Liars Like Us

by Mary Campisi

  “The counselor said we should try new things.”

  Camille knew her husband was intelligent. After all, he was a doctor, had soared through school and his residency. But he was an idiot when it came to people and emotions. “He was talking about trying new things, like taking a class together, or blocking off Sundays for a walk or a movie, not different locations to have sex.”

  “Oh.”

  That was it? A one-word answer. Oh?

  “But what if the sex part is important to me?”

  She thrust her hands on her hips, dared him to say more. “You mean in bed isn’t interesting enough? It’s too boring for you?” Camille jabbed a finger at his chest, snarled, “Or am I the one who’s too boring because I’m not twenty-two and think you walk on water?”

  “No.” He shook his head, thrust his hands in his pockets. “I just thought—”

  “You didn’t think, and that’s the problem.” The truth in those words almost knocked the breath from her, but she pressed on. “That’s always been the problem.”

  Carter met her gaze, said in a quiet voice, “Maybe it’s better if I leave you alone for a while.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” Right now, she needed space and time to think.

  “I’ll see you in a few hours; maybe if you’re in the mood, we’ll have dinner at The Oak Table?” His voice dipped. “I know you like that place.”

  Of course, she liked it, because his ex-girlfriend didn’t work there. Since the afternoon Camille had discovered them in bed together, she’d avoided the Cherry Top Diner and took every opportunity to encourage others to avoid it, too. A few well-placed tidbits about the waitress who stole other women’s husbands went a long way in keeping the restaurant empty. And Camille was just fine with that. She nodded, anxious to be alone. “I think that might work.”

  “Good.” He leaned toward her, kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

  She was so busy wondering why she didn’t feel a bone-deep connection when Carter was near that she missed the extra-light bounce in his step that said he was not as forlorn as he appeared.

  Chapter 11

  Charlotte grabbed the file and carried it to Tate’s office. She wished he were here now because he was going to want to see this one. Why was there a copy of a check with no supporting documentation? It looked odd and in no way correct. She made her way to his desk, pulled out his chair, and sat down. She should write a note and place it on the front of the file in case she wasn’t here when he returned. Of course, the man didn’t have a pad of paper on his desk, not even a paper clip. She opened the middle top drawer in search of a notepad and spotted two files. Why did Tate have files in his desk? Charlotte eased the first one out, read the name along the side: Phillip Hayes. Wasn’t that Elizabeth’s maiden name? How bizarre was that? And why were there copies of checks inside his file with no backup information?

  She didn’t know, but she planned to find out.

  The second file had the name Marybeth Caruthers (Matheson) on it. Was this the Marybeth Caruthers, Rogan’s old girlfriend, the one Tate supposedly compromised? Charlotte had never believed the lies, not once. But why was there a file on the woman? There were spreadsheets inside with check numbers, amounts, and dates, beginning twelve years ago. What did it all mean? Charlotte flipped through the papers, found an address with Marybeth’s name on it. The town was almost two hours away. Had she moved there after college? It wasn’t like anyone had cared what she did, not after the scandal she’d created with Tate and Rogan.

  But when Charlotte reached the end of the file and discovered the tiny photograph, she realized not everyone had ignored the woman’s whereabouts, and worse, maybe the accusations about Tate and Marybeth had been right all along. The photo was of a boy: dark-haired, wide-eyed, probably eleven or twelve years old. The shape of the jaw and nose, the dark hair and silver eyes stared back at her like a Tate Alexander miniature, calling her a fool for believing the man’s relationship with Marybeth had been platonic.

  Apparently, he didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

  Charlotte sucked in a breath, tried to calm herself, but the truth stared back at her. This was Tate’s child! He and Marybeth had a son. She snatched a piece of paper, jotted down Marybeth’s address, and shoved both files back in his desk. Life was full of surprises and Tate Alexander was perhaps the biggest surprise of all.

