Magdalene (23 page)

Yes, Inez. Always the minuscule monkey
wrench in the works, which, no matter how small, could still stop
the cogs occasionally. Mitch remembered that night, when he’d
begged Inez to leave her lover and let him provide for her and her
children.

Mina had healed his broken heart in no
time.

“
Then
you had the gall to go after
Wilhemina after I specifically warned you away from her.”

Mitch shrugged. “It would’ve taken me longer
to notice her if you hadn’t, so...thanks.”

Shane’s fists clenched and Mitch knew the
old man was about to come charging over the desk at him. “You like
fragile women, don’t you? First Wilhemina and then Sally
Bevan—”

“Oh, so you
admit
you knew Mina was
sick.”

Shane’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean it like
that.”

“Believe what you like,” Mitch said heavily.
“Just get out of my sight and leave my son—and my daughters—alone,
the way you have for the last twenty-five years.”

Shane quivered with rage as he stood. “I’m a
practical man,” he said through gritted teeth, “and I have never
believed in such things as demon possession or—selling your soul to
the devil, whatnot. All that satanic stupidity other churches talk
about, but I’ll tell you something. Right now, when I look at you,
knowing what you’ve done and what you’re doing, I believe it.”

Mitch watched him leave, sick at heart that
it had come down to one man’s delusions—hatred held so long it had
twisted his mind. He sighed and picked up his wedding photo, stared
at it for a long time.

Mina had been lovely, especially that day,
her chestnut hair gleaming, piled elaborately on top of her head
and studded with tiny sprays of baby’s breath. She had had pretty
chocolate-colored eyes sparkling with optimism. Her cheeks and nose
flushed pink in the cold, but her smile was warm. She looked like a
brunette Barbie doll in the photograph, clad in lace and beads and
puffy white sleeves. She had been of average height, if a little
too thin, but against Mitch’s bulky six-one, she looked tiny.
Fragile.

It was twilight in winter in Washington,
D.C. The temple was brilliantly lit from inside. The grounds, all
dressed up for Christmas, framed them in the photo.

It had taken Mitch a month to arrange a
proper temple wedding for her. His mother and sisters had made
Mina’s dress. They’d also made the cake and refreshments for a
little reception at the union hall. There had been invitations and
gifts and dancing... It hadn’t cost that much, true, but it hadn’t
felt
like an elopement, either, when everything was said and
done.

He traced her face with a finger and
murmured, “Mina, what do you think of Cassandra?”

Mina would’ve shied away from Cassandra like
fog from ten a.m. sunlight, intimidated by her carriage, her
beauty, her confidence. Then she would’ve watched Cassandra from
afar, perhaps a month or two, and, once persuaded of Cassandra’s
integrity, would have approached her—skittish as a butterfly—with
an offer of friendship.

No answer.

Well, Mina’s spirit wouldn’t be here with
him, anyway. She’d be off doing interesting things with her
ancestors, having a good time while she waited for him.

He took the picture home and packed it away
with the rest of his treasures. Once he finished his shower, he
stopped short at his dresser. Stared at the valet that held his
cufflinks, tie tacs and bars, watches. Looked down at his left
hand. Gulped.

“I love you, Mina,” Mitch whispered, then
raised his right hand to his left and pulled his wedding ring off.
He opened his valet and dropped it in. “I always will.”

* * * * *

It’s Just a
Phase

February 8, 2011

My phone buzzed. “St. James.”

“Hi, Cass.”

I sighed and dropped the stack of analysis
printouts that had absorbed me all morning, trying to figure out
where the hell all that cash was going...

“Out of money again, Gordon?” That meant I
could expect a call from my husband-in-law some time later in the
day to deliver another one of his parenting lectures.

“The twins’ birthday is coming up.”

Oh. Well, of course. “I already took care of
it.
As usual
.”

“You did?” His voice betrayed his conflicted
feelings. “What did I get them?”

“Skiing in Vermont for a week with their
boyfriends.”

“Oh,” he said again and fell to silence; I
could almost see him squirming, struggling to get the words out,
the
real
reason he’d called.

