“It’s strange how we internalize the messages from our parents differently than they ever intended it to be sent.”
“I guess I was afraid that if I couldn’t contribute as much money as you do that you would think that I don’t love you as much as you love me.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. I completely and fully respect the fact that it’s a complete miracle that my product became the dominant choice in its niche market. There are thousands—if not tens of thousands of competitors out there. It could’ve just as easily been one of them. So, it would be really stupid for me to say that because I happen to have a substantial amount of money for the first time in my life, that somehow I’m more qualified to love you. Talk about ridiculous. If anything, like you pointed out — it makes me less qualified to love you because I’m prone to be distracted by the business. Being a small business owner is hard work. Now, I am more fortunate than most because I can afford to delegate my tasks.”
“Show off,” I mumble disgruntledly. “I wish I could delegate some of by homework.”
“I can get you some help,” Tristan offers magnanimously, but with a teasing glint in his eye.
“No, that’s all right. I’m pretty sure that stuff like that is considered cheating. I don’t want to be kicked out of college before I even have a chance to graduate.”
“Okay, but don’t let it be said I didn’t offer,” Tristan quips. “Go finish your bath and I’ll see what I can do about some dinner.”
“That sounds phenomenal. I’m starving and exhausted. So, if you hear snoring coming from the general vicinity of the bathroom, it means I’ve fallen asleep in the tub. Today has been grueling. So, that’s a distinct possibility.”
“I could play your lifeguard just to make sure you’re completely safe,” Tristan suggests.
“As much as I appreciate the offer, I think I’d appreciate dinner more. But, I might take a rain check on the coed bathing at some point.”
I was wrong. I don’t stand a chance of falling asleep in the tub right now. My brain is too busy trying to process everything that’s happened today. The possibilities are simply mind-boggling. I finally give up any pretense of relaxing in the tub. I throw on some flannel PJs and join Tristan in the kitchen. Marcus thinks my flannel pajamas are hysterical. No one—and I mean no one in Florida actually wears flannel pajamas except me. But, it’s a throwback to Vermont that I can’t seem to give up; I guess I still miss my mom and my home. Consequently, I have been known to sleep in my flannel PJs with two fans on me.
When Tristan sees me, he smiles and remarks, “Interesting fashion choice for Florida, I can’t say I’ve seen it done before.”
I just shrug as I throw my hair up in a sloppy bun. “I guess I like to be comfortable.”
Tristan grins as he pulls off his jacket and his tie, “I do too but I didn’t want to take the time to change clothes before I came.” He throws his shoes and socks over on my shoe pile and sits down on my dilapidated polka dotted seventies-style beanbag chair. “I love furniture like this. It’s too bad that when we become grown-ups, it becomes no longer socially acceptable for us to have furniture that squishes into different shapes or a miniature basketball hoop in the house—because that kind of stuff is plain good stress relief.”
“So why don’t you? It’s not like you don’t have enough money to buy yourself everything in the entire furniture store or have everything custom designed. You work hard, just design the living space you want to live in and the hell with everybody else.”
“You could deal with having an old-school arcade in the living room?” Tristan jests.
“May I remind you that Marcus is my best friend? Arcades are not a new concept for me. If you don’t put a keg in the middle of the room, it’s a notch above his design plan.”
“Yeah, I think he’s all talk. I don’t think he’d ever do that. I could absolutely see him building an elaborate hot wheels display with his kids someday, but I don’t think he is quite the party boy he presents himself to be,” Tristan remarks as he dishes me up some fragrant New York style pizza.
Sometimes, I have to admit that there are some perks to dating a filthy rich guy. This is one of them. He not only can seem to read my mind and figure out my secret food cravings, but he can magically make even the most obscure food appear out of thin air. As an upper East coaster, I’ve been known to be a little picky about the way I eat my pizza. So, usually I just avoid it altogether just to avoid all the hassle and disappointment. One day, I mentioned casually in passing how much I missed really good New York style pizza and the next day, Tristan had some delivered to me for lunch. I had been searching for such a delicacy without much success since I transplanted myself to Florida.
