Liars Like Us

by Mary Campisi

  Charlotte glanced at the pool, watched Tate glide through the water as he swam laps. She’d quit her own measly attempts ten minutes earlier, but he continued, his lean body slicing the water with grace and strength. There was something to be said for an indoor pool and the ability to jump in and feel as though you were in bathwater. Tate had convinced her to give the pool a try a few days earlier, and now, they swam after work…before dinner…before sharing a glass of wine…before bed. It was the bed part that stole her breath, not just the all-consuming joining of body and soul, but the talks they shared. He told her about his childhood, his disappointment, and fears… His vulnerability. She’d done the same, confessing her attraction to him all those years ago. He’d smiled and assured her he was pretty ordinary, but there was nothing ordinary about him.

  Tate Alexander was an honorable man who’d suffered because of his family’s name and notoriety. His mother had been incapable of standing up to his father or protecting her children from him. While Charlotte’s own mother had been weak, her father had taught them about resilience and fortitude. Tate had no one, unless he counted Astrid and the rest of the staff—people he called family.

  When she and Tate were at work, they didn’t interact unless necessary, but the whispers were there and had been since her first day in the office. Some people were happy, others jealous, and still others curious about their employer’s connection to the new employee, as they called her. The company lawyer, Frederick Strong, didn’t say much, but he sure did watch. She’d spoken with him a few times, answered his pointed questions as best she could, but he’d been poker-face tough. His questions were odd, too, more about Tate and her interest in him, than office-related procedures.

  Why would he do that? Did the man think she didn’t care about Tate? That she was using him or playing with his emotions? Why would he think that? How could he think that? She cared about Tate, cared about him so much she couldn’t imagine life without him.

  Who was she kidding? What she felt for Tate was more than simple caring. She loved him, loved him so much it hurt. She knew he cared about her, too, but did he care enough to make a long-term commitment, like a forever one?

  She didn’t know and the not knowing terrified her.

  Charlotte watched Tate as he finished his swim, climbed out of the water, and moved toward her, water dripping from his lean body. She handed him a towel, smiled. “I love watching you.”

  He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and pulled her into his arms. “You’re welcome to watch anytime you like. Next time, we’ll leave the trunks and bikini in the drawer.” He laughed at her raised brow. “Another chance to live out one of my many fantasies about you.” Tate leaned toward her, brushed his lips over hers. Once, twice, deepening the kiss until she let out a soft moan. “You’re in my blood, Charlotte Donovan, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough of you.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Let’s go inside and warm up by the fire.”

  She liked the sound of that, looked forward to what would happen in front of the fire…naked skin, touching, kissing, and pleasure. So much pleasure. Tate threw an arm about her shoulders, and they headed toward the sliding glass door that led to the sunroom. They’d only taken a few steps when he stopped. “Dad? What are you doing?”

  Harrison Alexander stood at the opening of the door, his tall frame leaning on a walker, his gaze homed in on Charlotte. “Wanted to see you.” His expression softened with his next words. “Rose.”

  “No, this is Charlotte, Charlotte Donovan.” Tate squeezed her shoulder before he moved toward his father, laid a hand on his arm. “Let me help you back to your room.”

  The man continued to stare at Charlotte as though trying to figure out who she was, even though Tate had just told him. Harrison Alexander was an older version of his son: the eyes, the complexion, the hair, with added streaks of silver…

  Rose,” he repeated. “So beautiful.”

  Tate cleared his throat, tried again. “No, Dad, this is Charlotte.” Pause. “My girlfriend.”

  My girlfriend? Had she ever heard sweeter words? Charlotte smiled at Tate’s father, inched toward him. She’d been petrified of the man her entire life, especially as a child, but now? He was nothing more than an old man with a failing body and a sad story. “Hello, Mr. Alexander. Nice to meet you.” Those silver eyes burned into her, filled with tears.

  “I’ve missed you,” he murmured. “Very much.”

  Chapter 10

  Harrison opened and closed his right hand four times, then did the same with his left. He would continue his therapy until he could write his name with the same graceful penmanship that had made his mother proud. Theresa would be here soon for his speech therapy session. She said the improvement from last week was remarkable, and if he continued on that same path, his sentences would be fluid in no time. Harrison liked a challenge and no doubt, his current state was one of his biggest. He refused to think of what happened to him as a life-altering stroke. No, indeed not. In fact, how did the doctors really know it was a stroke at all? People had conditions that affected them all the time, some more serious than others, and stamping a label on them only made the challenge of recovery that much greater.

  Would he have been able to accomplish all he had if he’d listened to the naysayers who told him the market for hotel chains was full? Managed growth and preservation of cash was key? Of course not. He’d always trusted his gut and his ability to overcome obstacles, and this current predicament that garbled his speech, stole his even gait, and wore him out was temporary—and reversible.

  It would take time, but recovery was certain to happen. How could it not with the number of people swarming him? They were in and out several times a day—speech therapist, occupational therapist, physical therapist, lawyer, accountant—but the visit he looked forward to the most was from his son. Tate usually stopped first thing in the morning right after breakfast, before he headed off to work, and at night, right after dinner. Sometimes he sat, sometimes he stood, and once in a while the conversation lasted long enough for Harrison to grow drowsy, but usually not. He tried to nap before Tate visited him at night because the doctor said naps would keep his speech steady and his thoughts clear.

