Back at your old game again, I see….
My God, Diana, you reek of sex….
The most miserable excuse for a mother I’ve ever seen….
You’re a menace to Julie and a menace to yourself….
Someday you’re going to wrap yourself around a tree….
You don’t live here anymore….
I really didn’t want to fight, I hadn’t the energy, but I was damned if he was going to accuse me after what he’d done. And what he had manifestly refused to do.
So I ripped back at him.
You never talk to me….
What am I supposed to do with myself all day….
I’m going crazy here….
I worked damned hard on this house, what do you mean, I don’t live here anymore….
How dare you call me a bad mother….
You self-righteous bastard, you don’t know the first thing about forgiveness….
You won’t make love to me, I’m too young to give that up….
One moment there, when I said that, I saw something flash through his eyes, a startled recognition that we both felt the same horror at our actions, the same hunger for each other, but then it died, and we never had another chance.
He said slowly, “Who was he?”
“I don’t know,” I said wearily, “I don’t think he told me his name.”
A long, long silence.
“Next time,” said Richard politely, with that terrible courtesy, “get his name. I’m not accepting paternity for any more bastards you accumulate.”
That shocked me down to my toes. “Is that what you think of Julie?”
“No,” he said, “Julie’s mine. I made her mine. But I don’t have it in me to do it again, Diana.”
I counted again fast in my mind, felt a little better about my numbers this time, and my mouth, totally disconnected from my brain, said, “Fine. You don’t have to. I’m going home to Daddy.”
Another long, dreadful silence.
And then—
“How very convenient,” said my husband, and packed my car in record time.
I spent Sunday night back in my old bed, back under Daddy’s roof, where Richard and I had made love when we and the world were young.
Daddy, flying home from another tour, was ecstatic to have me home again, and started talking about training my voice again.
I felt relieved to be away from Richard’s presence (although I did miss Julie). I’d been released from the prison of marriage, and I was determined never to go back, not even if he broke down and begged.
Richard, it turned out, had no intention of begging.
Two weeks after he threw me out, he sued me for permanent custody of Julie.
~•~
I cried for days.
Then I got tired of crying, and I stewed.
Then I got mad.
Then I got a lawyer.
You want war, Mr. Perfect?
Fine.
War.
Chapter 24: Eyes Only
ENTER USER NAME:
CDSB
Enter password:
Aural13Gem$
~•~
Meg St. Bride knew all about computers.
Her earliest memory was of cuddling against her dad while he programmed around her. He didn’t like people coming in to disturb him while he worked, but he hadn’t minded her, as long as she didn’t talk his ear off. She’d climb up on his lap, or he’d lift her up, and she’d snuggle against his chest and watch him writing open loop and end case.
Even before she could read, she was playing games on the computer. Later, he’d shown her how to download music (Don’t tell your mother) and how to burn her own CDs.
She’d been only six when he presented her with her own laptop. Of course, he had put every parental restriction possible on it, and her Internet time was strictly monitored, and she wasn’t ever supposed to IM with anyone she didn’t know personally, blah, blah, blah….
She didn’t mind the restrictions, at least not for a few years. She’d really liked having a bond with her father that no one else in the family shared. He’d taught her some basic programming (Hello, world!), and he’d shown her some of the cooler things a daring hacker could get away with in cyberspace.
With the caveat, of course: Don’t get caught. And then, mindful that he was her father and was supposed to set a good example: In fact, don’t do it at all.
Wink, wink.
~•~
She’d been his star student. So, to reward her, every year he had upgraded her to a new laptop for Christmas.
But not the Christmas after.
Not ever again.
So now her laptop, bought for her that last Christmas, the last good Christmas ever, was hopelessly obsolete. Slow, slow, slow… fit for the junkyard, really.
She didn’t want to ask her mother. The less anyone or anything reminded Laura of the day, the better. She didn’t want to bring on one of those headaches that made her mother’s eyes go dark with grief and drained the color from her face.
Not that the day ever strayed far from her mother’s thought. Or hers.
She’d nearly asked right before her mother left on that cross-country trip to see her family. Laura had been so worried, so full of guilt about leaving her, that she could have played on that guilt and asked for anything, with a high probability of success.
But she hadn’t.
Because, two nights before Laura left, Mark had brought home a familiar briefcase. The briefcase that Cameron St. Bride had handed to his corporate counsel before he waved away that last elevator. The briefcase that had made it down all those flights of stairs and out of the tower to safety.
The briefcase holding her father’s laptop.
One of the last things he had ever touched.
Do you want it? Mark had asked her mother, and Laura, pale, with those tightened eyes, had shaken her head.
I do! I do!
But Meg had absorbed more from her father than world-class hacking skills. She had learned to bide her time, to watch, to wait for the opportune moment. So she said nothing after her mother left for Virginia. She left the briefcase languish, seemingly forgotten, for another week, in the corner of Mark’s office. Then one evening, she surprised her uncle with some fresh-baked cookies while he worked on financials, and, on her way out to the family room to watch some TV, she adopted an off-handed tone. “Hey, Mark, can I use that?”
