All That Lies Broken (Ashmore's Folly Book 2)

by Forrest, Lindsey

  The man had been her husband. She had lived with him for fifty seasons, slept beside him for twelve years. That sliver of bone recovered from Ground Zero had touched her; she had known it intimately in what, he now saw, had been a real marriage. Maybe not the best, maybe not the happiest, but real nonetheless.

  She stayed there for a long time. She did not lift her head or turn around, but eventually her hand lifted back over her shoulder, reaching for him.

  He sat down behind her, and covered her hand.

  ~•~

  Mark St. Bride woke up after midnight, sick and disoriented.

  Sick, because he had the mother of all hangovers. Disoriented, because he didn’t know how he had ended up in the master bedroom. Normally, they kept the room shut off. He had never acknowledged his reluctance to enter his brother’s room, even as he and Emma had made noises about respecting Cam’s memory and leaving it the way he’d have seen it if he had walked in on the night of September 11, glad to be home.

  No, this was the bedroom of the master of the house. He had intended never to enter. But now he lay there, in the bed where his brother had slept with his wife, where they had – if only the thought of what they had done in this bed hadn’t immediately flashed through his aching head.

  Same thing she was probably doing with that bastard Ashmore right now.

  He bolted upright and nearly threw up from the pain that shot through his forehead.

  A hot shower, a change of clothes, and two cups of coffee later, and he began to believe that he might live to see another day. A day in which he existed in his brother’s house, a man without wife or family, a man who had waited and waited for the mysterious, witchy woman who had turned out to be a harlot at heart.

  She was gone. Forever. His mind pitilessly replayed his words at Ashmore Park – whore, slut – and he knew, heartsick, that no woman would ever forgive a man who had flung such names at her. Especially not a woman like Laura, whose steel core had shown straight through her eyes when she had said, “Goodbye, Mark.”

  The steel core his brother had recognized the night he had met her. The steel core Mark had not wanted to admit even existed.

  He stumbled down into the study – his study, he refused to feel like an interloper in this room. He sat there in the dark stillness of the night – the house seemed abnormally hushed, Emma must not be at home – and watched the day relentlessly play over and over in his mind’s eye. The unexpected elegance of Ashmore Park, and the unpleasant realization that Ashmore was not some lowlife he could buy off with a few hundred thousand dollars. Laura’s shock at seeing him, the fear in her eyes that he would accidentally blurt out her precious secret to that bastard. Her bitchy sister, flaunting her legal knowledge. That cool-as-ice Ashmore girl – that apple hadn’t fallen far – handing Meg the line about her rights, and Meg spouting off like the unruly little brat she was. And, above all, that son of a bitch, with that curled lip and those cold eyes and that contemptuous tone.

  Watching him lurch from bad to worse.

  Goading him into losing his temper.

  Letting him hang himself in front of the woman they both wanted.

  Marching him out the door.

  Telling him in no uncertain terms not to contact Laura again.

  Suggesting with a cold smile that he not waste time in getting the hell off Ashmore Park.

  He’d gone there to protect her, to save her, to shield her from the consequences of her actions. Yes, of course, she was lonely, and she was thirty-one, in her sexual prime – everyone knew about women that age. And she was a widow, lonely for a man, and Ashmore was a childhood friend. She’d probably been anxious to prove that she still had what it took to attract a man. He had no doubt in his mind, at all, who had maneuvered whom into bed. Ashmore had taken advantage of her, preying on her loneliness and vulnerability, wooing her with that Southern charm and those damn blue eyes.

  She’d needed rescuing. Cam had protected her, kept her safe from the world. She’d been out there alone, an innocent in need of a guardian. He’d ridden into battle eagerly, knowing his noble duty, to save his misguided lady.

  Instead – the remainder of the tequila threatened to come up – Ashmore had seized the moment. He’d championed her, protected her. And he had cast Mark, the man who had loved her for years, as the villain.

