Guilty Like Us, page 22
“And?” Tate narrowed that silver gaze on him.
“I said Ethan, no doubt about it, but Meredith said unless Charlotte could distract you, then you’d win.”
Tate raised a brow. “Where is that best man of yours? Still trying to get dog hair off his suit?”
Daniel sighed. “I heard you offered him one of your lint rollers so my guess is, that’s exactly what he’s doing. Ethan is all about making a good impression.” Charlotte and Tate’s dog, Winston, had developed a fondness for Ethan and decided to stay by him, rub against his leg, nose his crotch. Ethan tried to get away, but the dog thought the attempts were a game and chased after him, providing entertainment for everyone but Ethan.
Tate leaned toward Daniel, lowered his voice. “What’s going on with him and Meredith’s controller?”
“So, you noticed it, too?” Since Ethan and Vanessa arrived in Reunion Gap two days ago, there’d been a few dinners and gatherings and those two always ended up together—sparring—and while they might think they were trying to best one another, the truth slipped out. They had a thing for each other whether they wanted to admit it or knew it, and that thing would fester and spill over, sooner or later as attractions always did.
“I noticed and I’m not the only one.” Tate shook his head. “Too bad she’s in Chicago and he’s in Logan’s Creek. It could get interesting.”
“It could still get interesting if there was a reason for one or the other to be in the same place...”
“Hmm. I think you’re right. You and Meredith plan to split time between those two locations, maybe you’ll find a reason for them to do it, too.”
Meredith already had a few ideas, but for now, they were only ideas. “Actually, we’ve been talking about spending more time in Reunion Gap and less time in Chicago. She can work from anywhere and it would give us an opportunity to see everyone more often.” As in family. Meredith loved the idea of having his mother teach her to make lasagna and spending time with her sisters-in-law and the babies.
“Charlotte’s big on family stuff and we both think it’s important for the cousins to know each other.”
“Cousins? Are you and she...?”
A blush crept along Tate’s neck, settled on his cheeks. “What? No, not yet.” His voice shifted. “Someday.”
“Okay, good to know.” Someday Daniel and Meredith would add to the cousin mix, too...maybe someday soon.
“I better go find your bride.” Tate brushed his suit lapel. “I am so glad the reception’s at our house.”
Daniel laughed. “Who wouldn’t want their reception in a mansion?”
Tate shrugged. “It’s only a mini mansion, so don’t get too excited.” He grinned, held out his hand. “Welcome to the family.”
“Thanks, and thank you for everything.”
“Sure. See you soon.”
Daniel watched him head down the path toward where Meredith would be waiting. He owed Tate Alexander a lot, and maybe one day he’d be able to repay him. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that if Tate didn’t approve of Daniel, he wouldn’t be walking his sister down the aisle today. Daniel was contemplating how lucky he was when the music shifted and Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” began.
Ethan appeared beside him, patted his back and murmured, “Finally. Do you know how many...”
The rest of his words faded as Daniel’s bride appeared carrying a bouquet of pink peonies, her cream dress brushing her ankles, dark hair piled high, captured by a jeweled headband. The sun filtered through the trees and illuminated his future wife as she began her journey to him, her smile brilliant, her face glowing, her love reaching for him—his destiny. Today and always.
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Introduction to Excerpt
When Christine Blacksworth’s larger-than-life father is killed on an icy road in Magdalena, New York, a hundred miles from the “getaway” cabin he visited every month, she discovers a secret that threatens everything she’s always held to be true. Her father has another family that includes a mistress and a daughter.
Determined to uncover the truth behind her father’s secret life, Christine heads to Magdalena, prepared to hate the people who have caused her to question everything she thought she knew about her father. But what she finds is a woman who understands her, a half-sister who cherishes her, and a man who could love her if she’ll let him. The longer she’s around them, the more she questions which family is the real one.
* * *
Truth In Lies Series:
Book One: A Family Affair
Book Two: A Family Affair: Spring
Book Three: A Family Affair: Summer
Book Four: A Family Affair: Fall
Book Five: A Family Affair: Christmas
Book Six: A Family Affair: Winter
Book Seven: A Family Affair: The Promise
Book Eight: A Family Affair: The Secret
Book Nine: A Family Affair: The Wish
Book Ten: A Family Affair: The Gift
Book Eleven: A Family Affair: The Weddings, a novella
Book Twelve: A Family Affair: The Cabin, a novella
Book Thirteen: A Family Affair: The Return
Book Fourteen: A Family Affair: The Choice
Book Fifteen: A Family Affair: The Proposal
Book Sixteen: A Family Affair: Bonus Scenes
Book Seventeen: A Family Affair: The Homecoming
Book Eighteen: A Family Affair: The Decision
Book Nineteen: A Family Affair: The Journey
A Family Affair Boxed Set: Books 1-3
A Family Affair Boxed Set 2: Books 4-6
Meals From Magdalena: A Family Affair Cookbook
* * *
NEW: Park Bench series: The story before the story…
Book One: A Family Affair Shorts: Destiny
Book Two: A Family Affair Shorts: Regret
Book Three: A Family Affair Shorts: Love
Book Four: A Family Affair Shorts: Heartbreak
Book Five: A Family Affair Shorts: Peace
A Family Affair Shorts Boxed Set
* * *
Attention Book Clubs! Go to http://www.marycampisi.com/family-affair-book-club-discussion-guide/ for a Book Club Discussion Guide for A Family Affair. This story is filled with moral ambiguity, difficult choices, and second chances—all great topics for conversation and contemplation.