As I stuff my face with pizza, I ask with a smirk, “I wonder if Marcus would be disappointed if he knew how few people are actually buying his bad boy act?”
“I think he knows we’re on to him by now and since he met Ivy, he seems to care a whole lot less about what everyone else thinks about him.”
As I gather up the remains of our dinner throw it all in the trash. I join Tristan on the beanbag chair, collapsing into his lap. “I can sympathize with his paradigm shift. Everything I thought I knew about relationships has completely changed since I fell in love with you. I’ve discovered that love doesn’t have to be destructive and scary. It’s not about grabbing and keeping control, it’s about surrendering your heart and trusting that someone will be there to catch it. So, I have decided to throw out my rulebook and start with a clean slate.”
“So, does that mean I have free rein for your birthday?” Tristan asks eagerly.
“Yes, Tristan, I trust you. You may spoil me rotten. Just try not to give me a heart attack in the process, okay?” I tease as I kiss him lightly.
“MARCUS, WHAT WERE WE THINKING? This has disaster written all over it. We don’t even know the whole story yet. What if they all hate each other?” I fret as I stack French bread and spaghetti noodles on Marcus’s counter.
Given all of the warnings that he has provided about his apartment, I had expected him to live in a real hovel, not a relatively average apartment that looks like the interior designer got lost somewhere in the mid-eighties. The pink and blue backsplash is an interesting touch you don’t see every day anymore.
“Ivy, the pieces of the story that we do know seem to point to the fact that everybody and their dog was completely lied to in this situation. As hard as it is to believe, Super-Secret-Spy-Guy hasn’t found any evidence that any of your family or Rogue’s family did anything wrong. If you’ll pardon my French, the whole thing was just one big giant cluster-fuck where everyone got royally screwed.”
“Okay, umm…that’s putting it bluntly—” I remark, unable to completely disguise the laugh in my voice.
“Well, come on, you’ve got to admit that it’s true. The only people presumably not hurt in this were the people that got away with the money. So, there’s no reason not to bring the two halves of your family together and make it whole. It’s not like you and Rogue aren’t going to be hanging out on a regular basis, right?”
“No, that’s kind of what we’re hoping for, actually. We’re trying to get permission from the RCBR Endowment for the two of us to go to the same school. I think we’ve decided were both going to transfer to the University of Florida for the start of fall term. Rogue doesn’t really want to leave Ink’d Deep. For some reason, she is under the mistaken impression that she might not be promoted if she is under another artist. She still thinks only you see her talent. I told her that she’d still be amazing regardless of who teaches her. But, she doesn’t believe me. What do I know, I’m only the little “twin” sister?”
“I love both you guys, but you are by far and away my favorite. You know that, right?”
Marcus always knows how to calm my nerves. It doesn’t matter where we’re at, or what we’re doing. He always knows the perfect words to say. “That does help; it helps more than you ca
n imagine. Even if things go to hell in a hand basket, I know I’ve got one person in my corner tonight.”
“Sugar, I think you’re going to have far more than that. You’re going to end up with multiple families that love you and call to make sure everything’s okay. It will probably drive you nuts after a while.”
“Still, that’s a lot different from them all meeting face-to-face. Rosa didn’t seem too happy when I mentioned mom and dad’s name.”
“That’s exactly why I think this is a good idea. When everyone is in the same room, we can talk about what really happened instead of what people think might’ve happened. It’ll give everyone a chance to look at the facts objectively and figure out what happened once and for all. There’ll be no room for misinterpretation and no weird games of ‘telephone’ where the facts get all distorted as each person retells it.”
