Page 2 of A Family Affair: The Cabin
Christine laughed and squeezed his hand. “Probably almost as entertaining as knowing what’s rambling around in mine.”
His lips twitched. “No man will ever admit to knowing what’s going on in a woman’s head.”
The comfortable bantering continued and made Christine almost forget what lay ahead. No doubt, that was her husband’s plan, one she should have noticed if her words rang true and she always knew what was going on in his head. She liked to think she did, but with a man like Nate Desantro, a person never really knew. What she did know was that she had his love, his trust, and his commitment, and she didn’t need more than that.
Nate rounded another bend and the cabin came into view: a bit older, a bit shabbier, but pretty much as she remembered it. Her husband eased the SUV up the gravel drive, stopped several feet from the wide-slatted, wooden door, and let out a low whistle.
“So, this is the place. Pete’s going to have his work cut out for him.” He scanned the broken window, the sunken front steps, the birch tree. “Good thing he’s got nowhere to be.”
Nate was talking about Pete Finnegan, Jack Finnegan’s West Coast son, the one who’d returned to Magdalena a month ago under a cloud of questions and mystery. Some said his departure from California where he’d worked as some kind of real estate guru had more to do with a woman and less to do with the change of pace he’d said he needed, while others insisted family drove him home, maybe even the desirefora family, as in rekindling with an old girlfriend. Whatever the reason, Pete Finnegan didn’t comment one way or the other, his blue eyes intense, his tanned face serious. He was handsome in a rugged blue-jeans-flannel-shirt way; a man who spoke less than Nate, which made the town all the more curious to find out his story. Christine climbed out of the SUV and followed her husband to the front door. “You still have no idea why he’s back?”
“Nope.” He fit the key in the lock, jiggled it back and forth a few times before pushing open the door. “And don’t start asking around.” Nate glanced over his shoulder and raised a brow. “No inquiries to Bree Kinkaid either. All that woman needs is a whiff of something and she’s on the hunt.”
Christine stared at her husband’s back as he made his way into the cabin. “Doubtful. She’s too busy planning her wedding right now to care about a little bit of gossip.”
Nate laughed. “If you think that, then you don’t know Bree Kinkaid. That woman will be sniffing out stories when she’s walking down the aisle.” He reached for her hand, smiled. “Forget about Bree, okay? Let’s take a look around.”
She’d prefer to continue talking about Bree’s antics and the new man in town’s motives for being there—anything but dealing with the memories inside the cabin. The place reeked of desolation and emptiness. The blue-and-cream-plaid couch with the matching cushions was a bit more faded, the small coffee table and hurricane lamp covered in dust. Her gaze landed on the blue ceramic ashtray, an interesting choice for a man who did not smoke. Why was it here? What did it mean?
“Christine?” Nate squeezed her hand, said in a gentle voice, “Let’s just get through this place and then we’ll hit the road. If you see anything you want, let me know. We can box it up and take it with us now or set the stuff in a pile for Pete. He’s got a big truck, so that won’t be a problem.”
Her husband knew how to calm her, knew also how to burrow inside her heart and let her know he’d always be there for her. She nodded, touched his jaw. “Thank you.” She glanced at the blue ashtray again, pointed to it. “I know this sounds silly, but I think I want the ashtray. Dad never smoked but he bought my mother beautiful ones when they were first married.”
“Okay, an ashtray it is.” Nate snatched up the ashtray and tucked it under his arm. “Anything else from the living room? Books? The lamp?”
She shook her head. “It was probably a waste to come here. Pete could have boxed up the whole place and I wouldn’t have missed a thing. I don’t know why we didn’t just ask him to do that.”
“Because you need closure, and coming here one last time is important. It doesn’t matter that your father moved to Magdalena at some point and abandoned this place. What matters and what you should think about is that hedidlive here, and not only that, the reason he came here at all was to rest and rejuvenate. Think about that and not what happened after.”
“You almost sound like you’re championing his cause.”
He raised a brow, the brackets on either side of his mouth deep. “Hardly, but I can appreciate his intentions, even though he couldn’t carry them through. The guy had a helluva lot to deal with every month.”
“You mean my mother?”
Those dark eyes turned black. “Yeah. Your mother.”
Nate would never forgive or forget the pain she’d caused them, and he didn’t like talking about that time in their lives, but he never tried to stop Christine if she felt the need to bring it up, usually to work out an issue. “I wish my father had told me how unhappy he was.” She moved to the bathroom, flicked on the light and took in the old double-faucet sink, the rust around the chrome fixtures, the porcelain tub with claw feet. Her gaze narrowed on the cracked bar of soap sitting in a white plastic tray: the same soap she’d seen the first time she came.
Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed.
“How was your father supposed to let you know he was unhappy? You were his daughter; you worshipped him. He couldn’t tell you he was living a lie and kept another family you didn’t know existed.” He sighed, dragged a hand along his jaw. “I get it. If Anna and Joy lost faith in me, I couldn’t stand to see the disappointment on their faces, and they haven’t been walking this earth very long. Your father had twenty-some years with you.”
“I don’t know whether to be annoyed or moved that you’re trying to justify his actions.”
He shrugged. “I’m trying to be logical about it.” He paused, added, “Speaking as a father. Of course, if he hadn’t put himself in that position, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”
“True.” She studied him, the dark eyes, the firm set of his lips, the furrowed brow. Nate Desantro was an unbending man who believed in honor and integrity, and she loved him for it, even when those values got in the way of things like forgiveness and second chances. “If he hadn’t done what he did, we wouldn’t be standing here now, would we?”
Nate stroked her cheek, his voice rough. “Nope.”
“Exactly.” She leaned on tiptoe, placed a soft kiss on his lips. “There’s nothing but dust and sadness in this place. I don’t know why I thought it might be different.”
“Now you know.” He took her hand, led her down the hall toward the bedroom. “Let’s check out the rest of the place and then we can get started on Pete’s list. Maybe we can find a little restaurant in the next town on our way home.” He slung an arm around her shoulders and smiled down at her. “Okay?”
She nodded, walked with him into the bedroom, her gaze settling on the chenille spread. It brought back too many reminders of the lies that had lived below the surface of her family’s existence, pretending normal, stretching into other areas, making them doubt and lose trust. Christine turned away, moved toward the chest of drawers, pulled one open. Nothing but a lint brush and a comb. The second drawer revealed two folded undershirts and a pair of white athletic socks. She picked up the socks, traced the ribbing, wondered if he’d started wearing these when he added flannel to his wardrobe.
“Christine?”
There was so much she’d never know about her father.
“Christine!”
She swung around, noticed the mattress against the wall, the chenille spread and cream sheets bunched on top of it, the pillows tossed on a chair in the corner. The bed had been stripped of everything but the box spring. “Nate? What are you doing?”
The dread in those dark eyes turned darker, his voice deeper. “I thought I’d make it easier for Pete to paint. It’s so damn small in here I was worried he wouldn’t have room for a stepstool, let alone a ladder. I figured I’d move the bed to the other side of the room and flip the mattress while I was at it. My mother was always big on mattress rotation.” He held out a hand, tossed several white envelopes onto the box spring. “But I’ll bet she never found anything like these.”