“In case you’re wondering,” I volunteered,
“I’m going to give them the usual little birthday party with cakes
I’m going to make from scratch and ice cream and wholly
inappropriate handmade gifts for their oh-so-special twenty-first
birthday. You and Nigel are invited, of course. You know the
drill.”

“’Preciate it,” he said absently, so lost in
his need he didn’t understand what I’d actually said. I sighed. I
wasn’t this man’s wife anymore; why was I still bailing him out,
making his life with our daughters so easy?

“Gordon, does Nigel know you’re calling
me?”

“Um...”

Mitch would know why I did this, if I ever
decided to tell him, to detail it for him, how sick and twisted my
little nuclear family unit was—and he’d take it in stride, the same
way he took everything else in stride. Then he’d explain it to
me.

My patience broke at the thought of
Mitch.

“I’m not giving you any more money, Gordon,”
I blurted, shocking myself to realize that I meant it.

He choked. “What?”

“I’m tired of the charade. From now on, you
sink or swim on your own. If you want, I’ll tell Nigel I’ve cut you
off so he knows to prepare for the fallout.”

“No!” he breathed. “The girls!”

“Nigel is your husband. Ask him for the
money like every other society wife in the world, because I’m not
going to go behind his back anymore. It’s not fair to him.” Oh,
well. I’d tell Nigel just for the hell of it at lunch tomorrow and
order a decent bottle of wine to smooth the transition from
ex-wife-as-caretaker to current-husband-as-caretaker. “Your other
option is to start using the magic word ‘no’ when the girls want
something.”

“You never minded going behind
my
back,” he snapped.

“Gordon,” I said sweetly, “do you
really
want to go there?” He said nothing. “I didn’t think
so.”

“Cassie, sometimes I just want to—”

“Rape me?”

Silence.

“No,” he finally said, deflated. “And I’m
sorry about that. You know I am.”

Yes, he was, and the only reason we had a
good relationship was because it had been
such
an
aberration. People do nasty things under duress, and it was a
miracle Gordon hadn’t cracked sooner with the pressure his father
had applied his entire life.

“Are you
ever
going to forgive me?
You know I wasn’t myself.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I muttered, unwilling to
let him know that with that one vile act, he had freed me from my
prison. It was a strange sort of gratitude that I couldn’t explain
even if I wanted to. He’d paid his debt for his crimes against me,
then sought treatment. He was a far better, stronger man now than
the one I had married. “I hang out with you, don’t I?”

“I’m the father of your children and your
best friend’s husband. I’m hard to avoid.”

“Gordon,” I huffed, exasperated, “I could
forgive and forget if the girls didn’t think I set you up.”

“Are we back to that?”

“Yes. I’m asking you to tell them I didn’t
lie to the police, didn’t lie in court, didn’t make it up out of
whole cloth. They’ll believe
you
.”

He’d never do it in a million years, which
is why I felt safe hounding him about it. He remained stubbornly
silent.

He wasn’t better or stronger
enough
.

“Anything but that, right?”

“Are you seeing someone?” he asked abruptly.
Typical. “As in, for real, not business? You’re different. Olivia
says you’ve been distant. Clarissa misses you.”

“Clarissa?” I snorted. “She wouldn’t miss me
if I got myself shot off to Mars.”

“That’s not true. She’s been with us for the
last three Friday nights. Whining.” And here I thought she had a
boyfriend. “Paige won’t speak to her except to tell her to shut her
mouth.”

Oh, yes. Mitch had cemented that alliance
quite nicely.

“Look, Gord, I meant what I said. No more
money. And if you
really
wanted my forgiveness, you’d
confess your sins, so I have to assume you don’t.” I hung up and
immediately hit the speed dial.

“Tracey.”

“Nigel, we need to talk.”

“Oh, God, he didn’t call you to ask for
money again, did he?”

I said nothing to that for half a second.
“Did you know about that all along?”

My ex-husband’s husband chuckled. “Cassie. I
work across the Street from you. I have lunch with you three times
a week. I can hear the girls bitching about what a dry well you
are, add up the money Gordon spends but doesn’t have, and put two
and two together. What I can never figure out is why you still give
it to him.”