  And she had bought it. Stupid bitch. Stupid, stupid girl.

  He sat back in his brother’s leather chair, and covered his face with his hands.

  And there, in the privacy of his brother’s study, Mark St. Bride cried.

  After a while – a long while, he heard the grandfather clock in the entrance chime three – he turned wearily to his computer. He checked the overnight figures, ran through his email – dear Lord, the emails never ceased, a flood of this and that, should they pursue this new lead, would he approve that capital expenditure, as if he cared anymore. He wished St. Bride Data at the bottom of the sea. He approved some items, tabled some others, sent a few meeting requests, and saw an email from Dell Barnes about the upcoming tour.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Barnes was an experienced artist manager and knew the drill; he was keeping Mark in the loop about the latest sales in Scandinavia and the progress of negotiations with an international couturier to feature Cat Courtney as the face of an exclusive new fragrance. The email included a link to the press release issued by Hampton Roads Club and Tavern; Mark clicked the link automatically and let his exhausted eyes scan through the web page.

  And a name caught his eye.

  Diana Ashmore. The wife. The forgotten one in that little drama, as Ashmore had put it. And, although she seemed to have overlooked it, Laura’s sister. So what did Diana think about all this? Did she even care? Was it just peachy keen with her that her husband was screwing her sister?

  Maybe she was indifferent. After all, he’d done it before.

  Or maybe she cared, but felt helpless to do anything about it.

  Mark switched to his digital copy of the PI’s report and looked for Diana Ashmore’s contact information. The report listed three numbers for her: home, club, and cell. He jotted them down. And, for a time, he sat there, with only the light from the screen illuminating the room, and stared at the numbers.

  Was it right to stand idly by, when a woman needed help against her unscrupulous husband? Had he ridden into battle to help the wrong lady?

  The temptation to let Diana Ashmore know what her husband was up to surged over him. Pick up that phone, speak the truth, bring Richard Ashmore’s world crashing down…. And wouldn’t he be doing the right thing, to clue in the wronged wife, hear her gasp in outrage, urge her to take her revenge? Let her know, if she was running short on cash to mount an attack against that bastard, she didn’t stand alone against the Ashmore name and trust fund, he’d foot the legal bills and help her take the man to the cleaners?

  Except that Ashmore still had some money, and he had Lucy Maitland on his side. He’d seen the tight bond between the foster siblings. And helping Diana Ashmore break her husband in a divorce would only free bastard that much sooner so he could marry the nearest heiress at hand.

  He sat back and beat the pen against the desk. The downside of calling Diana Ashmore was that he couldn’t trust her. She might do exactly as he suggested, or she might slam the phone down and let Ashmore know – or call that bitch Lucy, who had looked cool enough to slice him up and fry him for breakfast without turning a hair. He wasn’t going to underestimate either of them.

  He turned back to the desktop and went to the beta search engine that his brother had been working on before his death. No reason, he thought later, trying to reconstruct his thought processes. Just a desire to see where the press release had been picked up.

  He typed in Cat Courtney and clicked the option to sort by descending date.

  He expected to see nothing but the press release repeated in various media outlets, and, indeed, most of the search results page listed nothing but Hampton Roads area ne
wspapers and broadcast web sites. The same title appeared in a monotonous string – Cat Courtney to Headline Benefit for St. Blaise Neonatal Wing – most of the way down the page.

  Except for two entries.

  One, a post on a locked family message board, complete with the true name of Cat Courtney. Mark made a mental note – so Diana had outed her sister. Hardly a friendly action. She might have her uses after all.

  Then a blog from something called the Mass Observer. He clicked the link.

  Guess what Miss Cat Courtney is up to these days? How the hell had this guy stumbled across Laura’s little fling? Keeping company with a long tall architect – what idiots they had been! Why hadn’t they taken out an ad for their adulterous weekend away! Miss Cat obsessively clinging to her man last weekend at Monticello – he knew about that already, the GPS log had shown her movements throughout the weekend, including the B&B where she and Ashmore had spent the night, no doubt going at each other like crazed weasels.

