A Thousand Doors

by J. T. Ellison

  “You painted over something, didn’t you? What is it—a Picasso? A Van Gogh?”

  “A Kahlo. A real one this time.” Tyler grins. “Do you understand now?”

  Oh, I understand, all right. Just like all those years ago, this isn’t about me and him. This is about money.

  My phone rings, Sam’s ringtone buzzing in my bag, and I realize I’m exhausted. From keeping secrets, from telling lies, even if most of them were by omission. I dig out my cell, stare at my husband’s smiling face on the screen.

  All these years I’ve justified my silence with a need to move on, to shed my past and leave it behind like old skin, but really I was afraid of what Sam would think. Would he love me less if he knew the truth? Maybe. Probably. When I walked into his restaurant looking for a job, I was still carrying so much anger at Tyler for his lies, and then I turned around and did the same to Sam. I would hate me, too.

  Tell him now or tell him later. Now that Tyler is out, now that he’s found me, there’s no other option.

  I steady my breath, and despite the inner voices screaming at me to push him to voice mail, I tap Accept. “Hi,” I say, my gaze never leaving Tyler’s.

  “Okay, so I just had a brilliant idea. Why don’t we get my parents to watch the kids this weekend so you and I can drive down to the coast, just you, me, and your skimpiest bikini. Baby number three calls for a celebration, but without babies number one and two interrupting us every few seconds. What do you think?”

  “I love you,” I say without thinking, and I mean every word. Right now, standing in this alleyway with a man he doesn’t know exists, it’s the one thing, the only thing that matters.

  “I love you, too, babe. You know that.”

  “No, Sam. I mean I really, truly love you. No matter what anybody tells you about me, no matter what happens next, I need you to remember that I love you more than anything.”

  “What happens next… Mia, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

  I nod because I’m scaring me, too.

  I hand Tyler the phone.

  ————

  The drive home takes a hundred years. I spend all of it trying to ignore Tyler’s smug expression in my rearview mirror and thinking about Sam. Tyler told him everything, and I mean everything. About the forgeries, the trial, the way I held on to a canvas even though it was evidence. About how that made me a criminal, too.

  Sam had already hung up by the time Tyler handed me back the phone, and he doesn’t pick up any of the million times I try to call. I tell myself it’s because he’s too busy—finding someone to take over the kitchen, racing across town to school, fetching the kids snacks, and getting Hartley started on her homework—and not because he’s not speaking to me.

  At sometime past four, I pull into the driveway. Tyler slows to a stop at the curb.

  “Nice place,” he says across the hood, and I try to see the house the way Tyler sees it, so much less grand than the one we shared. The siding that could use a fresh coat of paint, or the cracks in the concrete walkway that have sprouted with weeds. But all I see are memories—the bench where Sam and I told Hartley she was going to be a big sister, the gardenia bush Ford drove his tricycle into, the bald spot on the hill from last weekend’s session with the slip-and-slide.

  The front door opens, and Sam steps out, Hartley and Ford right behind him. “Mommyyyy,” they shout, racing into the yard like they do for Sam when he gets home from work. I scoop up Ford, inhale his milk-and-peanut-butter scent, smile at Hartley tumbling in cartwheels across the yard. Sam may not want me after today, but this man, these kids are my home, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.

  “Mommy, who’s that man?” Hartley says about Tyler, marching across the yard. “Why does he want your picture?”

  I don’t answer, and neither does Sam. Neither does Tyler, for that matter. He takes the painting from Sam’s hands, carries it back to his car, and settles it gingerly on the back seat. How much will he get for it—five million? Ten? As I watch Tyler drop behind the wheel and pull away with a cheeky wave, I hope it was all worth it.

  As soon as he’s gone, I turn back to the house. To my husband, silent and unsmiling, standing in the open doorway like a linebacker. Blocking the way. Will this still be my home after today? I have no idea. Sam’s face gives nothing away.

  “Sam, I’m so sorry. I—”

  He stops me with a palm. “Hang on, we don’t have much time. The police will be here any minute, and we need to get our stories straight.”

