Read Online A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 by Mary Campisi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mary Campisi
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spent the next two days at the cabin, pondering the dilemma of Lily and following the NASDAQ. Jumping into the market was the best way to get back in control. She called her assistant, Moira, returned phone calls to clients, made recommendations, took orders.
No one needed to know she was conducting business from a card table in the Catskills, surrounded by snow and evergreens, or that she was dressed in gray sweats and a red fleece top and two pairs of Thinsulate socks.
On the third day, she decided to pay a visit to the machine shop her father had bailed out. Stay busy, just stay busy. She’d meet the owner and reassure him she planned to honor the agreement. She was also curious about the type of man, a relative stranger, she guessed, her father would sign a note for, guaranteeing payment. But maybe the man wasn’t a stranger; maybe he was a friend. Fourteen years was a long time to cultivate a friendship and the fact that she didn’t know upset her as much as it depressed her.
For days, she’d asked the question: who was Lily Desantro? But the real question was who was Charles Blacksworth?
She had to get away from the cabin—now, before her mind drove her crazy with its incessant ranting. She pulled on her boots, stuffed her arms into a down jacket, and fought her way to the car. It took almost an hour to dig a path to the road and another thirty minutes to clear the car and heat it up. She could get stuck out here and no one would ever find her until spring when the thaw came through.
Christine drove the back road into Magdalena, fingers gripping the wheel, gravitating toward the middle when there weren’t any other cars around. The snow fell, full and fat on the windshield. Her father must have driven roads like these for years, narrowed from snow piling up along the edges, slick with ice, dark; country roads, fighting change, fighting progress, just like the people who lived in the towns where the roads led: Tristan, Ennert, Magdalena.
ND Manufacturing was located about five miles from Magdalena. It was a longish-shaped brick building, weathered to a faded orange, with a flat roof supporting several metal vents and two small windows at the front entrance. There were a handful of buildings similar to this one running up and down the road like brick rectangles. A parking lot stood to the left smattered with pick-up trucks and older model cars, Fords and Chevys mostly, with bumper stickers that read, Mail Pouch and Union Works .
She parked her car next to a blue Ford F150 with a dented right fender and headed for the entrance. The contact person was Jack Finnegan, but he wasn’t the owner, only the “man in charge of the paperwork,” her father had told her. He hadn’t given her the owner’s name, telling her there’d be time enough for everything she needed to know later. But there hadn’t been enough time; there hadn’t been any time.
A gray-haired woman with tight curls and cat’s-eye glasses perched behind a glass partition in the lobby. She looked up when Christine entered. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Finnegan. Is he available?”
The older woman let out a chuckle. “Sure is. Your name?”
Christine hesitated, then said, “Christine Blacksworth.”
“You’re Christine?” The woman’s blue eyes widened behind the cat’s-eye glasses. “Charlie’s daughter?”
“I am.”
“Oh, my word. Oh, my goodness. Oh my.” The words rushed out in a string of breathlessness as the woman fanned herself with her hand, said again, “Oh my.”
“You knew my father?” It was a ridiculous question because judging by the woman’s reaction, she had indeed known him.
“Yes, oh my yes.” The woman stood and thrust her hand through the open portion of the sliding window. Even standing she barely reached Christine’s shoulder. “Betty Rafferty. I’m the receptionist here.” She paused, let out a small laugh, “And the chief cook and bottle washer. I do a little
No one needed to know she was conducting business from a card table in the Catskills, surrounded by snow and evergreens, or that she was dressed in gray sweats and a red fleece top and two pairs of Thinsulate socks.
On the third day, she decided to pay a visit to the machine shop her father had bailed out. Stay busy, just stay busy. She’d meet the owner and reassure him she planned to honor the agreement. She was also curious about the type of man, a relative stranger, she guessed, her father would sign a note for, guaranteeing payment. But maybe the man wasn’t a stranger; maybe he was a friend. Fourteen years was a long time to cultivate a friendship and the fact that she didn’t know upset her as much as it depressed her.
For days, she’d asked the question: who was Lily Desantro? But the real question was who was Charles Blacksworth?
She had to get away from the cabin—now, before her mind drove her crazy with its incessant ranting. She pulled on her boots, stuffed her arms into a down jacket, and fought her way to the car. It took almost an hour to dig a path to the road and another thirty minutes to clear the car and heat it up. She could get stuck out here and no one would ever find her until spring when the thaw came through.
Christine drove the back road into Magdalena, fingers gripping the wheel, gravitating toward the middle when there weren’t any other cars around. The snow fell, full and fat on the windshield. Her father must have driven roads like these for years, narrowed from snow piling up along the edges, slick with ice, dark; country roads, fighting change, fighting progress, just like the people who lived in the towns where the roads led: Tristan, Ennert, Magdalena.
ND Manufacturing was located about five miles from Magdalena. It was a longish-shaped brick building, weathered to a faded orange, with a flat roof supporting several metal vents and two small windows at the front entrance. There were a handful of buildings similar to this one running up and down the road like brick rectangles. A parking lot stood to the left smattered with pick-up trucks and older model cars, Fords and Chevys mostly, with bumper stickers that read, Mail Pouch and Union Works .
She parked her car next to a blue Ford F150 with a dented right fender and headed for the entrance. The contact person was Jack Finnegan, but he wasn’t the owner, only the “man in charge of the paperwork,” her father had told her. He hadn’t given her the owner’s name, telling her there’d be time enough for everything she needed to know later. But there hadn’t been enough time; there hadn’t been any time.
A gray-haired woman with tight curls and cat’s-eye glasses perched behind a glass partition in the lobby. She looked up when Christine entered. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Finnegan. Is he available?”
The older woman let out a chuckle. “Sure is. Your name?”
Christine hesitated, then said, “Christine Blacksworth.”
“You’re Christine?” The woman’s blue eyes widened behind the cat’s-eye glasses. “Charlie’s daughter?”
“I am.”
“Oh, my word. Oh, my goodness. Oh my.” The words rushed out in a string of breathlessness as the woman fanned herself with her hand, said again, “Oh my.”
“You knew my father?” It was a ridiculous question because judging by the woman’s reaction, she had indeed known him.
“Yes, oh my yes.” The woman stood and thrust her hand through the open portion of the sliding window. Even standing she barely reached Christine’s shoulder. “Betty Rafferty. I’m the receptionist here.” She paused, let out a small laugh, “And the chief cook and bottle washer. I do a little
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