The Other Woman

by Brenda Novak

  “Oh boy, I’d better warn you, Liz,” she said.

  “Warn me?” Liz echoed.

  “This man is trouble. I can tell already.”

  “Not for me,” she replied confidently. It was, of course, wishful thinking. But she hoped to convince them both. Otherwise, once Georgia returned to the real world and was no longer dazzled by Carter’s charm, she’d remember her loyalties to her son and start drawing up battle lines. Liz didn’t need any additional meddling. Neither did she want to hear Carter say anything that might tempt her back to his cabin.

  “You think you’re immune to his charisma?” Georgia wanted to know.

  Carter and Liz locked gazes; Liz looked away first. “Have you ever read Tennyson’s poem, ‘The Lady of Shalott’?” she asked by way of an answer.

  “The lady of what?” Keith’s mother responded, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She was too busy preening for Carter.

  The easily flattered side of Georgia was one Liz hadn’t seen before. “Forget it,” she said. “It’s not important.”

  Carter seemed unperturbed. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Tennyson,” he said. “But a line from Hamlet comes to mind.”

  “Hamlet?” Liz asked. She hadn’t expected him to respond with a reference to Shakespeare.

  “Something about protesting too quickly,” he replied.

  “That’s protesting too much,” she corrected, pretending he hadn’t just revealed her lie for what it was.

  His smile turned slightly mocking. “Exactly.”

  The undercurrent in their conversation seemed to break the spell over Georgia, causing her expression to darken. Drawing herself up straight, she cleared her throat. “Word has it you’re in town only for a few months,” she said to Carter.

  “The senator hasn’t even announced his candidacy yet, and you already know I’m a short-timer?”

  “There are no secrets in Dundee.”

  Carter’s eyes again flicked Liz’s way, and she felt her cheeks flame. She certainly hoped there was one secret in Dundee—and that it’d stay that way.

  “I’ll be here through the election,” he said.

  “Here today, gone tomorrow, hmm?” Georgia challenged.

  “Are you making a point, Mrs. O’Connell?” He grinned as he asked this, softening the question, but Liz could sense the steely edge lurking beneath the surface of his words.

  “I’m simply saying that seeing you leave so soon would be a pity for anyone who might find herself attracted to you.”

  “Then, I’ll let you be in charge of warning off the ladies,” he said, glossing over Georgia’s words with a wink.

  “I just did,” Georgia said and checked her watch, before heading for the door. “I’ve got to go. Frank’s waiting for me at the bank.”

  “Mrs. O’Connell?” Carter said, calling her back.

  Liz couldn’t believe he’d detain her.

  “Yes?” she replied.

  “Is this the first time you’ve seen the shop?”

  “No, Liz showed it to us the day she leased it.”

  “And you haven’t been back since?”

  Georgia’s eyebrows knitted. “Not until now, why?”

  He hesitated. “How do you like it so far?”

  “It’s nice,” she said, but her tone was definitely grudging, even guarded.

  He studied the improvements. “We’re almost done. Then we’ll just have to get the plumber back out.”

  “For what?” Georgia asked.

  He studied her for a moment. “A few odds and ends.”

  “I see. Well, good luck with it,” Georgia said tightly. Then the bell jingled over the door and she was gone.

  “So what do you think?” Liz asked Carter when the silence was complete.

  “She’s not the one,” he replied.

  “Who tore out my sink?”

  He nodded.

  “She’s sixty-three years old and my children’s grandmother.” She didn’t mention the fact that the thought had crossed her mind, as well, and that she’d asked Keith about the possibility of his parents sabotaging her efforts.

  “So?” He shrugged. “She’s pretty protective of her boy.”

  “But not that strong.”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he said simply.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CARTER OFTEN HAD DIFFICULTY sleeping. Because of the physical nature of the work he’d performed in Liz’s shop—not to mention being up most of the previous night—he’d hoped to have better luck this evening. But at twelve-thirty he found himself wandering around the cabin like a ghost, feeling utterly detached from the rest of humanity.