  She found the office manager, pleaded an upset stomach, which by now was the truth, and took off for the two-hour drive to Marybeth Caruthers’s home. Her brain refused to shut down during the trip, making it impossible to consider other explanations for the boy’s likeness and the existence of the checks. Maybe she should have confronted Tate first since they were supposed to be working on trusting each other, but she couldn’t risk the chance that he would massage the story and create a tale that wasn’t true—and worse, that she’d believe him. No, she wanted to look Marybeth Caruthers straight in the eye and hear her deny Tate was the father of her son. Or worse—admit it.

  Marybeth at seventeen had been model-tall and thin with white-blond hair and amber eyes. Stunning, everyone called her. Worthy of a magazine cover. But Marybeth hadn’t been interested in using her physical traits to find a career. She’d wanted to become a fashion designer and dress the models on the covers of magazines. Charlotte lost track of her after Marybeth left for college, and the few times she’d spotted her during school breaks, she’d avoided her. And not just a sorry-I-didn’t-see-you avoid, but an I-see-you-and-I’m-ignoring-you avoid. Oh, how she’d wanted to confront Rogan’s old girlfriend and let her know she wasn’t fooling anybody with her lies about Tate. But Charlotte didn’t because that would reveal just how much she cared about him.

  And now she was about to confront the woman and possibly learn that what Charlotte had vowed was a lie might actually be the truth. If Tate and Marybeth shared a child, why hadn’t he told her? Didn’t he trust her? What about opening up and sharing? What happened to that promise, the one they’d made to each other the morning she woke up in his bed a few weeks ago? She would have accepted hearing the truth from him, and while it would have been a challenge to look at a child with Tate’s eyes and nose, she would have done it. For Tate. For what they were so close to admitting they meant to each other.

  But now?

  She tried to slow down her brain from drawing conclusions that put Tate and Marybeth in each other’s arms, but the deep breaths and self-talk didn’t work. Neither did the audios on positive mental energy. Visions of naked bodies and loads of lies stuffed her head, snuffed out the feeling in her heart. By the time she reached the driveway of the modest two-story in a development with basketball hoops and manicured lawns, she’d imagined Tate visiting Marybeth on the side while sleeping with Charlotte.

  It didn’t matter that it made no sense or that he’d spent every night with her these past weeks. There was always the afternoon and late mornings when he’d said he had appointments. Yes, the drive was two hours away, so that was four hours round trip, and if you added sex to the mix, it would have to be quick to make it back in the office by late afternoon. Charlotte parked the car, tried to tell herself the whole concept was implausible.

  Wasn’t it?

  Nobody could have all-consuming sex like she and Tate had been enjoying and still be cheating?

  Could he?

  There was only one way to find out, and the answer was behind the red door with the fall wreath hanging from it. Charlotte stepped out of the car, headed up the driveway. A normal person might have considered calling the number in the file before hopping in the car for a two-hour drive on an empty stomach and a quarter tank of gas, but her need to know had drowned out common sense.

  As usual.

  Charlotte climbed the front steps, drew in a breath, and rang the doorbell.

  When the door opened, Marybeth Caruthers stood before her, more stunning than she’d been all those years ago. Tall, slender, still model beautiful.

&nb
sp; Her amber eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “May I help you?”

  “Do you have a minute to speak?”

  The woman clutched the edge of the door as though she might slam it shut any second. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  It’s regarding you and Tate Alexander and a child I think might be his. That’s what Charlotte wanted to know, but of course, she couldn’t ask such a bold-faced question. No, she’d have to work around the edges to get what she wanted. “I’m Charlotte Donovan. You might not remember me, because I was—”

  “I remember you.” Marybeth glanced over her shoulder, then stepped outside, closing the door. “What are you doing here?”

  The tone of her voice said she wasn’t pleased to see Charlotte. Or maybe she wasn’t pleased to see anyone from her past life. Did that include Tate, too? “I know I have no right to ask this, and you certainly don’t need to answer, but…”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” A pinch of lips, followed by a harsh “You need to leave.”

