by Nicola Marsh
Then he dumped me.
I’d seen it coming. He didn’t know I’d snuck into Francesca Mayfair’s eighteenth birthday party. I’d feigned a migraine because I didn’t want to go to a party filled with rich kids intent on drinking their body weight in alcohol. But when I’d looked out the upper story window from his godparents’ house next door and seen him talking to some girl in a secluded part of the garden, I’d had no option.
I’d slipped into the party along the fence line, staying in the shadows, listening, watching. I’d thought Roland adored me, that he’d never do anything to hurt me. I’d talk about the future and he’d listen intently, nodding in all the right places. He’d take me to banking conferences and I saw the pride on his face when I conversed with his colleagues as an equal, my love of numbers matching theirs.
But the night of that stupid party changed everything.
I saw him chatting with her and didn’t think much of it until later, when he came in to check on me. I knew in an instant he’d changed. His eyes had been shining and he’d smiled more in the fifteen minutes discussing the party than he had in the previous month. I never would’ve picked my stable boyfriend to be smitten with a woman so quickly but that’s exactly what happened and it terrified me.
I insisted we leave the next day, expecting him to follow. Instead, he called my bluff. For the next twenty-four hours after I got home, I alternated between wanting to slash his suits or throw his clothes on the lawn. I did neither, taking my frustration out at the local gym in a kick-boxing marathon that left me three pounds lighter.
When he walked through the door the next day, I was beyond relieved. He wouldn’t have come home so soon if anything had happened with that girl. He would’ve stuck around. But then he started talking about how he hadn’t been happy for a while, how our relationship had become stagnant, how he wanted to be on his own to do some thinking. BS clichés, all of it, because I knew in my gut that she had caused this.
That stupid, young, naive upstart with her big blue eyes and glossy blonde hair, who’d taken one look at my man and wanted him for herself.
I wanted to hurt Roland but I couldn’t. I loved him too much.
So I watched from a distance as he brought her home. As she moved in with him. As they strolled every evening after he finished work, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, grinning like idiots.
I couldn’t hurt Roland but when I heard he asked her to marry him, I toyed with her. I keyed the car he bought for her. I left a gutted squirrel on her doorstep. I smeared dog crap over her shoes by the front door. Yet she stayed and the day I saw them come back from City Hall and he carried her over the threshold of the house that should’ve been mine, I realized I’d lost.
She’d won the grand prize, Roland, and I got nothing.
I wanted to move away, to make a fresh start, but my obsession with the only man I’d ever loved was too great. I kept my distance from them but I watched. For years. Until my opportunity came.
She left.
And my Roland had a broken heart only an old friend could mend, and I finally had a chance to win back the love of my life.
I orchestrated a few chance meetings—at the supermarket mostly—pretending I didn’t know about the separation until he told me. I had sympathy down to a fine art by the time I asked him out for coffee and while it gutted me to sit there and listen to him drone on about how much he missed her I knew being patient would earn me a second chance.
It came a year later when his divorce papers were signed, sealed and delivered. That night, Roland lost himself in me. Our friendship slipped back into relationship territory and rather than shove me away again as I half expected, he continued to date me. But I never moved in and I got the feeling he considered me as a friend with benefits. It was enough. Until it wasn’t.
So I did what I had to do.
I got pregnant.
Surely a baby would bind us and I’d get the wedding ring I’d coveted for years?
But marriage had changed Roland. She’d changed him. And while he said he’d support me and would be as involved in our child’s life as I wanted, he didn’t make our relationship official let alone propose. I got the feeling he was still pining for her, even though he’d told me she’d remarried. She’d moved on, why couldn’t he?
When I asked how he knew about her marriage, he got evasive. Worse, he looked guilty, like he’d seen her. I pried but got nothing out of him. Until not that long ago, when I’d pushed and he’d exploded, spilling the god-awful truth.
It should’ve destroyed me.
Instead, the truth set me free.
Sixty-Six
Saylor
I haven’t touched alcohol since I got pregnant but after Frankie leaves my house I pour myself a glass of wine and barely make it to the sofa before I collapse, my legs wobbling as much as my resolve to keep this farce going.
Now that Frankie knows the truth, I’ve lost my leverage. I can’t hold the baby’s paternity over Andre any longer. Even though I don’t know he’s the father for sure, I haven’t told him that. The threat of exposing his one-night stand with me and the resultant pregnancy to his wife had been enough to ensure he’d pay up to buy my silence. Or so I thought.
I stare at the wine, a rich red from Napa, and swirl it around and around, craving a sip but worrying I’ll hurt the baby. I may be a horrible person but the bigger my belly gets, and the more kicks I feel, the more protective I become. I never wanted a child so soon. I can barely look after myself let alone a baby and the responsibility is enormous. And now… I’ll have to tell Lloyd everything. He needs to hear it from me before my blackmailer tells the world and my husband’s and parents’ lives are ruined. I owe him that much.
