A Family Affair: Christmas Read online

  And nothing had ever been the same.

  Too much money, a lucrative advertising career, a powerful executive wife, and a beautiful daughter, gave him everything he thought he wanted. There were extra homes and cars, trips, and an accumulation of people from nannies to drivers, to cooks and groundskeepers. Anthony and his family needn’t do anything but think of the next “want” and write a check to make it happen.

  But somewhere along the way, perhaps after Lucy’s second trip to Magdalena where she spent two weeks with her grandparents, expectations changed, at least where his daughter was concerned. She longed for her parents’ time rather than the latest cell phone, concert ticket, or pair of shoes. And that was a problem, because Rosalyn Angelique Benito partitioned her time with the same stinginess she allotted to her calories: rigorous, strict, and unbending. That didn’t make for a happy child or a healthy mother-daughter relationship, especially when the lackadaisical attempts were orchestrated from different time zones and often from different countries.

  Anthony was slightly better, but most of his efforts were focused on stuffing and diversifying his portfolio and trying to find a way to lure his wife back to the same continent so they might attempt to have an actual marriage. Lucy’s care fell to the hired help: the cook, the nanny, the chauffeur, the butler, the tutor, even the gardener. They all had stories, filled with families; spouses, children, parents, sisters, brothers, even pets; where they came from, who they were, what they wanted. Finely woven tales tied together by hope, love, sorrow, and forgiveness. It was here that Lucy learned about family, what the word meant, and sadly, what it did not mean.

  But that was going to change. Anthony vowed on his dead mother’s grave that he was going to have a relationship with his daughter, starting the moment she returned home for Christmas break. It was never too late to fix things, and he finally saw how much of his life needed fixing. Maybe it had taken the divorce to clear his head, but the real shocker had occurred when he told Rosalyn their marriage needed resuscitation and she’d told him maybe it was simply time to pull the plug. That had been the beginning of the end of a marriage that should never have been.

  All because of the woman who’d refused his love and sent him away.

  What did a person do when he found himself divorced, dissatisfied with his job, and practically estranged from his only child? The house, the club memberships, the seats on one board and another, they were all closing in on him, stripping him of oxygen and choice. He didn’t want this life anymore, but the hell of it was, he didn’t know what he wanted. He was fifty-three years old and now he had his father to worry about. What if Miriam Desantro’s concerns that Pop might be showing signs of Alzheimer’s were true? What was he supposed to do with that? There would be specialists to see and test after test, possibly medication, and maybe a live-in nurse. But what if he had to put him in a home? What then?

  There were too many unknowns and Anthony didn’t function well with uncertainty. Still, what was he to do? He wished he weren’t an only child, wished he could turn to someone who understood and might help with the decisions and the responsibility. But he was it, so the sooner he got Pop to California and got the testing underway, the better. He heaved a sigh and checked his watch. In a few days he and Pop would be in San Diego waiting for Lucy to get home so they could celebrate their very own Christmas, maybe the last one Pop would remember.

  Chapter 2

  Rumors swirled with the snow that started two days ago, thick, heavy, spreading through town, up driveways and sidewalks, landing on doorsteps.

  Guess who’s coming to town? Mr. Big Shot Himself.

  Well, la-di-da. Let’s pull out the fancy silverware. How will I ever know which fork to use?

  Why is he gracing us with his presence?

  No idea. Maybe he found out about his daughter.

  It’s gonna be interesting.

  Yup. It might be Christmas, but you can bet there’ll be some serious fireworks going on.

  Oh, indeed. And Pop’s gonna be the one setting them off. Just you wait and see.

  Hope Mr. Big Shot brought his boots. If this snow keeps up, he’ll be here for a while.

  Imagine that? Anthony Benito stuck in Magdalena.

  The stories went on, each more inflated than the last, until word had it Pop’s son planned to fly in aboard his own private jet with an entourage of staff and friends.