  He let out a long sigh, adjusted his reading glasses. It was night and the house had grown quiet. Too quiet. Why had he demanded silence when the children were young? Why hadn’t he enjoyed their laughter and running feet? Had he really forced Meredith into a corner for what he’d called incessant and nonsensical giggling? Harrison closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead, and tried to visualize the faint memory, but all he heard were his then-young daughter’s giggles. He blinked his eyes open, stared at the portrait of his family hanging on the wall. Poor Marguerite, she’d died too young. Had she been happy? Had he been a good husband to her? Had she known he could never love her because his heart would always belong to another? He hoped not, because she’d deserved much more than a man with the right bloodlines. Fate had made that choice for them, and they’d been too entrenched in family duty to refuse.

  His gaze slid over the portrait, landed on the younger children. Neal and Meredith. Oh, how he missed them! Would they come home for the holidays? Christmas wasn’t far away, and he must speak with Tate about it. Their mother might not be with them, but they could celebrate in her honor and include a ten-foot Douglas fir covered in multicolored twinkle lights and ornaments. Hadn’t Marguerite collected ornaments? And hadn’t there been homemade items from the children? Tate would remember.

  Harrison wanted a tree in every room on the ground level. Christmas was coming! Let the celebrations begin. He thought of Tate and the young woman he’d called Charlotte, who resembled Rose Donovan. Harrison’s brain had played tricks on him, pulling him into the past, making him think the young woman was indeed Rose. Logic told him she was not, but his heart and his memory said otherwise.

  “Rose.” Harrison ran a finger along the cover of the book, A Compliment
to a Rose. The nurse had located it in his library exactly where he’d told her it would be: top shelf next to the window, seventh book to the right. He opened the book and pulled out the yellowed envelope with his name scrawled on the front in a handwriting so beautiful, so delicate, it brought back a rush of memories. Rose. He removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it, his hands shaking as memories of the past shot through him.

  So much regret.

  If only she had not rejected him.

  If only she had chosen him instead of that blasted Jonathan Donovan. He’d seen a vision tonight, a vision of Rose as he remembered her. The auburn hair, the almond-shaped eyes…such beauty. Harrison blinked hard, stared at the letter in front of him. Life could have been so different if Rose had only said yes. But she hadn’t. He heaved a long sigh and began to read the letter that had changed the course of his life.

  * * *

  Dear Harrison:

  This will be our last communication. If you ever cared for me, you will not contact me again. You are engaged to marry Marguerite, and soon you will do just that. I cannot accept your offer to break the engagement, because to do so would ruin lives. You say you love me, and if that is true, then you will honor one last request. Let me go, and keep our secret safe. Never speak of what happened between us to anyone.

  We were never meant to be together. I love Jonathan, and yet I sought comfort in your arms. It was wrong of me to do so, wrong of me to let you believe I cared.

  I never meant to hurt you.

  I never meant to hurt anyone, but I fear I have done just that.

  Please try to find happiness with Marguerite. Try to open your heart to love. You and she have a chance for a life together, filled with children, joy, and the possibility of a new beginning.

  Don’t waste it.

  Forget about me. Find your path to happiness.

  If you ever cared for me, let me and the past go.

  * * *

  Regards,

  Rose

  * * *

  Harrison brought the letter to his lips, inhaled. Nothing remained of the lavender scent she once favored, nothing but loss and regret. Oh Rose, why did you forsake me? Why did you leave me? I would have done anything for you… Would have given up everything for you… If you’d only given me a chance. If you’d only asked…

  Why did you choose him?

  Camille knew a thing or two about snobbery and being excluded from social circles because she did not possess the proper last name or the attire to pretend she did. High school had been particularly brutal. The tears she’d shed when her name was left off the list of invitees to the dances and Sunday brunches at the country club could fill a river. No one could console her, not her parents or her brothers. They’d told her it didn’t matter if those rich people couldn’t see her value, that she should ignore them, march into the world, and conquer it.

  But it had mattered. A lot. And Camille had decided long before she graduated high school that she would carve a path toward the upper-crust families so she would never again be left off a guest list. That’s where Carter Alexander came in. Intelligent, handsome, wealthy, with a flash for style and a seductive smile, the man caught her attention long before he headed to medical school. But it would take a few years of college before she caught his attention, and once she did, she refused to let go.

  It was Christmas and she was home on break. Carter had a few days off, too. She’d like to pretend the meeting was pure coincidence, but the cleaning woman at the Alexanders’ happened to have a daughter who went to school with Camille, and that’s how news of Carter Alexander’s homecoming reached her. It didn’t take much after that, not when she’d heard the man was partial to tight sweaters and blue eyes. She’d followed him to the local bar, sat in a booth, and ordered a glass of wine. Then, she’d crossed her legs just enough to show a decent amount of skin and waited.

