Begin Again: Short stories from the heart (15 page)

“Client files.” She fidgeted in her chair. “Some things I need to go over with you.”

“Oh?”

“I… it isn’t working, Uncle Harry. I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t have to ask what, he knew. She couldn’t live the life anymore, not since she’d found another one, a real one. “I know.”

“You do?”

“Give me a little credit for having at least a tiny bit of gray matter up here,” he said, pointing to his head. “And I’m not talking about the hair either.”

“I do give you credit, Uncle Harry. You don’t give yourself enough.”

“You’re probably right but you didn’t come here to talk about me, did you?”

“No.”

“You’re coming to dump these files on me hoping that because I’ve been sneaking around helping you out that maybe now I’ll start taking an interest in the company, handle some of your clients?”

“Well, kind of.”

He held up a hand. “I’m not finished yet. You’re doing all of this so you can clear your conscience and head back to that damn boyfriend of yours.”

“I thought you liked Nate.”

“I do but that doesn’t mean I want him stealing you away.”

“He isn’t—”

“He already has, that whole damn town has. His mother, him, even that old geezer, Jack what’s his name, they’re all in love with you.”

She smiled. “Finnegan, Jack Finnegan.”

“Whatever.”

“I have to give something back, help people who really need it. When”— she paused, took a deep breath—“when Lily died it made me realize I had to do something that wasn’t about me. I could teach the people of Magdalena how to protect their money, make it grow through investment strategies, savings,
debt
reduction, maybe I’d even show them how to apply for a small business loan, analyze mortgage rates—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

“Those people need me and I need them.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She was slipping away, he could feel it.

“Nate said he might even consider starting a custom furniture making business. I could help him with that; get all the financing in order, maybe even make a small investment, if he’d let me. And Miriam needs me now. I want to be there for her.”

“Enough. I get the picture.”

“I’ll be back to see you and you’ll come see me. It’s not that far.”

“Sure.” He twirled his pen between his fingers. “You tell your mother yet?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to or are you going to just let her find out when you don’t show up for Christmas dinner?”

“I don’t know. It’s not something you slip into casual conversation.”

“Are you ever going to forgive her?”
Are you ever going to forgive me?

“Someday.
I can’t deal with that whole issue right now. Uncle Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“I never got to tell Lily I loved her.” Her voice shook, the words falling apart with each breath. “Right before she went for her ride she told us all she loved us and I was going to tell her too, just as soon as she got off the horse.” She pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, “I never got to tell her.”

“I’m sure she knew, Chrissie.”

“Do you think so?” Her eyes were wet, her face pained. “I really did love her.” She fingered the small heart necklace she was wearing.

“I know.”

“I love you, too.”

“I love you too, kiddo.”

“And”—she swiped a hand over her face—“whether or not you’re my biological father you did more for me these last months than most fathers would do for their daughters.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Thank you for being a father to me when I really needed one.”

He opened his mouth to speak but
dammit
he couldn’t get the words out. He coughed, cleared his throat, once, twice. “Charlie—”

“Was a good father,
too.
” She reached across the desk, squeezed his hand. “I don’t want to know which one of you was my biological father. I’ve been lucky enough to have two fathers in my life and that’s how I want to leave it.”

He nodded. “If I’d known you’d be looking at me like a father, hell I would’ve watched my mouth around you.”

She laughed. “If you did, Uncle Harry, you wouldn’t be you.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“I’ve got something for you.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a shiny gold object—his father’s pocket watch.

“What the hell, where’d you get that?”

“Miriam gave it to me.” She laid it on the desk, eased it toward him. “And I’m giving it to you.”

“No.” He gripped the armrests of his chair, pushed himself away. He’d spent half his life hating that watch, secretly wishing his father would consider giving it to him, knowing he wouldn’t. “I don’t want it.”

“Listen to me, please. I know the significance of this watch, at least back when you and Dad were younger. It was nothing but a prize to be won by the Blacksworth who worked the hardest, the
longest,
and stripped away pieces of himself for the good of the company. Dad knew this, knew it would destroy everyone who wore it unless he could reinvent its meaning. So”—she touched the edge of the watch—“he gave it to Lily. All she knew was that the watch was beautiful and shiny like the sun. And that it was a gift from a man she loved very much.”

“I…” He eyed the watch, still keeping a respectable distance from it. 

“Take it, Uncle Harry. Don’t let your father have that hold over you. Take it and think of Lily, the little girl who changed all of our lives.” He reached out, touched the watch’s face. “It’s yours now.”

He covered his hand over the watch, felt its smooth surface mold into his palm. “Thank you, Chrissie.” It was all he could manage.

She stood and walked to his side of the desk. “You’re welcome.”

He let out a long sigh. “Guess you’re getting ready to head out?”

“My suitcase is already in the car.”

“Does Nate know you’re coming?”

“No, I didn’t know myself until two hours ago.”

“Good. Keep him guessing.” He eased out of his chair, pulled her into his arms. “You take care, girl. And you better damn well not forget where I live.”

