A Family Affair: The Wish: Truth in Lies, Book 9 (15 page)

He crossed his arms over his chest, those beautiful lips a thin line of “not happy.” “You already said that.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did the man want from her? She huffed, planted her bare feet in front of him, and tried very hard not to scowl. “What do you want me to say? That I was an idiot? That I am scared to death to have a relationship with you but that it doesn’t matter because I already care too much and no matter how hard I fight it, we
are
in a relationship and I
do
care?”

“That’s a start.”

Had his expression softened a bit? Hard to tell and that
did
pull a scowl from her lips that she made no attempt to hide. That’s what drove her batty: being unable to tell what somebody who meant so much to her was thinking or feeling. “Okay. We’re in a relationship. And I do care.” He rubbed his jaw, settled back into the chair. And said nothing. “Really, Adam? You have nothing to say?” Men were the most ridiculous creatures at times. Was he trying to prove a point?

“This isn’t about forcing you to do or say anything that isn’t in your heart. I know you care.” He shrugged, burned her with a you’re-mine-and-you-know-it look and said, “I’m tired of the games and the indecision, tired of you sneaking out of my bed at 2:00 a.m. so the poor babysitter can go home.”

“She doesn’t mind. Rachel’s a college student and says she’s up half the night anyway.”

“That’s not the point, Bree.
I
mind. It isn’t right. The secrecy, the pretending, all of it.” He sighed. “It shouldn’t be this hard, and if it is, maybe we’re not right for each other, and I’d rather know that now than prolong the inevitable.”

Prolong the inevitable,
as in a breakup that was bound to happen? Did he really believe that? A chill swirled through her, settled in her chest. She’d been so determined to keep her emotional distance that she didn’t think about how that might be hurting him. Bree darted a glance at his face, took in the strain around his mouth, the absence of those dimples she loved to trace, the paleness beneath his tan. He didn’t deserve her fear or indecision. If she wasn’t going to commit, she had to let him go. Bree inched forward, touched his hand. She couldn’t let him go. She stepped between his long legs, knelt, and laid her head in his lap. “I love you,” she whispered, easing her arms around his waist. “I love you, Adam Brandon.”

“Bree?”

“Hmm?” She sniffed, buried her face in the washed-out fabric of his jeans. If God had granted her this second chance, she would take it. She would not be afraid any longer.

“Look at me, Bree.”

She lifted her head, didn’t try to fight the tears. “Silly tears.”

“Yeah.” He swiped them away. “Silly tears.” His eyes glittered like stars dotting a black sky. “Come here.” He helped Bree onto his lap and she snuggled again his chest.

Such perfect and utter peace. She could stay like this forever, or at least for the next hour. Bree closed her eyes and matched his breathing. So calming. So safe. Adam stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head. “I’m not going to hurt you, Bree. You can trust me.” He paused, pulled her closer. “I love you.”

R
obert stood in the bedroom
, his voice soft, hesitant. “You don’t mind putting your hair up or wearing that dress?”

“Of course not. I’d shave my head and wear hospital scrubs if it meant a chance to meet your mother.” Natalie smiled at him and glanced in the full-length mirror. She’d pulled her hair back from her face and gathered it in a tight ponytail. No ribbons, no barrettes, nothing. The dress Robert had chosen was shapeless and at least two sizes larger than Natalie wore, with a tiny belt and a high-necked collar. Ugh. Not very attractive. No heels either, just basic flats in matte black. Again, not a fashion statement. No earrings, a “sensible” watch that she learned meant no sparkle, no color, no texture. Just black. Or tan. He’d purchased a small gold cross and asked that she wear it on the outside of her dress. Robert had told her his mother was a bit strange,
eccentric
was the word he used, and very religious. Maybe that’s why he’d asked that she limit her makeup to mascara and a pale pink lipstick. That was almost as bad as asking a chocoholic to swear off chocolate, but she’d done it, because finally, after all this time, she was going to meet Marjorie Trimble.

