Yet, despite the uncertainty, when I thought about a solid, placid life with Clayton versus this mess with Andrew, I knew without hesitation that I preferred this muddled imbroglio.
What did that say about me? I had thought of myself as a feet-on-the-ground, no-drama type of person. Outside of the impulsive marriage to Andrew in the first place, I had followed rules, made pragmatic decisions, avoided hairy things until I chose Andrew again.
So really, I was the epitome of practical, unless it came to Andrew.
Right now, he needed me, and I was resolved not to falter. I was done running away. I was completely, irrevocably with him, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, in good times and in blackmail times.
One hand coming up to cradle my cheek, Andrew asked hesitantly, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tia?”
“Sure. Good night.”
It wasn’t until they were down the stairs and heading toward the gate that I realized that I was disappointed. And disgruntled.
This was our reunion, with all of our secrets on the table?
Logically, I knew that I wasn’t in some sweeping romance novel where the hero and heroine had orgas-mazing sex on a tiny boat in the middle of a thunderstorm as they sped away from the villains.
But, gosh, couldn’t I get a make-out sesh at least? Or get to second base? I’d settle for some over-the-dress fondling and sexy talk too. Or you know, what I really wanted: promises of a future together. Didn’t those promises usually come after the hero spilled his dark secrets?
Before my mind was fully off the logistical questions of how you’d navigate a boat and have sex while waves were soaking you, I heard my voice call out, “Andrew, are you coming back after you drop off Charlie?”
Yeah, that didn’t sound desperate at all.
Andrew’s head jerked back to me, his expression unreadable in the dark. “Do you want me to come back?” The intensity and yearning in his voice made me want to run over and drag him back.
“I do.”
“Then, I’ll be back.” His tone was husky, and I thought I detected a note of relief.
As far as romantic gestures went, it wasn’t much. Yet, my heart danced a jig and my insides warmed at his promise. The unsettled feeling lightened a smidge, because you know, there was still blackmail to get through.
I watched them open the gate and move toward the street. As I was about to press the button to close the gate behind them, I saw movement. Charlie’s white-blonde hair caught my eye as she twisted around so quickly that she stumbled.
Squinting, I tried to make out what was happening. All I could see was the shadows of Andrew and Charlie stalled at the gate. I heard the rhythm of low, rapid words, though I couldn’t catch anything specific.
“This is a happy coincidence.” A new voice cut across the short distance, smooth and sophisticated, and oddly familiar. It reminded me of one of Clayton’s parents’ acquaintances, though none of those acquaintances had ever caused the icy shiver down my spine or my heart to rev up in fear.
Andrew’s angry voice cut through the darkness. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tia
June 15, 2010 (never sent)
Andrew,
I just came back from a visit to the Great Wall. To think that people built it without cranes, trucks, and “modern” technology. We talked about going there together one day. There were so many things that I wanted to show you. The Summer Palace, the Forbidden City, the Great Wall. Or just the vibrancy—ren shan ren hai—people on the mountains and people in the water—the amount of people would blow your mind. I would have enjoyed showing you the less touristy things too, like going for walks after dinner, eating lamb kabobs in the street at night, joining the dancing in the squares.
I hope you have a chance to leave Colorado and visit the world someday.
Yours,
Tia
“Tia, go back inside.”
I ignored Andrew’s warning. Because how could I leave him when something was clearly wrong? Forgetting that this was winter and I only had a shawl, I headed for Andrew. I needed to hold his hand, to reassure him, to get rid of whatever was making him unhappy.
Closer now, I could see Andrew trying to nudge Charlie behind him, as they both stared, with identical horrified expressions, at a shadow hidden by the gates from my view. Shivering in the dark, I padded across to the gate in my pink, fuzzy slippers.
“Tia,” Andrew warned again.
“Professor Wang,” the cultured voice spoke from a looming, growing shadow. “Good to see you again.”