  “I’m not trying to cause trouble, I just need answers.” I need to know if the man I’ve opened my heart to has been deceiving me.

  “Who sent you? This was never supposed to happen. No one was supposed to bother us… He promised. I have a family, a husband I love.” Her eyes sparkled with tears. She clenched her hands together, held them to her stomach as if she might be sick.

  “Who’s he?”

  “You know who I’m talking about. Did he hire you? Did he send you as some sort of test to see if I’d talk? Or has he developed a sudden interest in his son?” Bitterness coated her next words. “He didn’t care twelve years ago, and he has no business caring now. He lost that right a long time ago.”

  Charlotte had never pictured Tate as an irresponsible father, but then she’d never pictured him as a father at all. Well, maybe that wasn’t quite true. These last few weeks, she’d thought about him being a dad, but Marybeth Caruthers hadn’t been the mother. Oh no, stupidity and ridiculousness had let Charlotte consider the possibility that she and Tate might share a child.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. A man like that wouldn’t settle down with one woman, even if he got her pregnant. “Nobody sent me. I found a file with your name on it and a spreadsheet of the money you’ve been paid, along with a picture of your son.”

  The woman backed against the door, snarled, “It’s always about money with those people, isn’t it? Pay enough to make the problem go away, that’s always their answer. My son isn’t a problem to go away; he’s a miracle. He has a father who isn’t afraid to show he cares.”

  A queasiness began in Charlotte’s belly, shot saliva to her mouth, made her swallow hard. “Does your husband know the boy isn’t his?”

  “Of course, he doesn’t know. It would break his heart to learn how I tricked him. It wouldn’t matter that I love him, or that I’d do anything for him, because a lie is a lie. My husband is an honorable man and if you have any sense of decency, you’ll leave now and never come here again.” Her voice wobbled, split open. “I never should have agreed to lie about Rogan and Tate. I should have just said no, but my parents told me I could get a college education and a new life, and all I had to do was stick with the story. But lies catch up with you, no matter how protected you think you are.”

  “So, you and Tate…”

  “He never touched me.” Her small nostrils flared. “And I made his life miserable. And poor Rogan, he did not deserve that. Neither of them did.”

  “But you and Tate… Your son…” Charlotte left the question in the air. Tate might not have touched her in high school, but what about years later? Was it payback for her lies? Or had he succumbed to a mutual attraction?”

  “I said Tate never touched me.” A choppy breath, followed by a hard stare. “You need to leave.”

  Not yet. Something wasn’t right. “But I saw a picture of your son. He has Tate’s eyes, and his nose—”

  “Yes, he does have the Alexander eyes, and the nose, and the hands, too. But Tate’s not the father. Now get out of here before I call the police.”

  Charlotte turned and ran to the car, hopped in, and tore down the driveway. When she was miles away, she pulled to the side of the road and threw up in a ditch. What had she done? Oh, dear Lord, what had she done? Tate wasn’t the father. He hadn’t deceived her, but her insecurities had led her to go behind his back and confront Marybeth Caruthers about her child. Who was the father? Was it Harrison Alexander? Carter? Maybe even Neal? She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve as equal amounts relief and guilt smothered her.

  Would Marybeth tell Tate about the visit? How could she not when it had been such a violation of the woman’s privacy? Harrison had been supporting the child; that much was obvious from the dates of the checks. But that didn’t make him the father, and that posed the real question: who was the boy’s father?

  Charlotte tormented herself for the remainder of the long drive home. She had to tell Tate what she’d done before Marybeth did. But how to tell him? Should she just say, Hey, I might have made an error in judgment that involves you and a child I thought was yours? Or maybe she should say, Tate, I did something you’re not going to be happy about, but I should get credit for telling you, shouldn’t I? Or, Guess what I did today?

