesting trip.”

Two and a half hours later, that proved to be the understatement of the day. Harry couldn’t decide what bothered him more: the overabundance of people talking, pointing, screaming, eating, or the caged animals in their supposed “natural” habitat. Say what you wanted, the poor bastards were trapped. A cage was a cage, even if it had a nice view and a manmade watering hole. These animals couldn’t take a crap or fornicate without people gawking. It was unnatural and left a pit in Harry’s gut that made him worry he might heave. He glanced at Greta who walked ahead with Arnold while Elizabeth lagged behind, clutching his hand. Relationships might proclaim to foster a natural habitat but only through the confines of a cage. And marriage? Hell, why was he even thinking about that? Marriage was a death sentence. End of story.

“Mr. Harry, I’m thirsty.” Elizabeth smiled up at him. “Can I have a lemon ice?”

“Sure. I could use a drink, too.” A double. “You hungry?”

She glanced at her mother’s back, turned to him
, and whispered, “Starving.”

“Why are you whispering?” he whispered back.

“Mama said not to ask you for anything.” When he pointed at her mother, she nodded.

He winked at her. “Well, I’m hungry and Harry
Blacksworth doesn’t stuff his face in front of a hungry kid. Greta,” he called. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” He’d seen a kid walk by with a double-decker ice cream cone. And another chomping on a hot dog. Damn, did it have sweet onion and ballpark mustard? What about a burger and fries? Funnel cakes? Soft pretzels? Hell, onion rings? He wanted all of them, could almost taste the grease and salt on his tongue. Just thinking about all that food bumped his cholesterol and blood pressure up a few notches. He’d do an extra cardio workout tomorrow, maybe even hop on the bike. But today he was having those damn fries and a hot dog. Maybe two.

She stopped and turned. “We can eat in the picnic area. Let’s make our way to the car so I can grab the picnic basket.” She smiled at him. “I made you turkey on rye with a slice of avocado.
Yogurt, grapes, peanut butter and jelly for the kids.”

Harry didn’t miss the way Arnold’s gaze kept sliding to the hot dog booth. What kid would pick his mother’s peanut butter and jelly when he could stuff himself with a hot dog and fries? “Save that for later.” He grinned. “If you make me walk this whole zoo, I’ll need a snack just to have the energy to drive home.”

“It’s not necessary to buy them food.”

He shrugged. “If it were, I wouldn’t do it.”

She hesitated. “Thank you.”

You’d have thought he bought her a necklace from Tiffany’s. Her eyes got all bright, like she might spill a tear or two, her voice wobbled, her face flushed pink.
All this for a hot dog and a lemon ice? A tiny part of him wanted to see that joy on her face every day and know that he was responsible for it. He pushed that nonsensical idea from his brain and said, “We’ll hit the hot dog stand first, then we’ll work our way to the cotton candy and funnel cakes.”

“And the lemon ice?”
Elizabeth asked, clapping her hands.

He almost said, “Hell, yes!” but caught himself. “Sure, lemon ice it is.”

“And a soft pretzel with mustard?”

The boy spoke. He usually didn’t talk much when Harry was around
. Whether due to shyness, maternal protection, or just plain awkwardness, it was hard to tell. Harry guessed it could be a combination of all three. He didn’t think he’d much like it if some man came sniffing around his mother. “You got it, Arnold.”

“This sounds like an upset stomach waiting to happen,” Greta said in her “mother knows best” voice. “You are not going to eat all of that food and get sick.”

“We won’t,” Elizabeth said. “Will we, Arnold?” The boy shook his head.

“Oh, Greta, let them have what they want.”

She narrowed her eyes on him as though he were kid number three in the group. “You won’t think that when they throw up in your car.”

Harry laughed. “I’ll take my chances.”

He hadn’t needed to worry about Greta’s children overdoing it. Apparently, their mother had trained them well, or maybe they’d barfed up too many times from overeating. No, the real person he should have worried about overindulging was himself and his inability to control his behavior, which resulted in bad consequences. Harry had his hot dog and fries, followed by a funnel cake, a generous swirl of Elizabeth’s cotton candy, peanuts, and a lemon ice. He should have said no when he spotted Arnold eyeing the double-decker ice cream cones, but he knew the kid wouldn’t eat one unless somebody else did. And since Elizabeth and Greta were munching on a funnel cake, that left Harry to face a double-decker ice cream cone that he knew could put him over the edge. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint the kid, so he bought two cones and forced one down, bite by bite. When he finished, his stomach gurgled like a stopped-up toilet and his head spun with sugar overload. All he wanted to do was get home and lie down.

“Harry? Would you like me to drive?”

He shook his head. Greta drove ten miles an hour below the speed limit, and he couldn’t afford to lose valuable minutes away from his bathroom. If he hopped on the highway, he could drop Greta and the kids off and be in his house in forty minutes. They’d just gotten on the highway when Elizabeth called from the backseat, “Thank you, Mr. Harry. I had the bestest time.”

“I did, too.”
This from Arnold. “Thank you.”

Greta slid a glance his way, her face bright with admiration. “Thank you, Harry, for a lovely day.”

Something about the way she said it, her voice all soft and warm, and those eyes looking at him like he was a hero, shot to his heart, reverberated in his chest until it hurt, then landed in his gut with a bang and a thud. Harry sucked in air, tried to clear his head and his gut, but it was too late. Bits and shreds of hot dog and lemon ice slushed up his throat. Shit, he was going to puke! He pulled the car off the road, checked for cars, and jumped out before Greta could inquire if he was all right. Forget making it down the small embankment where he could puke his guts out without three spectators. Harry knelt down, opened his mouth, and hurled.

“Harry?”

Greta? “Go away.” Sweat filmed his forehead, his neck, his face. He sipped in air, fought the urge to puke again.

“
Here.” She stood behind him, waved a tissue over his left shoulder. He grabbed it, swiped at his forehead and mouth.

“Leave me alone.” He did not want her standing here, witnessing this.

She ignored him, held out a bottle of water. “I’ve seen people throw up before.” She paused and he swore there was a hint of humor in her voice when she said, “And I usually get stuck cleaning it up. Here.” She shook the bottle by his ear. “Rinse your mouth. You’ll feel better.”

“I doubt it.” He took the bottle, sipped and swished water in his mouth before spitting it out. Three more times and he didn’t feel like a walking puke zone. Harry sat back on his heels, closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his stomach quiet.

“Mr. Harry?”

He opened one eye, squinted at her. “What?”

“You can take Mr. Squiggly home with you tonight. He’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“I’ll loan you my special pillow,” Arnold said. “It always helps me.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Was he the only one who thought this whole situation was bizarre? Greta and her kids were standing within smelling distance of his barf pile and acting like it was no big deal. Who were these people? Was this what families did? Rushed in to help when one of their clan humiliated himself and acted like it was normal? Harry drank more
water, spit it out in a high arc.