Confused, I stopped in my tracks, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. “You! I saw you at the admissions panel, and I think later at one of my office hours. You said your son was looking at MIT. What are you doing here?”
“Naïve, little professor, you don’t see the resemblance?” the stranger mocked. As if the streetlight was a prop in this farce, he stepped underneath it and doffed his baseball cap.
I gasped. “Brandon Parker.”
Now that he was standing feet away from Andrew, I could see the clear resemblance that I should have noticed before. The same dark, dark hair, the same gray eyes, similar height and build. Brandon’s gray eyes were cool, calculating, as he smiled.
I shivered. I did not like the machinations and insincerity underlying his smile.
Wrapping one arm around my shoulders and using the other to keep Charlie half hidden behind us, Andrew threw out, “Why are you here, Brandon?”
Eyes widening in mock innocence, Brandon’s smile grew broader. “Why, is it a crime for a father to see his two children? To make sure they keep up their side of the bargain?”
Behind me, I heard Charlie gasp. I reached for her hand behind me, to offer a tiny measure of solace.
At our non-response, Brandon asked confidentially as if we were at a dinner party with close friends, “Does your dear husband, William, know?”
As tiny and delicate as Charlie looked, her grip on my hand was ferocious. I chanced a glance back. Her face was full of desperation and sadness. I shrugged Andrew’s arm off and wrapped Charlie up in a hug. I may have hated this woman for a decade, met her just a couple hours ago, but she was Andrew’s sister, and therefore, my sister. And right now, my sister was hurting.
I hated Brandon Parker more than I had ever hated anyone before. Stories of him had swirled around for most of my childhood, though they paled to the actual, physical presence of him. Stalking us. Taunting us.
Nonchalantly, Brandon shrugged. “I never expected either of you to become so useful. Imagine my surprise.”
And that was the core of him. He was a user. Of people. Of situations. People like Andrew and Charlie—good and principled people—were endnotes. At least until he wanted something. I hated him with every word he uttered.
Brandon looked down at Charlie. “It’s ironic to have you as a daughter. I’ve been telling people that I’m the misunderstood, discarded half brother of William Parker—Senator Parker’s husband—for most of my life.”
“I didn’t realize you were connected to Senator Parker?” I asked Andrew.
He didn’t take his eyes off Brandon, as he replied, “We’re not. My grandparents were potato farmers. It’s part of his scam.”
“No matter.” Brandon waved off the word “scam” as if that was as benign as ordering a latte at a coffee shop. “That story garnered more sympathy than a farmer’s kid. Your grandparents were useless, small-minded idiots who couldn’t recognize the greatness in me and never gave me a damn thing.” Voice bitter, Brandon spat at the ground.
He stepped forward, half in the streetlight, half out, looking like some two-faced joker. On the side of his face that I could see, his lips curled up. “Now that I think about it, I might need to change my story. What do you think of the US representative and his state attorney general wife refusing to let me see my own daughter? Or, I know, the golden socialite who refuses to acknowledge her poor,
dear daddy?”
“If you used your fake connections to the Parkers to your advantage, why are you blackmailing us now?” asked Charlie tentatively.
The ever-present smile broadened on Brandon’s face until it looked almost sinister. “Now, now, kids. Blackmail is such a dirty word. I’m only asking for what I’m due. Sixteen years in prison was a long time. So plain, so boring. Aren’t I allowed to want a more luxurious life? Since we’re blood, I’ll let you in on a secret.”
In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “I’m in love.”
“With yourself?” Sarcasm dripped from Andrew’s voice. There was a readiness, a tension about him, as if he was baiting his dad.
For the first time, Brandon’s smile fell off, as his face twisted in an ugly sneer. For once, his outside reflecting the ugliness of his soul. “No, you fools.” Twisting his face back into a smile, he said, “Kids, you should congratulate me. I’m about to be a married man again.”
“Who’s the unlucky lady?” asked Andrew.
