Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
To Be Continued...
More from Kandi Steiner
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2018 Kandi Steiner
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1985636682
ISBN-10: 1985636689
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.
The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Kandi Steiner
Edited by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/ Publishing & Book Formatting
Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Design by Kandi Steiner
Formatting by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
To Be Continued...
More from Kandi Steiner
About the Author
“I learned the people
we love usually
turned out
to be one of three things:
a home,
a holiday,
or hell.”
— Beau Taplin
Charlie
On the northeast side of Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania, there was a house.
It was a beautiful house, stoic and grand, with a little over half an acre of land, five bedrooms, and three luxurious bathrooms. The front view stunned those who passed by, the grand steepled entrance made completely of glass, the regal chandelier visible through that pristine window after the sun set.
The house was once magical, once filled with love and joy and plans for the future. It was entirely too big for the young newlyweds who purchased it, both eager to fill the spare bedrooms with babies, to fill the expansive kitchen with little footprints and messy high chairs, to fill the walls with memories captured in sepia-tone photographs.
Inside its walls were many things that belonged to me.
There were my books, of which I had many, lining the shelves in one of the spare bedrooms where I would often sit and read. There were the china dishes my mother had gifted me on my wedding day, the gardening tools I used every weekend to primp the garden I’d always dreamed of having, the breathtaking, gold-plated bird cage I’d taken such pride in, once home to two Budgies, now empty — just like me.
And a man.
A man who also belonged to me.
A man I no longer wished to keep.
A man who, no doubt, had not slept, though the sun was rising now. Because that house where he waited — that large, desolate, haunting house — was where I’d laid my head to rest every night for the last eight years. Until last night.
The old snow crunched under my boots as I crossed the yard that was not mine, my head hung, sun shining too brightly for my taste. It seemed to be judging me, the first eyes to see me as the woman I had become overnight. The house I was leaving was much unlike the one across town. It was smaller, cozier, filled with music and laughter and late-night confessions whispered quietly into beige cotton sheets.
I slipped silently into the driver seat of my luxury SUV, the door shutting with a simple, soft latch behind me. The car was empty, too. A family car. Too many seats for just one woman.
My fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pink from the cold until I reached forward to start the car with a push of a button. I closed my eyes, shoulders rising and falling with a new breath, flashes of the night before assaulting me in little bursts behind my lids.
A touch. A sigh.
A man. A woman.
Fingertips and lips. Moans and breaths.
Old longings brought to life with new fervor, new discoveries uncovered with old, shaking hands.
Freedom. Passion.
Pain.
When I opened my eyes once more, I found my reflection in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her long, unruly chestnut hair, falling down in messy waves around bright, wide chocolate eyes. Lips red and swollen, cheeks tinged pink.
If you told anyone who knew me, they’d never believe you. They’d never believe that soft, sweet, quiet Charlie Pierce was pulling out of the driveway of a man who wasn’t her husband, that she’d known him in a way she was never meant to, that she’d felt his hardness between her thighs and his lips on her pale white skin.
But they didn’t know me.
I didn’t even know me.
Not anymore.
They say there are two sides to every story, and I suppose in most cases, that’s true. But the one I lived inside of? It had three.
On the northeast side of Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania, there was a house.
But there was no longer a home.
Two months earlier
Charlie
The smell of cinnamon woke me before my alarm could sound. I smiled, eyes still closed, my brain stuck in a memory that smell took me back to. A memory born years before. When my lids finally fluttered open, the smile fell, and I sat up slowly in bed, running a hand through my dark hair.
Our bedroom window overlooked the expansive back yard, the sun beginning to tickle the horizon off in the distance, casting the trees and our covered pool in the soft glow of dawn. It was just before six.
I pulled the comforter back, exposing my simple, cotton nightgown and wool sock-covered feet as I climbed out of bed. As soon as I was out of it, I made it up the way it had previously looked when we crawled into it the night before, and then I padded my way over to Jane and Edward.
“Good morning, lovelies,” I cooed as I pulled the black cover from the gold cage.
Two beautiful Budgies sat inside, each on their own little swings, and Jane sang her good morning to me while Edward shook the sleep out from his feathers. I opened the cage long enough to pet each of them with my index finger, smiling at the way they leaned into my touch. They were my pride and joy, along with my books and my garden. I loved to watch them play on lazy Sunday mornings or teach them new words before bed.
