CJ has worked hard to tame the demons I carried for so long in my heart. I am no longer haunted by the sins of my family. Sins I did not commit, yet scar me all the same. And my husband makes life as Mrs. Sara Whitford pretty damn good. Yes, I legally changed my name to Sara when we married. It’s who I am. Who I was meant to be. And Sara Whitford lives a life full of laughter and love … and family.
Nothing has changed. The boxwoods are still perfectly sculpted. The lilac bushes are still the precise height as the red brick structures that connect one piece of wrought iron fencing to the next. And the gate, with its rows of black steel topped by sharp arrows, is exactly as I remember.
“You’ve got this, babe.”
I feel his hand squeeze mine as I look over at my husband. In this moment, I couldn’t love him more. That’s because he doesn’t tell me this is a mistake or that there’s still time to turn back. From the minute I told him what needed to be done, all he said was, “Not without me.”
So, here we sit, staring at the gate that I thought I’d never set eyes on again. CJ rolls down the window and presses the call button on the box.
“Harcourt residence. May I help you?”
CJ gives me a look, and I just nod in response. He turns back to the box and replies, “CJ and Sara Whitford for Mr. Harcourt.”
“I’m sorry but Mr. Harcourt is not available. May I ask …”
I lean over CJ towards the open window and look directly into the tall Panicum grass that hides the camera. “Tell him his daughter is here to see him.”
Silence.
Just as I think he’s going to refuse my visit, the gate slowly opens.
We make the ride up the winding drive, stopping at the fountain, but not before CJ positions us for an easy exit. I look at him with one thought on my mind. “I love you.”
He leans towards me and whispers, “I love you, too,” before giving me a soft kiss. I take a deep breath, then exit the car.
In the years since I left, I’ve chosen not to keep tabs on my family. They are the past I have made my peace with. CJ, his family and our friends in Mystic Sands, those people are my family now. My true family. But, I’ve quietly lived in fear of Father showing up on my doorstep, demanding what I’ve kept hidden all of these years and threatening to destroy the happy life I’ve built for myself. And now that I’m pregnant, I need to put this fear to rest, so I can truly be free and clear.
As we approach the large doors, they open before we’re given the chance to ring the bell. A butler I don’t recognize greets us and leads us to the library. Everything is exactly the same. From the decor on the mantel to the rugs on the floor. It makes my skin crawl.
As we’re led down the long, expansive hall, I casually take stock of the portraits that line the walls. I’m not surprised to see that none include me. One, however, is a picture of Nicole surrounded by her parents, Father, Grandmother and Grandfather on what’s obviously her wedding day. I almost feel guilty when I allow the smallest of smiles to surface. Not because Becca’s not in the picture, but because the groom is Matthew Mannheim.
The library, like everything else, looks no different than the day I left. As I turn towards the back wall, I see something new, and step towards it. Framed in lavish gold is a larger than life, hand-painted portrait of Grandmother. At the bottom is a brass plate. It’s engraved with her date of birth, followed by her date of death.
“It will be four years this June.”
Every hair on my neck stands at the sound of his voice. I turn and take in the man before me. Despite his custom suit and perfectly styled hair, Father looks different. Old. Tired.
“She had a stroke a couple of years before she died, not much longer after you left. Lost the ability to speak or care for herself.” Father is looking up at the portrait, into his mother’s eyes. “But it was the pneumonia that finally killed her.” His tone is flat, giving no indication of any sadness, of any feeling whatsoever.
When Father turns to look at me, I feel CJ place a protective hand to my lower back.
“My God, you look just like her.” It’s a pained whisper that instantly makes my blood burn, because he says it like seeing my mom in me is a gift. A gift he doesn’t deserve. I suddenly understand why, for all of those years, he could never bring himself to look at me. Because Fatima was right. It hurt to look at me. It hurt to see her in me.
“Why?” The word falls from my mouth without thinking.
I decided a long time ago that if this day came, I wasn’t going to ask for an explanation or apology. Mostly because I knew I’d never get either and didn’t want to be more disappointed in the man than I already was. But standing here, Father really looking at me for the first time since I was seven, I have to know. But he doesn’t answer, instead just continues to stare at me.
“Why?” This time it comes out with more force, and I faintly notice CJ’s hand gripping my hip.
Just when I’m about to give up on ever getting an answer to a question that has haunted me for years, he walks towards the large window that looks out onto the back lawn, puts his hands in his pockets, and takes a deep breath.
“We met in college while building homes for impoverished families. Did you know that?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “But Grace, she was more interested in the families that would be living in those houses. She said building them a house wasn’t enough, that they needed a plan for their future. So, she talked with them, got to know them as best she could in the month we were there, then sat them down and walked them through the necessary steps to get their GEDs and degrees from the local community college. After we left, she kept in touch with those families, even paid for some of their classes, and went to their graduations.” He pauses a moment before continuing. “I was in awe of her. She was magnetic and driven … kind. Everything I never knew a woman could be. But I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Every man wanted her, and that made me want her that much more. And somehow, I still don’t know how, she picked me. Me.”
