Page 3 of A Family Affair: The Cabin
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There were six envelopes. Yellowed, the front of each scrawled with names Nate recognized; Gloria, Harry, Christine, Lily, Miriam, and Nate. He’d bet the new addition on his house that Charles Blacksworth had written the letters, and he’d bet there was some damnable incriminating evidence inside.
Or a confession. One just as bad as the other.
Why did people feel the need to unburden themselves by confessing to all sorts of secrets and missteps so those left behind had to deal with the fallout? He scanned the envelope addressed to him. What could Charles Blacksworth possibly have to say to him? Had he asked for forgiveness, or had he taken a more philosophical approach and tossed out terms likekarma,finding one’s path, anddivine intervention? And Christine? How did a father justify keeping a second family? He did not even want to think about what might be in the letter to Lily or his mother.
“My father wrote these.” Christine’s voice held a note of awe and reverence, as if the man had drifted from the sky and planted the envelopes under the mattress. She reached for the one addressed to her, fingered the lettering. “I wonder how long they’ve been here.”
That sounded an awful lot like hope sprinkled with the need to believe the guy might have been about to do the right thing. Yeah, a lot of people wereaboutto do the right thing, but never actuallydid. It was hard to figure out a man like Charles Blacksworth because people like him were run by fear, duty, and the inability to make a choice.
And they were most often influenced by others, say, a wife like Gloria Blacksworth. Nate couldn’t control what was in those letters, but he sure as hell could control what happened to them. “There’s only one way to find out.” His wife’s gaze sparked with understanding—and fear. Once the words inside the envelopes escaped, they’d settle in her brain, infiltrate memories, and create doubts that would never go away. “It’s up to you, Christine. You can read them, or you can burn the damn things.”
She eyed the letters as though they might lunge at her. “These could have been one of the last things he touched.” Sadness smothered her next words, squeezed his heart. “Maybe he planned to return here and mail them. Who knows?” More sadness, this time mixed with despair. “We have to find out when he wrote them.” Tears rimmed her eyes. “It could have been shortly after Lily was born. Maybe he was torn between returning to his life in Chicago and staying in Magdalena, and these letters tell that story.” She sniffed twice, swiped at her cheeks. “Or maybe he wrote them right before he died. What if he came here to clear his head and write what was in his heart?”
Nate kept his expression bland, his breathing even. What she really meant on the last one was what if the guy suddenly developed a conscience and wanted to do the right thing by everyone. He blew out a quiet breath, forced a nod. “Yeah, who knows?” He’d have to see the damn words before he gave the guy credit for making a tough choice because it was the right thing to do.
“Will you read them to me? It’ll be easier to handle if you’re reading them.”
“Sure.” He scooped up the letters and made his way to the other side of the bed. “Come here, babe.” Nate pulled her into his arms, held her against him. “No matter what’s in these envelopes, we’ll get through it together.” He stroked her hair, murmured, “I’ll always be here for you.”
“I know,” she mumbled against his chest. “Thank you.”
“Come on.” He pulled away, took her hand. “Let’s go sit in the living room.” He’d known Christine would have to deal with memories of the cabin, but he’d never thought there’d be a land mine waiting for them in the form of six letters. Damn Charles Blacksworth for once again messing with their lives.
When they were settled on the couch, Christine rested her head on his chest, blew out a tiny breath, and said, “Okay. I’m ready.”
He pulled her closer, kissed the top of her head. Why couldn’t Charles and Gloria have been like normal parents, loved their daughter, put her needs ahead of their wants? Why did those two have to be so screwed up? It wasn’t the money that made them that way, but something deeper, more fractured, and Nate would do anything to protect his wife from more grief at the hands of those two. He eased the first letter from the envelope. It was addressed to Gloria. “Here we go.”
Dear Gloria:
I have thought of sending this letter so many times, but I could never quite bring myself to do it. Why was that? Fear? Worry? Weakness? I’ve spent most of my life shouldering the responsibilities of running a company and providing for my family, and while the weight has been heavy at times, I’ve never regretted it. Nor have I regretted marrying you. We share a daughter who has given me more joy than I ever thought possible. I hope one day she will find her own path to happiness. We have not been the best role models for Christine and I wonder if our issues have kept her from finding someone who values her, someone she can love. Connor Pendleton is not that man. Love and marriage must be about more than joining families to build empires. Pendleton is more interested in our daughter’s portfolio than her thoughts. We must take partial responsibility for that. I’m referring to the deficiencies in our own relationship. Surely, you know they exist. Don’t you?
When my sister died, I realized how precious life is, and how very unpredictable. I would never hurt you—not intentionally—and I will always care about you, but I can’t go on pretending happiness and contentment in our marriage and neither should you. We may share a home and a name, but “we” died years ago. I see 2 choices: continue as we have been, living as strangers, or divorce and begin a new life. I choose life. I hope you will, too. When I return to Chicago, we’ll meet with Thurman Jacobs and discuss what needs to be done. I’d like us to tell Christine together.
Gloria, please know I will take care of you and make sure you want for nothing. You must wonder why I’ve chosen to tell you of my decision to end our marriage in a letter instead of face to face. I wonder this myself and yet I know it is the only way I can release the words I’ve carried in my soul for too many years.
We are still young enough for a second chance at happiness. Let’s take it.
I’ll see you in a few days and then we’ll talk.
Always,
Charles
Nate folded the letter, returned it to its envelope. There’d been some powerful words in that letter, but there’d been no date, and for all anyone knew, they were only words. Had the man had any intention of putting action behind them? Hard to tell and unless the other letters gave a clue, they’d never know. “Should I read another one?”
“I want to hear them all, Nate. Don’t stop until you’ve finished the last one.”
“What’s the rush?” Reading the letter to Gloria made him squeamish. He’d never been big on too much emotion, good or bad, and reading about a dead man’s intentions was pretty much on the high end of emotional overload—and not in a good way. “Wouldn’t you rather read one or two a day? Kind of ease into your father’s news so you can think about what he has to say?”
“No.”
He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he picked up the next envelope. This one was addressed to her. Nate set it aside and picked up the letter to Harry. Of all the tasks they’d planned to do at the cabin, reading her dead father’s undelivered letters wasn’t even on the list of possibilities.
Harry:
I’m writing this letter because I need your help and I’m not sure I can get the words out any other way. I’ve been living a lie—a big one—and I can’t do it any longer. I don’t want to do it any longer.