  I’m his mistress.

  She’d admitted it. She’d boasted about it.

  She had no shame. She was every wanton thing he’d ever suspected a woman could be. She was – nausea rose in his throat – like Emma, slave to her appetites.

  And he had actually thought to make this woman his wife, treat her like a queen, enthrone her as his consort. He would never have treated her as Ashmore had, taking her off for a dirty little weekend, using her like some prostitute hired for the night. Driving every shred of decency out of her empty little head, so that she had proudly proclaimed their illicit relationship to the world.

  I’m his mistress. At least, as Jake the blogger had said, she had gotten the words right.

  Mark’s eyes narrowed.

  Richard Ashmore had knocked him off his high horse. Laura had taken his weapon from him.

  But now Jake, of Jake’s Jottings – a guy with a receding hairline and a scraggly beard, from the none-too-flattering picture on the blog – put the sword right back in his hand.

  He clicked the Email Jake link, clicked back to the family message board, and copied the URL to paste into an email.

  A few minutes later, Mark St. Bride went to bed – his own, this time – and slept until noon, in the deep and profound slumber of the just.

  Chapter 20: The Moving Finger

  IT BEGAN AS A SPARK IN CYBERSPACE – that vast forest that existed nowhere at all.

  An email sent in the dead of night, bearing only a link to the message Amy Stewart had tried so hard to get someone to delete.

  A columnist who asked his sleepy girlfriend, “Did she say she was the Richard expert?”

  A small addendum to a blog – only a spark.

  ~•~

  Richard Ashmore found the note when he and Julie returned from Eucharist.

  Richard,

  I’m so sorry to do this in writing, but Meg and I need to go away for a few days. We had thought that Cam was just gone, and this has shaken us badly. Coming on the heels of Mark’s scene yesterday, she and I need to be together – alone – and help each other through this.

  I’m taking her to the Greenbrier. They have videoconferencing rooms in the business center, so she can finish her summer school. The hotel is very secure, and Mark won’t find us. I’ve got one of the suites. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone, but I have to be in rehearsals by next Monday, so we will be back before then.

  I can’t take Max with me because he gets carsick. Please take care of him. He’s not a bother – he naps most of the time. I’ve left plenty of cat food, and I’ve changed his box. I left a schedule for his feedings – if he tells you he needs a mid-evening snack, don’t listen to him.

  I’ve changed the GPS codes on our cell phones, and I’ve called the satellite company and changed our numbers. I’ve listed them below. I’m not trying to hide from you or Lucy, and I WILL BE BACK!

  I am so, so sorry I have brought all this on you. Until I came back, you had made such a peaceful life for yourself and Julie, and I’ve ruined it. I am so sorry Mark barged in there and made such a scene and said those things in front of her, but even more I am sorry that, because of me, he spied on you and invaded your privacy. I love you so much, and I never want to do anything to hurt you. I feel I have not been a positive force in your life, and I am going to get myself away from the St. Brides once and for all. I promise that never again will a member of that family interfere with you or Lucy or Julie.

  Tell Julie I am so sorry about her camp – maybe it’s not too late? Maybe she can still go?

  I am so grateful to you and Lucy for what you did yesterday. I wish I could express to you how much I admire the way you handled Mark – cool and calm and dignified. I wish I had maintained my composure as well as you did. Please tell Lucy I will follow her advice and have already started. I sent an email to the property management company for Edwards Lake, asking if the owners want to sell. I got the idea last week before the robbery. While I still feel a bit spooked about living there, I can get over that – I’ll put in a state-of-the-art security system.

  Our cab is here – he’s taking us to the car rental agency. I love you.

  Laura

  ~•~

  “They’re gone?” Julie peered at the letter. “Where?”

  “West Virginia,” said Richard automatically, and read it again.

