by Cheryl Holt
She hesitated, then claimed, "I have no idea what you mean."
"Tell me!" he bellowed so loudly that she flinched as if she was afraid he might strike her.
He'd never hit a woman before, but then, he couldn't remember ever being quite so enraged. Reining himself in, he strode away to put space between them. He pointed to the couch.
"Sit down."
She ignored him and went to the kitchen. He followed, watching as she reached to an upper shelf in a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of brandy. She poured them both a shot.
"Calm down," she insisted, "and we'll talk."
"I don't need a drink." He banged the glass on the counter. "I want to be very, very sober when I hear what you have to say."
"Don't shout at me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"I'm serious. We'll discuss this calmly and rationally, or we won't discuss it at all."
"Who is Bryce? He's related to me, and don't try to pretend he's not."
"I'll tell you, but on two conditions."
"You have the nerve to exact conditions?"
"Accept them or go away."
A muscle ticked in his cheek. He could sense that her secret was very, very bad. He wanted to roar in frustration, wanted to throttle her, wanted to retreat to a time prior to his ever having met her.
He capitulated. "What are they?"
"You can't repeat the details of this conversation until Bryce is twenty-one."
"Why?"
She didn't answer. "You might be able to do it sooner than that, but you'd have to have my permission."
"Why!" His patience was unraveling.
"I won't tell you why. You simply have to agree to my terms."
"Fine," he snapped. "My lips are sealed."
"Once I start in, if you say you don't believe me or that I'm lying, I'll ask you to leave. If you refuse, I'll dial 9-1-1 and have you escorted out."
"I'm tired of your games. Get this over with."
"Bryce is your son."
He felt as if she'd struck him hard enough to knock him down. He lurched over to the table and plopped into a chair. He stared at the floor, his mind racing.
"I don't—"
He almost said believe you, as she'd warned him not to, and he just managed to catch himself. It wasn't that he didn't believe her. Her declaration was too disconcerting.
He tried again. "I don't understand."
"You were married when you were nineteen."
"To Katie," he murmured.
He'd been a rude, rebellious adolescent, chafing at his father's authority, at his mother's detachment. Over a college spring break, he'd traveled to Vegas with some friends, and he'd met her in a bar. After too many hours of wild sex and drunken partying, they'd snuck off to a wedding chapel.
It had seemed like a lark, as if it wasn't real, and he'd gained enormous satisfaction from realizing how his behavior would gall his parents.
Of course, his father had found out right away, so the union was quickly ended. Katie had been bought off, paid to go away and not cause any trouble. She'd vanished from Lucas's life as rapidly as she'd entered it.
He'd always felt guilty about how she'd been treated, about his own role in the debacle. He'd attempted to contact her a few times, to see how she was faring, but her phone had been disconnected. She'd quit her job in Vegas and had moved with no forwarding address.
Ultimately, as the months had rolled by, he'd stopped trying, convinced that his father's decision to obtain a quiet annulment had been the appropriate one.
But now…now…
"Katie is his mother?" he asked.
"Yes."
Faith walked over and waved the brandy glass under his nose. With trembling hands, he took it from her and kicked it back in a single swallow.
"Where is she?"
"I'm sorry, Lucas, but she died in a car wreck when Bryce was a year old."
"How did he wind up with my grandfather?"
"Harold kept track of you, so he knew about the wedding. After your father chased her off, she was destitute."
"No, no, my father didn't chase her off. He paid her a huge settlement."
Faith scowled. "No, he didn't. He never gave her a penny. He had some men threaten her, and she was so frightened that she split. Harold located her, and he was supporting her and Bryce when she was killed."
Lucas shook his head. "That can't be right."
"When she passed away, no one else wanted him, so Harold took him."
Lucas studied her eyes, searching for fabrication, but her gaze was candid and unwavering.
He felt as if he'd been living in a brick house, that an earthquake had caused the foundation to crack. The bricks were falling one by one, pelting him as they dropped from the walls.
If what she was saying was true, everything he'd believed about his father and his family had been a lie.
He asked the question he couldn't bear to ask: "Did my father…was he aware that she was pregnant?"
"Yes."
And he'd hidden the news from Lucas. For an entire decade, Lucas had had a son, and he'd never had a clue.
"My mother," he pressed. "Did she know?"
"She was the most adamant about keeping the information from you."
"Why?"
"She was afraid that if you found out, you'd bring him home—like a stray puppy."
Lucas rose and went to the counter. He poured himself another drink and gulped it down.
"What about Peanut?" he inquired. "Is she mine too?"
A horrid image flashed in his mind, of all the women, of all the one-night stands. Had he sired Peanut in a drunken haze he didn't even recall?
"She's your father's," Faith claimed.
"My sister?"
"Your half-sister."
"Who is her mother?"
"A mistress he had in New York."
"My father didn't have mistresses," he scoffed.
Faith shrugged. "He screwed around like a dog. Why do you think your mother hated him so much?"
His father and mother hadn't gotten along, but Lucas had viewed their marriage from a child's perspective. He'd assumed they had personality conflicts or differing goals. Had it been as simple as infidelity? Had the marriage been a sham?