Cameron had surprised me with them the morning of our first wedding anniversary. That morning, though nearly seven years ago now, still felt like it was just yesterday. I
remembered the younger version of us, the absolute bliss, the feeling that nothing could ever come between us or break the once-in-a-lifetime love we had. He’d been cooking that morning, too, and the little birds sat at the dining room table when I came downstairs.
I’d flown to them, eyes the size of saucers as I traced the gold cage with my fingertips. The Budgies had hopped around inside excitedly, chirping away, singing their greetings to me as I fought back tears. Cameron had just watched me over his shoulder, spatula still working the French toast, and I saw my favorite emotion reflected in his caramel eyes — happiness.
Seeing me happy made him happy.
At least, that’s the way it used to be.
“What will you name them?” he’d asked. And I hadn’t hesitated before answering Jane and Edward. After all, Jane Eyre was practically glued to my hands all through high school. That same, worn copy sat in my library across the hall even now, along with all the other books I’d cherished and collected over the years.
Jane fluffing out her feathers with a loud chirp snapped me back to the present moment, and once she and Edward were fed, I followed the smell of the cinnamon.
I loved the way the stairs descended in an opening right in the middle of our home, the way I had a full view of the kitchen and living area below me as I walked over the bridge hall and down each hardwood step. Cameron was there below me, already dressed in his favorite black suit, the jacket to it hanging over one of the chairs at the kitchen bar. He held the handle of the griddle in one hand, a spatula in the other, the soft sound of Bon Iver spilling out from our kitchen speakers.
“Good morning,” I sang, coming up behind him to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Cinnamon french toast.”
“Your favorite,” he reminded me, as he always did on the first day of school. It was January, so technically, it was the first day of school this semester. We were already halfway through the year. But that was Cameron — whether it was fall or spring semester, he always woke up before me to make my favorite breakfast. It was one of only four days out of the year that he cooked instead of me; fall semester, spring semester, my birthday, and our anniversary.
It’d been a tradition ever since we were married, one he’d started out of the desire to surprise me. I still remembered the first time, my first day teaching at Westchester Prep. He’d propped up a tiny chalkboard sign on the table that read Mrs. Pierce, along with a shiny red apple, and he’d served me in nothing but a little white apron tied around his waist.
I’d almost been late for my first day.
I frowned when Cameron shrugged me off him, bringing the first two slices to a plate beside the stove before turning the dial that extinguished the flames. He sprinkled powdered sugar on top of the bread and stepped away, leaving me cold. The chill didn’t warm as I watched him cross the kitchen and set the plate on the island next to the syrup, a glass of orange juice, and a simple red rose plucked from our garden, displayed in a slim vase.
“None for you?” I asked, and already I felt the small bit of joy I’d had upon waking slipping from me like the last bit of daylight, making way for the dark night that existed in me now no matter what time of day it was. I tried desperately to hold onto it, to grip that tiny glimpse of my old self and make her stay, but it was useless.
“I have to run,” he answered, not glancing back as he pulled his jacket from where it hung on the back of the chair. He shrugged it on, adjusting his tie before turning to face me, and just like that, my expression turned cold again. “Early meeting.”
Cameron had shaved that morning, the sharp edges of his jaw prominent as he ran a hand over the smooth skin. Sometimes he’d grow out a clean beard over that jaw, and I loved when he did. He used to do it more for that reason alone — because he knew I liked it that way. But lately, he shaved at least three times a week.
I’d always fit so well with Cameron — not just in our relationship, but physically, too. He was taller than me, but not by too much, just enough so that I sat comfortably under his arm when we walked side by side. When we would lay together at night, his knees would curve into the back of my legs perfectly, his arms winding around me like a safe haven.
In photographs, we looked as if we’d been plucked from a magazine — our dark hair complementary, eyes the same shade of golden brown. He was harder than me, his features more pronounced against his olive skin. Those differences only complemented my soft eyes and light complexion, in contrast. We were as aesthetically pleasing as a freshly painted mural, one everyone loved to stop and marvel at.
But sometimes when I looked at him, I didn’t recognize the man I saw at all — not anymore.
This was one of those times.
I crossed my arms over my middle, the thin fabric of my nightgown suddenly not enough to block out the cold.
