A Family Affair: The Promise; Truth in Lies, Book 7 Page 2

  The town thought Buck Finnegan might kick his daughter out of the house, but he didn’t. Lorraine’s parents buried their judgment and while they might not have liked the manner in which Maggie Rae Finnegan entered the world, they loved the child, cared for her while her mother finished her teaching degree at the local community college, and when the time came for Lorraine and Maggie to move to their own home, Grandpa found an excuse to visit several times a week. When he died three days after Maggie’s twelfth birthday, she cried so hard and so often, she thought her heart would break. Perhaps this was mere preparation for a life that would dole out buckets of sadness and squeeze her heart until it almost stopped beating.

  She’d seen her share of pain, known loneliness and desperation, but William had saved her; David had, too. Her husband had been passionate about two things in life: mathematics and her. The first was obvious in the way he taught Advanced Placement Calculus to his eleventh grade students, energizing and encouraging them to expand their knowledge, consider the limitless possibilities instead of the finite. David’s second passion was not apparent, at least not to Maggie, until after his death. The quiet, unassuming, yet steadfast devotion her husband felt for her was part of a bigger, all-consuming love that he attempted to convey in a letter mere weeks before his death where he thanked her for the gift of her love and the gift of their child, William.

  Oh, the pain of that letter! It had singed her soul, burned the edges, and left scars that would never heal. For all of his intelligence, David could not read people or their intentions. He believed they did and meant what they said, or why would they have done it or said it? Why indeed? He’d never considered the subterfuge that could tangle with the truth, never believed she was capable of anything but good. He’d certainly been wrong there. But she’d tried to make up for the lie that changed their lives, brought them together in marriage, made him believe William was his son. Who but David would accept her claim that she wanted to spend her life with him, even though their relationship had cooled to “friends” eight months before? He’d not looked past the smile or the words to the dark secret she carried, not questioned her sudden appearance in Magdalena, or the overzealous desire for intimacy when the few earlier attempts had been less than satisfying. He’d questioned none of this; simply accepted her presence, and when she told him about the baby a few months later, his brown eyes lit up, and he asked her to marry him. David drew his last breath believing William was his child and she would carry that sin for the rest of her life.

  “You working tomorrow, Maggie?”

  “I am, and I’m working a few extra hours next week to help out with vacations.” Uncle Jack kept track of her schedule at the hospital better than anyone, said she was a widow and he liked to know her comings and goings. Maggie’s mother said her older brother had always been protective, but he was downright obsessive with Maggie.

  “Maybe the boy can stay a night or two with me and Dolly. Got the tent pitched in the backyard and the other cousins coming over. She’s planning to make a pan of those marshmallow treats and we’re gonna cook hot dogs and sausage on the grill.” He lifted his head, pushed back his ball cap. “Maybe French fried potatoes, too.” He grinned. “It’s gonna be tasty.”

  She laughed. “You’re making me hungry and thinking about calling in sick.”

  He grinned and shoved his ball cap back on his head. “Tell your mama to stop by Monday night. We don’t want her turning into a hermit.” Uncle Jack frowned. “I already got one sister that’s afraid to come out of the house; don’t need another one.”

  She knew he was talking about Aunt Edith, the sister who lived her life from her living room window and hadn’t attended a family event in years. Uncle Jack didn’t have to worry about his other sister because Lorraine Finnegan had a more active social calendar than most of the town, certainly more active than her daughter. And that was the problem, at least according to Lorraine. She said Maggie needed to get “back in the dating game” before the game changed so much she wouldn’t recognize it.

  What if she liked being alone? What if she enjoyed the company of her son and her female friends? What if she didn’t want another man? A woman did not need a man for her oxygen, but her mother had different ideas, many of them embarrassing, especially when she acted on them. Why couldn’t the woman focus on herself; the job teaching third grade she loved, the bank account that let her go on cruises with or without her longtime companion, Herb Carey, Magdalena’s master plumber? Why did she have to nose around in her daughter’s life with suggestions and opinions? Maggie pushed aside thoughts of her mother’s meddling and said, “I’m going to tell her you said that, Uncle Jack. See if she makes you another peach cobbler anytime soon.”

  He laughed, low and deep. “You ain’t gonna tell her any more than I’m gonna tell William he can’t have the ratchet set I brought him.”

  “A ratchet set?” William’s face flushed with excitement.

  Her son had no interest in tales about relatives who wouldn’t come outside or refused to make desserts, but toss in a tool, and that was a different story. “It better be your old one,” she said, arching a brow at her uncle. “Not something you just picked off a store shelf.”

  Another laugh from her uncle, accompanied by a snort. “Best go see, Maggie girl.” He looked up from the lawn mower, his grizzled face a mix of humor and challenge. “Maybe there’s something in there for you, too.” He grinned. “Maybe it’s thick and gooey, with caramel and chocolate chips in it.”

  The first time she met the man who broke her heart, he’d presented her with a double fudge brownie, stuffed with caramel and chocolate chips; decadent, overpowering, irresistible, like the man. She’d tried to erase the memories of her short time with Grant Richot, and while she’d not been successful, she had kept them dormant. Except for the brownies; those she did not deny.