  And that’s when I hear it, sirens wailing in the distance. An upbringing with an attorney father means Sam lives in a world that’s black and white, good and bad. The Masterson moral compass does not falter. When Tyler told him about the stolen millions hanging on our living room wall, Sam called the police. Of course he did.

  “But they’ll arrest me, too,” I say, hugging Ford close to my body. “I hid the painting from the police. I shouldn’t have had it.”

  “Not if you surrender the stolen Kahlo to the police, instead of handing it over to a known criminal.”

  “What are you talking about? You did hand it over. You just gave the Kahlo to Tyler. I saw you do it.”

  “You didn’t really think I’d give that asshole the Kahlo, do you?” Sam flashes me a smile—a fairly cocky one. “I switched it out for a copy two days ago.”

  I shake my head. “You…switched…it out? What? I don’t… You knew?”

  “Not until a few weeks ago, when two agents showed up at the restaurant. They thought Tyler might contact you when he got out, and they weren’t sure they could trust you. They suspected him of having the Kahlo, but they didn’t know where he stashed it. I helped them put two and two together.”

  I can’t even think about what this means right now. Sam has known for weeks, and he didn’t let on. “So these agents…they had a copy made?”

  Sam nods. “It wasn’t exact, but it was close enough. You really didn’t notice?”

  No. I really didn’t. And neither did Tyler, apparently. Either the copy was really that good, or he was too blinded by the idea of a Kahlo underneath all that paint. Either way, he will have figured it out by now. The sirens are louder, spinning in urgent circles around the neighborhood.

  “This deal was Dad’s idea,” Sam says, coming down the walkway. “He was the one who sold the plan to the FBI. Switching out the paintings. The Kahlo for a promise not to prosecute. It wasn’t easy. They didn’t know whose side you’d be on.”

  The enormity of Sam’s message hits me. Sam’s father, the hotshot criminal attorney, has struck a deal on my behalf. Relief loosens some of the muscles in my neck and shoulders, but it’s not enough. I still don’t know the most important thing.

  “And you?” I say. “What do you think?”

  Because this is the only thing that matters at this point. Sam knew, and he didn’t say anything. A lie for a lie. Was it revenge? Some kind of test? I hold my breath and wait for his answer.

  Sam looks at Hartley, frozen in the middle of the grass, watching us. She’s too young to understand any of this, but she’s wise enough to know something is up. That she’s witnessing a significant moment. He smiles at her, then turns back to me.

  “At first I didn’t know what to think. I thought maybe you were in on it, too. I hoped you weren’t, of course, but I didn’t know for sure. Not until you handed Tyler your phone.”

  I hear the pain in Sam’s voice, but I also see the way his expression softens at the end. I love you, I’d just told him. No matter what happens next…remember that. He was listening. We have so much more to say to each other, but at least I know he heard.

  Three police cars screech to a stop on the road, and Hartley springs into motion. She scrambles across the grass, her mouth wide with fear, and attaches herself to my leg. Ford buries his face in my shoulder.

 
“Don’t say a word,” Sam says, shooting a meaningful look to the men at the road, a combination of local police and FBI. “I’ll give them the painting, then hopefully that’ll be the end.”

  No. Not the end. Not yet. There’s still something I have to do.

  He’s almost at the door when I stop him. “Sam, wait!” He turns, and I take a deep breath. “I was seventeen, busing tables in Phoenix, when I met a boy. His name was Tyler, and he was an artist.”

  “Really?” Sam glances at the police and FBI agents waiting up at the road, and he laughs. “You want to do this now? Really?”

  I nod. The worst possible time, but also the best because it’s something I should have done ages ago. These words have been held back for far too long.

  Sam holds out a hand—for Hartley and Ford, for me. “Everybody inside. Mommy’s going to tell us a story.”

