The Unexpected Son (17 page)

“An attack of conscience, I suppose?” He started to walk away, his tone tinged with both hopelessness and revulsion.

Quickly drying her hands on her robe, she reached out and put a restraining hand on his arm. “Please, Girish. Try to understand. I need to do this. It's my one chance to meet and make peace with my child.” The child she'd inadvertently abandoned so long ago.

Brushing off her hand, he continued into the family room. “I don't understand any of this. I just can't.” He started for the staircase. She knew he'd probably go to the study and log on to his computer. It was the one place he found peace—the only place with some semblance of order in a chaotic world.

Unable to stop him, she watched him climb the stairs. He was hurt and angry and confused, and she could do nothing to prevent it or alleviate it. He was dressed in jeans and a faded navy sweatshirt. His belly had grown a couple of sizes since their quiet, simple wedding all those years ago.

But with the two of them, it had never been about physical appearance. Although there was plenty of fire and passion, it had been more about intellect, about heart and soul. Their union was almost spiritual, for lack of a better word.

Despite her sins, God had been generous in bringing a man like Girish into her life.

As director of an engineering group at a midsize corporation, he had a demanding job, often a thankless one. But he always came home to her for serenity, for security, for companionship. He considered her his island of calm in a turbulent sea.

He wasn't the type who bought her gifts or flowers often, but he was a caring husband. He always kissed her good-bye when they both left for work. He discussed his day with her and asked about hers. He offered her suggestions when she had problems at her office. He helped her with the household chores despite his dislike for those tasks.

She'd learned from him that perfection wasn't about having all fingers and toes and a riot of hair on one's head. Perfection wasn't even concurring on everything. In Girish she had found as agreeable a husband as one could hope to find in a rather disagreeable world.

Despite the expected ups and downs, their marriage was a satisfying fusion of Indian and American traditions. But now it looked like she was going to be the iceberg that would sink the stalwart ship Girish had built for the two of them and Arya.

A thirty-year-old secret could easily break up a perfectly good marriage. She couldn't blame him if he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. God, what was she to do? She didn't want to lose him. She couldn't. She had most of her life invested in her marriage. If he'd just give it a little more thought and try to see her point of view, maybe he'd understand why she'd done what she'd done.

Of course, she had the choice of not going to India to meet her son, hoping Girish would eventually get over what he perceived as her duplicity and forgive her. But she couldn't do that, either.

Since she'd received the mystery letter and spoken to Vishal, she hadn't slept much. There were so many unanswered questions. Why had she been lied to? What did her son look like? How had he become so ill? Was it genetic—something he'd inherited from Som's side of the gene pool? Or was it from her side of the family?

The thing she feared most was the boy's death. To survive for thirty years, get a taste of life—and then die? She couldn't let it happen. The mysterious letter writer was right. Modern medicine had come a long way. Maybe there was something they had overlooked, some new therapy that could save her son.

She'd done a little reading on leukemia treatments—specifically bone marrow transplants. If she was a suitable donor, and there was a high likelihood she was, maybe there was some hope.

Her son would live—if Vinita had anything to say about it.

Out of habit she tidied up the kitchen. It was a lovely room with tall cherry cabinets, wide windows that let the sunshine slide in on bright days, glass doors that led to the deck, sleek stainless steel appliances, granite counters, and ivory tile flooring.

The house was something she and Girish had always dreamed of: a roomy four-bedroom colonial in an upscale suburb, where their only child could attend one of the best school systems in the country.

They'd sold the modest home Girish had owned when they'd married. They had moved to West Windsor after Arya had turned six and Vinita had found a job as an accountant. By then, Girish had been promoted to technical manager and later to director.

She looked around her dream kitchen, including the small altar in the corner, where her silver idols of the gods and goddesses were displayed. Perhaps God had been too generous with her in the past few years. Maybe it was time to pay her dues, her punishment for lying about having had cancer. She'd lived the lie for so many years that she'd almost come to believe it herself—that she was in permanent remission. A survivor.

Maybe the lie had now turned into truth—only in a twisted sort of way—by attacking her son.

This was retribution. Everything in life came with a price tag.

The sound of the front door being unlocked and opened jolted her out of her grim ruminations. It had to be Arya. She had called her daughter earlier and asked her to come. Good thing Arya worked and lived within twenty miles of them and could drive over often.

Vinita owed her child an explanation of what was going on. And the sooner, the better.

She put down the cleaning sponge and strode out of the kitchen to meet her. One more hurdle to cross. One more dismayed and betrayed pair of eyes staring at her. One more heart to break. She braced herself for the assault.

“Hi, guys,” said Arya in a cheerful voice.

“Hi, sweetie,” Vinita said, and stepped into the entry foyer.

Her daughter always brought a smile to Vinita's face. Today the girl wore tight, faded jeans and black boots with heels so high she looked nearly as tall as her father. She resembled him a great deal, but in a dainty and feminine way. Her long hair was twisted into an untidy knot at the top of her head. Her denim jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a hunter green pullover sweater. Her face showed no trace of makeup. She'd clearly left her apartment in a hurry and rushed over.

“I didn't mean to wake you so early on a Saturday,” Vinita apologized.

Arya took one look at Vinita's face and closed the space between them. “Mom, what's wrong?”

Vinita caught her in a desperate hug, fighting the tears blinding her. “We have to talk, honey.”

G
irish sat with his hands clasped, staring at the computer screen on his desk. The screensaver was a collage of family photographs taken over the years. The graphic designer on his staff who had put together the collage as a gift had made it colorful, whimsical, a work of art. Ordinarily the picture brought a smile to his face, but today it was merely a jumble of images.