  He told himself he should finally unpack his belongings and settle in. He’d already been here for three weeks. So he poked through a few boxes, but without any real commitment. What was the point of putting it all away? It didn’t matter how he lived. He had only himself to please. Besides, if he left his belongings the way they were, it’d be that much easier to move on after the election.

  Shoving the items he’d disturbed back where they’d been in the first place, he made his way eventually to the spare bedroom he used as an office. It was the only room in the cabin uncluttered with boxes. Here, he’d set up his computer and organized his desk and files so he could work from home. Beyond what he did for Senator Holbrook, Carter also did some consulting on other small-time campaigns, which he managed via the Internet or telephone.

  Generally, he felt comfortable here. As comfortable as he felt anywhere these days. But tonight he couldn’t seem to settle into any specific project. The moon had slipped behind the tall trees that surrounded the cabin, doing little to dispel the inky-black void beyond his windows, and the darkness seemed to press in on him from all sides, reminding him of another dark night—one he longed to forget.

  The conversation he’d had with Johnson came back to him. We think there are three more. The remains of three women. Johnson had implied that Carter could put the families of those women out of their misery by making it possible for them to say good bye to their daughters or sisters, wives or mothers.

  But that would mean meeting with the man who had, in effect, killed Laurel. Maybe Hooper hadn’t actually done the deed, as was the case with his other victims, but the end result had been the same. Carter had had only a brief few years during which he thought he’d saved Laurel.

  Rubbing his eyes, he bowed his head over the file of “issue position” letters he’d been editing for the senator. He’d already read the top one twice, but it hadn’t registered, and the third pass made no deeper impact than the previous two. The image of Charles Hooper continued to intrude—his blond head and slightly protruding forehead, his gangly build, his awkward gait. Carter had never hated anyone more than he hated Charles Hooper, and that animosity brought anger, which alienated him from everyone, even the man he used to be.

  Give it a rest. In an attempt to seize upon something real enough to bring him back from the black hole of swirling emotions that threatened to suck him in, he focused on Liz. Leaning back, he pictured her body, milky-white in the moonlight, lying beneath him. He remembered the slight arch of her back as he took her, heard again her soft sigh of release. Last night had provided the first peace he’d known in two full years.

  He craved more….

  Picking up the telephone, he dialed her number, thinking it might help if he could hear her voice. When he was talking to her, the past couldn’t crowd too closely. She was current, unrelated, stimulating. But he’d made her a promise at the Honky Tonk: when it was over, it was over.

  He chuckled mirthlessly to find himself struggling, only a day later, with a promise that had seemed so easy to make at the time. He might have found some way to justify calling her in spite of those words—if she hadn’t tried so hard to put some distance between them today. When Georgia had stopped by, Liz had nearly given away the nature of their relationship simply by insisting too energetically that she had no interest
in him whatsoever.

  The lady doth protest too much, methinks. He’d referred to that quote. But she’d said something significant right before. Something about a poem by Tennyson. What was the title of it?

  Lady of shallow or…

  Signing onto the Internet, he entered “Tennyson Lady of…” into Google.com, which immediately pulled up “The Lady of Shalott.” It was a poem about a woman who lived in a castle tower upstream from King Arthur’s Camelot, sewing a tapestry and watching, in a mirror, the reflection of those who passed by outside. Forbidden, as the result of a spell, to look directly at the world around her, she seemed content to live in the tower—until she saw the reflection of the handsome Sir Lancelot. Then she looked out the window at him, the mirror shattered, and the lady left her castle, only to lie in a boat and drift down the river to Camelot, singing a final song before she died.

  “Uplifting,” he muttered and exited the site. He didn’t even want to think about what Liz had meant by the reference. He didn’t like the poem. It was a little too close to his own reality. But Liz didn’t know that and, as he delved back into his work, he couldn’t forget her or the Lady of Shalott.