“When we had you, I thought, this is it. There’s nothing more I need. But your mom, she didn’t feel the same way. It wasn’t enough for her to be a wife and mother. She wanted to put her degree to work. To ‘do some good,’ she’d say. So we fought. And she and Mother fought. Having the two of them under the same roof …” He shakes his head at the memory. “When Mother realized she couldn’t control her, she turned against her. And as time went on, I allowed Mother’s thoughts and feelings to cloud my own. But Grace, she never gave in to Mother, or me. And I could feel it. I knew she was getting ready to do something, to leave. That’s when I had her followed, her phone calls recorded.”
He turns from the window, facing me with surprisingly wet, red eyes, “It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I swear to you, Christina.”
I don’t recognize the man standing before me. The pain covering Father’s voice shows in every tight line on his face. I’ve never seen this side of Elgin Harcourt before, but that doesn’t change the way I feel about him. It doesn’t change what he did to her.
I attack. With my finger aimed at his chest, I scream, “Well, it did happen! Because, you, you made it happen! I was a child, and I watched my mother die! And if that wasn’t bad enough, you made my life a living hell! All because you were jealous and weak!”
With his fists tight at his sides, he instantly unravels. “They were just supposed to scare her! I swear! It was Mother! She paid them to kill her.” He points fiercely at the portrait, “It was my fucking mother!”
Every molecule of air has just been sucked from the room at the bomb Father has just dropped. We’re left facing off, chests heaving, our faces both wet with tears, neither knowing what to say next.
CJ gets in between us, cupping my face in his hands and bringing my eyes to his. “Sara, honey, breathe. Breathe. He’s not worth it. Okay? He’s not worth it.” He brings his mouth to my ear and whispers, “The baby, Sara, the baby.”
I g
rimace in pain, fighting to calm myself for the baby’s sake. “Breathe,” he repeats. I nod my head and swipe my hands over my cheeks before looking over CJ’s shoulder to see Father. His head is in his hands and his shoulders are shaking violently with each sob that racks his body. I take a single step towards him and wait for him to raise his head. When he looks at me, broken and defeated, I say my final words to my father.
“You had an affair with my best friend. You allowed your mother to take your wife’s life. You ruined the life of your only child.” I look towards the portrait of Grandmother, then back to Father. “I’d tell you to rot in hell, but it looks like you already live there.”
CJ takes my hand and leads me to the car, neither of us looking back.
Six months later, Grace Elizabeth Whitford is born.
Wow. I wrote a book. Who’d have thought. Would you believe in the very first draft, CJ gets shot in the end of Chapter 1? Needless to say, this story has come a LONG way. And it was not the story I set out to write. Regardless, it certainly didn’t happen on it’s own. I received support from so many people, in so many ways, I don’t think ‘thank you’ is enough. But I’ll try.
First and foremost, YOU. Thank you for not only taking a chance on an unknown author, but for spending your time with Christina/Sara and CJ. Love it or hate it, I sincerely appreciate you giving your time to this book.
I started this journey knowing no one. The first people I have to thank for leading the way are Kendall Grey and Danielle Allen. Your kindness and talent brought together an amazing group of writers who shared their knowledge and passion in a way that allowed this book to become a reality. #PIF2015
Robin Hill, even when you were buried in your own MS, you still made time to not only read mine and answer my questions, but pass on links and contacts and anything else you thought could help me along the way. Your advice and your time are appreciated more than I can say.
My very first beta reader, Mila Rossi. Your advice, feedback and kindness have been invaluable. Thank you for not only being there at the beginning, but for reading it all over again when BL neared it’s end. Our time is valuable, and you have been beyond generous with yours.
Danielle Fisher, you came into this process near the end, just when I needed you. Your candor, kindness, and wisdom all gave this book the swift kick in the ass it needed. Thank you—you’re awesome.
My other incredible betas: Cindy Montenegro, Cynthia Parten, Nicole Cross, Kimberly Dallaire, Serena Ricci, Maggie Ulrich and Elle with AlphaBeta. Your thoughts and honesty all made their mark on this book—in the best ways possible. You helped shape this story into what it is today and made me a better writer than I really am. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
The best, best friend a girl could ask for—Christine Trzaska. I’m sure that even if I had a sister, I’d still like you more than her. Thank you for not only not laughing at me when I said I wanted to write a book, but for telling me you loved the first draft (even though, let’s be honest, it was total crap). Then dropping everything to read it all over again at the end and calling me as soon as you finished. Everyone needs someone in their life that they can count on to give it to them straight, and you are that person for me. I’m never breaking up with you.
Kristin Enstrom and Lisa Stehno. You ladies rock! You’ve been my biggest supporters from the minute I let you in on this little project. Thanks for beta reading, your graphic art expertise (K, I can still barely make a FB banner) and all the breakfast meetings in between. You guys are my sounding board and your support means the world to me.
And this wouldn’t have been possible without my husband. Thanks for supporting me since the beginning. I might like you just a little bit more for it, if that’s even possible. And to my boys, thanks for eating more popcorn chicken than the average person should and for not killing each other while I worked. I hope one day you think this is kind of cool.
Heather Bentley grew up in the suburbs of Chicago. Her first book was written at the age of 9 on a flight to Florida that centered around her hopes that the DC-10 she was traveling on wouldn’t nosedive to the ground in a ball of flames. And yes, it was even illustrated. She continues to reside in Illinois with her family and still loves flying about as much as she did back then. Beautiful Lies is her first book.
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Beautiful Lies Page 19