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
He reached into the basket on the island for a banana and paused, watching me for a moment like he wanted to ask me something. His brows pinched together just slightly above the straight bridge of his nose, but the line disappeared so quickly I convinced myself it’d never existed at all.
Cameron stepped into me and pressed a kiss to my forehead. He didn’t linger, didn’t lean down to transfer that kiss to my lips. And then his hands were reaching for his keys instead of me.
“Have a great first day, sweetheart,” he said, and I forced a smile in return, holding it there until I heard the front door close a few moments later.
I stared at the french toast, the smell of it taunting me. I could almost hear his laughter from that first morning he’d cooked for me all those years ago, could almost feel his arms around me as we danced in the kitchen, one of his favorite places to pull me into him and sway in time with our favorite songs.
But there was no apron that morning, no dancing, no laughing. Just the sad, melodic voice of Bon Iver and a table set for one.
I clicked the power button on the kitchen stereo system, tossed the french toast in the trash, and abandoned the white porcelain plate in the sink along with my memories.
Westchester Preparatory School sat right in the middle of Mount Lebanon, only a ten-minute drive from our house. It was the highest ranked private school in the state and one of the top in the country.
I had nearly burst into tears the day I’d been offered my dream job teaching kindergarten at Westchester, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, I’d attended Westchester my entire schooling, as had my brother, and our father, too. Dad had also been a top donor since before my brother or I even attended.
It was the middle of my eighth year teaching there, and I still felt the same pride as that very first day when I opened the large, wooden double doors that led into the main hallway of the Annie Grace Wing. Named after the founder’s daughter, it was the wing that housed pre-kindergarten through fifth grade, and the wing where my classroom had been located since the day I joined the Westchester faculty.
I unwound my scarf when the warmth from the hall hit me, the school an almost reverent sense of quiet in the early morning. The wood floors were freshly polished, the late Victorian architecture filling me with a sense of history as my eyes traced the high arches and ceiling murals.
My students wouldn’t learn to appreciate the gold and navy baroque floral wallpaper and antique chandeliers until they were much older, maybe even until they were alumni. That was when I first took pride in the school I’d attended, in the foundation of it, the hundreds of years of history within its walls.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pierce,” a familiar voice called from across the hall as I rounded the corner into my classroom.
Randall Henderson, our headmaster, strutted toward me like a peacock in heat. It wasn’t that he wanted to show off for anyone, least of all me, but rather that his personality was as loud and colorful as the purple and green feathers that beckoned you in for a closer look. His belly was round, his cheeks the same, and his smile took up his entire face even on the raini
est of days.
“Mr. Henderson,” I greeted with a nod, hanging my coat, scarf, and purse on the hook behind my desk. “A pleasure to see you this early on the first day back.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he assured me, tucking his hands into the pockets of his navy blue dress slacks. “I hope you enjoyed your holidays?”
My stomach tightened at the reality of my holiday season, spent mostly alone, save for Christmas Day when Cameron and I had joined my parents for dinner. Had it not been for waking up to what I thought was a traditional first day breakfast with Cameron, I would have hustled out the door with a sigh of relief that school had started up again.
Cameron had worked long days and sometimes even nights throughout the entire break, and even when we’d had dinner at my parents’ for Christmas, he’d barely said a word. We were both asleep well before midnight on New Year’s Eve, and I’d dreamed of earlier years that night, of midnights spent kissing under confetti rain.
“It was a wonderful break,” I lied to Mr. Henderson, hoping the smile I’d managed with those words was at least somewhat convincing. Had Mr. Henderson noticed how that smile had changed over the last five years, how it had lost the vigor and brilliance? Did anyone even see me at all, or was I as dead to them as I felt inside?
“How are your parents? Well, I hope?”
It was no surprise that Mr. Henderson would ask after my parents, Gloria and Maxwell Reid. They were a shining beacon in Mount Lebanon, well known and well spoken of. They’d married at just seventeen, and run the town as a powerhouse couple ever since.
“Very well,” I said. “Dad is just as stubborn as always, and Mom is making it harder and harder for the buckle around his waist to fasten.”
Mr. Henderson chuckled. “That woman’s cooking is a blessing and a curse.”
“You’re telling me.” I ran my hands over my modest navy blue skirt before folding them together at my waist. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Henderson?”
What He Doesn't Know Page 1