  Harry heard all of the tales, grew more curious as the days passed and Anthony Benito’s arrival grew closer. What the hell kind of joker was this guy anyway? Pop said his son was a big advertising executive and that’s how Pop got all the designer sporting-wear duds and high-topped tennis shoes. There might have been some truth to that, but Harry wanted to know the rest of it, like the part the old man wasn’t saying. Why had the guy stayed away for so many years? Did he think he was too good for the likes of this town? Did he want to pretend that part of his life didn’t exist? If that last were true, then Harry was pissed and, given a second or two, he’d set the guy straight.

  And hell, what about the poor pregnant granddaughter, Lucy? She was the guy’s daughter and he had no clue. Harry shook his head and cursed. Now that was a damn shame and the situation had been laid square on Pop’s doorstep. Talk about getting gray and losing your hair. That was some seriously screwed-up family dynamics.

  Greta liked the girl and Harry liked her, too, when she worked up the nerve to talk to him. Just because he was loud, okay, boisterous, did not mean he was scary. Lizzie wasn’t afraid of him; neither were any of her friends. He’d have to make it a point to get Lucy to relax around him, but how? He couldn’t tell silly jokes or make faces like he did with Lizzie’s friends. And offering to show her how to putt like he did with AJ was just plain ridiculous. Maybe he should sit down and have a conversation with her. What would that look like?

  I see you’re going to have a baby. Huh, how about that?

  Or, Damn tough luck on the kid.

  Is the father going to help out?

  What’s he have to say about it?

  Does he know?

  Do you know who the father is?

  And then, How could you do this? How?

  Now what? Damn it, now what?

  Maybe he wouldn’t have a conversation after all. When he looked at the girl too long, he thought of the girlfriend he got pregnant and how his parents “took care of it.” Would Lucy’s father try to do the same? The guy didn’t seem like the type who would want his daughter labeled with an unwanted pregnancy or the status of single parent.

  “Harry, why the angry face?” Greta set a glass of seltzer water with lime in front of him and sat at the kitchen table.

  “Do you think parents screw up their kids?”

  She sighed and placed a hand on his arm. “Harry, what is it this time? Are you still punishing yourself because you told Lizzie a scary story that made her cry?”

  “It’s not that.” He’d forgotten about Lizzie and her crying brigade, all caused by him and his thoughtless tale of a one-legged ghost who haunted children. It was a ridiculous story, one he believed would make her laugh, not sob with hysterics.

  “Well?” Her blue eyes glistened with patience.

  Greta knew he was a pathetic excuse for a parent, but she never gave up on him. Actually, she gave him hope, telling him he was someone they could always count on, and in this world that was a rare gift. Maybe she had a point. He sipped his seltzer water, thought about it. Hell, yes, they could count on him. No doubt about that. So, maybe he needed a bit more polish in areas like bedtime stories. Greta could teach him that, but the other? Well, either you were a stand-up guy or you weren’t.

  And he’d lay a thousand bucks on this kitchen table that Anthony Benito was not a stand-up guy. “It’s the girl.” He shook his head, met his wife’s gaze, and let her see the confusion and turmoil in his eyes. “When her old man shows up, he’s going to want to take charge and then what? He’ll screw with her head, start spouting off things like respo
nsibility, duty, and how she’s not ready for a kid and she might be tempted to do something foolish.”

  “Harry.” Her voice covered him, soothed his agitation. “Look how everyone has come together to help Lucy and she’s only been here a few weeks. Christine and Gina Reed have found her a doctor, Tess Casherdon takes her for the checkups, Nate is building a crib.” Pause. “Even Lily and Lizzie have pitched in and picked out books for the baby.”

  “I guess. I see Miriam’s making some kind of blanket.”

  Greta smiled. “It’s called an afghan, and it’s green, a good color of choice when you don’t know the baby’s sex.”

  “Right.” He shook his head and muttered, “Speaking of sex, if she’d stayed away from it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Harry. The child needs support, not comments like that.”

  “I know, I know. But damn, you just called her a child. How’s she going to be a parent when she’s a kid herself?” That was the real problem with this whole set-up of parent and child. There were no friggin’ instructions.

  “No one is born a parent. We all learn along the way.”

