Bed of Lies (12 page)

“Yeah, we've donated a few times, but we . . .” He paused when she began to scribble on her notepad. He squinted. “Are you writing this down?”

She nodded. “So you said the Murdochs have donated a few times. Any personal relationship to the cause? I know some attendees said that they had people in their families who suffered from—”

“Don't do that,” he said, shaking his head.

She looked up from her page and gazed at him quizzically. Her pen stopped midstroke. “I'm sorry. Don't do what?”

“Don't quote me. I thought we were having a conversation. I didn't want this to go in the paper.”

“Oh.” She lowered her notepad and anxiously cleared her throat. “I'm s-sorry. I didn't know. We were talking so . . . I-I assumed . . .” Her words drifted off. She gnawed her glossy lower lip.

“Don't men just talk to you sometimes?” He chuckled. “You know . . . playful banter or boring conversations about the weather or sports or politics?”

Her cheeks reddened as she tucked her notepad into the satin purse that dangled on her shoulder. “Not in quite a while,” she mumbled.

“Not in a while?” He smirked. “Oh, come on! You really expect me to believe that?” He let his appreciative gaze travel over her, settling for a second too long on the cleavage peeking over her heart-shaped neckline. “A beautiful woman like you . . . I would think men would go out of their way to strike up a conversation with you.”

She slowly raised her eyes to stare at him. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Murdoch?”

He laughed again. “I told you to call me Terrence. And I guess I'm not flirting very well if you have to ask.”

She joined him in his laughter. Terrence thought she had a lovely laugh. It sounded almost melodic, like tinkling piano keys. “Oh, you're doing better than you think!” she muttered before giving him a rueful grin.

They continued to talk and he continued to flirt, emboldened with each blush that painted her cheeks. After a while, he grew tired of standing with his cane, so he sat on the windowsill facing the atrium and motioned for her to take the space on the ledge beside him. She hesitated briefly before accepting his invitation. Their shoulders brushed as she sat down and Terrence felt a slow heat surge through him that he hadn't felt in months. He wasn't just attracted to this woman with the dark eyes and musical laugh, but he actively desired her. He slowly realized this as they spoke about Chesterton and movies and the trials of his recovery from the accident. He fought to tear his gaze from her sumptuous lips and the curve of her breasts. Her intoxicating smell made his mouth water and every time she threw back her head and laughed, he wanted to lean over and kiss her.

He wondered what Dr. “How do you feel about that?” would think about all of this.

Suddenly, C. J. looked up and gazed around her as if waking up from a daze. “Hmm, where did everybody go?”

Terrence followed her gaze. The corridor was nearly deserted. “I don't know,” he muttered.

And frankly, I don't care.
He was happy to be alone with her.

“How long have we been out here?” she asked, furrowing her delicate brows. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She gazed at the screen and gasped. “Oh, wow! It's almost midnight.”

He frowned. “That can't be right.”

She showed him her phone. The screen read 11:56. They had been talking for more than two hours and he hadn't even noticed.

She quickly rose to her feet and tossed the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I should be going. I can't believe I've been back here so long!”

“Why leave now? Is your carriage about to turn into a pumpkin?”

She stared at him in confusion. “Huh?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I was just making a bad Cinderella joke.”

“Cute,” she said flatly, then laughed. “No, I'm not worried about my carriage, but I do think my Honda Civic is illegally parked. I hope I don't get towed.” She glanced down at her notepad and began to randomly flip pages. “Hell, I've only gotten quotes from, like, two people! My editor is going to be so pissed, but . . . oh well.” She shrugged and looked at Terrence. “I'm sorry for monopolizing all your time tonight.”

“No need to apologize,” he said softly. “I enjoyed myself.”

“I did, too. My day started off bad, to say the least, but this was a vast improvement.” She sighed and stared at the double doors leading back to the ballroom. “Well, I really should get going. I have to cover a court hearing that starts bright and early at eight a.m. I should head out now if I want to get a few hours of sleep. You have a good night, Terrence.”

She began to walk down the corridor toward the exit sign, but Terrence grabbed his cane and pushed himself to his feet. “Hey, C. J.!” he called after her, making her pause.

She turned to face him. “Yes?”

“Would you . . .” He hesitated.

