by Mary Campisi
Elizabeth’s voice spilled sadness. “But don’t you see, Tate? It’s exactly like Rogan and me. What she did was a matter of trust and a desire to know she can open her heart to you. Yes, she behaved badly and had no business searching out that woman. But she did it out of love for you, and once she learned the truth, she wanted to tell you and planned to do so, but you found out first. You were as angry and hurt as Rogan when he discovered what I did.” Her next words reached across the desk and squeezed his heart. “I think you’re as unforgiving, too. The difference is you made Rogan see the truth, and that’s why I’m here. To make you see the truth; Charlotte loves you. She just needs another chance to prove it.”
Charlotte loved him? Rogan’s wife sounded certain of it, maybe because she was still a newlywed and basking in the whole happily-ever-after routine. Tate wanted to ask how she knew that. Had his fiancée of less than a day confided as much, or was Elizabeth surmising? That would be interesting to know because the Charlotte Donovan he knew was hard-headed and not about to divulge a weakness for anything, especially a man. Still, if she’d admitted it, then his next question would be, What exactly did she love? Did she love him, or what he represented? And what would the Donovans say if they knew their sweet Charlotte had tracked him down in Chicago with the express intent of seducing him? But why had she done it? He’d spent hours and quite a few scotches on that one, and come up with the only plausible, yet nauseating possibility; she’d wanted to trap him.
He’d dodged the commitment trap for years, avoiding women who wanted a trip down the aisle. Apparently, love was not a prerequisite, but a hefty portfolio was. Very interesting. That type had been easy to detect and deflect, but there’d been a few who’d acted as if money weren’t important, and that’s when it got tricky. Still, he’d found them out—except for Charlotte.
She’d barreled straight through every defense he’d ever constructed, maybe because he’d never believed her capable of deceiving anyone. How wrong he’d been.
“Tate? Will you give her another chance?”
Another chance for what? he wanted to ask. A chance to lie to him? Make him believe they had something special, maybe even a forever-after? He pushed back his chair, stood. Talking about Charlotte made him edgy, and he paced the room as he tried to think like Charlotte. Impossible. “Did she ask you to come here?”
“Charlotte? Of course not.”
The look on her face said she thought he’d lost his mind, and that told him Charlotte wasn’t behind this visit. Not that he really thought she was, but the woman’s lies had spun him around and made him doubt his instincts. “Right. So, here’s the thing.” Tate sat on the edge of the desk, toyed with a pen. “I don’t trust her. She lies, and while you might think your situation was no different, trust me, it was.” Yeah, like Charlotte had hunted him down in Chicago in that shrink-wrapped dress and shared chocolate lava cake with him—in bed. Naked. It was all a set-up to reel in the prize. Him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He would’ve picked up on it if he hadn’t been homed in on that sultry smile, the come-get-me laugh, those eyes—
“Did you hear she works at the factory?” His expression must have told her he absolutely did not know because she nodded, tossed out more information. “It’s been five days now. I think she’s in the painting department.” She smiled, added, “Rogan said the foreman told him he’s never seen a more eager worker.” Pause, a laugh. “Or one who gets more paint on herself than the project.”
Charlotte was working at JD Manufacturing? What did she know about a factory? How could Rogan agree to such a hare-brained idea? “She’s going to get hurt.” Visions of lopped-off fingers and crashing piles of lumber invaded his brain, made him suck in a deep breath, blow it out nice and slow. “She’s definitely going to get hurt.”
“I think she already has.”
Tate stared at Elizabeth, gaze narrowed. Rogan’s wife wasn’t talking about a work-related injury. She meant the kind of hurt inside a person’s soul, the kind a person can’t detect unless he knows the signs. And, no doubt, she meant he was the deliverer of the hurt. He chose to ignore the comment, steered back to Charlotte’s new workplace. “Does nobody but me see the problem with this? She’s not suited to work around heavy equipment or machinery. Charlotte doesn’t possess that level of concentration. She’ll be thinking about some movie she watched or the color of the wood, and the next thing you know, she’ll be down a finger.” Putting sound to the possibilities made it so much worse. “You’ve got to talk sense into Rogan so he can get her out of there before she hurts herself.”