  That did not make him feel any better. “Yeah, so are you saying firstborns are practice for the rest? And what if there’s only one? No chance to fix your screw-ups?”

  Her lips eased into a smile. “It’s a continual practice, like learning to play the piano or bake a pie.”

  Was she serious? “I know I’m new to this parent stuff, but I never heard kids compared to pianos or pies.” Maybe Greta’s mother, the Witch of Germany, told her that tidbit, probably said schnitzels instead of pies.

  “This conversation isn’t really about Lucy, is it?” That damnable blue gaze zeroed in on the truth. “This is about you and your worries for our children, and your ability to be a good parent.”

  Ding, ding, ding. She’d nailed it, dead center. Harry studied his seltzer water, took a sip, then another. Maybe by the time he finished the damn thing, he’d find an answer. But probably not, and if he tried, Greta wouldn’t be impressed. That was one thing about his wife: she didn’t like it when he tried to hide behind his bullshit. “Fine,” he said. “You got me. These are our kids we’re talking about, and what if we screw up? We’ll ruin them.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighed. “I hate having that on me.”

  “We’re going to mess up, Harry.” She clasped his hand, squeezed. “More than once, I suspect. But our choices will be made out of love.” Her voice dipped, filled him with tiny shreds of hope. “And no child can ask for more than that.”

  ***

  “Hurry, Uncle Harry! We have to make angels before the snow melts.”

  Harry shrugged into his jacket and glanced out the window at the white stuff. There had to be a good six inches on the ground and it was still coming down. Pop said they could see a foot by morning. “The snow isn’t going to melt until spring, Lily girl.” He grinned at her, grabbed his cap, and said, “Or summer.”

  “Silly man.” She stuffed one hand into a mitten, her eyes bright behind thick glasses. “It’s best to make the angels when it’s dark. Then you can look up at the sky and see the stars.”

  “And you stick out your tongue and catch the snowflakes,” Lizzie added.

  “Yup. They taste good, too.” Lily grabbed Lizzie’s hand and stood by the door waiting for Harry.

  “Snowflakes don’t taste like anything but water.” This came from AJ who leaned against the kitchen table. He’d been tossing out all sorts of mood-dampening comments lately and Harry guessed it was the kid’s attempt to act cool. Somebody probably told AJ that hanging out with your family was uncool. Yeah, whatever. Harry hadn’t missed the way the boy had his eyes glued to the window and the snow. One of these days AJ would have to learn to ignore what everybody else said and listen to his gut. That would come years from now, hopefully, before fifty, which was when Harry “woke up.” Until then, the boy might need a nudge or two and an excuse to ignore the “uncool” image; Harry could provide those nudges.

  “Angels first,” he said to Lily and Lizzie. “And then—” his gaze slid to AJ “—a snowball fight.” The boy’s face lit up like the Christmas tree on the deck, but Harry didn’t wait for his response. He didn’t need to because he’d seen it all on AJ’s face. Ten minutes and the kid would join them, and one hundred bucks said he’d make an angel, too.

  Lily, Lizzie, and Harry trudged hand in hand through the heavy snow and settled on an open space to the right of the deck, well behind the gated pool area. When was the last time Harry had sought out snow for the sake of enjoying it? He’d always avoided the stuff, considered it a nuisance and a delayer. It grounded planes, got cars stuck, shifted people in different and often incorrect directions. Its weight took out cable and power, made roofs leak, blocked driveways. It was a real pain in the ass.

  He slid a look at the girls. They’d lifted their faces to the night sky, opened their mouths, and welcomed snowflakes on their tongue. No hurry, no pain-in-the-ass expressions, nothing but pure joy, so rich and deep it made Harry’s chest ache. He wanted that feeling, wanted that rapture on his face, that snow on his tongue. He closed his eyes, tilted back his head and opened his mouth. The flakes hit his face, his nose, landed on his tongue, melting the instant they hit.

  “Tastes like coconut,” Lily said with a giggle. “Yum.”

  “And strawberries,” Lizzie added. “Coconut and strawberry snowflakes. What does yours taste like, Mr. Harry?”