He couldn't get the words out of his mouth. He wanted to ask her out on a date, but the voices of doubt were shouting in his head again. Why would a woman like her want to date a broken man like him? Why should he set himself up for this type of rejection?

“Would I what?” she asked.

“Do you . . .” He took a deep breath, telling the voices to shut up for once. “Do you have any plans for Saturday? Maybe we could meet up . . . you know, get some coffee.”

“Are you . . . are you asking me out?”

“Well . . . yeah.” Apprehension crept over him again as she stared at him. Was she going to tell him no? “I mean, if you're not interested, then—”

“I'd love to. I just thought that . . . well, never mind.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “My cell number is on there.” She handed it to him, then paused. “You're serious, right?”

“Of course I'm serious! Why wouldn't I be?”

She shook her head again. “Nothing. Nothing. I just . . . wondered.”

He gazed down at the laminated card and smiled at her. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“You'd better,” she muttered before turning away and walking down the hall.

He watched her until she disappeared behind the double doors.

“The old, normal Terrence is now at one hundred percent,” he whispered before tucking her card into his suit jacket pocket.

Chapter 12

Evan

“W
hen should I come back to get you, sir?” Evan's driver, Bill, asked from the front seat. “Would you like me to wait for you in the driveway?”

Evan swallowed two aspirins, tiredly opened his eyes, and gazed at the stately colonial outside of the Town Car's tinted windows. A dull ache spread across his temples. He now regretted staying out so late at the charity banquet, dancing the night away with Leila on the dance floor. He also regretted breaking his “no alcohol” rule and drinking one champagne too many. But he had been so happy to see his brother, Terrence, finally cheer up, to see him confident again—that he had thrown caution to the wind last night. He was paying the price for that decision now.

“No, don't wait for me, Bill. Unfortunately, this might run a bit long,” he murmured. “Just come back in an hour. If I need you sooner, I'll call you.”

Less than a minute later, Evan stood at the end of a brick walkway that was bordered on both sides by a kelly-green lawn and blossoming daffodils. A birdbath sat not too far away. He remembered walking this same path six years ago with Charisse on his arm.

“Don't be nervous,” she had assured with a mischievous grin as she tugged him to the red oak door to meet her parents for the first time. “Mom and Dad are going to
love
you, Ev!”

Unfortunately, Charisse's mother and her now-deceased father
hadn't
loved him. Her mother had at least remained awkwardly polite though gracious throughout the entire dinner, but her father had radiated no warmth. He barely had spoken and rarely seemed to address Evan directly.

Evan wasn't sure if the reason her parents had seemed so withdrawn, even downright standoffish, was because he was black. He didn't know what else it could be. He was educated; he had a master's from the Wharton School of Business, for God's sake! He wasn't poor. He came from one of the wealthier families in the D.C. region, which was one of the wealthiest regions in the country. The Murdochs certainly had more money than Charisse's family. So, why else had Charisse's mother been so stiff? Why else had her father behaved so rudely, if it wasn't because their future son-in-law was black?

Evan had posed the question to Charisse, but she had been clueless.

“What do you mean?” Charisse had asked as he drove her back to her condo all those years ago. “I thought the dinner went
well,
quite frankly.”

He guessed he would never get a straight answer to his question, but at this point, it no longer mattered. He and Charisse were no longer together, and with today's meeting, he hoped they were finally on their way to solidifying their divorce. Evan had had to reschedule with her over the past month, perhaps subconsciously hoping that she would call off the meeting and send him the signed divorce papers anyway, but no such luck. She had stuck to her guns. She wanted to talk.

He walked the length of the brick walkway, climbed a short flight of stairs, then reached the front door. He rang the bell and heard the discreet chime that played inside the house. A few seconds later, Charisse's mother, Agatha, stood in the doorway.

She was a more mature version of her daughter, though petite. Her blond hair had long ago faded to a pale white that made it look almost platinum. Today she wore it in an understated chignon. Agatha and Charisse's figures were similar—trim enough to be appealing, but not so slim that they looked emaciated. She was wearing a simple white blouse and gray slacks on her slender frame. A yellow cardigan was tied around her shoulders. He had never seen pictures of an older Grace Kelly, but Evan imagined that Agatha resembled the screen queen in her later years.

“Hello, Evan,” Agatha said, gesturing for him to come inside.

