Do Us Part (The Dumont Diaries (#4)) (4 page)

Blonde, with green eyes that match Drew’s, golden skin that highlights a thin frame, statuesque face, and soft lips. Lips that are parted, eyes that are wide, perfect breasts that heave as she gasps, her eyes darting from Nathan to me. Nathan to me. Her eyes grow wet, the dewy effect only making her more fucking beautiful.

“I’m so … sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t think … I should have knocked …” She lifts a shaky hand to her mouth, and turns, stepping toward the hall before looking back, anguish filling her face, and then she slumps. Eyes closing, knees collapsing, crumples to the floor, in the most graceful faint I have ever seen. Nathan jumps, finally in motion, rushing to her side, kneeling there at the same time that Drew appears in the doorway, his face tight.

“Did I hear …” His voice disappears when he takes in the situation, his eyes zeroing in on the limp blonde, sinking to his knees, his hand grabbing hers.

I leave the three of them in the large master, exiting through the glass slider onto the pool deck. Nathan, with his beautifully nude, hard body, bends over her and utters soft words of love. Drew, elevating her feet, runs to the kitchen for a glass of water. Cecile, in the middle of it all, her beautiful features slack, breathing soft, blonde hair tangled around Nathan’s fingers.

I enter the guesthouse, walk naked to the bed and sink onto it. My world zeroes in on that image, the men in my life surrounded by her, her one easy reentry into a life that I just made my own.

I don’t think there are enough words to describe how much I hate that bitch.

It was cruel for my mind to ever convince my heart that I had a chance. Of course she came back. Who wouldn’t? But then again, who would ever leave Nathan to begin with? I tell myself that I didn’t have enough time — that if I had longer, a few years, I might have been able to wrangle his heart, erase her memory, make him my own.

But it hasn’t been long enough. And her here … I know what is coming. I know it despite the heated words I hear from my open glass door. I know without looking, without waiting, what Nathan will do. He loves her in a way that I can only dream for. Unconditionally, the hold she has on his heart tight and complete. He lives for her, works for her, breathes for her, loves for her. There is no one else in his world, no room for anyone else in his heart. I should have known, should have stopped my heart from skipping down fairytale lane, planting expectations, and hopes, and dreams that will never receive any nourishment.

I stand in the large walk-in, looking through the racks of clothes and wonder what to take — what I have right to. She won’t want my clothes, won’t wear the hand-me-downs. But she is a woman. We are possessive, territorial. I can’t see her sitting by and watching me cart a hundred grand worth of clothes out the front door.

I grab a small suitcase and ignore the designer threads, throwing a few pairs of jeans and five or six of my favorite tops inside, dressing in something similar, lacing up tennis shoes and pulling my hair into a ponytail. I am zipping up my makeup bag, examining a Tag Heuer watch that Nathan gave me, when darkness blankets the room, a large form blocking the sunlight.

“I like you better naked.” There is a smile in his voice. A
fucking
smile. At a time when my heart is hanging by threads in my chest.

I force my own lips to curve, command my voice to be light. “Most men do.”

He steps inside, walking over to me. I want to tell him to stop, want to back away and turn my head, but I don’t. I stand there, spellbound, and wait for more heartbreak.
Thank you sir. May I have more
? He sighs, leaning forward and resting his forehead against mine, exhaling a slow, long breath of … what? I don’t know. Frustration? Anguish? A hopeful little voice in my head adds regret to the list of improbable translations.

He pulls back, lifting his head and planting a soft kiss on my forehead, holding the contact for a heartbeat longer than necessary, my heart rising and soaring on the pipe dream of what he might say.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For everything. It worked. It worked, and I owe you my happiness.”

I owe you my happiness
. I don’t think a more heartbreaking sentence has ever been said.

I don’t ask him why he is taking her back. I don’t ask him if he struggled with the decision, if I entered his head, if I was ever anything more than a pawn in the Get Cecile Back Game. I smile, I nod, and I pick up my bag and walk out of his life, the Tag Heuer sparkling brilliantly from my wrist.

M
ark pulls up the Maybach, idling it next to a bright white Maserati that must be hers. I am indescribably grateful that it is not Drew driving me home. I can’t take, after the roller coaster that was today, being in a car with him — his intensity, his questions. But that is being vain. Right now, Drew isn’t thinking about me, or our failed opportunity. He is focused on his sister, giving her four years worth of fawning. He and Nathan — tripping over each other to spend time in her presence.

“Where should I take you?”

I blink at Mark’s words. Where indeed? I got in the car intending to go home, but where is home? I haven’t missed a single part of the life I deserted. Mark hands me a large bag, my purse and old cell phone inside. It is charged, a new charger included in the bag, a bit of thoughtfulness from Drew or Mark. I turn on the phone, scrolling through numbers, each one a reminder of how sad and empty my old life was. I don’t want to reconnect with any of them, and I’m pretty sure the emotion goes both ways. I turn it off, setting it aside.

“I’d like to go to my dad,” I announce. “Can you find out about a flight?”

Thirty minutes later, I am stepping aboard Nathan’s plane, the engines roaring and my hair twisting in the wind as I climb inside. Nathan has granted me one final flight, and I settled in for my last hour in the life of Nathan’s wife.