  His first reaction was surprise that he felt so blank. She had left. No matter that she was not leaving him, or that she had given him every means to contact her. He didn’t doubt that she’d come back – she had left her cat, prowling around the kitchen, as collateral against her return. But she had left, and the house felt empty and bereft.

  He walked into the solarium and found Meg’s barre and workout mat gone. Upstairs, his bed was neatly made, but the few traces of Laura’s presence had vanished.

  He took the kitchen stairs back down to the island where he had left her letter. A third reading brought a different reaction; a cleansing anger swept through him. At Mark St. Bride, for driving a wedge of guilt between them. At Cameron St. Bride, for still being a force in her life. At her, for once again taking the weight of the world on her shoulders and trying to deal with everything herself.

  “Dad?” Julie appeared in the doorway. “Meg’s room is empty. Are they coming back?”

  His daughter was watching him, a fearful look on her face, as though he might blame her for their departure. On the way to Eucharist, they’d discussed her behavior, and he had warned her that he expected nothing but her best from here on out. “They’ll be back at the end of the week. They have a lot to deal with – they need some peace and quiet.”

  Julie nodded and bit her lip. He put the letter down on the counter and found Max’s feeding instructions. Laura had written out a precise schedule, which can to use for which meal of the day. He laid down the sheet and realized, with a start, that he had no idea what he was going to do next.

  Julie, though, had an idea. “Can I still go to camp?”

  He looked at her, and a thought crossed his mind. “Yes, you can,” he said, “at least for this week. How soon can you get ready to go?”

  ~•~

  Lucy Maitland tried hard, really she did. She tried to think about love and forgiveness and turning the other cheek, even as the priest exhorted the congregation to pony up for the new capital campaign. She tried to remember that she was supposed to love Mark St. Bride as her brother, even if she wanted to kick him in his overly soft posterior and then pound him into the ground.

  When that didn’t work, she decided to think about something else. And the most inviting subject at hand was the search for her missing sister.

  All through the rest of church, she let her mind chew on what little she and Richard had uncovered. During the preparation of the gifts, she thought about “Francesca Dane” and wondered how on earth someone could hide with a name like that. During Communion, her mind wandered to the problem of finding the ER doctor husband. During the final blessing, she tried to fi
gure out a way, once she actually located her sister, to approach her. Hey, Francie, remember me? The sister who used to swat you out of the way? Let’s chat.

  But her Eureka! moment came in the middle of their customary Sunday brunch, four couples getting together in Merchants Square to eat fried chicken and exchange business and personal gossip. Two of the couples had attended the Ashmore & McIntire party, and everyone wanted the inside scoop on Cat Courtney and – after a couple of minutes, no one attempted to be delicate about it – the obvious conflict that had played out on stage. And then someone said the magic words. “Strange those two look alike when you and Cat are so different. Does your other sister look like her?”

  “Two peas in a pod,” said Lucy, and it hit her.

  Not Francie hiding with that name, but Francie hiding with that face. Hadn’t someone ever mistaken her for Cat Courtney?

  But someone had. Of course, someone had.

  Tom was the first to notice Lucy staring straight through him.

  “What’s up?” he said. “Are you okay?”

  Lucy scarcely recognized her own voice. “Twins. That’s it.”

  “What?” One of the women overheard, and then suddenly around the table, a cacophony. “Lucy! Are you having twins?”

  Tom stared back at her, his face white. “Twins? I thought the ultrasound showed—”

  “It did,” said Lucy, and fumbled for her phone. “Only one, folks, sorry. Excuse me – I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Out in the lobby, her message went straight to Richard’s voice mail. She glanced at her watch. He ought to be out of church by now, able to pick up the call. Unusual for him to be out of reach – maybe he had gone out riding and had left his phone behind.

  She couldn’t wait to run it by him. Twins. Amy’s brother in his email: Must be some truth to that old saw about all of us having a doppelganger. And the “sightings” of Cat Courtney over the years: Boston, Dallas, Miami, Seattle.