“Hello, Agatha,” he said, taking on the formal tone that he often did with his in-law.

“Charisse is in the sunroom waiting for you.” She pursed her wrinkled lips. “She wanted to smoke and it's the only place in the house where I'll allow her to do it. She smokes all the time now.”

He nodded and turned toward the room that he had been to a few times over the course of the past six years. He paused when he felt Agatha suddenly reach out and clamp a firm hand around his arm. He stared at her in amazement. She had never touched him before except when she had given him a stiff hug on his and Charisse's wedding day.

“I wish you two all the luck in the world,” she had whispered in his ear that day, though he never believed she had meant it.

“Please hear her out,” Agatha said quietly. “Give her a chance to explain herself.” She let go of his arm. “I've never been one for rehab. Those television shows make it look so silly with people sitting around in circles, crying about their lives. Why can't they just stop using drugs or alcohol? Why make such a big fuss about it? That's what I always thought.” She adjusted the cardigan around her neck. “Why do they feel so sorry for themselves? Why the excuses? But I think it's done wonders for Charisse. I think it's helped her to get better, Evan. She's . . . she's a changed woman.”

He frowned. He highly doubted that. No amount of detox or therapy would suddenly make Charisse an angel. Besides, even if she had finally gone cold turkey and let go of the booze, his problems with her went deeper than alcohol. Their relationship had been dysfunctional for years and had finally imploded. He hoped today's meeting wasn't a misguided attempt to salvage their marriage. If it was, he'd let her know that was out of the question. He was in love with Leila. They were going to have a baby. He was moving on.

He didn't respond to Agatha. Instead, he silently followed the series of hallways to the sunroom toward the back of the house. When he opened the glass door, he found Charisse sitting on one of the wicker sofas with one leg dangling over the terra-cotta tile and the other on the sofa, her knee propping up an arm. A lit cigarette dangled from her fingertips and she anxiously seemed to scan her phone in her other hand. When he shut the door behind him, she looked up.

“Ev!” she said, suddenly hopping to her feet. She leaned down and extinguished her cigarette in a nearby glass ashtray. “You came!”

In the old days, even when she had her worst hangovers, she had always looked immaculate and impeccably dressed. But today she was disheveled. Her blond hair—which had grown longer in the past several months—was in a haphazard ponytail atop her head. She wore a T-shirt that was so loose it hung off one shoulder. She had on blue yoga pants and floppy sandals. She wasn't wearing makeup, but her face looked healthy—freshly scrubbed and glistening, making her seem younger than her thirty-two years.

Agatha had been right. Charisse certainly had changed—on the outside, anyway.

“Of course I came. I told you I would,” he answered bluntly.

She lowered her blue eyes. “You're right. You did. It's just . . . you had rescheduled so many times that I wasn't sure if you were just going to . . . Oh, never mind.” She waved her hand dismissively and gestured to an adjacent sofa. “Have a seat.”

He did as she ordered. She fell back on the other sofa. The sunroom descended into an awkward silence as they gazed at one another.

Evan raised his eyebrows expectantly. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“I did.” She looked down at her hands and licked her lips. “I-I do want to talk . . . to you about . . . about things.”

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa with impatience. “What
things
, Charisse?”

“Well, part of my counseling for alcohol addiction involved coming to terms with mistakes we've made in the past. We're . . . we're not supposed to dwell on them. We can't change what's been done, but we have to acknowledge it . . . acknowledge the people we've wronged in the course of our addiction.” She cleared her throat and finally raised her eyes to look at him again. “I've . . . I've wronged you, Ev.”

That is the understatement of the year
, he thought.

“And I'm sorry.”

An apology?
He stopped drumming his fingers.

Charisse had been completely unapologetic during their marriage, blaming him for her shortcomings, saying that he was the reason she was miserable. He was shocked to hear her finally take some responsibility.

“And I'm not just sorry for having an affair with Dante or being a drunk and such a shitty wife. I should have been more honest with you. That's what husbands and wives are supposed to do. I never really gave our marriage a fair chance. I hope . . . I hope you can forgive me for all that I've done.”

He leaned back and sighed. “That's a lot to ask, Charisse.”

“I know. I know! I don't expect you to do it overnight, b-but I don't want us to hate each other anymore. I certainly don't hate you, Ev.”