  William’s innocent words cut through reminders of the man who’d stolen her heart and crushed it in the span of twelve weeks. “Brownies. Dad bought them for her, said they made her face shine like a hundred-watt light bulb.”

  Chapter 2

  Grant Richot had always been a man of order and precision, a strong believer that a person created his destiny, not circumstance, luck, or God. The latter had fueled many a heated discussion with his father, Pastor August Richot, and while the man never gave up, he did finally accept the fact that his son was not and would never become a believer in faith and the virtue of second chances. Too bad his father wasn’t alive to see his son’s capitulation into a dark hole that required faith and several second chances if one were to survive. Grant missed his father, wished he were here so he could lean on his calming words. Pastor Richot had helped many a lost soul, and that’s what Grant was right now—lost and floundering. For a man who had planned out every minute of his life, this was a disaster he did not understand or recognize.

  How had his future taken such a nosedive, his plans imploded and disappeared, his life become that of a stranger’s? He’d been one of the top pediatric neurosurgeons in the country; sought after, revered, even quoted, with a following of professional and personal admirers that made him believe he would always be the best, get exactly what he wanted. But that man was gone, replaced with the type he’d always despised; indecisive, afraid, stagnant. A loser. The profession he’d loved was gone. The wife he’d loved, gone, too. The nerves in his right hand? Pretty much gone. His father? Gone. He had no children, no partner to stand beside him in his greatest time of need and self-doubt. He had no one but his sister, and Leslie had her own demons and a penchant for choosing unavailable men, emotionally or otherwise. Jason Maurice, the metalwork artist she met, married, and divorced in the span of five months, was no exception.

  But Grant could not give up on the sister who had once given up on herself. It was just he and Leslie, not how he’d planned it, but these last few years had taught him he couldn’t control fate any more than he could regenerate the nerves in his right hand. His sister nee
ded purpose, direction, and guidance. He’d found her a nursing position in the pediatric unit of a community hospital tucked in the small town of Renova, New York. Quiet. Nonthreatening. Far away from a past she wanted to forget. She hadn’t questioned Grant when he suggested a move to the quaint town and lined up an interview with a local hospital. It was all part of a much grander plan, one that involved his past.

  Of course he made it look as if his decision to move to Magdalena, a small town nineteen miles away, had to do with the proximity to Leslie’s new home. But that wasn’t exactly the truth. Actually, it wasn’t the truth at all. He’d situated Leslie in Renova because of its proximity to Magdalena.

  Everything centered on Magdalena, New York, and two people in it, ties to his past and maybe his future. Leslie’s frantic phone call a few nights ago had forced him to escalate his own move two months earlier than planned. He’d taken a leave from the Stevens Institute where he headed up the research and diagnosis for congenital anomalies, closed up the condo, and was on his way two days later with a trunk full of his belongings, mostly clothes and books. And now he sat with Leslie in her rented condo on a new couch covered with geometric orange, teal, and brown designs, waiting for her to continue the story she’d refused to divulge over the phone.

  “Leslie, talk to me. What happened?” He kept his voice gentle and even, his left hand covering hers. His sister did not respond well to raised voices, accusatory looks, or gestures she might interpret as antagonistic or judgmental. Grant had learned the art of remaining calm, cautious, and controlled, as though he were speaking with a child, which, at times, was exactly what Leslie had become.

  “Oh Grant.” She shook her head, her blue eyes bright with tears. “It was horrible. Tragic.” She sniffed, wiped a hand across her cheeks. “How am I going to go on?”

  Leslie had used these words the night she called him, but they were useless without details. She could be talking about a hole in a shirt or a broken relationship; she often gave equal status to both. But he knew his sister, knew it had to do with a man and another failed relationship. He patted her hand, squeezed her fingers. “Can you tell me what happened? It’s the only way I can help.”

  “You’re such a good brother.” Her lips quivered, inched into a smile. “What would I ever do without you?” She touched his cheek and the smile grew. “Thank you for always looking out for me.”

  He wished she’d listen to him before she got into her latest predicament, but Leslie was a dive-in-first-and-think-about-the-consequences-later kind of woman. Go with the emotion was her mantra and it had done her in more than once. He’d like to blame her issues on her ex-fiancé, Grant’s nemesis, but Jack Wheyton wasn’t responsible for Leslie’s instability, and neither was Audra Valentine, the woman Jack married. Leslie proved her own worst enemy every single time, rushing in and suffocating those around her, forcing relationships where none existed, giving, giving, giving, and expecting the same in return. It was too much, too soon, too exhausting. This latest debacle would have the same flavor as the others, filled with bitterness and impossible expectations. Grant sighed, asked, “Is this about a man?”

  His sister nodded, her brown hair falling about her shoulders. She was model-beautiful, with dark hair and the bluest eyes, but she didn’t see it that way. Leslie only saw what wasn’t there, or what she wanted to be there.

