Bed of Lies

by Shelly Ellis

  “Hello, Evan,” Agatha said, gesturing for him to come inside.

  “Hello, Agatha,” he said, taking on the formal tone that he often did with his in-law.

  “Charisse is in the sunroom waiting for you.” She pursed her wrinkled lips. “She wanted to smoke and it’s the only place in the house where I’ll allow her to do it. She smokes all the time now.”

  He nodded and turned toward the room that he had been to a few times over the course of the past six years. He paused when he felt Agatha suddenly reach out and clamp a firm hand around his arm. He stared at her in amazement. She had never touched him before except when she had given him a stiff hug on his and Charisse’s wedding day.

  “I wish you two all the luck in the world,” she had whispered in his ear that day, though he never believed she had meant it.

  “Please hear her out,” Agatha said quietly. “Give her a chance to explain herself.” She let go of his arm. “I’ve never been one for rehab. Those television shows make it look so silly with people sitting around in circles, crying about their lives. Why can’t they just stop using drugs or alcohol? Why make such a big fuss about it? That’s what I always thought.” She adjusted the cardigan around her neck. “Why do they feel so sorry for themselves? Why the excuses? But I think it’s done wonders for Charisse. I think it’s helped her to get better, Evan. She’s . . . she’s a changed woman.”

  He frowned. He highly doubted that. No amount of detox or therapy would suddenly make Charisse an angel. Besides, even if she had finally gone cold turkey and let go of the booze, his problems with her went deeper than alcohol. Their relationship had been dysfunctional for years and had finally imploded. He hoped today’s meeting wasn’t a misguided attempt to salvage their marriage. If it was, he’d let her know that was out of the question. He was in love with Leila. They were going to have a baby. He was moving on.

  He didn’t respond to Agatha. Instead, he silently followed the series of hallways to the sunroom toward the back of the house. When he opened the glass door, he found Charisse sitting on one of the wicker sofas with one leg dangling over the terra-cotta tile and the other on the sofa, her knee propping up an arm. A lit cigarette dangled from her fingertips and she anxiously seemed to scan her phone in her other hand. When he shut the door behind him, she looked up.

  “Ev!” she said, suddenly hopping to her feet. She leaned down and extinguished her cigarette in a nearby glass ashtray. “You came!”

  In the old days, even when she had her worst hangovers, she had always looked immaculate and impeccably dressed. But today she was disheveled. Her blond hair—which had grown longer in the past several months—was in a haphazard ponytail atop her head. She wore a T-shirt that was so loose it hung off one shoulder. She had on blue yoga pants and floppy sandals. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but her face looked healthy—freshly scrubbed and glistening, making her seem younger than her thirty-two years.

  Agatha had been right. Charisse certainly had changed—on the outside, anyway.

  “Of course I came. I told you I would,” he answered bluntly.

  She lowered her blue eyes. “You’re right. You did. It’s just . . . you had rescheduled so many times that I wasn’t sure if you were just going to . . . Oh, never mind.” She waved her hand dismissively and gestured to an adjacent sofa. “Have a seat.”

  He did as she ordered. She fell back on the other sofa. The sunroom descended into an awkward silence as they gazed at one another.

  Evan raised his eyebrows expectantly. “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “I did.” She looked down at her hands and licked her lips. “I-I do want to talk . . . to you about . . . about things.”

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa with impatience. “What things, Charisse?”

  “Well, part of my counseling for alcohol addiction involved coming to terms with mistakes we’ve made in the past. We’re . . . we’re not supposed to dwell on them. We can’t change what’s been done, but we have to acknowledge it . . . acknowledge the people we’ve wronged in the course of our addiction.” She cleared her throat and finally raised her eyes to look at him again. “I’ve . . . I’ve wronged you, Ev.”

  That is the understatement of the year, he thought.

  “And I’m sorry.”

  An apology? He stopped drumming his fingers.