“Rogan didn’t like the idea at first, but he couldn’t say no.” Buckets of sadness drenched her next words. “It’s been a rough time for her.”
“It hasn’t exactly been a party for me.” He knew all about rough times and what it felt like to have your world collapse on top of you. Still, it didn’t mean he had to run out and find something dangerous to jump into so he could dull the pain.
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
Elizabeth stood, shrugged into her coat. “I’m not giving up on you two. I think you belong together and one day, I think you’ll both realize that, too.”
Tate thought about those words later that night as he sat in the library with his father. The old man had taken to having coffee there after dinner, and since Tate had no one to occupy his evenings, he’d begun joining him. Most nights it was palatable, and once, it had been almost enjoyable.
“Where’s your girlfriend?”
Harrison Alexander asked the same question every night, and Tate always gave him the same answer. “She’s not my girlfriend.” He didn’t bother to add anymore, because that would invite a barrage of questions.
“I saw the way you two looked at each other, and I know love when I see it.” His silver eyes narrowed on Tate, studied him. “She’s your girlfriend, whether you want to admit it or not.”
Tate stared at the old man, tried to see if his father were playing him, or if he really didn’t remember that he asked the same question every night. “Charlotte Donovan and I aren’t together.” Pause, followed by a harsh “Not anymore.” There, he’d said it. It wasn’t like his father would remember tomorrow anyway.
“Anymore?” He latched on to those words, smothered them with curiosity. “What happened?”
What happened? Everything happened. Lies, hurt, betrayal, and too damn much pain. That’s what happened when you opened your heart to someone. But no way was he confessing that. Tate sipped his coffee, took his time answering. “The usual. Incompatibilities.” That was so untrue. At least in the beginning… He and Charlotte had found common ground, and once they’d begun to trust one another, their whole world burst open with possibility. He’d believed it was only the beginning of a lifetime of sharing. What a fool he’d been.
“Incompatibility? What’s that supposed to mean?” His father sat up in his chair, clutched the edges of the arms, and spat out, “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Harrison Alexander might act as if he didn’t remember, but Tate was beginning to think it was a ruse to gather information—from Tate, from the nurses, the doctor, other healthcare professionals, even Astrid and the rest of the staff. What if he pretended to forget so others opened up, maybe repeated the nuggets of information that were not available the day before? That was an old-school Harrison Alexander tactic, and if it were true, then the man was well on the road to recovery. Fred had told him his father had begun to inquire about the company, asked to see financials, and the current staffing levels. The doctor said his cognitive functions were returning, and his mobility and coordination should be back to normal soon. Harrison only used the walker at night, when he was tired. The rest of the time he relied on a four-pronged cane, and the therapist said he ought to be done with it by Christmas.
What would happen then? Would his father try to come back to the company, regain his position there? Would the board let him?
“Incompatibility, huh?” His father chuckled. “It’s okay, son. We all tell ourselves lies to get through the night, and most of the days, too. If she means something to you, don’t let her get away. Pride is an awful thing; it can destroy lives.” He closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair, and blew out a long breath. “Speaking of pride, Fred told me you’re doing a fine job with the company. I knew you would, if you ever gave it a chance. Maybe the only way for us to find out was for me to land in the hospital without a voice.” A pause, a sigh. “I’m not ready to come back yet, but soon. Maybe the first of the year.” He opened his eyes, said in a voice steeped in emotion. “I’d like you to stay on, work beside me. We could do great things together.”
That was a conversation Tate was not having right now. If his father believed Tate could work with him in any capacity, then he was delusional. And maybe the parts of his brain the doctor said had reworked history were frozen in place, even though the doctor believed reality would eventually return, and Harrison would remember the truth. Tate cleared his throat, chose a diplomatic response. “I think it’s too soon to talk about it. You need to continue to rest and recover and give yourself the best opportunity to avoid a relapse.”
“Yes, the dreaded relapse. Can’t afford that now, can we? Will you invite your brother and sister home for Christmas? It’s been a while, and I know they’re very busy, but I’d hoped to see them.”