I sigh warily as I slowly nod my head and mumble a response, “Okay, but if there’s a resulting bloodbath, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Marcus kisses me tenderly. “Ivy, it’s going to be just fine. Everyone involved loves you or your sister. It would be silly not to get this all sorted out. It will be less painful for everyone involved in the long run. You don’t want Lenore and Roger thinking that Isaac is a drug dealer your whole life, do you?”
“I’m a little frightened to consider what else we might find out about ourselves. It seems that the more we know, the more controversial facts we dig up from the past. It’s quite frustrating.”
“Tell me about it. Tristan tells me it’s been that way ever since you walked through his doors. Everything he expected to happen in the case of your mixed up identities didn’t and things have been mind-bendingly complex ever since.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some peace, in our lives.”
My mom and dad are the first to arrive. I can tell it’s going to be an extremely tense night when my mom starts gushing over my table settings. In honor of our Italian night Marcus had gone to the local discount party store and purchased a red and white checkered vinyl tablecloth and some red paper napkins, along with some long white taper candles. This was the extent of my table-scaping with the exception of a couple baskets for the French bread, but you would’ve thought that I had rubbed elbows with Martha Stewart. I know it’s my mom’s way of dealing with her nervous energy. I do the same thing—so between the two of us, we probably sound a bit like Alvin and the Chipmunks.
I hear the distinct squeak of Marcus’s front door. As my birth parents stroll in holding hands, I brace myself for what might be an ugly showdown. Yet, on one level, it still makes my heart happy to see Padre Pop with Mama Rosa. He immediately took a sabbatical from his teaching position for a term until he could settle his personal life. They still have much to work out, but it appears to be a positive start.
When Mama Rosa sees my mom, her body tenses, but she at least aims for polite as she says, “Buenas Noches, Ms. Lenore. You’re looking well. I can’t believe how many years it’s been.”
My mom looks confused for a moment as if she wasn’t quite expecting politeness. “Good evening to you too, you are as beautiful as ever. It’s clear why the girls are so beautiful.”
“Mama?” questions Rogue as she and Tristan round the corner with their hands full of presents. “Ivy didn’t mention that you were coming. I thought Padre was flying in from Denver.”
Rosa shrugs. “We are, how do you say it these days? ‘Exploring our boundaries.’ I don’t know how it’s going to work out, but it’s nice.”
“Please tell me he’s not really a drug dealer,” my mom declares, her voice rich with accusation.
“A drug dealer?” Isaac asks incredulously. “Why would I play for the other side?”
“I don’t think Ms. Montclair really meant that mi cariño,” Mama Rosa interjects, patting Padre Pop on the arm. “Don’t you remember how vicious the rumor mill could be in the Teacher’s Lounge?”
Isaac shakes his head and mutters, “Still Rosie…I almost lost you and the girls fighting that filth and now she thinks I’m one of them?” He turns and looks directly at my mom and asks, “I took our taxes to your husband for God’s sake. How crooked could I be?”
My dad pops into the conversation. I jump when I hear his deep baritone voice, “That’s right, you did. You were one of the only clients I ever had who didn’t take a beating when Silicone Valley nearly went belly up. I still don’t know how you did it with all your tech investments. I’d love to know your secret. Lenore, he’s a very straight shooter. I’ve never seen such organized records in my life. He even knew when his interest collected interest.”
Padre smiles when he sees my dad. “I see nothing has changed, you’re still trying to get stock tips from me. Like I told you all those years ago, I just pay attention to the little stuff. Twitter has made it even easier now.”
Tristan’s mouth drops open in shock. “You have a Twitter account? We looked for days.”
“I can be hard to track when I need to be. Let’s just say ABirdyToldMeSo3,” he says with a sly grin.
Tristan hits his forehead as if he suddenly has a colossal migraine. “Isaac, I hate to tell you this, but we have a massive conflict of interest.”
Padre looks stymied for a moment, then a look of recognition crosses his face. “Nerds4theWinFL?”
Tristan nods, but he looks very somber.