  Charisse had been completely unapologetic during their marriage, blaming him for her shortcomings, saying that he was the reason she was miserable. He was shocked to hear her finally take some responsibility.

  “And I’m not just sorry for having an affair with Dante or being a drunk and such a shitty wife. I should have been more honest with you. That’s what husbands and wives are supposed to do. I never really gave our marriage a fair chance. I hope . . . I hope you can forgive me for all that I’ve done.”

  He leaned back and sighed. “That’s a lot to ask, Charisse.”

  “I know. I know! I don’t expect you to do it overnight, b-but I don’t want us to hate each other anymore. I certainly don’t hate you, Ev.”

  He leaned forward and gazed at her. “Look, I don’t hate you, either . . . not anymore, anyway. I’m past that point. I just want us to heal, get better, and move on.”

  “Move on?” She grabbed for her pack of cigarettes again and a lighter from the glass coffee table. “You mean you want to start all over again with that woman?”

  “Her name is Leila,” he said tightly.

  She lit her cigarette and shoved it into her mouth. “You told me she was just your secretary. That nothing was going on between you.”

  “And there was nothing going on between us . . . at the time.”

  “At the time.” She laughed coldly and took a drag from her cigarette. “But she was well on her way to becoming your mistress, right? So I called it a week early. So what!”

  “And I was under the impression that you and Dante weren’t fucking each other, but I was wrong, now, wasn’t I?” he said bitterly. “What’s your point?”

  She blew smoke from the side of her mouth in an angry gust. “The point is, Evan, that yes, I cheated. But you cheated, too,” she said, pointing her finger at him.

  “You know what I did was different.”

  “How the hell is it different?” she shouted.

  “Because I love her! She and I struggled with what we were doing! I bet you didn’t even think twice before you fucked him. You didn’t give a shit about me or our marriage! You told me so yourself!”

  “Fine! Fine, Ev.” She took another drag from her cigarette and blew out another gust of smoke. “You’re right. Is that what you want to hear? I didn’t care. I didn’t think twice about being with Dante . . . but I told you, I was wrong! I know that now. But so were you! I just don’t understand why it means we have to . . .”

  Her words faded and he inclined his head. “It means we have to what?”

  “Why it means we . . . we have to give up on each other,” she said softly, making him roll his eyes. “Why can’t we try to make this work?”

  “Okay.” He rose from the sofa, buttoning his suit jacket and shaking his head in disgust. “So that’s what this is really about? You want to try to reconcile? Are you insane? Do you remember what our marriage was like? It was pure hell!”

  “It wasn’t always that way!” she cried, shooting to her feet. “We were happy once! Don’t deny it! We were—”

  “For a very brief period of time . . . yes, we were happy. But there’s too much that’s gone on. And damn it, I told you, I’ve found someone else! I’m in love with her. Leila and I are getting married!”

  “You can’t marry her!” she screeched, dropping her cigarette to the tiled floor. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her face flushed crimson. “You can’t marry her, Evan, because you’re still married to me! You’re still my husband, even if that bitch wants to pretend like you’re not. Even if you want to pretend like you’re not!”

  His jaw clenched. She wasn’t going to sign the paper
s. She wasn’t ready to move on. He could see it on her face now. Coming here had been a total waste of time. He turned on his heel to head back to the sunroom door, but he was stopped when she suddenly grabbed the back of his jacket and then his arm.

  “Evan, please! Please wait! Listen to me!”

  “There’s nothing to listen to,” he muttered, shoving her away, but she grabbed for him again.

  “When we got married, we didn’t have a chance because I was messed up! I was broken!” she cried, clutching at him. She tugged at his jacket lapels and he tried to pry her thin fingers away from the fabric but her grip was unyielding. “I couldn’t be a wife. I was barely a human being! I had to drink! I had to make myself feel better.”

  Oh Jesus Christ, he thought, now beyond exhausted. And now his hangover headache was worse despite the aspirin he had swallowed. How had he walked into this ambush? Why had he come here?