He leaned forward and gazed at her. “Look, I don't hate you, either . . . not anymore, anyway. I'm past that point. I just want us to heal, get better, and move on.”

“Move on?”
She grabbed for her pack of cigarettes again and a lighter from the glass coffee table. “You mean you want to start all over again with that woman?”

“Her name is Leila,” he said tightly.

She lit her cigarette and shoved it into her mouth. “You told me she was just your secretary. That nothing was going on between you.”

“And there
was
nothing going on between us . . . at the time.”

“At the time.” She laughed coldly and took a drag from her cigarette. “But she was well on her way to becoming your mistress, right? So I called it a week early. So what!”

“And I was under the impression that you and Dante weren't fucking each other, but I was wrong, now, wasn't I?” he said bitterly. “What's your point?”

She blew smoke from the side of her mouth in an angry gust. “The point is,
Evan,
that yes, I cheated. But you cheated, too,” she said, pointing her finger at him.

“You know what I did was different.”

“How the hell is it different?” she shouted.

“Because I
love
her! She and I struggled with what we were doing! I bet you didn't even think twice before you fucked him. You didn't give a shit about me or our marriage! You told me so yourself!”

“Fine! Fine, Ev.” She took another drag from her cigarette and blew out another gust of smoke. “You're right. Is that what you want to hear? I didn't care. I didn't think twice about being with Dante . . . but I told you, I was wrong! I know that now. But so were you! I just don't understand why it means we have to . . .”

Her words faded and he inclined his head. “It means we have to what?”

“Why it means we . . . we have to give up on each other,” she said softly, making him roll his eyes. “Why can't we try to make this work?”

“Okay.” He rose from the sofa, buttoning his suit jacket and shaking his head in disgust. “So that's what this is really about? You want to try to reconcile? Are you
insane
? Do you remember what our marriage was like? It was pure hell!”

“It wasn't always that way!” she cried, shooting to her feet. “We were happy once! Don't deny it! We were—”

“For a very brief period of time . . .
yes,
we were happy. But there's too much that's gone on. And damn it, I told you, I've found someone else! I'm in love with her. Leila and I are getting married!”

“You can't marry her!” she screeched, dropping her cigarette to the tiled floor. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her face flushed crimson. “You can't marry her, Evan, because you're still married to me! You're still
my
husband, even if that bitch wants to pretend like you're not. Even if
you
want to pretend like you're not!”

His jaw clenched. She wasn't going to sign the papers. She wasn't ready to move on. He could see it on her face now. Coming here had been a total waste of time. He turned on his heel to head back to the sunroom door, but he was stopped when she suddenly grabbed the back of his jacket and then his arm.

“Evan, please! Please wait! Listen to me!”

“There's nothing to listen to,” he muttered, shoving her away, but she grabbed for him again.

“When we got married, we didn't have a chance because I was messed up! I was broken!” she cried, clutching at him. She tugged at his jacket lapels and he tried to pry her thin fingers away from the fabric but her grip was unyielding. “I couldn't be a wife. I was barely a human being! I
had
to drink! I had to make myself feel better.”

Oh Jesus Christ
, he thought, now beyond exhausted. And now his hangover headache was worse despite the aspirin he had swallowed. How had he walked into this ambush? Why had he come here?

“Evan, I couldn't stand to look at myself. I hated everything about me! I couldn't believe I let him touch me like that. I let him do those things to me for all those years!”

Evan paused. “What the hell are you talking about? Who's
he
? Who touched you?”

“My father!” she choked, her voice hitching in her throat. “Since I was five years old . . . since I was a little girl, he abused me. He did things to me a father should . . . should never do.”

Evan stilled. He stared at his wife in shock.

She finally dropped her hands from his lapels and covered her face, which was now clouded with grief and humiliation.

“It happened for years,” she whispered behind her hands. “He told me not to tell Mom. He told me it was our secret. That's how we . . . That's how we bonded. He wouldn't touch me any other way. He never hugged me. Never kissed me on the cheek. But in my bedroom he would finally show me affection, so . . . so I let him. I kept our secret. Every time I'd feel so dirty afterward.
So
dirty!” She suddenly burst into fresh sobs. Her shoulders shook with each cry and she seemed to double over with them.