“Oh no, not Elliot’s Center,” Rogue breathes, clearly distressed. I look at Marcus and my parents, but we’re all lost.
“How do you keep beating me in every round?” Padre Pop grouses.
“I am willing to bid the whole job pro-bono,” answers Tristan.
“Even the support staff?” Padre Pop whistles softly through his teeth. “Can’t match you there. I’ve got to hire temps for mine now that I’m pretty much retired.”
“Any reason you can’t sub contract on my bid? I read your bid synopsis online. You’ve got some ideas in yours that are superior to mine. I’d like to see the project be optimal.”
Padre gets a twinkle in his eye. “I guess, if you’re going to start stamping your name on building projects—you want them to be as top notch as possible,” he teases.
“I do want it to be top of the line, but not because my name is going on it, but because my sister’s and nephew’s are. It means the world to my mom. When Elliot came to us, he didn’t really have the skills to cope with the grief of losing his mom. My mom was doing the best she could, but knew little about depression in children and how to help him cope with the sudden death of his mom. Programs like the one we bid on should help.”
“I’m definitely on board then. I always thought the project was too big for one contractor,” Padre announces.
“Great, now that we got that settled, let’s go eat something. I’m starving,” suggests Marcus.
“You’re always starving,” reply all the women simultaneously.
“What?” Marcus protests innocently, “I’m a growing boy.”
I just shake my head as I respond, “Well, you’re growing something, that’s for sure.”
As everyone laughs in good humor, I start to wonder why I was so worried. It seems that everyone is getting along spectacularly well. Rogue is talking to the two moms about college courses and the dads seem to be bonding over the woes of their 401(k) plans.
I step into the kitchen to grab some more garlic bread and when I emerge, Marcus has produced a big birthday cake with a photograph that Tristan snapped a few weeks ago when we were all in California. Rogue and I were riding as many of the rides as possible at Disneyland. In this particular shot, she’s trying to make me dizzy on the teacup ride. The only problem is that she underestimated my capacity to spin. She apparently doesn’t know that I spent many years as a flyer on the cheerleading team and nothing much fazes me. In freeze-frame, Tristan had caught the look of pure joy as she delighted in trying to make us fall down like Weeble-Wobble toys.
Big tears start to roll down my face wh
en I see the beautiful cake and the symbolism represented there. My heart is so full that I feel like it’s going to burst. For the first time in my life I feel like I completely belong. I have a place in Rogue’s life, with Mama Rosa and Padre Pop. Much to my surprise, my dad doesn’t seem to have an issue with my new family or with Marcus. In fact, he seems to treat Marcus as if he’s the son he’s never had.
Just as I’m set to bask in the pleasure of the day, I notice the mutinous set of my mom’s jaw, as she turns to Rosa and says, “She may have found you, but this changes nothing. She’s still my daughter. You apparently never wanted her or you would’ve looked for her a long time ago.”
Instantly, two sensations hit my body. First, I have an overwhelming desire to vaporize myself from the planet and secondly, I suddenly feel the need to urgently throw up.
“Lenore!” my dad chastises in a raised voice I’ve rarely heard him use, “that was cruel and uncalled for. This is hard for all of us.”
“My wife did not come to find our daughter because we were told she was dead. Do you understand that? Dead. I almost killed myself when I found out. Do you know what that’s like? Did you have something to do with that? Did you pay off the hospital so that you could have one of my beautiful daughters without having to go through me? Maybe it was you who spread all the rumors about me at school to make it look like I couldn’t be a good padre,” Isaac responds angrily to the accusation.
“Enough, all of you!” Marcus directs. “Super-Secret-Spy-Guy, here has done a ton of research on all of you. Do you want to know what he’s found?”
The room descends into stunned silence at Marcus’s forceful presence. Usually, he projects the image of a 13-year-old on summer vacation at a beach resort, ready to catch the next wave.
Identity of the Heart (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 1) Page 26