  “Evan, I couldn’t stand to look at myself. I hated everything about me! I couldn’t believe I let him touch me like that. I let him do those things to me for all those years!”

  Evan paused. “What the hell are you talking about? Who’s he? Who touched you?”

  “My father!” she choked, her voice hitching in her throat. “Since I was five years old . . . since I was a little girl, he abused me. He did things to me a father should . . . should never do.”

  Evan stilled. He stared at his wife in shock.

  She finally dropped her hands from his lapels and covered her face, which was now clouded with grief and humiliation.

  “It happened for years,” she whispered behind her hands. “He told me not to tell Mom. He told me it was our secret. That’s how we . . . That’s how we bonded. He wouldn’t touch me any other way. He never hugged me. Never kissed me on the cheek. But in my bedroom he would finally show me affection, so . . . so I let him. I kept our secret. Every time I’d feel so dirty afterward. So dirty!” She suddenly burst into fresh sobs. Her shoulders shook with each cry and she seemed to double over with them.

  Evan stared at her, unsure of what to do. He started to reach for her, then felt himself being shoved aside. Agatha had swung open the sunroom door and rushed into the room. She wrapped her arms around her sobbing daughter.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered into her ear, clutching her like she was an infant. “It’s okay.”

  Evan stared at the two women, feeling like his feet were rooted in place. Finally, he eased toward the sunroom door. They didn’t seem to notice. Charisse continued to cry and Agatha continued to coo reassuring words into her ear. He stepped through the doorway and softly shut the door behind him, feeling as if a sledgehammer had just been dropped onto his head.

  For the first time in a long time, Evan had no plans to go back to the office after a midday excursion. Work still awaited him on his laptop and his desk. He had a meeting scheduled with the company auditor that would have to be canceled. His mind was unfocused now, more riddled with holes than Swiss cheese. He would be useless back at the office.

  After his meeting with Charisse, he stood outside Agatha McPhee’s home under her portico, leaning against one of the Ionic-style columns, patiently waiting for Bill to return. He was too shaken even to make the phone call to tell Bill to come to get him earlier than planned. He finally walked toward the Town Car a little after two o’clock as Bill held the door open for him.

  “I didn’t know you had been waiting, sir.” Bill’s easy smile faded as he looked at his boss more closely. “Is . . . is everything okay, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “Everything is fine,” Evan lied before climbing inside.

  He slumped into the leather car seat and stared at the car’s ceiling, reflecting on everything Charisse had told him today.

  He now saw her father’s standoffishness toward him in a new light. Thomas McPhee hadn’t been cold to Evan for years because he had thought he wasn’t good enough for his daughter; it was because he had seen Evan as a competing lover. Just the thought made Evan feel nauseated. How had Charisse kept this secret for all these years? Why hadn’t she told anyone? He tried to think back, to consider moments when he should have seen the signs that something was amiss between her and her father: a hand that lingered too long, a look that seemed far from fatherly, or Charisse flinching away from Tom’s touch. But Evan could remember none of that. Their relationship had seemed normal; far from warm or loving, but considering his own family background and his relationship with his own father, it hadn’t raised any alarm bells.

  Worst of all, Evan felt guilt—crippling guilt. Charisse had suffered alone, unable to confess even to him—her husband—her shocking secret. He had been so cruel to her, so dismissive of her drunkenness and her behavior. He had never considered that she was self-medicating. He had never thought she was really hurting inside.

  “That still isn’t the reason your marriage fell apart,” the voice in his head insisted. “Her being abused had nothing to do with her coldness toward you or her cheating.”

  But did it really? Was that true? If she hadn’t endured those horrible things in the past, would their marriage have turned out better?