“Use what?” He sounded irritated.
Meg swallowed and bit her lip, and said nothing.
Predictably, her uncle looked up and noticed her distress. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, it’s just – Dad—” and she swallowed again. Okay, no point in being too obvious. “He used to – you know – upgrade me, for Christmas, you know—”
Mark came over to her, numbers momentarily forgotten. She felt his arm go around her shoulders, and he looked at her with concern that she knew she didn’t deserve.
His voice was reassuring, comforting. “I’ll have one of the IT guys get it ready for you. Can you wait a couple of days?”
Meg nodded. True to his word, Mark took the laptop to St. Bride Data to get it backed up and scoured of all business data and any – inappropriate files that his brother might have left on the hard drive that his daughter shouldn’t view.
And then he kept forgetting to bring it home.
Only after the night of the alarming phone call from Laura, when Meg had heard her reserved mother fall apart without warning, did Mark finally remember. He pulled the briefcase from the trunk of his car, and then – Mark being Mark – he made a big production out of handing Cameron St. Bride’s laptop over to her.
Like it held the meaning of life, or something.
~•~
Throwing a “Thanks, Mark!” over her shoulder, Meg raced upstairs to her room, settled the laptop on her desk, and looked over her new toy. It wasn’t new new, of course; her father had bought it just a few weeks before – we
ll, before, and it had been top-of-the-line then. Of course, it too was obsolete now, surpassed by ever-evolving technology, but still it had all the bells and whistles that her father had put on it before.
It would do. For the time being.
She spent several hours setting everything up. Email, IM, Degas’ Green Dancer as her wallpaper, her screen saver of family photos – and then she had to transfer all her games and files from her old computer.
It took forever.
Finally she had it just the way she liked it, just in time for Emma to call her down to dinner. She had to endure almost an hour of polite conversation over one of her aunt’s gourmet meals, since Emma insisted on dining like they were royals, but finally she was excused, and she raced back up to her room.
Time to go exploring. See what treasures her father had left that Mark hadn’t deleted.
~•~
An hour later, Meg looked around her room, a stranger in her own home, her world, her identity, everything she knew about herself tumbled into the abyss.
Gone forever, like the tower that had entombed her father.
A letter written to Mark in the late hours of September 10, over the ocean en route to New York. Saved in a hidden folder, overlooked by the tech who had cleaned off the machine for her use. She’d seen the date stamp and opened it, and read it, and the world had changed.
She might live to ninety, but she would never forget those words.
This man has cast a long shadow over my marriage. His name is Richard Ashmore, and he is an architect in Williamsburg, VA. He is married to Laura’s sister Diana, and he is Meg’s biological father.
Shock. Horror. Disbelief. And, in the midst of her instinctive protest – not true, not true, not true! – the thought that why would her father have written this to his brother if it wasn’t true?
And the realization that, if he had told the truth to his brother—
Then her mother had lied to her.
Do not immediately assume the worst about Laura. She did not trick me or cheat on me, and she did not betray her sister. She is not Meg’s biological mother.
Her mother had lied to her.
You’re in shock. Close your mouth, get some coffee, and keep reading.
He’d meant those words for Mark. Meg closed her mouth and kept on reading.
She needed our marriage because she needed money. I knew, and I didn’t care. I knew, the night I met her, that she was the finest woman I would ever meet, and I was willing to take her any way I could get her. I’ve never changed my mind. I’d do it again.
Her mother had lied to her.
Francesca got some kind of infection and went into premature labor. By “premature,” I mean that Meg was three months early, weighed only two pounds, and had very little chance to live. She was immediately put into intensive care with round-the-clock monitoring.
Her mother had lied to her.
But no, not her mother.
When she wasn’t singing, she was sitting at Meg’s side in the nursery, willing the baby to survive. I asked her why, when it wasn’t even her child, and all she said was “I had to.” It never occurred to her to leave and get on with her own life.
The B, Francesca – she’d come out of her. Laura St. Bride, the woman she’d always called Mommy, who kissed her and grounded her and rocked her through illness and grief – not her mother, not really. She hadn’t grown inside the young Laura, who had gotten pregnant and run away with her boyfriend, who had refused to get married because marriage was only a piece of paper.
Francesca did not want to admit she even had a child. She seemed to think she could wish the child away if she never saw her. It fell to Laura to bring Meg home and give her a name.
Her mother had lied to her.
And, she realized with a sickening crash, so had her father.
She told me that she was planning to take the child and leave. She has never gone into detail, but I sensed she felt Francesca was a danger to Meg.
Danger? What danger could a mother be to her baby?
But then – that lady down in Houston, the year before, who had drowned her kids. All of Texas was still reeling from that.
I asked how much money she had, and she said, with a defiance that showed just how young she was, that she had $33 but she’d survive.