  None of these would make things right but she had to tell him because that’s what relationships were all about, weren’t they? Telling each other the truth, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how painful the repercussions might be?

  When she got home, she showered, ate a few crackers, and tried to rest, but guilt ate at her soul. Had doubt and insecurity made her risk the best thing that had ever happened to her? Would Tate forgive her once he learned what she’d done? Would he ever trust her again?

  Her mother checked on her twice, asked if she wanted something to eat, but Charlotte knew the only remedy for her tormented soul was confessing to Tate and asking his forgiveness. When she couldn’t stall any longer, she packed a bag as she’d done every night for the past few weeks and kissed her mother goodbye. “I’ll see you later, Mom; call me if you need anything.”

  A smile spread over her mother’s face, lit up her eyes. “Don’t worry about me, dear, you just go be with that man of yours.” Rose held up the handkerchief she was stitching. “I’m working on another wedding handkerchief. I wonder who the lucky bride will be?” The raised brow said she had an idea or two.

  Oh Mom, you don’t know what I’ve done. I’m so scared. I just want another chance, and I’ll never doubt him again. But of course, Charlotte couldn’t admit any of this, so she merely lifted a hand and offered a weak smile. “Have a good night, Mom.”

  “I will, and if your brother asks where you are I’m to say you’re staying at a friend’s and I’m not to say who the friend is.” A shake of her head, a tiny laugh. “Rogan isn’t going to like it, but once he stops to think about you and Tate together, he’ll realize it was always meant to be.” Pause. “That’s what destiny is all about.”

  “You know, I almost thought I wasn’t going to see you tonight.” Tate pulled her into his arms, kissed her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Pause, another kiss. “And I’m glad you’re here.” That was an understatement. When he’d heard she’d gone home sick, he almost drove to Rose’s to check on her but stopped himself. Charlotte had made it clear she needed her space, and he wasn’t going to screw things up by crowding her. Not when everything was going so well between them. Okay, actually, things were great, really great.

  The only piece of this relationship that could make life perfect was a commitment to each other, with “I love you’s” and “I do’s.” He was ready, had been ready since she drove back into town in that little sports car and manufactured a boyfriend to keep Tate away. Who would have thought she’d done that because she had feelings for him? Certainly not him, but when she confessed that truth, she’d given him hope that maybe they really could have something special—as in forever.

  Who said
Donovans and Alexanders didn’t belong together? Just because there’d been bad blood and twisted tales about the two families’ hatred for one another didn’t mean all matches between a Donovan and Alexander were doomed. It depended on the person, and he didn’t care what anyone else said—he and Charlotte belonged together. They both knew it and very soon the rest of the world would know it, too. Besides, the stories about the families’ bad blood were just that: stories, no doubt embellished over the years. People might say Camille and Carter’s rocky union was an example of why the families should never join, but that marriage was about to slip off the ledge because his uncle still didn’t understand the meaning of fidelity. Oh, his aunt had mentioned therapy and made roundabout comments about how his uncle was “behaving” but what did that mean? And how long would it last?

  Tate didn’t want temporary or random with Charlotte. He wanted all-in and all-committed like he’d seen with Rogan and Elizabeth. Like he knew he and Charlotte could have.

  “Tate? Can we talk?”

  He pulled back, took in the pinched brows, the strain around her eyes. “What’s going on?” She shook her head, bit her bottom lip like she might start crying. “Talk to me.”

  Was this about them? Had he moved too fast? Did she somehow sense he was about to ask her for long-term, as in forever? And was she hedging because she wasn’t ready? Or worse, because she didn’t want it? He’d gone slowly, looked for signals that she planned to stick around, and finally, they’d been there. But maybe they weren’t, maybe he’d only imagined them because he wanted to see them so damn bad. “Charlotte? You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I know.” She clutched his hand, brought it to her lips and placed soft kisses on his knuckles. Almost reverent. “You’re a good man. Honest. Kind. Trustworthy.”