He was growing angry. Faith was the messenger, and she was delivering messages he didn't wish to hear. Though it was illogical, he blamed her. Why would she air this painful, dirty laundry?
"How did Harold get custody of Peanut?" he asked. "I'm sure you have another great tale to tell."
"Her mother wanted some support from your father, but he told her to get lost. So she tried your mother, but that didn't work out either."
"She approached my mother?" He was aghast at the prospect.
"Yes."
"You're lying."
She wagged a finger at him. "I warned you not to say that to me."
"Don't expect me to apologize."
Why was he being so mean? Why was he taunting and doubting?
He was just so upset. His world had tipped off its axis. Every fact he'd ever known had been proved wrong.
"She couldn't dump Peanut on your parents," Faith continued, "so she dragged her to Harold to see what she could wring out of him. He basically bought Peanut from her mother."
"Saint Harold," he sneered.
"Not a saint, no. But certainly a kind, decent man who cleaned up you and your father's messes."
They glared, fuming silently, and he guessed they were quarreling, though he wasn't certain why. He just felt so betrayed. He was desperate to lash out, and Faith was the only one in range.
"You have my son and my sister," he tersely muttered. "I don't even know them, and they're living here with you."
"Yes, they are."
"You weren't ever going to tell me, were you?"
"Not if I didn't have to."
"I'll sue you for custody," he absurdly threatened. "I'll bring them home where they belong."
"And where
is that? With your dear mother?" She snorted with disgust. "You'll never be able to take them from me. Don't bother trying."
"You'd be surprised what I might do."
"No, I wouldn't. You're a Merriweather."
"You are too," he reminded her. "You slept with me while you were hiding this terrible secret. Nice move, Faith. You're a real class act."
"Don't insult me, Lucas. It makes me tired."
"I haven't begun to insult you. We were coming for the money, and now, we'll come for the kids too. You'll never get to keep them. There's not a judge on the planet who will side with you against me."
"They're my children," she blustered, "and the money is theirs. I promised Harold that I'd protect it for them, and he trusted me. I'll fight you to the death over it."
"We'll see about that, Miss Benjamin. We'll definitely see."
He stormed out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Jacquelyn! Where are you?"
Lucas marched through the mansion, shouting his mother's name, but he received no reply. His footsteps echoed off the high ceilings, and the drafty place was so quiet that he wondered if it was empty. Maybe they'd all left town, and he was the only one who'd remained in Denver to bicker with Faith.
Since his father's death, they'd all been eager to dump their problems on him. They automatically assumed he'd carry their burdens, that he didn't mind becoming the family patriarch.
But why should he bow to their whims? What had any of them ever done for him? When had they ever been close?
His mother was a stranger, and his siblings the mutual catastrophe survivors. His relationship with them was based on their having endured the same calamity. Disaster was the thread that linked them, but it wouldn't keep them bound much longer. Not after what he'd learned in Boulder.
He'd give Jacquelyn a chance to deny Faith's allegations. He'd give her a chance to defend herself, but if she couldn't, then what?
"Jacquelyn!"
Climbing the stairs, he searched the second floor, then the third. He found her in a sitting room at the top of the house where there were big windows and lots of natural lighting.
She was leaned over a worktable, sketching on a large piece of paper. Even though her talent wasn't particularly remarkable, she viewed herself as a failed artist. She often complained that she could have had a career if she hadn't married Lucas's father and wasted her life raising children.
Hers was an old lament, and he was weary of listening to it. Her husband was deceased, so she wasn't tied down—she'd never been tied down—by the barriers he'd purportedly put in her path. She was rich and independent and could do whatever she liked, but she didn't have the courage to move ahead.
She was a closet drinker and most likely an alcoholic, though she hid it well. There was a bottle of wine at her elbow, a glass poured. As she glanced up and saw him, she reached for the wine to furtively slide it onto a chair so it would be concealed by the table.
"You don't need to hide your wine, Jackie. I don't give a shit if you're up here drinking all alone."
"Don't call me Jackie. It sounds common, and you know I detest nicknames."
"Oh pardon me, Jacquelyn."
"I could hear you bellowing from the moment you walked in the door."
"You couldn't be bothered to answer?"
"What do you want?"
He approached the table and slapped down his palms, leaning into her space.
"A little bird told me the most interesting story today."
She wrinkled up her nose. "How nice."
"You remember Katie, don't you, Mother?"
A glimpse of panic flashed in her eyes, but it vanished quickly.
"No, should I?"
"Probably not." He shrugged. "She wasn't anyone important. I was just married to her when I was nineteen."
"It's been eleven years, Lucas. I assume there's a reason you mentioned her?"
Lucas pushed away and went over to the windows to stare out at the Front Range. Afternoon was waning to evening, and the sky was orange, the mountains purple.
From his vantage point, he couldn't see the town of Boulder, but he imagined he could. The family secrets hovered on the horizon like a black cloud. They were raining down on Faith's house where she resided with the people who should have belonged to Lucas.