The Story Behind the Story
Several years ago, I read an article about a man who had kept a secret family for years without anyone’s knowledge. I was fascinated that someone could and would actually do this. That one small article lived in my subconscious for years, emerging occasionally as I considered how a person might achieve this, the effects on the primary family as well as the other family, the pain, the grief, the anger, the emotional, financial and psychological entanglements between the two, and the ultimate question; which was the real family? I became so engrossed with the emotion of the situation that I knew I had to create my own characters and my own story and so emerged, A Family Affair. I have loved this story from the first page, to the final edit. I hope you love it, too.
Chapter 1
Prologue
He sat in the dark, staring at the slit of moon illuminating her hair. She was asleep, the slow, methodic rise and fall of the chenille spread taking her dreams away from him, safe, protected, while he hung caught between sleep and wakefulness, dark and light, too afraid to close his eyes lest he miss these last few hours with her. It was always like this, the dread mixing with the longing, pulling at him, shredding his sanity.
Perhaps, this month, he’d find the strength, merge past with present. He fell back against the soft cushion of the wing-backed chair, closed his eyes. Perhaps this month…
Christine Blacksworth scanned the jagged red and black lines on the computer screen, one crossing over the other, peaking, sliding back, inching forward again. She glanced at her watch. It would take at least fifteen minutes to run comparisons, ten more to analyze them, and another five to make recommendations. If she started right now, she’d be done in half an hour…the twenty-minute drive would put her at her parents’ house around 7:25 p.m. Twenty-five minutes late for her father’s welcome-home dinner.
Unacceptable. Her mother planned these gatherings with such precision that walking in even ten minutes late would upset the entire evening, not to mention what it would do to Gloria Blacksworth’s emotional state.
Christine rubbed the back of her neck. Twenty-seven should be old enough to pick up the phone and tell her mother she’d be late, or not be there at all. She’d tried that once a year and a half ago when she and Connor opted for the theater instead of a family dinner. What a disaster that had been!
She dimmed the computer screen, gathered up her papers, and placed them in a folder to the side of her desk. Uncle Harry was probably already there, draining his first scotch and antagonizing her mother. They tolerated one another for her father’s sake. He insisted that Harry attend, though after the initial pleasantries and somewhere part way through dinner, the conversation usually turned to business, which left Uncle Harry and her mother staring at their wine glasses.
Christine promised herself every month that she would try harder to include them, perhaps inquire about Uncle Harry’s latest golf game, or her mother’s garden club meeting, anything to avoid business, at least until coffee was served. But the pulse of the Dow was in her blood, surging up and down; the need to connect with her father emerging past the “hellos” and “Isn’t this Veal Oscar fabulous?”
She understood the necessity of her father’s monthly trips to the Catskills. The success of any great executive was downtime and Charles Blacksworth, CEO of Blacksworth & Company Investments had found his own piece of nirvana seven hundred miles from Chicago in a tiny cabin in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains.
And he deserved it.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that overwork is one of the great sins, Chrissie girl? Especially on a Sunday?”
Christine tipped her glass of Chardonnay at her uncle and smiled. “I think it was you, Uncle Harry.”
He let out a loud laugh and downed the rest of his scotch. “No, girl, I would have said work on any day is a sin.” He winked and headed toward the liquor cabinet. He was a handsome man, tall, tan from hours on the back nine and frequent jaunts to Bermuda or St. Croix with his latest intrigue. Just shy of fifty, he was more fit than many of the men Christine knew, perhaps from his daily trips to the gym or perhaps because Uncle Harry worked at staying in shape and it was the only type of work he engaged in.
While other men were carving out their careers, striving for betterment in wealth, recognition, and fatter portfolios, Uncle Harry closeted himself in his office on the sixteenth floor practicing his putt, reading Golf Digest, and managing one solitary account—his own.
Christine noticed the way other people watched him when he came to her office, their eyes moving over him, taking in the Armani suit, the silk tie, the Italian loafers, and then dismissing him as though he were the courier come to pick up FedEx packages. They laughed at the crude, off-color jokes he told them every morning at the coffee station and then moved past him to their offices, to their work.
“I’m worried about your father,” her mother said, picking up a linen napkin, folding it just so, setting it back down. “He should have been here by now.” She moved to another napkin, picked it up.
“Maybe his plane was delayed. You know how flying on the East Coast is in January; one minute you’re boarding the plane, thinking about getting home in time to watch your favorite TV show, and the next, you’re stuck in your seat for two hours while they de-ice.”
“It isn’t raining or snowing outside.”
Christine shrugged as she watched her mother pinch a droopy leaf from a poinsettia. “He’ll be here, Mother.”