“And what, have you fill her head with lies about me?”
“You being a shitty dad and a shitty person are not lies,” said Andrew.
“Silly kids, you still believe that. This conversation is starting to bore me. If you have friends who can live in this mansion”—Brandon pointed at Pippa’s house—“then, you can ask them for some paltry change for your poor father. I’ll expect to hear from you by five p.m. tomorrow. I do know where to find you.”
Still chuckling, he slid away from the streetlight and into the blackness of the night. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of an engine rumbling past us, as I released my breath slowly.
Andrew and Charlie looked equally tense, their mouths set to identical frustrated, bleak lines. I was still holding Charlie, and I could feel her tremble. With fear, with worries, with the cold—I wasn’t sure.
This was not a happy family reunion. Even if Charlie had expected a rotten human being, it couldn’t have been easy to see how correct she was. If she had any good expectations, Brandon had effectively broken them.
Finally, when Andrew spoke, his voice was decisive. “We should stick together tonight. Brandon’s not physically violent, but who knows? Tia, do you think Pippa would mind if Charlie and I stayed here tonight?”
Without hesitation, I said, “You should absolutely stay here. Pippa’s parents installed some serious security. There’s the gate, cameras, little buttons everywhere to call the police. There’s even a bunker in the basement. I’d feel better if the two of you were close by.”
Charlie said gratefully, “If you’re sure that Pippa won’t mind, then yes, I’d prefer to stay here. Hotel rooms seem flimsy to me. Too many people coming in and out.”
Once inside the house, I showed Charlie a guest room at one end of the long hallway. Afterwards, Andrew and I walked through the house, checking all of the locks.
I was too aware of how alone we were. While he didn’t touch me, I was too aware of his presence, of how close we were.
“Should I show you your room? You can have your pick of the guest rooms. There are ten bedrooms,” I asked, my eyes fluttering, unable to meet his intense gaze.
“Where is your room?” His voice was low and husky, and it stirred up nerves that were entirely removed from what had happened earlier and served only to remind me just how much I had missed him.
Entirely too aware of how close he followed without touching, I opened the door to the bedroom that I had been using. I looked down at my slippered feet, not able to meet his eyes.
I may have thought a good game when I got dressed in this slinky dress, but at heart, I was just a geeky girl with awkward moves. If I jumped into bed to pose sexily, I’d probably bump my knees along the way.
“I’d prefer to stay in this room tonight, if it’s all the same to you.” His voice trailed off, leaving the decision to me.
Yes! Come inside of me—my room, I mean.
In a much more normal-sounding voice than the one screaming for joy inside my head, I tried for nonchalance. “Sure, makes sense. It is a very cold night, and I could always use some extra heat. It saves me from having to turn up the heat or make myself a hot water bag or something.”
See, I was made to be a seductress. Because sirens compared hot men to hot water bags.
One side of his lips quirking up, Andrew smirked. “I bet I can think of something even warmer than a hot water bag.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why don’t you strip off this sexy dress that’s been driving me fucking nuts all night and let me show you? My method works best skin to skin.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tia
July 1, 2010 (never sent)
Andrew,
Today would have been the one-year anniversary of our marriage. Would haves, should haves.
My parents have never brought up therapy, but I think I might need it. Over the past few months, I’ve started exercising to gain back my physical strength. Why shouldn’t I value my mental state the same, or even more?
Except for sleeping, I’m always around my parents, and now, surrounded by my relatives, yet I feel so lonely about the fall of our relationship, about our baby. And I don’t want to feel lonely. I don’t want to feel out of control. I want to take action of my life.
Yours,
Tia
Confession? Andrew’s method, well—methods, worked one hundred percent better than any hot water bag. He was also right that skin to skin was optimal. That seemed to ignite the most … heat.
On Saturday morning, I woke up sated from Andrew’s version of keeping warm and finger-tapping-ly anxious. We hadn’t spoken much about the events of last night because … we were keeping warm.