I hear a key in the door and I push up into a sitting position. He isn’t due home until tomorrow and I’d been counting on that time to compose myself, to try and come up with a way to tell him that doesn’t make me look like a monster.
As the door swings open and he catches sight of me, his lips easing into a grin, I burst into tears.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He closes the door, drops his wheelie suitcase in the hallway and rushes to comfort me. “Not quite the greeting I expect when I come home early from my trip as a surprise for my expectant wife.”
I can’t speak past the lump in my throat and he bundles me into his arms, only pausing to take the wine glass from my hand and place it on the coffee table, one eyebrow raised before he pulls me close.
I sob my heart out, my eyes stinging and my nose clogged until I can barely breathe. He still holds me, smoothing my back, pressing his cheek to the top of my head, and his consideration makes me cry harder.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” he murmurs, easing me away, concern creasing his brow as he pushes my hair out of my face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Everything,” I say, punctuated by a hiccup, and I’m surprised when the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement.
“At the risk of you hitting me, you sure this isn’t the result of a hormonal surge?” He pretends to duck. “And you’re making a catastrophe out of something small?”
If only.
I scoot away from him, needing to establish some distance between us if I’m to tell him the truth. I need to see the disgust on his face, to see him recoil from me, to reinforce how badly I’ve hurt this caring human being.
Lloyd is nothing like Ruston and Andre. He would never cheat or lie or take advantage of anyone. He wouldn’t obsess over an ex or marry an upstanding person on the rebound. He wouldn’t have a one-night stand and lie to his partner about everything.
How can I tell him any of this?
He’ll never understand.
I’m almost as afraid of his reaction as I am of what the blackmailer’s going to do when I tell him I can’t pay him. I’ll have to warn my folks, see the confusion morph into derision in their eyes when they realize what kind of daughter they have. Worse, watch them lose everything they�
��ve spent a lifetime building: a thriving church in several cities, the devotion of their followers, the respect of a community. It’s gut-wrenching.
“You’re scaring me.” He reaches for my hand and I snatch it away, earning another raised eyebrow.
“I’ve been lying to you from the start,” I say in a rush, the words tumbling over themselves, harsh in the silence of the room. “Lying about our relationship, the baby, why I wanted to move here, all of it.”
My breath hitches as I wait for his reaction and I wrap my arms across my belly. I can’t do much to save myself but I can protect my unborn child.
His expression is eerily blank, his eyes glassy.
“Did you hear me? You, me, this baby? All of it is a lie.”
That’s when the oddest thing happens. He shrugs, like my deception hasn’t torn our world apart.
“I know,” he says, his flat tone as scary as the strange smile on his face.
“How—”
“Because I’m the person blackmailing you.”
Sixty-Seven
Celeste
The cover of darkness is perfect when we arrive at the cottage. Not that anybody’s around. I found this place, not much bigger than a studio apartment really, when I first followed Francesca here after she left Roland.
I wanted to make sure their separation wasn’t a ruse, that I had a real shot with him again. But I guess the joke was on me when she didn’t stay here long. I think her parents had moved or they were estranged, because when Francesca returned to Gledhill she stayed in a B&B in the heart of town. She did a lot of walking, mostly along the promenade in town and she spent the afternoons sitting on a bench near a path leading to the beach, staring at the ocean.
I half expected her to have second thoughts, to crawl back to Roland begging for another chance. I’d been worried when she left Gledhill and returned to the beach house in New Haven, but they had zero contact before she headed to Manhattan. I’d never known relief like it.
My cottage is the last one on a dead-end street. The housing in this estate, about fifteen minutes from town, all looks alike, short-term rentals for people who want to get away from it all and can’t afford the exorbitant Hamptons’ prices. I know the three cottages nearest to mine are empty. The realtor had pointed out nobody liked to be stuck down the end of a road that led nowhere.
Nobody except me.
I need the privacy. Long enough to decide what to do.
I’ve come here to visit Roland, so Violette can see her father. Luna too.
Though I’ll have to tread carefully with Luna. I can’t tell her the truth—that Roland is her biological father too—until she’s really bonded with Violette and accepts her as her sister. I don’t want to terrify the poor girl.
The girls don’t stir as I park the car around the back and unlock the back door. I carry each of them inside and lay them on top of the covers in matching beds. Pink, with fairies dotted over the white pillowcases and the blankets I carefully place over them. After switching on a night light, I close the door but not fully shut. I don’t want either of them waking in the middle of the night and being scared.
Once I’ve unloaded all the bags from the trunk, my arms are aching and I’m unsteady on my feet. Must be the adrenaline wearing off.
I can’t believe I’m here.
And tomorrow morning, we’ll be seeing Roland.
Initially, I’d hated that Francesca didn’t know him as well as me and had no idea of his second middle name—Walter Charles Roland White, such a majestic name—but it’s become invaluable in the ruse I’ve perpetuated. She has no idea my Roland was once her Walter.
I just wish I’d had more time to prepare Luna to be absorbed into our family, but once I heard Frankie had gone to the beach house looking for him I couldn’t take the risk of sticking around.