She’d heard Mark and Emma downstairs, arguing about remodeling the kitchen. Who cared about a kitchen? Who cared about anything at all?
Dr. Ashmore was a true gentleman – polished, urbane, and not above blasting me to bits about my behavior. Like an idiot, Francesca had blabbed everything to him, and he gave me a dressing down that, believe me, put Dad’s lectures in the shade. He told me that I was a damn fool if I couldn’t tell the difference between a girl like Laura and a girl like Francesca. He also warned me that, if he ever heard of anyone in the family mistreating Laura or Meg, he would tell his son about Meg and force a paternity test.
Dr. Ashmore? It had dawned on her, only gradually, that this must be her grandfather.
No, not her grandfather. She knew her grandpa. His name was Matthew St. Bride and he rode a motorcycle and owned a bank and slipped her money for candy whenever he saw her. And she was the apple of his eye. She had cried and cried when he died in his sleep. She still missed him.
I didn’t doubt him for a second. Something about him made you believe every word he said. He said that he did not want to hurt Laura or disrupt Meg’s family life unless it became necessary, but he left no doubt in my mind about the alternative. I promised to mend my ways and take better care of Laura, and I meant it. I did not want my marriage to fail over Francesca.
WTF? Her dad and Francesca?
I could not pretend that Laura had nowhere else to go – Dr. Ashmore told me flat out that he and his wife would take her and Meg to live with them if I didn’t shape up.
She had a grandmother too. Not Kate St. Bride, who took her to tea like a real lady and set her up with an easel in the studio. She had splashed watercolors all over a canvas and all over herself, having a hugely good time while Kate painted a real painting beside her.
Richard Ashmore never gave up his paternal rights because he never knew he had any. He could invalidate the adoption and sever my rights. Given my track record, I won’t father a living child. Even if I did, Meg is mine. I don’t give a damn about his rights. He will never get his hands on my daughter.
Her family wasn’t really her family, after all. She’d grown up, the center of the universe, the darling of their hearts, and never questioned her place in this Viking brood. I’d never miss your recital, Emma had said after flying in from New York. How could I forget my best girl? Mark had said, and brought her back a present from a business trip. You’re the best thing I’ve ever done, her father had said, and twirled her around.
You are the light of my life, her mother had whispered, tucking her in bed.
Lies, all of it, and liars, all of them. She wasn’t one of them. They were all strangers to her.
Well, all but one of them. She had a connection to one. She was the niece of the girl who had sat at her side and willed her to live. Who had tried to save her from unknown danger on $33, who had married her father so that she could keep her.
And she was connected to this unknown man in Virginia, this Richard Ashmore.
She had decided, right then and there, to confront Mark. He’d tell her the truth. Or he’d lie so badly that she’d know anyway. He wasn’t a great liar.
Not like her mother and her father.
~•~
But when she charged downstairs, ready to break up that stupid argument about the kitchen, she heard words even more shocking. Even more world-shattering.
Why her mother sometimes had that other-life look in her eyes.
Why her mother cared about her father, but never seemed to be with him.
Why she had never met her mother’s sisters, or her father, or this cousin she already couldn’t stand.
~•~
&nbs
p; She didn’t bother to confront Mark, who would probably just get mad at her for reading a private letter written for his eyes only. She’d get nothing out of him.
Nothing more.
She crept back upstairs and sat on her bed, lights off, thinking.
~•~
Through the night, she sat there.
Mourning the loss of her old world, her old life.
Trying not to think about him.
Trying not to imagine her mother with him.
Unable to escape that indisputable truth.
Her mother had lied to her.
~•~
At dawn, she pulled her laptop to her.
Her father – her real father, the man who had swung her up on his shoulders, laughed at her knock-knock jokes, taught her how to hack into every computer but his own – her father had also taught her how to get the jump on any opponent.
Do your research.
Gather your intelligence.
Know your enemy.
She opened the search engine and typed her search term.
Richard Ashmore.
~•~
End of Ashmore’s Folly Trilogy: Book One
To be continued in:
All That Lies Broken
Ashmore’s Folly Trilogy: Book Two
~•~
Historical and Architectural Note
ON SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, THE COMPANY I worked for lost 16 people: 15 in the Twin Towers and one on American 11. Like so many of us, I found myself haunted for years by the recurring specter of the falling towers, and eventually I found myself integrating the events of that day into a rewrite of a novel I had been working on for many years.
When I decided to write about that September morning, I determined up front that I would not alter history and I would not take anything from those who died that day. So where to place Cameron St. Bride in his final hour?
• Not in the Pentagon where, despite the horrendous damage, only (only!) 120 people died on the ground. I felt that, given his business interests, I could have made a believable case for his presence, but I did not want to alter history by adding a victim or dishonor someone by having my fictional character take his place.
• Not on United 93 – he would not replace one of those 39 brave passengers who saved so many more with their sacrifice.
All Who Are Lost (Ashmore's Folly Book 1) Page 59