As weak winter light flitted through the curtains, the little issue of the five p.m. deadline loomed front and center in my mind. I looked over toward Andrew. He was awake and staring alertly at the ceiling, even as his arm wrapped around my shoulders, tugging me against the length of his body.
Sensing my movement, he turned to look at me, his mouth curving up in a small smile, “Good morning, Tia.”
“Good morning.” My eyes scanned Andrew’s tousled hair, his day-old shadow of a beard, the drama of his dark eyebrows. The storminess in his eyes reflected my same anxieties.
Which brought me back to the deadline.
Illegal dealings with nefarious criminals simply hadn’t been part of my education. In addition to learning proper grammar or how to count, kids should be taught practical knowledge, like how to pick a lock when you’ve forgotten your keys for the umpteenth time, or how to eat chocolate without smearing all over your face. Or, more crucially now, how to deal with blackmail.
“What do you want to do?”
Frown lines appeared on his smooth forehead. “I don’t know. After last night’s encounter, I texted Alex a few more things to look up.”
He shifted his body to turn toward me. “Last night, I don’t think I really thanked you for offering to help. Tia, I’m really grateful. If I thought Brandon would leave us alone after giving him the money, I would accept. However, I’m stuck on the question, what’s to keep Brandon from asking for more or coming back?”
“We could get him to sign a contract to leave us alone.”
Andrew laughed bitterly. “He’ll find a way to circumvent that. Contracts are a first line of defense and keep well-meaning folks toeing a line. For someone like Brandon with little to lose, he’s not going to worry about something like lawsuits for breach of contract. You know what the problem is?”
“You mean outside of the ten million problem?” I asked cheekily.
“Yeah.” His lips quirked up in a hint of a smile. “It’s all on Brandon’s terms. Regardless of what we do, the secrets will always be there.”
“Unless they’re not secrets anymore,” I said, picking up on his reasoning.
“Exactly.” Excitedly, Andrew sat up in bed. For a brief, okay, not-so-brief moment, I admired his broa
d shoulders and abs, because even sitting, his muscles were still deliciously muscly.
“It will be messy. I mean really messy. As in, I might be disbarred, and I might face an investigation or even be charged with the very real possibility of jail time. My firm can do a lot to protect me if they choose to, but there’s no guarantee. I need you to know what refusing the blackmail means.”
Would I be okay with being married to a criminal? Even if he was innocent, which I completely believed, the world would see otherwise. I had been taught from childhood to present the best “mianzi,” to save face, to hide what’s broken, and only share what presented our family in the best light. Essentially an Instagram filter before Instagram existed. With that ingrained in me, it would hurt to have colleagues whisper about my “criminal” husband, or have some students question my credentials, even though what my husband did should have no reflection on my résumé.
I wished that I could avoid feeling embarrassed, or uncomfortable. Even though my sense of self-worth had strengthened in the past few years, it was hard to erase years of caring how others perceived me.
As I mulled over my feelings, I could see Andrew’s confidence in ignoring the blackmail start to falter. With every beat of hesitation, his eyes grew more stoic, more resigned.
His voice hard, Andrew said, “Forget I said anything. We’ll wait for Alex or pay Brandon. That is, you still have the choice to get out of this mess. It’s not your mess.”
“No!” Throwing my pros and cons aside, I said, “You’re mine, so your mess is my mess.” I grabbed his face with both of my hands. “There’s no getting rid of me. Not.” Kiss. “A.” Kiss. “Question.” Kiss.
“Okay.” He sighed happily, pulling me in for a real kiss before tucking me against his still-naked chest.
“When I think about not being together, I panic. Being together isn’t a question in my mind,” I said to his chest. “Will it suck if you get investigated or go to jail? Yeah. Even though I’ll stand by you, it doesn’t mean that I won’t have doubts sometimes or handle things wrong.”
Give Love a Chai (Common Threads Book 2) Page 24