  He arrived at the Murdoch Mansion thirty minutes later and went directly to his bedroom, barely acknowledging the greeting from his housekeeper or the questioning look Leila’s mother gave him as he passed her in the corridor. When he entered his bedroom, he tiredly stripped off his jacket and tie, tossing both onto the bed. Just as he kicked off his shoes and was about to make his way to his walk-in closet, Leila stepped into the bedroom and stopped mid-stride, looking surprised.

  “Oh,” she said, a smile brightening her face, “I didn’t know you were home! What are you doing here so early?”

  Leila was wearing a blouse and tweed skirt and clutching a large leather binder. He surmised she had probably just finished a meeting with one of her new clients.

  Leila was putting her graphic arts training to good use and had recently started a custom wedding invitation and stationery boutique studio, working out of an office in the guest house. Though she no longer needed to work, Leila insisted she wanted to do something productive, to earn her own money.

  “I can’t just sit around on my hands all day,” she told him four months ago when she started the business. “I have to keep busy!”

  Evan secretly suspected Leila didn’t want to become a housewife again like she had been with her ex-husband. She didn’t want to be financially dependent on Evan like she had been with Brad—and run the risk of having the rug pulled out from under her again.

  Leila now walked toward him and lightly kissed him. He didn’t return her kiss. Instead he stood immobile, like a statue.

  She stepped back and stared up at him apprehensively. “What’s wrong? Rough day?”

  He nodded and slowly walked into his closet, turning on the overhead lights and revealing row upon row of suits, shoes, coats, and shirts. The cedar shelving seemed to tower above him, filling the space with its pungent though calming scent.

  Leila tossed her binder onto the bed and followed him into his closet. She leaned against the doorframe. “What happened?” she asked softly. “Is something going on with Terry again? Paulette?”

  He shook his head.

  “There’s not some big shake-up at Murdoch Conglomerated, is there?”

  “No, nothing like that,” he mumbled, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “So, tell me!” She stepped farther into the closet and wrapped her arms around him. “Tell me what’s wrong, Ev. You’re never home this early, and you look so down. This isn’t like you.”

  “I met . . .” He cleared his throat. “I met with Charisse today and . . . and she told me something I hadn’t expected.”

  Leila furrowed her brows. She took a step back, releasing him. “Wait! You went to see Charisse today? You mean Charisse, your wife?”

  He nodded and watched as her facial expression changed. The brightness disappeared. Her eyes went flat. She crossed her arms over her chest.

&nbs
p; “You didn’t tell me you were going to see her today.”

  He took off his dress shirt, revealing the white tank top underneath. He tossed it into a nearby hamper. “I didn’t know I had to tell you.”

  “You went to see your wife and you didn’t feel the need to tell your fiancée that?”

  “You don’t tell me every time you pick up the phone to talk to Brad, do you?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. She was getting pissed, but frankly so was he. Evan had come home to find solace, not to start another argument. He was too tired to argue.

  “Look, Lee, it wasn’t like I was taking her out for a romantic dinner, okay? I just went to see her because she wanted to talk. She’s been sitting on our divorce papers, refusing to sign them because she said she needed to talk to me first. That’s all! It’s no big deal.”

  Leila sucked her teeth and glared at him, as if silently saying, “I’ll be the judge of that.” Evan ignored her and continued to undress, removing the belt from around his waist and walking to one of the drawers in a dresser positioned in the center of the closet.

  “So what did she say?” Leila cocked an eyebrow. “Did she tell you she wanted to get back together?”

  He suddenly whipped around from the drawer he had just opened and stared at her. “Why’d . . . why’d you ask me that?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Ev. If she hasn’t signed the divorce papers yet and she keeps putting it off, it’s a pretty safe assumption that she’s not ready to let you go. She still wants to keep her hooks in you.” She snorted. “She just can’t let go of that Murdoch money, can she?”

  “It’s not like that! She has her own money. You know that.”

  “Are you . . . are you actually defending her?”

  “I’m not defending her!” he shouted, slamming the drawer shut, startling Leila. “I’m just saying she never—”