How could she! How could the woman he'd loved and trusted for a quarter of a century have lived a lie—and lied to him? How could he have been foolish enough to have trusted her? He'd always prided himself on being a reasonably astute judge of character. It was one of the strengths that had served him well in his career. But it had failed him in the single facet of his life that mattered the most.

For him, it had been love at second sight with Vinita. The first time he'd met her, she had seemed a little standoffish, the flicker of rebellion in her eyes clearly telling him she was not happy about him coming to view her as a potential bride.

At the time, he'd wondered if she was against marriage entirely, or just the fact that he was a divorced man with a deformed hand. Intrigued by her attitude, he had come up with the idea of talking to her alone, finding out more about the real woman behind the aloof façade. Then when he had taken her out to dinner the next evening, he had discovered that she didn't seem to have a problem with either of his handicaps.

That's when he'd come to the conclusion that her mother and brother had forced her into the bride viewing. He'd had no idea why they had coerced her—or why she was against meeting him.

It hadn't been easy engaging her in conversation at first. She had been cautious, obviously wary of his intentions. He had respected that, even admired her careful way of assessing him while he had assessed her in his own fashion. He was a thorough and guarded man in many ways, and understood another's need to study and probe and weigh and evaluate. They were the mark of an intelligent and analytical mind.

Eventually he had managed to thaw her out. Later that evening, and over the next couple of dates, the more he'd listened to her talk, the more he'd realized that she was indeed a bright, independent woman with a great deal of ambition and tenacity. He'd liked those characteristics in her. Bashful, modest women—the kind many of his fellow Indians considered desirable—held no appeal for him. He liked a straightforward woman with a keen mind.

He had discovered that woman in Vinita. Despite her notion that she was plain, he'd found her to be a beautiful person—both inside and out. He'd fallen in love for the second time in his life. He'd grasped the opportunity with both hands—and tried to make it last this time around.

When Vinita had candidly divulged that she was a cancer survivor, despite the surprise he had come to value her honesty.

Only now he'd found out she hadn't been honest. She had lied—about her cancer, about her past. About everything. She had hurt him in the worst way with her dishonesty. A few white lies were to be expected of everyone. People routinely lied about their age, weight, gray hairs, even on their resumes, but the kind of hoax Vinita had pulled on him didn't fall within the realm of a white lie.

What he couldn't understand was why she hadn't trusted him enough to tell him the truth when they'd been introduced. He wasn't the kind of man who would have held it against her. A mistake made in her teens would not have prevented him from falling in love with Vinita. Hell, he still loved her. And that's what chafed so much. His beloved wife was a liar—and a clever one.

Then there was his daughter—his smart, pretty, and trusting Arya. While he'd been nursing his own hurt feelings, he hadn't been thinking about his daughter's. How was Arya going to face the truth about her mother? How much more devastating would it be for a young girl who thought of Vinita as the ideal Indian wife and mother, whose morality was unquestionable?

He looked around the room—his study. Everything in it had been picked by Vinita—the desk and matching chair, the file cabinet, the thick gray carpeting, the pictures on the walls, and even the desk accessories.

The whole damn house was hers. Every inch of it bore her stamp—Vinita's favorite colors, textures, scents. He loved her so much, and so badly wanted her to have her dream house, that he'd given her complete freedom to decorate it her way. And she'd done a fine job. But now the once-pleasant study seemed to be closing in on him, stifling him.

Throwing his head back against the headrest, he shut his eyes and ordered himself to relax, think rationally. But the tightness in his chest remained. His hands were still clasped tightly.

He was already under a great deal of pressure at work. The threat of losing his job was growing with each passing week. There were rumblings about yet another downsizing. The company's stock had plunged along with the rest of the market, so his retirement fund had shrunk to less than half its former size. Many of his colleagues were just as edgy as he was.

When Vinita had questioned him a few times about his job and its stability, he had brushed it off as nothing to be concerned about. “This, too, shall pass,” he'd said to her with faux confidence. He didn't want her worrying about it. Perhaps it
would
pass when the economy righted itself. But more layoffs had been mentioned in passing and Girish had been losing sleep.

And now this. Vinita couldn't have chosen a worse moment to dump this garbage on him. But he had to deal with both the grim realities. Somehow.

As long as he was surrounded by her things, he couldn't think straight. As long as he shared a bed with her, he couldn't come to terms with what had struck him with brute force only hours ago. He needed to get away from the things that constituted their life together if he was to solve this problem logically.

How was he going to handle being married to a woman he couldn't respect anymore? Could he look at her face each and every day and not remember that she'd deceived him? How could he trust anything she said or did in the future?

Then there was that man, the guy who was her son's father. Did she still have feelings for him? Was that another secret she'd kept from him? She'd visited Palgaum a few times since their marriage. She could have visited her former lover during those trips. Hell, she could have been in regular communication with him all these years.

Dear God, was there no end to the speculation about Vinita's deceit? Would he begin to question every little thing about her in the future? Could he really live that way for the rest of his life, constantly suspecting her every word and action?

He wasn't sure. What he needed was to think about it—do something to keep his sanity intact. But to do that he had to put some distance between Vinita and himself. Perhaps he could take a business trip? It would provide a legitimate reason for him to go someplace far from home. He traveled often enough on business, so it wouldn't seem strange. Within a minute, his mind was made up.

Leaning forward toward his computer, he logged on to his office calendar to check his schedule for the next couple of days. He had an important executive meeting on Tuesday morning. Once that was out of the way, he was free to travel on the pretext of checking on the company's West Coast operation. Switching over to his e-mail, he sent a brief message to his secretary, requesting her to make flight and hotel reservations for him.

He would not mention the trip to Vinita. If she could be secretive about her activities, so could he. He didn't owe her any explanations anymore, did he?

Nonetheless, the decision to keep the truth from her didn't make him feel any better.