Neal and Meredith had told Tate they’d find a way to get home, but it wasn’t going to happen, and they all knew it. They even knew why. Their father had treated them with cruelty and disregard, like an abused animal, and they would not return for another wallop. Meredith had asked if he’d changed, and while Tate didn’t see signs of the terror he’d once been, he couldn’t say the behavior wouldn’t return. The only comment he could give was a noncommittal It’s too soon to tell.
Neal hadn’t asked about a transformation or a change. His only comment had been, I’m not coming, and he knows why. Whatever that meant. Neal harbored an animosity against their father that went far beyond the old man’s tirades and belittlement. Who could say what was at the bottom of it? Did Harrison remember? Would he admit it? Doubtful. “I’m not sure they’ll make it home for Christmas, Dad. It might just be the two of us.” That was not what he’d hoped this Christmas would look like. No, he’d envisioned a toasty fire with Charlotte beside him, naked, covered in a post-lovemaking glow and a big rock on her left finger.
Not happening. Dreams were meant to be lived and experienced, but along with them came the possibility that heartache would destroy them. And that’s exactly what had happened.
Charlotte had never been a whiz in the kitchen, probably because she’d been more interested in the outdoors: climbing trees, gathering unique stones, walking fields in search of whatever nature cast in her path. Her father had called her a wild child, said she didn’t conform to the rules of other girls her age. Her mother had scolded him for encouraging their only daughter to seek entertainment among nature and the animals Charlotte loved. Rose had dubbed her nature’s child and said, one day their daughter would climb a tree and build a nest there, where she would reside for the rest of her days. Alone. Unless she learned to play well with others. Share and listen. Follow the rules.
Well, it looked like her mother had been right about the ending-up-alone part. It seemed like forever since she’d walked out on Tate. Not that she wouldn’t have been willing to have a civil conversation with him once she cooled down, but he hadn’t even tried to call her. Guess he really did think she was after his money and his name. And it didn’t look like he planned to forgive her for contacting Marybeth. She didn’t like to think about the whole Marybeth Caruthers mess because her decision to visit the woman had been an act committed when she’d been less than rational. Charlotte tried to push that whole scene from her brain, but it was useless. The only hope she had of exorcising the darn thing was to confront the reasons behind her behavior.
Ugh. Self-examination was not her strong suit. Still, she guessed it was necessary to dig her way out of the limbo she’d fallen into. Okay. So, she’d sort of asked Marybeth if Tate might be her son’s father. Why had she done that? It was a big question, but she knew the truth. Deep down, she’d been afraid to believe 100 percent that life could be good for her and Tate and had been waiting for a disaster to destroy her joy. A secret baby would qualify, no doubt about it. Except she’d been the one to cause the disaster, not Tate, and certainly not a secret baby. No, it had been Charlotte Adelaide Donovan, up front and center, charging into a situation and burning down whatever love and hope for a future they’d shared.
Wasn’t that what she did every single time she got close to being happy? Crashed and burned it? And what about the trip to Chicago? Might as well call it what it was, because Tate had ferreted out the truth from her ex-roommate. She’d been on a mission to seduce Tate Livingstone Alexander. And why was that? Oh, so she could exorcise him from her brain. Good luck with that. It had been a massive fail, and because he’d uncovered these secrets before she could share them, their relationship had been a massive failure.
For all she knew, he didn’t even think about her any more. Why would he when he had lines of women who wanted him, women who wouldn’t even demand conversation or honesty? Or fidelity? Or love? They wouldn’t demand any of it but the use of his beautiful body. But he’d given all of those qualities to Charlotte, and she’d messed up big time, and now they were all gone, like the man.
“Honey, can you get me the nutmeg and cinnamon?”
The request was a welcome interruption because a person could only relive her mistakes so many times. “Sure, Mom.” Charlotte opened the cabinet, pulled out the spices, and placed them on the kitchen table where her mother was making pumpkin pies for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meal. “Do you want me to take over?”
“That would be wonderful.” Rose Donovan turned off the mixer, handed her the spatula. “I’m so proud of you, dear. You’re certainly making up for all the years you shied away from the kitchen.”