  “Joy,” he murmured. “Real joy.” Harry kept his face tilted toward the sky, his mouth open, and welcomed the sensations.

  “Is joy vanilla or chocolate?” This from Lizzie, who tugged on his jacket sleeve, her small voice curious.

  Harry laughed and grinned at her. “It’s both.”

  Lily giggled. “No, it’s not, Uncle Harry.”

  “Hey, you have your flavors and I have mine. Now show me those angels,” he said, before AJ came outside and heard the “joy” comments. It was one thing to show your true self to innocents like Lizzie and Lily because they didn’t judge, but AJ might ask one too many questions and expect a deeper answer, one Harry couldn’t put into words.

  “Angel time!” Lily took giant steps until she stood in fresh snow. “Now, you lie down, look up at the sky, and spread your arms and legs, like you have wings and are flying. Watch.” She stretched out on the ground, face to the sky, and moved her arms and legs back and forth. “And then you stand up—” she clambered to her feet, stepped away, and pointed “—and there’s your angel.”

  “I want to make an angel!” Lizzie flopped on a patch of new snow and flailed her arms and legs, her giggles filling the night. “Come on, Mr. Harry. We need more angels.”

  Damn, if that wasn’t the truth. Harry glanced at the door. He could make a fool of himself before AJ got outside, and he’d make Lily and Lizzie happy. What the hell? “I’ve got to find my very own spot and, Lily, don’t hog all the snow.” She was on her third angel, and if he let her go, the imprints would cover the yard in an hour.

  “I won’t,” she called from several feet away. “Come over here and we’ll make one, side by side.”

  The kid sure had rules on this make-believe crap. Harry sighed and clomped toward Lily with Lizzie close behind. When he located an area of glistening fresh snow, he knelt and lay on his back, face to the starlit sky. Sound drifted over him as the snow insulated his body and muted the noises of the outside world. He didn’t hear Lily’s giggles or Lizzie’s questions; he heard nothing but the softness of his breath blowing in and out. Is this what peace felt like? He searched the sky, settled his gaze on the brightest star he could find, and opened his mouth to welcome the snowflakes. The worry over being a lousy parent, not deserving Greta, disappointing those who counted on him, all melted away with the snow on his tongue. It would no doubt return later, and there would be more fears, more worries, but right this very moment, there was peace. Harry moved his arms and legs slowly as Lily had shown him.
He’d make a helluva large angel, though he did wonder if his angel would have horns on its head.

  Harry was thinking about angels with horns when Lily plowed into his thoughts. “Say, hi to Daddy, Uncle Harry.”

  “Huh?” He lifted his head and stared at Lily who lay a few feet away, right hand sweeping the air.

  “Wave to him, Uncle Harry.” She kept her gaze fixed on the star-sprinkled sky. “Hi, Daddy. Can you see us? We’re making angels like you showed me. Uncle Harry didn’t know how, but I showed him. Can you see the snow? It’s crunchy and it tastes so good.” She giggled. “Your snow always tasted like peanut butter and jelly, but mine tastes like coconut and Lizzie’s tastes like strawberries.” She paused and her voice dipped. “And Uncle Harry said his tasted like joy, but I don’t know what that tastes like. We’re going to make lots and lots of angels because you said there weren’t enough on this earth.”

  Harry squeezed his eyes shut to keep what felt an awful lot like damn tears from slipping out. Lily could make him choke up with a word, a look, hell, a hug could do it, and if he didn’t shut it down, the tears would sprout faster than a sprinkler.

  “Uncle Harry and Aunt Greta are having a big Christmas Eve party at their house. Uh-huh. Lots of people are coming. I don’t think you know all of them, but you do know lots. I’m going to be there, so is Mom, and Nate and Christine.” She paused, “And Anna, and Pop, and—” She paused a few seconds, then asked, “Who else is invited to your Christmas party, Uncle Harry? I want to tell Dad.”

  “Gina!” Lizzie shouted from a few feet away. “And her husband!”

  “Right.” Lily’s voice filled with excitement. “Gina and Ben Reed and the baby in her belly.”