Read A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 for Free Online

years.
    “You called my mother’s house...about my father.”
    Her voice wobbled.  Good, feel it, Christine Blacksworth, feel what I’ve felt for the past fourteen years every time I saw your father’s bathrobe hanging in my mother’s closet, saw his razor in her bathroom, his glasses on her nightstand. Let it strangle you...
    “I have to speak with your mother.” The words were firmer, part congealed.
    “She’s not available.”
    “Can’t you work with me so we can get this over with?”
    “No, I can’t.”
    “Do you think I wanted to come here? Do you think I would be standing here if there’d been any other way?”
    “I don’t know, would you? Maybe come to see for yourself?”
    “This is just as hard on me as it is on you.” Her voice dipped, faltered. “At least you knew. I had no idea. All this time, and I had no idea.”
    He almost felt sorry for her but years of living with Charles Blacksworth’s comings and goings wiped any pity from his soul. “You think so; you think we’re in the same boat, Christine? What do you think it’s like to see a man coming out of your mother’s bedroom in the morning, one who’s not her husband? And then the bastard leaves her, every month, goes back to his rich family in Chicago, his prestigious job, his three-piece suits. And he does it year after year after year and she cries when he leaves, every goddamn time.”
    She looked away, pinched the bridge of her nose.
    “You think you had it worse? You don’t have a clue.” He gripped the door handle, forced himself to stay still when every cell in his body wanted to jerk her head up, make her acknowledge his words, feel his hatred. “Go home, Christine Blacksworth. You’re fourteen years too late.”
    ***
    Gloria accepted the fluted glass bubbling with Dom Perignon and smiled at the young man dressed in black who hadn’t left her side all night; Jeremy something or other, investment banker. He couldn’t be more than twenty-eight, a year older than Christine, and yet she hadn’t missed the way his dark eyes took in her pale blue gown, moved from the swell of breast to shoulder, settled on the smooth, tanned skin of her neck. Men had looked at her that way her entire life, from the time she was fourteen and discovered that if she smiled wide and long, dropped her voice a few decibels, and glanced instead of stared at other boys, she would gain not only their attention, but their admiration. What a ridiculous game it all was, one she’d never succumbed to, preferring intellect to sexuality. But then she’d met Charles.
    She sipped her champagne, tried to concentrate on what the young man was saying.
    “Have you ever heard Bocelli?” Jeremy something or other was saying. “I saw him in New York. He’s exquisite, not Pavarotti, but still quite good.”
    “And blind.”
    “Incredible, isn’t it?” He took her comment as interest, moved closer, his breath fanning her ear. “I’d love to take you. We could have dinner at The Presidio first. Next Saturday.”
    She took a step away, met his dark eyes, sparkling with one too many Dom Perignons. “I don’t think so, but thank you for the invitation.”
    He flattened a hand over his chest. “You wound me, beautiful maiden. Please reconsider.”
    Oh, Charles, how could you have left me to deal with this?  “I could be your mother.”
    “But you’re not.” He took her hand, stroked his fingers up her arm.
    “I just buried my husband two weeks ago.” Was there no respect for the grieving process?
    “I know.” He nodded, his handsome face solemn. “All the more reason.”
    “Indeed.” She shrugged his hand off, stepped away. “All the more reason.” Gloria lifted her glass, saluted him and turned away.
    She almost hadn’t come tonight, not after last year’s debacle. The West Mount Memorial Banquet had always been Charles’s love; he was one of the original organizers, a major contributor and a staunch supporter of the hospital’s research