Robert’s mother was the last obstacle before the engagement ring. He could have asked her to wear a sack and she’d have done it. One night with his mother, maybe another, two tops, and Natalie was positive he’d propose. Hadn’t they spent months talking about the proposal? Her insides fluttered at the thought of marrying Robert. Such a kind and gentle man who absolutely worshipped her. What more could she want, except to one day carry his children and enjoy a home surrounded by a family that loved her, accepted her for who she was, not what she had been.

Robert cleared his throat and Natalie swung her gaze to his. “You look beautiful.” He took her hands, kissed one, then the other. “I’m a very lucky man.”

“Yes, you are.” She leaned in, kissed him on the mouth. “Now let’s go meet your mother.”

He pulled back, his kind eyes filled with worry. “I told you my mother’s very proper, old school.”

“I know, I know.” Natalie hid a smile, kept the humor from her voice. “No swearing, no touching, no snarky comments.” Nobody could be more difficult than Lydia Servetti, not even Marjorie Trimble.

Two hours later, Natalie was quite certain there was no one breathing who could be more difficult than Robert’s mother. The woman sat at the head of the long, linen-covered dining room table, her beady eyes studying Natalie from behind thick glasses. Thin and bony with gnarled fingers and more wrinkles than a grape left in the hot sun for five days. If there was a shred of kindness in the woman, Natalie couldn’t find it: not in the expression, the words, the gestures. Not even when speaking with her son. Robert had called her prim and set in her ways, but he’d neglected to mention that her ways resembled a dictator’s and he was her servant.

He’d also neglected to mention that she had no idea Natalie was his girlfriend or that she gave manicures, pedicures, and facials for a living. Natalie slid her boyfriend a look from across the table, but he didn’t return it because he was busy cutting his mother’s chicken.

“Smaller pieces, Robert. You know I could choke.”

“Yes, Mother.” He proceeded to cut the pieces in half, scraping the plate with each cut.

Marjorie eyed Natalie, squinted. “Robert says you keep books in a hair salon.”

Not exactly
. She did add up the daily receipts and take the deposit to the bank, but that wasn’t exactly “keeping the books.” Still, Robert said his mother might warm to her faster if Natalie didn’t mention the nails and facials. Why not, she’d wanted to ask, but didn’t. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Why are you working in a hair salon?” The tone in her voice and the pinched look on that wrinkled face said she did not approve. “I should think a well-qualified individual would seek employment in a business environment, not a place like
that
.” Robert cleared his throat, stared at his plate. “Well?
Are
you qualified for employment in a more suitable establishment, Natasha?”

Natasha?

“Mother,” Robert’s voice rolled along the tablecloth like a pea that didn’t know if it should turn right or left, “It’s Natalie.”

“Oh.” Marjorie Trimble leaned toward Natalie, her beaky nose pointed in the air. “Natalie,” she corrected, and then continued on as though she hadn’t just hurled an insult by calling Natalie the wrong name. “Appearances and perceptions are essential and one must give a care to both. My ex-husband didn’t understand their importance and suffered for it.” A tiny smile cracked her lips. “Yes, indeed he did. Robert says you’re looking for something a little more respectable in a town that doesn’t have so many busybodies. I know all about Magdalena, indeed I do. The woman my dead ex-husband took off with had a sister who lived there and you’d have thought the place was a paradise the way she went on and on, as though it were more than a dot in the middle of the forest. I never much cared for it.” She sniffed and lifted a bony shoulder. “Why a person would get all excited over a piece of coconut cream pie or a park bench is past my comprehension. She used to talk about that Italian man and his wife, said they were the nicest couple and do you know why? Because the man doled out zucchini and tomatoes like they were mints in a candy dish.” She dabbed her thin lips with a napkin, frowned. “The world does not consist of handouts and bowls of pasta, which his wife apparently cooked for the less fortunate.”