  Switching to e-mail, he used the address he’d heard Liz give Mary Thornton the day before and sent her the following question: You’d rather remain safe in your tower and let life pass you by while watching in a mirror?

  LIZ HAD TOLD CARTER TO TAKE Sunday off. She felt too guilty having him work his entire weekend, especially since he was helping her more as a favor than anything else. But she thought she’d go to the shop in the afternoon, and see what she could accomplish on her own. Her kids had called to see if they could stay with their father until after dinner. Keith still had Jennifer, Angela and Isabella there, and they were planning a barbecue. So Liz figured she might as well take advantage of the fact that Mica and Christopher were happy and well occupied by pushing forward with her own plans. She would’ve headed to The Chocolaterie directly and put in the whole day, but her father had convinced her to play tennis with him. They’d barely spoken since their encounter in the kitchen the day before, but he’d approached her the moment she’d gotten up this morning, and now here they were, facing each other on the court.

  “You ready to show me what you’ve got?” he asked.

  Liz stood diagonally to him in anticipation of his serve. But when he issued his challenge, she let her racket dip. Her father had said the same thing to her when she was fourteen years old, right before lobbing the ball softly over the net.

  Today, however, the ball came hard and fast, catching her off guard. She stretched to connect with it, but it whizzed past the tip of her racket, hitting the corner of the court and going out of bounds.

  “Too tough for you?” he asked with a grin.

  It wasn’t his serve that was too tough. It was seeing him wield a racket again after so many years. It was recognizing the subtle signs of age in his face and body and knowing the changes in her were even more dramatic. It was remembering. And most of all, it was forgiving.

  “I can handle it,” she said and emptied her mind, keeping the bulk of her weight over the balls of her feet so she could move more quickly.

  The next serve came, and this time she was able to return it. Her swing didn’t have the power she would’ve liked, but it forced her father to rush the net. He barely dinked the ball, hoping to catch her while she was still out too far, but she’d anticipated his strategy. Racing forward, she sent the ball rocketing past him before he could get back into position.

  “Not bad,” he said, watching it go, and she could tell that any thoughts he might have had about going easy on her were now officially history.

  He got ahead after that. But she won the next point. Then they volleyed back and forth three or four times until he maneuvered her to the far right and placed the ball to her extreme left. It flew out of bounds before she could reach the centerline.

  “You’re better than I expected,” she said, impressed.

  He seemed surprised by her words. “So are you.”

  Although her father went on to win the first game, Liz came back to take the set. Gordon had great technique, but he grew winded before she did. Soon it became apparent, at least to Liz, that she’d dominate more and more easily, the longer they continued to play.

  When they were finished, Gordon wiped the sweat from his forehead and met Liz at the edge of the net. They walked over to rest on the bleachers, where they’d left towels, extra balls, energy bars and some water.

  “I always knew you had talent,” he said.

  Liz might have asked why he hadn’t continued to foster her ability. But she didn’t. What was the point? She knew from what had passed between them in her kitchen that he wouldn’t answer the question. He didn’t want to be reminded of the past. He wanted to pretend that everything was fine; that it had always been fine.

  She wondered if they ever would have played again had Luanna not left him. The obvious answer was no, but the little girl in her didn’t want to accept that.

  Passing a Thermos of water to him so he could drink, she was about to comment on how difficult it had been to beat him, especially early on. But movement at the edge of her peripheral vision stole her attention. Glancing toward the small building that housed the restrooms, she smiled as her brother’s tall form separated from the shadow of the closest tree and came toward them.

  “Isaac, what are you doing here?” she asked. “Where’s Reenie?”

  “She’s helping her mother organize a charity auction for breast cancer. I was on my way to the feed store when I spotted your car and wanted to see how you’re playing these days.”

  “She’s good,” their father volunteered. “She’s improved a great deal.”