“Never.”
She hugged him tight, buried her face in his jacket. “Thank you.” He swore she whispered something else.
Dad?
It sure as hell sounded like it but he didn’t have the guts to find out.

“You better get going before I change my mind and try to force you to stay here.”

She kissed his cheek and smiled up at him. “You’re a good man, Uncle Harry.”

“Yeah, good for nothing.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, now go already. Jesus, I really am going to change my mind. I mean it, damn straight I do.” Her laughter filled the room. When she reached the door, she turned, raised a hand in silent good-bye and then she was gone.

How could parents do this over and over, raise children and then watch them walk out of their lives? Were they all masochists? Why would they do that to themselves? Deep down he knew the answer, had felt it when Chrissie told him she loved him. They did it because for all the pain and heartache children brought, they gave back equal amounts of pure, limitless, joy.

The phone rang and he thought it might be Greta calling about menu selections for the restaurant.
Harry’s Folly.
He’d thought of the name himself. He didn’t care what the hell she served as long as it wasn’t that damn radicchio. He wondered sometimes if she fabricated reasons to call him so she could talk to him.
Damn
, but the woman didn’t give up. He’d told her they were no good together, that he wasn’t the settling down type and didn’t she go and invite him to Sunday dinner? And didn’t he go and accept? She was wearing him down with that little German accent of hers and that smile, but truth was
,
he wasn’t fighting as hard as he used to, maybe he wasn’t fighting much at all anymore.

What the hell. He picked up the phone, “Harry Blacksworth.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Blacksworth, this is Belinda. I’m looking for Ms. Blacksworth.”

“You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been here six months, sir.”

“Like I said, the new girl.
Ten years will make you the old girl.” He laughed.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but is Ms. Blacksworth available?”

“No, she’s not. She went home.”
Home.
Hell, yes, there was truth in those words. “What did you need?”

“One of her clients is on the line.” Pause. “
It’s
fine, Mr. Blacksworth. I’ll just take a message. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“Slow down.
Belinda, right?
Maybe I can help.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Novel idea, I know. Tell you what, why don’t you take a message and tell her client I’ll call back in fifteen minutes or so. Then bring me the file and I’ll see what I can do.”
Silence.
“Belinda?”

“Thank you, Mr. Blacksworth, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” He hung up the receiver, and settled back in his chair. The gold pocket watch lay in the middle of his desk, its power diminishing under the memory of the young girl who’d changed all of their lives. Harry reached for the watch, pressed it into his palm, and laughed.

The End

The final story I planned to include was titled,
Time
. It embodies the push behind my writing. If memory serves, I wrote this before my life fell apart. I might have been pregnant with my third child or maybe she was only a few months old. I can’t remember, but when I read this story, I sense the urgency in the words… for me at least. What was I thinking? Why did I write about time and regrets? It’s probably better I can’t recall, but that outpouring opened my heart and my soul to the need for more words, more exploration.
More stories.
And that’s where
A Family Affair
came from, as well as
Simple Riches
...and all the others that followed and those to come.

I’m not going to include this piece because it’s so
very
fractured and has way too many clichés. The story is about a woman racing through life with such urgent determination that she misses out on actually living. A blinding light overtakes her on the road and this signals her time is done. (Did I say this was a bit overdone?) Anyway, through the mucky writing and bad storyline, the woman is taking her last breaths and thinks the following:

My carefully mapped-out, pre-programmed, organized life has led me to a dead end. But how could I know which road to take when I’d been using the wrong map? Maybe I could get back on track… refocus… get one more chance…

Oh, how I want that second chance, for there are so many regrets I need to make right. Why is the light growing dimmer?
And dimmer still?

Hope dies in my heart. There will be no second chance for me. How ironic that a consummate planner such as myself should be totally unprepared to make the final walk in life.

Tomorrow.
A word to be used wisely.
As I close my eyes one last time, I realize the only tomorrows I will ever again know are made up of yesterdays.

Time is fleeting. Savor the moment.

The End

Thank you for joining me!

Copyright 2012 by Mary Campisi

BEGIN AGAIN:
Short stories from the heart is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, and situations are all products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, locales, or events, are purely coincidental.

Mary Campisi should have known she’d become a writer when at age thirteen she began changing the ending to all the books she read. It took several years and a number of jobs, including registered nurse, receptionist in a swanky hair salon, accounts payable clerk, and practice manager in an OB/GYN office, for her to rediscover writing. Enter a mouse-less computer, a floppy disk, and a dream large enough to fill a zip drive. The rest of the story lives on in every book she writes.

When she’s not working on her craft or following the lives of five young adult children, Mary’s digging in the dirt with her flowers and herbs, cooking, reading, walking her rescue lab mix, Cooper, or on the perfect day, riding off into the sunset with her very own ‘hero’ husband on his Electra Glide Classic aka Harley.

Mary has published with Kensington, Carina Press, The Wild Rose Press, and Jocelyn Hollow Romance.

Mary loves to hear from readers:

website
:
www.marycampisi.com