Natalie sat very still, hands clasped in her lap, gaze fixed on the gold cross dangling from Marjorie Trimble’s neck. The woman must be talking about Pop Benito and his wife. What other “Italian man” gave away vegetables from his garden and bowls of pasta? Why did she talk about Pop and Lucinda Benito as though helping others could be a bad thing? Natalie stared harder at the gold cross. She bet there were diamond chips embedded in the cross, a gift from her ex-husband? Or had Robert given it to her? Because he wanted to, was it out of duty? Natalie bet duty had a lot to do with it, plus a hunk or two of good old-fashioned guilt.

And I told Robert he needed to find a profession that would enable him to take care of his responsibilities…

Robert knows he has to think carefully before jumping into a decision…

He’s such a good boy…cares about his mother, don’t you, son?

There’s nothing like the bond between a mother and her son…built on love, loyalty, and duty…isn’t that right, Robert?

On and on it went until Natalie excused herself to the bathroom where she threw up the entire meal. As she sat on the floor of the tiny black-and-white-tiled bathroom with the moss-green rugs and toilet seat cover, she replayed the events of the night, beginning with the second she entered the tiny house with the tea cup collection lining the shelves in the living room and the crochet works displayed in afghans, doilies, and centerpieces. The house was packed with “stuff,” and she guessed the old woman could look upon an item and recall an event, a day, even a year. No doubt the memories all had to do with Robert or her ex-husband, the two men in her life: the one who’d escaped and the one who couldn’t.

When Natalie emerged from the bathroom, Robert’s brow creased with the look she recognized as worry, but he said nothing, not until they were cleaning the kitchen, out of earshot of his mother who sat in the living room, supervising.

“Are you okay?”

Natalie rinsed the platter that held the chicken, placed it in the drain board. Robert had informed her they couldn’t leave until the dishes were dried, put away, and coffee and chocolate cream pie served. As if she could eat without heaving again.

“Nat?” he whispered, leaning close enough to touch her shoulder. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“Your mother’s crazy.” There, she’d said what she’d been thinking since he introduced her to Marjorie. “And I mean certifiable.” Getting the words out actually made her stomach feel better.

“She’s the nervous type, frets over everything. It’s not that she means to be difficult; it just comes out that way.”

Natalie doubted it
just came out that way
. Marjorie Trimble knew exactly what she was saying, right down to the tone of her voice and the intended message, and the only one who didn’t know was Robert. Could he not tell she was manipulating him? Her parents were no prizes, but they looked like real gems when she lined them up beside Robert’s mother. “She’s using you, Robert. Can’t you see that?”

He didn’t have time to respond because Marjorie’s whine split them apart. “Is the coffee almost ready? Do you want me to fix it? I can’t drink coffee after seven or I’m in the bathroom all night.” She sighed, let out another stream of complaints that matched the first set. “The doctor said if I have to get up in the middle of the night, I need to be very careful I don’t trip, and my path must be well lit. Robert, would you check my nightlights before you leave? I think one might be out and I hope I have a pack of spare bulbs. I just don’t know if I do. I meant to write it on the shopping list for you, but I might have forgotten.”

Natalie stared at him. “You do her shopping?”

A smattering of pink colored his cheeks. “Only when Mrs. Leminski can’t take her or she wants a specific item from a specialty shop.”

Just one more way to control him. What a conniver! Natalie turned to check on the subject of their conversation and no surprise, Marjorie Trimble was staring at her—an evil-eyed stare that said,
Do not even think you’re getting my son
. Natalie swung back around, sucked in a breath. That woman was the reason Robert hadn’t proposed and it didn’t matter if Natalie wore a dress to her ankles and carried a miniature bible in her pocket. Marjorie Trimble was not going to give up her son to anyone, especially not a bookkeeper in a hair salon who lived in the town where her ex-husband’s girlfriend’s sister lived. What a crock! What would the woman say if she knew Natalie worked on people’s faces and nails, not the salon’s books? From the looks of the old wrinkled crow, Marjorie needed a lot more than a facial.