Charlotte forced a smile, turned on the mixer, and concentrated on the pumpkin mixture swirling in the bowl. It’s not like she had much to fill her nights, and while she loved her brother and new sister-in-law, she could only be around so much happiness in small doses. Besides, Rogan hadn’t been shy about telling her she was pretty much responsible for her current predicament, and she owed Tate Alexander a big apology. Like the man would listen to anything she had to say. Alexanders were stubborn people, arrogant, opinionated, and unbending. And they weren’t very forgiving either.
In fact, they sounded a lot like the Donovans.
While her brother might not support her, Uncle Oliver did. At least, she thought he did, and the next day, smack in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner, she learned how much. The house was filled with chatter, music, and the smells that reminded her of holidays: turkey, fresh-baked rolls, cinnamon. Uncle Oliver had carted in casserole dishes filled with stuffing, green beans, a sweet-potato bake, and of course, a tray of his double-fudge brownies. He said pumpkin pie might be the traditional Thanksgiving dessert, but no holiday was complete without his brownies. Rogan and Elizabeth brought wine and a cheese tray, and Camille sashayed in with homemade cranberry sauce, a box of macarons, and a bottle of champagne. It’s time to celebrate family and good fortune. Nobody asked what that meant because, knowing Camille, she was talking about the good fortune of dumping her estranged husband.
And that was a topic they all wanted to avoid because the rumor leaching through town and gaining momentum was that Carter Alexander had gotten his waitress girlfriend pregnant. If Camille knew, she wasn’t saying unless she planned to save the announcement for dessert. But halfway through a meal that consisted of Camille consuming more wine than food, she raised her glass and said in a loud voice, “Let’s all toast the upcoming arrival of another Donovan.” Pause, a hiccup. “And another Alexander.�
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Rose clutched Camille’s hand, murmured, “You poor thing.”
Oliver shook his head, said in a quiet voice, “This isn’t about you, Cammie.”
Even Elizabeth tried to offer condolences. “I’m sorry, Camille.”
Rogan smiled at his wife, touched her cheek. Poor Elizabeth had no idea she’d married into a family that didn’t hide behind their emotions but yanked them out and set them on the table beside the turkey, so the rest of the members could comment and critique like it was a taste-testing session.
“Not all Alexanders have questionable morals.” This from Rose, as she forked a bit of stuffing. “Some are rather nice and quite special.”
There was no mistaking the look she gave Charlotte that said, I’m talking about Tate Alexander—your young man. Don’t let him get away. What to say to such a look? Charlotte plopped a hunk of sweet potato in her mouth, chewed. Yes, Tate Alexander was nice, and special, and very unforgiving. Who knew what he was up to these days? He could be flitting about town with some woman, sitting at home with his father, or heading to Chicago, and while she’d like to pretend she didn’t care, it would be a lie.
“I’ve never been one to pay attention to names or labels,” Oliver said. “After all, what does any of it mean? It’s a person’s experience with those names and labels that matter. You could see the perfect sunset while eating a bologna sandwich, and for the rest of your life, you’ll probably have a soft spot for bologna.” He laughed, his blue eyes sparkling when he added, “And not just a plain bologna sandwich, but one with white bread, slathered in mayonnaise.”
They all laughed at Oliver’s comment but it was Camille who added, “Or you could be savoring a bite of filet mignon at the exact moment your husband tells you he doesn’t know if he still loves you. Imagine that?” She lifted her wine glass, nodded. “I can assure you, filet mignon will lose its appeal for the rest of your life.” She eyed their shocked expressions, a slow smile slipping across her face. “What? Do you think I’m referring to that wastrel who stole thirty years from me?” The smile wobbled, fell flat. “Maybe I am.” Her blue eyes glistened with tears. “Or maybe I’m just sad that it took so long to realize I was worth more than a second-rate relationship filled with lies and deceit.” Her gaze landed on Charlotte, her words filled with determination. “Don’t settle and don’t miss a chance to be happy. Grab it and hold on, no matter what.”