  The Author

  Kaira Rouda

  Mia

  My reflection in the jewel-like vanity mirror is deceiving. I appear serene, sophisticated, as if I’m ready for the big awards ceremony tonight. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window behind me, the sky is a brilliant pink with the setting sun. Inside, I’ve dimmed the lights in the room so that my imperfections are softened. The lines around my lips and the creases around my eyes have disappeared. I touch the white marble counter, an exquisite choice for our remodeled historic apartment on the Upper East Side. Everything about our apartment and our building is white-glove luxury. Only the best for me these days, as I tell my mother when she calls. The thought of my mother visiting me, with her country accent and faint ashtray smell, makes my heart miss a beat. I would never allow it. My dear mother calls me a gold digger. If that’s true, I dug well.

  I turn my focus back to myself. At thirty-six years old I know it’s just a matter of time before this face needs some nips and tucks; at the very least, more Botox. My dark blond hair, my best feature, hangs in waves below my shoulders. I touch my chest, comforted by the string of good-luck pearls Tom purchased for me when we were dating. They’ve been my touchstone ever since, a reminder that dreams do come true, but only if you’re actively involved in creating those dreams. I glance admiringly at my little treasures stacked within reach on my vanity and smile. The black notebook and a stack of letters held together with a red ribbon, my addition.

  I hear footsteps coming down the hall, and my heart thumps as I shove my little treasures away in the bottom drawer where I keep them hidden. He’d recognize all of it, of course. I’m just standing back up when Tom walks into the changing room. I still cannot believe he is mine. The fact that it took me so long to find true love is both disappointing and unchangeable. What do you do? Accept what life has handed you. Or not. I must admit, I sort of stalked Tom. Not in a creepy way, not at all. Just in the way you do when you see your dream and go for it before it slips away.

  “There you are, darling.” Tom’s hand is on my shoulder, sending warmth through my body. He’s been in the kitchen, I know, eating a snack to fill him up since he abhors hotel-event food. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Thank you, honey.” I feel myself blushing as if we just met, and I wrap my arms around him. I came so close to losing this man. He had a serious girlfriend when we met and, fortunately, decided to end things with her. I won.

  I believe she’s out of his mind, and his thoughts, even if she still haunts mine. I smile into the mirror and push thoughts of Beth away.

  Tonight is my night. Our night.

  “Are you ready?” Tom kisses my cheek, and we lock eyes in the mirror. He is beyond handsome in his black tux, crisp white shirt. His thick brown hair is perfectly combed. He is two years younger than me, something he enjoys noting when I’m in a confident mood. “You are ready. You look amazing. You’re going to win tonight, I know it.”

  “Thank you, but don’t get your hopes up,” I say, even though Tom would love to add My wife is an award-winning novelist to his résumé. I swallow and glance in the mirror one last time. My cap-sleeve, floor-length black designer gown has an elegant sheen, the look of, I hope, a winner in life, but of course, not at the awards. I don’t deserve a literary recognition. Us is my first novel. When I found out my novel was a finalist in the prestigious Star Literary Awards I almost fainted, for several reasons. I was born to be a writer. It comes naturally. But this broad recognition isn’t something I sought. Quite the opposite.

  I force a smile and follow Tom out of the bedroom, slipping my hand into his. Is he right? Could my book win? Us is a fun love story, no doubt. It’s personal in a way that fiction always is, but disguised. I just hope it’s disguised enough. It’s been out four months, and so far, the reception has been beyond my biggest dreams.

  Still, I keep expecting an email from her, or a nasty review with a barely disguised pseudonym to appear on Amazon. The silence has been surprising. Perhaps she has moved on and forgotten about all of this. I hope so.

  “This thing better not last too long,” Tom says as we walk into our luxurious living room. The hardwood floors gleam with the soft pink light coming through the six-feet-tall French casement windows overlooking Central Park.

  “Thank you for coming with me. I know you had to rearrange your calendar.” It’s not easy for Tom to carve time out of his busy Wall Street schedule for me, or for anything. I understand why he hasn’t even had a minute to read my novel, and I don’t bother him about that. In fact, I was counting on it.