As the plane soars, snow white clouds moving lazily past, I open my purse. Pulling out the objects inside, I examine foreign objects from a life I barely recognize. A sequined thong, the color garish, material rough, its cheap fabric causing me to wince in recollection of how far I had fallen in life. A tube of blood red Maybelline lipstick. Mascara. Tic Tacs. The keys to my house, my car. I wonder what became of my car, became of the contents of my room in Dib’s house. Was my green Honda Accord still sitting in the Crystal Palace parking lot? My clothes and shoes still crammed in every nook and corner of that small room?

There is an envelope in the purse, the handwriting on the front hurried and unfamiliar. Not Nathan’s. I open it, sliding out a plain white card and a thick wad of bills.

Candace,

The items from your house are in a storage unit in Plant City, the rent is paid through the end of the year. Doris is the manager; she can provide you with a key. Your car was sold, the cash from the sale added to your departure funds, which are enclosed. You will need to arrange payment for your cell phone; we have covered that bill during your time with Nathan. Mark or I will call you once the paperwork is in place for the divorce. Please do not change your phone number; we will need to stay in contact with you until this process is complete. After that, there will be no need for future contact.

Drew

I read the note twice, surprised at how comprehensive it is. It covers all of my questions and more, while completely ignoring the events that occurred between us. I had been prepared to sort through my feelings for Drew, to figure out if there was something there worth pursuing, but this card shuts that door. I had been there, available, and he had fucked me. I think of the cold look in his eyes when Nathan told him that I was staying, moving in, remaining his wife. Maybe it was that moment that shut Drew off. Or maybe Drew never saw me as anything more than a piece of ass.

Honestly, I don’t even care at this point. It is easier on me that he is letting go. It wouldn’t have been fair for me to be with him. Not when Nathan has my heart. I won’t do to him what Nathan did to me — keep him in the wings while I yearn for someone else.

I flip through the cash, counting it — fourteen thousand, five hundred dollars. Generous considering my Accord couldn’t have fetched more than a thousand dollars.

There is a skip and a rattle, and then we are on ground, the plane coasting, losing speed, wind buffering around the carbon fiber body as we come to a stop.

I have always used the FBO’s courtesy car on my visits, taking it to the private hospital and on my errands. But seeing as this is a permanent move, I walk to the rental counter instead, counting out funds and walking out the door with keys to a Ford Taurus.

A surprise waits for me at Crestridge. Pam, her face tight, arms wringing, meets me at the front door.

“What’s wrong?” I demand. “What happened?”

I can’t take this
. I can’t take anything happening to him now, not when everything else just crashed to the ground. I am moving here, will be able to spend every day with him, hold his hands, and do crossword puzzles ‘til we are at an expert level. For his health to take a turn now … or even worse …

“It’s not your father,” Pam says quickly. “Please come inside. Mr. Hinton needs to speak to you.”

Mr. Hinton. I try to place the name, one I vaguely remember Nathan mentioning.

“Please,” Pam says, holding up the door. “I will take you to him.”

Something is wrong. If not with my father, with something else. Pam is perspiring, fanning herself with her name badge, even though the elevator is cool. I find my own palms moist and wipe them against my jeans. The elevator settles and we step onto the second floor. Administration.

Mr. Hinton has a large corner office, with a huge clean desk, only a handful of items on its expansive surface. I prefer messy desk people. It tells me they are overworked, earning every dollar of their paycheck. This desk scares me. It says he has all of the time in the world to address whatever problem Pam has brought me here for.

“Mrs. Dumont,” the man says crisply, standing up and smoothing down his suit. “Please, sit down.”

I
study his face, trying to place it, to see if I have ever seen him in passing. But no. This pale, bald man, with the large nose and small eyes is a stranger to me.

“Mrs. Dumont, about a half hour ago I received a call from a Ms. Cecile Knox. She informed me that we would not receive any more payments from your husband for Mr. Tapers’s care. Naturally, I told her that I would not be able to speak to her about this account.” He pauses, looking up from the papers before him and meeting my eyes. “She then put your husband on the phone.”

The room darkens slightly, clouds perhaps moving in front of the sun, casting this well-appointed office into something dark and dreary. My husband.
He wouldn’t have. Not with our agreement. Not with his word. Not with his fat and inflated offshore account.
But then again, I always suspected this might happen.

“Your husband reinforced Ms. Knox’s message, stating that he was discontinuing financial responsibility for Mr. Tapers. Now …” He flips up the page he is looking at, peering at the next sheet. “His last payment covered Mr. Tapers through at least next week, giving you time to make other payment arrangements.”

I swallow. “And how much does this facility cost. A month, for example?”

He shrugs. “It varies from month to month, depending on the tests that are needed, the support he requires. On average, you are looking at eighty to a hundred thousand per month.”

I blink. It is a question I should have asked earlier. I knew that it was expensive, the low number of patients, the expensive furnishings, large rooms, tree-lined drive. But I had no idea it was
that
expensive.

I nod slowly. “Is there anything else you wanted to speak to me about?”

“No. Will you be able to make other arrangements?”

“I’d like a few days. Please make sure that none of this is mentioned to my father.”

“Certainly. Shall we speak, say, Monday?” His pen hovers over his calendar book, and I have a flashback to every debt collector call I have ever had.

“Yes, Monday,” I say with false optimism, holding my head up and moving toward the door, toward my father, who I need to see now more than ever.