I had to escape.
Once I see Roland tomorrow, I’ll know what to do. I’m in a precarious position. Kidnapping charges can be laid, but technically I took the girls on a trip to see their father. I can lie and say I had every intention of returning. That this whole thing is one giant mix-up. Besides, when the truth comes out, Frankie will be the one who looks bad for lying to everyone, especially her husband and daughter.
At least, that’s what I hope. All I want is to bring our family together. We can’t stay here, and once I get some clarity after seeing Roland I’ll know where to take our newly formed family.
I’ve never had a proper family and it’s all I’ve ever wanted. A mom, a dad, and kids sitting around a dinner table, sharing anecdotes from our day, passing the beans and mashed potato, basking in the warmth of security.
That’s Roland’s only flaw. He never understood how much I craved to belong. Even though he didn’t ask me to marry him or move in, I know once I present him with his other daughter and he sees how close Vi and Luna are, he’ll have no option but to ask us to become a family.
When he’d flung the horrible truth at me the last time we met, using it as a weapon to drive me away, I’d been furious. I’d overreacted. But when the enormity of Vi having a sibling sunk in, I saw the positive side, even if it meant I had to play nice with Frankie so I could have the family I’ve always wanted.
I’ve never met a more self-absorbed, shallow person in all my life. All she cares about is her precious bloody image online, creating the perfect persona. How would her followers feel if they knew the truth? That she cheated on her husband and lied to him about the paternity of their daughter?
I’ve resented her for so much over the years. For stealing Roland from me, for using him then dumping him, for hurting him, for ruining my life. Now she’ll feel what it’s like to lose a person she loves, to have her world ripped apart.
Luna is my only concern in all of this. I love Vi with all my heart so as a doting mother I know Luna is going to miss Frankie. I can only dress up this situation as a grand adventure for so long before she starts pining for her parents. I’m hoping Roland will help with that too.
I know him. He’ll think I’m crazy, that I need to return Luna immediately. But I know my Roland better than he knows himself. He may be upstanding and law-abiding, but once I explain the situation and accentuate the dream of us being a family, he’ll come around.
All I’ve ever wanted is to give Vi the sibling she wants so badly. That’s what this entire escapade has been about. It’s what had driven the final confrontation with Roland. When I’d begged him to have another child with me, for Vi’s sake.
Our argument had been ferocious. I’d never seen him lose his temper like that, and when he’d flung in my face that he’d never have another child with me because he already had another daughter with his ex-wife, I’d lost it too.
Because of his precious bloody Frankie, Vi wouldn’t get the sister she deserved.
Until I realized she could.
She already had a sister.
Luna.
And bringing the girls together has been my number one objective since.
One of the girls cries out in her sleep and I hope it’s not Luna as I tiptoe toward their bedroom, determined not to wake them. It will be hard enough facing their relentless questions in the morning.
I peek through the gap in the doorway and sigh in relief when I see they’re both still sleeping, though Luna is tossing a little. I want to rush in there, to soothe her, to reassure her that everything will be okay.
It has to be.
Sixty-Eight
Frankie
When I refuse to go to the police station to meet up with Andre and have him come with me to Gledhill, Ruston insists on driving me. I’m resistant but he’s adamant and in a way I’m glad. It would’ve been difficult concentrating on the road when my mind is mush and the adrenaline coursing through my body is making me tremble intermittently.
He doesn’t ask why I don’t want Andre to accompany us, though when I initially yelled at him for suggesting it he cast me a knowing look. That’s when I remember that scene between
him and Saylor, and how Celeste had said Ruston had fathered her baby. If so, why was she pointing the finger at Andre? Not that it makes me any less angry; Saylor has admitted they’ve slept together, so whether Andre is the father of her child or not is irrelevant. He’s cheated on me, again.
When I first figured out Celeste is Walt’s Julia, I wondered if Andre might be Violette’s father and that’s why he warned me against befriending Celeste initially. What I’d thought of as a huge coincidence at the time he confessed, his first one-night stand being in Hartford where I’d once lived with Walt, could be significant as it’s also where Celeste/Julia resided as it turns out. And if Saylor’s unborn child is Andre’s too, my seemingly devoted husband has fathered two illegitimate children.
Appalled at the thought, my throat constricts. And while it won’t change anything if Andre isn’t the father of Saylor’s baby—I still hate him for betraying me again—I must ask, “Did you have an affair with Saylor?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road but his hands clench the steering wheel tighter. “Where did that come from?”
“When you found me having a meltdown on my front steps, I’d just learned my husband is the father of Saylor’s baby.”
He’s silent but his knuckles are now so prominent they appear translucent in the dimness of the car. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. But you didn’t answer my question. Did you two have an affair?”
It’s stupid, that even now when Saylor’s shattered my trust in my husband, a small part of me hopes her baby isn’t Andre’s, and that if she slept with Ruston too, maybe there’s a chance it’s his?
