Page 25 of A Family Affair: The Cabin
Christine shook her head. “I think no.”
Nate crossed his arms over his chest, pretended to study Harry, and said, “You seem more like a Chihuahua kind of guy.”
“Screw you.” Harry laughed. “Greta made me promise to talk to one of those people who match the dog with the owner and the lifestyle. You know, don’t get a dog that needs three hours of exercise if you live on the couch. Don’t pick one because you think he has pretty eyes, that kind of crap.” He tore off a section of sticky bun, popped it in his mouth and chewed. “Who would have thought people got paid to do stuff like that? Is that even a real job?”
Nate shrugged. “Dunno. Did you come here to talk about dogs? I’ve got a list of honey-do things to get done and your niece isn’t going to be happy if I don’t at least get them started.” He knew the dog conversation was Harry’s way of easing into the real reason he’d stopped by—the letters. But if the man didn’t ask his questions soon, it would be dinnertime and he’d still be yakking about dogs and trainers.
“Greta wanted me to deliver the sticky buns, and I did have a question or two about dogs, but that’s not why I’m here.” The blueness in his eyes shifted to silver. “Were there any more letters?”
Nate darted a glance at his wife. She’d gone pale. He waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, he jumped in. “Charlie wrote one to Christine, one to me.” Long pause. “And one to Gloria.”
“Oh.” His voice turned rough. “Huh. Guess I didn’t rate.”
There was no missing the hurt in his voice, but hurt was a helluva lot better than despair, and that’s right where Harry would be if he read the letter intended for him. “Maybe he ran out of time,” Nate said.Or maybe he didn’t…maybe the letter was tucked in the top desk drawer fifty feet away.
“Yeah.” Harry shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Uncle Harry.” Christine clasped his hand, leaned forward, eyes bright.
Here it comes. She’s going to tell him.
“Dad loved you. You know that.”
She’s going to blow his world apart. She’s going to tell him about the letter.
“I loved him, too, Chrissie,” Harry said, his voice hoarse. “So, no letter, huh?”
“No,” she whispered, a tear spilling down her cheek. “No letter.”
* * *
The last timePete saw his Aunt Edith he’d been twenty years old. She’d hugged him tight and slipped an envelope in his pocket containing two hundred dollars and a prayer card of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. She said the money and the prayer card seemed fitting as he was about to embark on a cross-country journey in a vehicle of questionable reliability and might require money and prayers to reach his destination. She’d been right. The water hose burst outside of Omaha, and the cash, along with St. Christopher, guided him to California.
Today, he sat in her front parlor as he had fifteen years ago, and like then, she hugged him and tried to shove money in his pocket. This time, the hug wasn’t as strong and the envelope contained deeds to several acres in and around Magdalena.
“Aunt Edith, I’m not accepting this.” Pete laid the envelope on the coffee table and turned to her. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need help. Besides, you might need these one day.” The deeds contained tracts of land that covered sixteen acres. Everybody knew the area was rich in timber, and if you partitioned off the land, you’d have quite a few lots, Hell, you could plan a small development if you wanted.
But that would destroy the feel of the community. Magdalena’s quaintness would be lost to new construction, overpopulation, and traffic. Way too much traffic. Pete liked progress, but some places should be protected from the hustle-bustle of overbuilding, and Magdalena was one of them. At twenty, he’d been anxious to get out of the small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business, but at thirty-five, he’d developed an appreciation for quiet and having a few friends who knew you back when, as opposed to a roomful who didn’t know you at all.
“Peter, I’ve been waiting for the day you’d come back here.” Her thin lips pulled into a frown. “I’d hoped you’d bring a wife and a baby or two.” She let out a long sigh that sounded an awful lot like sadness mixed with regret. “But there’s still time. You do want a wife and children, don’t you?”
Visions of a fresh-faced woman with dark hair and hazel eyes squeezed his chest. He pushed them away, picked up one of the store-bought vanilla cookies his aunt had set out. “If the opportunity presents itself, I’d be open to it.”And if the woman in question wasn’t keeping a notebook filled with secrets and destruction…
“You’d beopento it?” She shook her head, sniffed. “What does that mean? Love isn’t a negotiation, my boy; it’s magical and wondrous and has great powers. You weren’t here when Daniel and Tess Casherdon were tested by fate. Twice. Oh, but they struggled; first torn apart by tragedy, and later, by another woman.” Shetsk-tskedas though she were commenting on a movie and not real people’s lives. “I never gave up on them, no, I did not, even when it looked like there was no hope for them.” She took a sip of tea, said in a voice as soft as cotton balls, “Love prevails. Always.” Her gaze slipped over him, settled on his face. “You’ve had a bit of heartache, haven’t you, Peter?”
He coughed, cleared his throat. “No. Of course not.” Why would she say that? Was it because he was thirty-five and hadn’t brought home a wife and child?
Moretsk-tsking, this time aimed at him and his life. “I recognize heartbreak when I see it and you’re a man suffering from it.” She dabbed her eyes with her napkin and clasped his hand. “I want to help you. Tell me about her.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Edith, but there isn’t anyone.” He worked up a smile. “Just me and my sorry self.”
“If that’s true, then it’s only because you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet. I’m a patient woman, Peter. When you admit you’re in love, you just remember your Aunt Edith was the first to know.” She patted his hand and nodded. “In the meantime, let’s talk about how to go about transferring the deeds.”