What to do? What do to?
All the way back to Denver, he'd asked himself the same question, and answers were beginning to form. But there were other issues to be addressed first. Starting with Jacquelyn.
She was bent over her artwork again, drawing as if he hadn't come into the room, as if he was invisible.
He shouldn't have been surprised—he'd always been invisible to her—but in his current mood, her indifference galled him as nothing else ever had.
"Where do you suppose she's living now?" he asked just to hear what she'd say.
"Why would I know? Why would I care?"
"Aren't you the least bit curious?"
"No."
She was humming to herself, ignoring him, and thirty years of rage boiled up. He stormed over, seized her sheet of paper, and ripped it to shreds.
"What is wrong with you?" she hissed.
"I want to look at the agreement Katie signed with Father."
That flash of panic was back. "It's in his private documents somewhere."
"So if I contact his attorney, he'll be able to show it to me?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't he?"
"You tell me. How much did Father pay her to go away? It had to be a huge settlement."
"Yes, the dollar amount was quite large."
They engaged in a visual standoff she couldn't win. Not this time.
"There must be a point you're trying to make," she blandly chided. "I suggest you get on with it."
"She's dead."
"Well…"
"What happened to her baby?"
A lengthy pause ensued, her mind whirring as she juggled her lies, and a wave of sadness flooded him. He hadn't wanted to believe Faith, hadn't wanted her to be correct, but it was obvious that—the more Jacquelyn talked—the more she would verify Faith's every word.
"Her…baby?" Jacquelyn said. "Did she have a baby? I don't recall."
"You understand, don't you, Mother, that if she had a boy, it would be my son."
"You're so naïve." She chuckled, the sound brittle and cruel. "Yes, it would be your son if you were the only man who had slept with her. With a girl like that, one can never be sure."
"Is that your story? She was a whore so we didn't need to worry about her? What if the child was mine? Wouldn't it have been worth checking to find out?"
"Really, Lucas," she scoffed, "what if it was yours? Why would we claim such a mistake? The girl didn't bump into you by accident. She deliberately sought you out and glommed onto you like a leech on a thigh. If you'd had a baby with her, and we'd admitted it, we'd never have been rid of her."
Hatred washed through him, and he gave the powerful emotion free rein. His loathing for her had always simmered below the surface, and previously, he'd tamped it down. But no longer.
She wanted to be a bitch? She wanted to hurt and wound? Well, two could play at that game.
"Tell me about Father's mistresses."
"He had no mistresses," she coldly replied.
"How many children does he have besides us? Am I about to have half-siblings crawling out of the woodwork?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Your father was the most faithful man on earth."
"I've met his daughter—she's called Peanut; I don't know her real name—but how many others are there?"
"I don't have to put up with this from you. Get out of here."
She pulled out another sheet of paper and laid it on the table, then she grabbed her wine and took a sip that became a long gulp. She was trying to appear calm and unaffected, but her hands were shaking.
"What's it been like," he taunted, "to deny my son—your grandson—all these years?"
"I
have no idea what you mean," she insisted.
"I have a son!"
"No, you don't, and whoever filled your head with these lies, they ought to be taken out and shot."
"You hid him from me."
"Shut up."
"I won't be silent. I've had it with you."
"Get out. I won't tell you again."
"No."
"Dustin!" she shouted. "Dustin! I need you."
"He can't protect you."
"He can toss you out. That's good enough for now."
"Don't you wonder what he looks like? Don't you wonder what kind of boy he's growing up to be?"
"Get out! Get out!"
She was shrieking—it was the only genuine burst of emotion he'd ever seen her display—and she flung her wine at him. She missed, but wine spewed everywhere, and the glass smacked on the floor and smashed to pieces.
Dustin ran in.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Get him out of here!" Jacquelyn wheezed.
Lucas frowned at his brother. "Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"About my son?"
"Your…son? You have a kid?"
"Did you help Jacquelyn hide him from me?"
"Hide…your kid? Me? You actually think I would? You think I'd side with her"—he made a derogatory gesture toward Jacquelyn—"against you?"
"I'm not sure. I'm figuring it out as I go along."
"You don't have a kid," Dustin said. "We'd have found out. Whoever told you is a liar."
Lucas studied his brother, and he seemed perplexed, so maybe he was telling the truth. With Dustin, it was hard to guess.
"We're done with Faith Benjamin," Lucas advised them. "We’re not suing her, we're not harassing her, and she's keeping the money Harold gave her."
"No way!" Dustin fumed.
"Yes, she is, and we're not arguing about it."
"The hell we're not."
"Don't mention her to me ever again. I won't listen."
Lucas headed for the door, and Dustin blocked his path.
"Would you stop for one damn minute?" Dustin pleaded.
"I'm leaving for a bit," Lucas said. "While I'm gone, pack Mother's things and take her to the airport. I want her on the next plane to Santa Fe."
"I'm not ready to return to New Mexico," she huffed.
Lucas spoke to Dustin. "She better not be here when I get back. If she is, I can't predict what I might do."