  “Since when?” Isaac countered. “Since last year? Since ten years ago?”

  Gordon glanced away. Liz thought he’d let the comment go without a response, but after an uncomfortable silence he stood up and met Isaac’s stony gaze. “I admit that I wasn’t always the father I could’ve been,” he said.

  “Now you admit that? How many times did I come to you, begging you to step in when Luanna was mistreating Liz? Where was all this self-realization then?”

  “Isaac—” Liz started. She was an adult. She didn’t need him to defend her anymore. She wanted him to base his feelings toward their father on the merits of their own relationship, not on what had happened to her. But Isaac wasn’t listening.

  “And where’s Luanna now?” he went on. “She was all you cared about. The only person you’d listen to.”

  “I cared about you, too,” Gordon insisted. “Both of you. I—” He seemed to search for words. “It isn’t always easy bringing the different parts of your life together, Isaac. I didn’t choose to lose my wife. I didn’t choose—” his eyes cut briefly to Liz “—some of the other stuff I’ve experienced. I’ve been dealing with my challenges the best way I can.”

  “By not dealing with them at all?” Isaac countered. “God, what do you think? That you can show up after fifteen years and pick up as though you didn’t abandon us both in favor of the shrew you married?”

  Gordon’s hands had begun to shake, but he managed to keep his voice level. “I was a good father to you, Isaac. Maybe I wasn’t the best I could be to Liz. Maybe I ignored too much of what went on—because of my own inadequacies. But you…you shouldn’t have any complaints. Liz was the only thing that ever came between us.”

  “Liz? How could she come between us? She’s your daughter!”

  “No, she’s not!” he shouted.

  Liz’s heart flew into her throat. She’d put one hand on her brother’s arm and one hand on her father’s, hoping to act as a mediator. But she let both men slip out of her grasp. Had Gordon just said what she thought he’d said?

  “What do you mean?” she whispered, staring at him. Panic began to spread through her veins. The world around her seemed to slow to a crawl, until everything appeared to be happening in slow moti
on.

  Gordon wouldn’t even look at her. He was still glaring at Isaac. “What did you expect me to do?” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Love another man’s child as my own? As much as I love you?”

  “You son of a bitch,” Isaac whispered, obviously as stunned by this revelation as Liz.

  Gordon didn’t wait to hear any more. With a curse—at Isaac? at himself? Liz didn’t know—he stalked across the grass to the road and headed down Main Street on foot.

  LIZ SAT ALONE ON THE FLOOR in the back corner of her shop, where she couldn’t be seen from the windows, hugging her knees to her chest. She didn’t want to go home, in case her father—or the man she’d always thought was her father—was still there. She didn’t want to go anywhere else, either, for fear she’d run into someone she knew and have to smile and pretend she was fine. She couldn’t maintain the unaffected demeanor that generally hid her true feelings. She was too broken, too vulnerable right now.

  It had taken some effort to convince Isaac to let her drive off on her own. He’d urged her to sit on the bleachers with him and talk, let out the pain. But she’d had nothing to say. She couldn’t verbalize what she was feeling, couldn’t even cry.

  And now, at last, she was alone. It was her only consolation. She needed the silence, the absence of prying voices and looks of empathy….

  She dug at her cuticles, ignoring a promise she’d made to Isaac—that she wouldn’t fall back into her old habit—and somehow finding satisfaction in the pain. Such a self-destructive tendency didn’t make any sense, even to Liz, but the compulsion was there and the fresh sting reminded her she was still alive, still breathing, even though she felt numb in every other part of her body.

  Slowly, her mind began to function properly again. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in her arms, allowing the questions that bombarded her to begin to arrange themselves in her mind. If Gordon Russell wasn’t her father, who was? Why hadn’t anyone, especially her mother, ever told her the truth? And how was it that Isaac belonged to Gordon, but she didn’t? Her mother and father had been married for ten years when she was born.