  “I loved him.” She looked away, settled her gaze on a glass vase filled with withered roses resting on the mantel in her living room. “I’d never met anyone like him. Strong, secure, in charge. He wanted to take care of me, said he’d protect me forever.” She sniffed, sniffed again, swiped at a stray tear. “He promised me, Grant.” Her voice rose, turned fierce as she gripped his left hand. “He promised me, even wrote a poem just for me called ‘The Promise.’” Before he could comment, she recited. “The promise I make this day. Means my love is here to stay. In all the months, even May. Nothing will stand in the way. Of the promise I make today.”

  “Wow.” What was that? He might be touched if a six-year-old wrote it, but a grown man as a profession of love? Hardly. The guy should have stuck with a card from companies that were in the business of expressing emotions instead of manufacturing his own. Really bad.

  Her face lit up. “Isn’t it precious?”

  “Precious.” Grant repeated. “Sure is.” Sure is the most pathetic excuse for poetry I’ve ever had the unfortunate luck to hear. “Tell me about him.”

  His sister leaned her head against his shoulder and flung an arm around his waist. “I met him three months ago at a bar called Nicky’s. It’s kind of country and there’s always dancing. Lots of fun and tons of people our age. Great-looking guys, all tanned and muscled. When he walked in, I couldn’t breathe. We talked and he taught me to do the two-step. Later, we shared a chili burger and fries.” Her voice drifted with remembering. “There was an instant connection; I knew he was special. When he kissed me, I never wanted him to stop, and when he touched me—”

  “Okay, I got it.” He did not want to hear about his sister’s sexual escapades, of which there’d been many. If he didn’t stop her, she’d keep right on talking and soon the details would flow. “You had a physical connection.”

  “Oh, that we did.” She sighed. “We connected every chance we could. That night in his truck—”

  “Leslie.” He pulled back, met her gaze. “You’re my sister. I really do not want to hear about the physical relationship you shared with this guy, and I don’t know any brother who would.”

  “That’s sweet.” Her lips drifted into a faint smile. “I’ve never been able to separate the emotional part from the sexual part. It all blends together, has since I had my sexual epiphany in Barbados all those years ago.”

  He forced a smile. “And that’s exactly what I don’t need to know.” He’d tried to explain this to her before; most people didn’t want to discuss the intimate aspects of their relationships, as in no sex talk. Leslie called that hung-up and old-school, and she’d called him that, too. He was neither, but he was a gentleman and he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

  “So, I’ll fast forward past that part, but it was a very important piece of the relationship.” She paused, eyes bright. “Essential. It’s why we were in the hotel room that night and not at my condo.”

  Now he had to ask. “And why was that?”

  “He loved to pretend. Said it excited him. Sometimes I wore my nurse’s uniform, or he’d dress up like a lumberjack.”

  He did not want to hear this. “The hotel. Why were you there?”

  “Oh.” Leslie ran a hand through her glossy hair, toyed with a lock of it. “We were playing strangers. He liked that. A lot. He was in bed, reading, but it was always the same magazine and the same page, so he wasn’t really reading. He was waiting for me to burst open his world, like I did, every time.” She sliced him a knowing look. “I knocked, he didn’t answer, and I slipped inside, wearing nothing beneath my coat.”

  Grant fixed his gaze on the fireplace mantel, trying to shut out the details but listening enough to get the gist of it, which until now sounded like sex and fantasy, and lots of it. Leslie had spent months in counseling, working on self-esteem issues and learning to identify a healthy relationship so she would never think of attempting suicide again. Looked like she hadn’t learned yet. This guy had player and married written all over him, starting with the idiotic poem. “Is that when you found him?” He hoped so, hoped the guy had not had an in-the-act heart attack.

  She shook her head. “He was fine when I got here, couldn’t wait to be with me.” Leslie sniffed, blinked hard. “It was beautiful and so passionate, and then…and then he lay beside me, his face red, his eyes shut, mouth open. I thought I wore him out…but he wasn’t breathing. CPR didn’t work.” Her eyes turned wild, desperate, as she clutched a fistful of his jacket, whimpered, “Oh, Grant, did I kill him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I couldn’t stand myself if I thought I was responsible
for him not being here. I wanted to get his medical history, see if he had heart issues or pre-existing conditions, but how would I do that? Who would I ask? His wife?”

  So, the guy was married and Leslie knew it. “Wife?”

  His sister shrugged, pursed her lips, and shot back, “He said she wasn’t interested in him, only in his money. He was going to leave her, but he had to wait, something about a family business that he’d be taking over.” She paused. “Do you know she refused to have his child? What kind of woman marries a man and then refuses him a child?”

  What kind of man feeds these lines to a desperate woman? Grant bet less than half of what the guy told Leslie was true. Players rarely told the truth, and married men with something on the side never told the truth, not even half truths. They reworked stories so they became the victims, with wives who not only didn’t understand them but didn’t pay attention to them. He’d heard it all, had seen the games in action. The hospital was the perfect set-up; long hours, adrenaline-fueled situations, close contact, and before you knew it, a hospital bed had been used for a lot more than patient care. “There’s always more than one side to a story, especially when the man’s married.”