“Get a clue, Nigel.”

“Do you think,” he said, “that it does you
any good to continue to let them think you’re the villain of the
piece?”

“Don’t pull out the Jung on me, Nigel. I
prosecuted the man.
You
married him.”

“He gives good head.”

That made me chuckle.

“And I get to reap the vicarious rewards of
having stepkids who think he’s the greatest father that ever lived
and, by extension, me too. It’s sickening how they treat you, and
what’s more sickening is that you
let
them.”

Don’t you
dare
shut that door on
me... Why do you put up with that?

“Gordon doesn’t seem to mind,” I said,
though I struggled to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “He
could fix this, but he doesn’t have the balls.”

Nigel couldn’t disagree with me. “Well, he
has
been better about trying to defend you,” he offered.

Poor people food again? Cassie, I’m not
eating poor people food and I’m not going to let the girls eat it,
either. We’re going for Thai. You’re welcome to come with us as
long as you don’t bitch about the prices.

“Unless he tells them the truth,” I said,
low, a slow rage building in my gut, even though, truly, it was the
last
thing I wanted. I just wanted him to be
willing
to do it. “I don’t care what other lame attempts he makes at
amends. I do
not
want to be the recipient of some late-date
half-assed apologetics just because he’s the born-again spouse to a
Wall Street top.”

“Then quit being such a fucking martyr,”
Nigel snapped back at me. “Don’t expect him to do something when
you
live
with them. You
let
them treat you like shit.
If you treated them the way you treat your clients, you’d have
their respect, but no— You act like you’re begging for crumbs from
their table. You’re not a beacon of hope to feminism when you do
that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I was the
victim
.”

Nigel growled.

“Good luck with your man’s spending habits.
You might have been able to retire early on the alimony I’ve been
paying under the table.”

“Fine. Lunch is on you from now on.”

“Fine.”

“So,” Nigel said the next day as we sat down
to lunch. Out of sheer perversity, I’d chosen a little deli. No
expensive lunch for the husband-in-law today. “Who is he?”

“Who is who?” I asked once I’d swallowed a
bite of salmon. And oh, this deli’s fish was divine.

“The man who’s kept you from bugging your
little shits to death. Olivia says you’re virtually dreamy, there’s
been an abrupt cease to the daily phone calls at inconvenient
moments, and Paige is keeping the lid on whatever Clarissa knows.
And speaking of Clarissa, you do know that your standing
Friday-night date has glommed onto us, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ah, the pleasures of providing a roof for my children.

“The guy who sends you flowers on
Friday.”

I didn’t think I’d ever be able to breathe
again. “How do you know about that?”

“Please. It’s all over the financial
district. Everybody thinks you’re moonlighting.”

“God, no. I haven’t had sex with anybody but
myself for the last four years and I only started that up again two
months ago.”

He looked at me strangely. “A man sends you
flowers every Friday for two months and keeps you out until the wee
hours of the weekend and you’re not sleeping with him?”

“Nope.”

Nigel snorted. “What is he, a Mormon?” When
I remained silent, he choked on his beer. “
No
,” he
breathed.

I still didn’t say a word. As far as I knew,
there were only two available Mormon males in the country who could
afford to date me. One of them was gay and the other one had hired
me to reorganize his company. And since the funds Nigel managed
specialized in manufacturing...

“Oh,
shit
, Cass. Hollander’s the
mother lode
.”

And didn’t I know it. Any other time, I
might have preened at the awe in his voice. “You keep your mouth
shut, Nigel. You could teach TMZ a thing or two about breaking
news.”

“Does Jack know? He must not because your
building hasn’t blown up yet.”

I snorted.

“Did Taight set you up?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to join that
pack of nutjobs.”

“Of course not. And they’re not nutjobs,” I
said, feeling terribly defensive all of a sudden. “Does Hollander
seem like a nutjob to you?”

“Well, no. He’s such a brilliantly sneaky
bastard I assumed he was an anomaly.”