“Nat?” Robert touched her hand, rubbed her thumb. “Don’t get all worked up, okay? We’ll figure this out.” More thumb stroking, a dip in that voice she loved, low, lower. “I love you.”

“Robert! What’s taking you two so long? It’s not like we had a twelve-course meal. What about the coffee?”

“I just have to fix your cup, Mother. Coming right up.” He rinsed his hands and dried them on a dishtowel, his gaze landing on Natalie seconds before he whispered, “We’ll talk later.”

The rest of the evening consisted of Marjorie complaining about everything from the specialty coffee she called bitter, the chocolate cream pie that wasn’t sweet enough, the remote control that was too cumbersome for her arthritic fingers. On and on it went, those beady eyes landing on Natalie every tenth sentence, followed by a voice that said, “You’ll see one day, just you wait until you’re my age.”

Natalie didn’t inhale a clean breath until she and Robert were in the car and heading away from his mother’s house. By then she had the beginnings and middle of a killer headache and wanted to forget this night and all the obstacles that stood in the way of a life together, including one very large boulder named Marjorie Trimble.

“Nat? Why so quiet?”

She kept her eyes closed, her breathing even. Was she ready to discuss all the levels of wrong that happened tonight? Maybe she should pretend she was asleep so she could hold onto their old relationship a little while longer because once she started talking, he was not going to like what she said. Soon, she’d tell the man she loved that he had a choice to make and it was either Natalie or his mother. Her chest ached with the very real possibility that he might not choose her.

R
ex MacGregor loved
his “baby girl,” as he called her, and he’d made it his mission to help her find happiness no matter what means he had to employ. It was the means that brought Adam to the man’s house an hour after he got back from lunch with Bree. He’d made excuses about having business outside of the office, and though she pecked around for answers, he’d been tight-lipped. It wasn’t like Adam could tell her he had a meeting with her father about his consultant role, or rather, the subterfuge involved in the role. The more he was around Bree, the more he disliked the deception he’d agreed to, and while her father might think it was for her own good, Adam didn’t agree. No child wants to be lied to, especially an adult child, and yet Adam had agreed to it in the hopes of making life better for Bree. But how was it really going to make it better?

And what about them? He was lying to her, and knowing what he did about her dead husband, wasn’t that an extreme betrayal? Of course it was. It didn’t take a person with a stack of degrees to see that. A lie was a lie and Adam Brandon had never been a liar. He cared about Bree, crazy, zany, and unpredictable as she was. He wanted to spend time with her, maybe a lifetime, but he was not going to do it with this lie between them. That’s where Rex came in.

“Care for a glass of iced tea?” Rex glanced at the clock on the wall. “Or a scotch? Got whiskey, too, if that’s your preference.” He rubbed his jaw, nodded. “I’m guessing you’re a scotch drinker.”

Adam smiled. “You guessed right. If you’re having one, I will, too.”

Rex made his way to the liquor cabinet, pulled out two glasses and a bottle of scotch. “I used to polish these off with my buddies like clockwork. But then one moved away, another had a heart attack, and I had my own share of health scares that made me think twice before pouring a drink.” He handed Adam a glass, sank into the recliner next to the sofa, and raised his glass. “To the future of MacGregor Cabinets.”

Adam saluted with his glass, took a drink. “Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about.” He paused, met the older man’s gaze. “The future of your business.”

“I’m listening.”

There was a definite chill in the man’s voice. Had her father noticed how Bree and Adam acted toward one another, maybe started to suspect something was going on between them? It’s not as if Rex was in the office every day, but he was there enough to pick up on a change in their behavior—if he were looking for it. When Adam left tonight, any suspicions the man might have would be confirmed. He pushed out the words that would lay the groundwork for the truth. “Bree’s doing a great job. She’s been very helpful.” She’d been helpful last night, too. Visions of her soft skin and ambitious fingers swirled through his brain, landed in his crotch. He pushed them back, hard. “She’s a very eager learner.”