  I make it a point to be everything he wants me to be. I sparkle when I need to help him entertain clients. I dazzle with stories and sophisticated banter. I never demand to be included in his plans. I simply let him know I’m here when he needs me. I don’t ever want him to become disillusioned. He sees only the Mia I want him to see: sophisticated city girl with the world at her feet. He’s never asked about my childhood, and I’ve never told him. He thinks my parents are deceased. Little white lies make for better lives, Mom always told me.

  We stand side by side in our perfect state-of-the art kitchen with its gray oak cabinetry, Carrara marble countertops, and mosaic backsplash of soft gray and white. Everything in our home is gray and white, the designer’s favorite color scheme. I run my finger along the smooth, cool countertop. Truth be told, Beth created this place because she thought she was marrying Tom, and this would be their apartment. She almost closed the deal, that’s for sure. I’ve done a good job of erasing her. But because Beth is, or was, a celebrated New York City interior decorator, I’ve left the design as is. I only changed the accessories. Beth loved white orchids. She placed them everywhere in the apartment. It was her signature, a floral marker of her design jobs throughout the city, including our apartment. Fame is fleeting, though. Her fifteen minutes are up, over. Gone. Just like the white orchids in our apartment.

  Tom takes another bite of his pre-award-ceremony meal, and I watch him with a smile. He waves a fork full of food in my direction. “Want a bite? It’s Cook’s signature frittata. Divine.”

  “Too nervous to eat.” That’s true. I lean against the counter and admire my life.

  “Shall we?” Tom glances at his watch, an expensive piece of jewelry that fits him and his successful investment banker image. He’s the full package, my husband. His platinum wedding band shines on his left ring finger. I’m glad to see it. He has a habit of forgetting to wear it. A habit I’m working hard to break. Tonight, at least, every woman who meets my handsome husband will know he’s taken.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m ready.” As ready as I’ll ever be, I think.

  We step into the elevator and descend to the lobby in our building’s ornate elevator. As the elevator doors open, Phil, Tom’s driver, jumps from his seat in the lobby and bows deeply.

  “Ma’am, you look spectacular.”

  I smile and wonder if Phil said the exact same thing to Beth, the almost Mrs. Anderson. Tom and I settle into the back seat of the sleek black Mercedes for t
he short drive to the Midtown hotel where the event is held, and another pulse of anxiety rushes through me. I take a deep breath. I hope I’m not overdressed, but that’s not all I’m worried about. Writers aren’t a fancy group. Since I officially joined this illustrious profession four months ago, I’ve discovered we’re middle-class, mid-level ourselves. No one becomes an author to make a lot of money. It’s art. Our craft. That a few lucky souls do make it, well, that is the stuff keeping dreams alive. I never do anything unless it’s to make money. When you start out poor, like I did, you have two choices: Accept your place or get out. Even with all of Tom’s money at my disposal, I must admit, I still want more.

  Tonight helps. It will solidify my position in Tom’s life if I become a literary star. That’s why I entered the awards competition, against my own judgment. Just to enter, I thought, that would impress Tom and that’s enough. My editor, Peggy, told me not to get my hopes up for a win, that to simply be a finalist was an honor. And that’s all I hoped for. But here we are, holding hands in the back seat, with Tom’s eyes glistening because I’ve crossed the first hurdle.

  Phil stops the car in front of the hotel and hurries to open the door for me before the hotel’s doorman can. I guess it’s part of the show. Our show. The Andersons have arrived.

  As I step onto the sidewalk, I jump. I think I see Beth dashing through the revolving doors of the hotel. I imagine her eyes met mine for a moment before she hurried inside. But that’s impossible. I have an overactive imagination. That’s why I’m such a successful author.

  “Are you cold?” Tom wraps his arm around my shoulder.

  “No, it’s nice tonight.”

  “But you just shivered.”

  I’m surprised he noticed. “Nerves, I suppose. But thanks for the hug.” I wink at him, and he squeezes my shoulder again.

  I need to get a grip on myself. Everything will be fine. It’s just one night.