“He’ll be here, Gloria,” Uncle Harry said, swirling the ice in his drink. “Do you think he’d miss an opportunity to get back here to his lovely wife?”
She didn’t answer, merely pinched another leaf and then another. She looked beautiful tonight in her beige dress, but then she always looked beautiful, so tiny and delicate, like a porcelain doll that’s been constructed with the utmost care. Christine had always felt awkward next to her, like a colt that can’t quite find its legs. Even now, as a grown woman, attractive in her own right, she couldn’t match the ethereal beauty of her mother.
“I say, we start without Charlie,” Uncle Harry said, his deep voice filling the room. “Damn sorry luck if he misses out on the lamb.”
Christine glanced at her mother, who was picking up specks of glitter that had fallen from the red poinsettia onto the linen tablecloth. “Mother? What do you think? It’s almost 7:30. I could try his cell phone again?”
Gloria pressed her forefinger against the cloth, her gaze on the glitter stuck to her skin. “If we don’t eat now, the lamb will be ruined,” she said, her lips tight, the muscles around her mouth strained. Then in a low voice, “He knows dinner’s at seven.”
The highlight of her week had been to create the perfect meal in the perfect atmosphere, only to find out that the guest of honor had not arrived. It was amazing enough that her mother still carried on this ritual for him, after all these years of marriage, or that he took great pains to accommodate her wish, to be where he said he’d be, when he said he’d be there, at least most of the time. Several of Christine’s friends had parents who were alone, whether by choice or divine intervention, and even those who still shared a name often didn’t share a bed or a relationship.
“Sit, sit,” her mother said in a loud, bright voice. “Harry, pour the wine, will you?”
He eyed her a moment, opened his mouth to speak, closed it. “Wine for three, coming up.” He picked up a glass and poured.
“He’ll be here, Mother. You know he will.”
“I know that, Christine.” She picked up her wine glass and took a healthy swallow. Her face flushed to a pale rose. “Would you please tell Greta to serve the salad?”
There was something sad and disappointed tucked away under her mother’s smile, beneath the serene calmness of her poised exterior as she spoke. “Sure.” Christine headed for the kitchen and the radicchio salad. Next month would be different. She’d make sure her father showed up an hour early with a dozen red roses and a bottle of Chanel No. 5.
That would make her mother forget all about tonight.
How many times did he have to tell her that he didn’t like all this crap in his salad? Iceberg lettuce with tomato, cucumber, and a little bit of red onion. Period. Was it that damn hard to remember? So what if iceberg had no nutritional value, if the real nutrients were in the darker greens, like romaine or Boston lettuce or radicchio? He didn’t like the stuff, didn’t like the looks of it, the feel of it, the taste of it. If he were a damn rabbit, then he’d eat it, but he wasn’t. Harry pushed a raspberry to the side of his plate. And what was with the fruit stuck in the middle of a salad? Who the hell thought of that? Armand at The Presidio was the only one who didn’t try to put mesclun mix or dandelions or raspberries in his salad.
Gloria was so hopped up she probably didn’t know what she was telling Greta to put in the salad. Next she’d be sprinkling Crown Royal on top. And he didn’t buy that bullshit about her constant pain. She’d fallen off that damn horse sixteen years ago, and broken back or not, she should have enough dope and booze running through her veins to make her numb. Harry laid down his fork and took a drink. He’d need two more scotches just to block out the pathetic look on that woman’s face. So what if Charlie was late? Maybe he was holed up in some hotel room banging some young piece of ass and forgot about the time. He almost laughed out loud. That would really make Gloria cry. But Charlie was too straight for that kind of behavior. That was Harry’s style. Given the opportunity, he’d be the one shacked up in a hotel room, screwing some hottie, wife or not. And that’s why there wasn’t a wife, why there would never be a wife.
Just thinking about sex made him hard. Bridgett was only a phone call away—six feet tall, blond, blue-eyed. Twenty-three, great tongue. Shit. Why was he sitting here with a hard-on when he could be banging Bridgett? He knew why. Christine and Charlie counted on him being here for this circus, one night every month, and he wasn’t going to disappoint them, even if he had to put up with Gloria. No one ever depended on him for anything, not his work, not his women, not even his cleaning lady who demanded he pay her at the beginning of the month because he kept forgetting the weekly checks. Maybe they thought him incapable, uncooperative, or merely uninterested. Maybe they were right.
The phone rang in the background. It was probably Charlie, trying to pave the way for his late entrance. Good old diplomatic Charlie.
“That might be Dad.” Christine half-rose from her chair.
“Sit down.” Harry waved a hand at her and stood. “I’ll go see.” He grabbed his drink and let out a small laugh. “I better warn him to put his boots on before he comes in here or your mother’s tears will ruin his shoes.”
He swung open the kitchen door and Greta held out the phone to him. She was a pretty thing, close to forty, divorced, two kids. He’d thought about banging her when he first met her a year ago, unwinding that long blonde bun and wrapping it around his fist while he pumped into her, but he’d quickly dismissed the idea. Too much baggage, and besides, he liked her, which didn’t make for a quick, mindless screw.