  It served a woman well to know her target and his interests. Carter Alexander spotted her in less than five minutes, and two hours later, they were kissing and touching in the back seat of his Mercedes. She stopped him before he unzipped her sweater, but by then, she’d snagged a lot more than his attention. Eight months later, she became Mrs. Carter Alexander.

  Was she proud of her actions and the way she’d orchestrated the takedown of one of the area’s most eligible bachelors? No, but she wasn’t embarrassed by them, either. She hadn’t cheated or lied, though she might have massaged a few details to her advantage. But there’d been no pregnancy entrapment. He’d wanted to marry her, wanted to share the dreams they’d envisioned, and he’d wanted to prove their families wrong.

  Donovans and Alexanders did belong together.

  But he’d been unable to honor his marital obligations—mainly, the one about remaining faithful. Camille sipped her tea, flipped the page of a magazine article on holiday cooking. Victoria and Simon would be home for Christmas, though they’d both informed her they had plans the day after and had to cut their trip short. Just enough time to swoop in and collect their gifts. Could she blame them? The past Christmases had been filled with their father’s absence and their mother’s snide comments regarding said absence. Children did not want to hear about their parents’ issues, and they certainly did not want to get roped into taking sides.

  This year would be different, though, wouldn’t it? Carter would be present; he’d carve the turkey, deliver the toast, and play “Deck the Halls” on the piano as they all joined in. Perhaps she’d host a dinner, too, invite Rose and Oliver, maybe Rogan and Elizabeth as well. And of course, Tate and Charlotte must come as a true testament to the power of love, despite family. It would be one merry gathering with smiles and laughter and buckets of good cheer.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Camille flipped a page, thought of the counseling sessions she and Carter had been attending and his renewed commitment to her and their marriage. I only want you, Cammie. Just you. Give us another chance, will you? I love you. All she’d ever wanted was her husband’s love and fidelity, to see the devotion in his eyes when he looked at her. To be enough. That’s all. And after so many years, it looked like she might finally have it.

  Why then didn’t she feel exhilarated? There was no mistaking the puppy-dog adoration he’d exhibited since she’d caught him and Miss-I’ll-do-anything-for-you in bed. He’d gifted Camille with diamond earrings, a new handbag, an afternoon at the spa. And if she’d ever worried that he wasn’t opening up, well, he’d atoned for all the years of silence. Nonstop chatter, that’s what she had to look forward to—about everything from the blue of her eyes that reminded him of a sapphire, to how her hair shone in the afternoon sun. Her husband had become much more affectionate, too. How could he not when he’d given up his under-twenty-five-year-old sex partner? That had its own issues because Camille couldn’t share intimacy with a man who’d shied away from it most of their married life. Oh, she could say she wanted to be with him in bed, but now that he was there—ready and willing almost every night? Goodness, it was enough to bring on a migraine.

  But the truth was, they lacked the closeness that made intimacy special. Without it, the act was nothing more than a duty, relegated to one more item on her to-do list, right beside shave legs and apply moisturizer.

  All these years later, Camille wondered if their choices would have been different had she and Carter been more attentive to their compatibility, or lack thereof, and less interested in proving others wrong. If they’d done that, would they have realized they didn’t belong together after all?

  “Cammie? Sweetheart?”

  Camille clenched her teeth, gripped the teacup, and glanced up. “Ah, Carter. What a surprise.” A surprise, indeed. Why wasn’t he at work? She scanned the clock on the far wall, noted it was early afternoon. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  The heat in those blue eyes singed her. “I took the rest of the day off.” He made his way to her, bent his tall frame to place a kiss on her temple…another on her cheekbone, her jaw…


  “Carter.” She tried to move out of his reach, but he was too tall, his arms too long, his hands too quick.

  “Going somewhere, my sweet?” He pulled her to him, brushed his lips against hers, and reached for the buttons on her blouse. “I’m in the mood for a snack.”

  Camille swatted his hand, shook her head. “Carter, we can’t undress and be intimate in our living room in the middle of the day.” What was he thinking? Didn’t he know the staff could walk in at any moment?

  He undid the first button of her blouse, smiled when she tried to rebutton it. “Why not?” Before she had time to answer, he cupped her bottom, eased her toward him. “I just need a taste to hold me over until tonight.”

  Camille disengaged herself from his grasp, stood feet spread apart and let him know what was on her mind. “You’re not getting a snack or a taste. Why on earth would you think I’d agree to engage in this activity with the servants underfoot and apt to walk in on us at any time…?” The reason for his behavior landed in her brain with a thud. “That’s it, isn’t it? You like the idea that anyone could walk in on us at any second.” She clenched her hands into fists, glared at him. “It excites you.” The flush of red beneath the tan told her that was exactly why he’d wanted a rendezvous in the living room.

  “I thought you’d like it too, Cammie.” The words fell out in a weak confession, followed by a shrug and an “I’m sorry.”

  If the man really cared about her and wanted her and not some play-acting, excitement-producing playmate, she’d have done whatever he wanted—wherever he wanted.

  But he didn’t want her. Not really. He wanted excitement. He wanted to pretend.

  Maybe he wanted to pretend she was little Miss-I’ll-do-anything-for-you.

  The thought made her furious, but what disturbed her more was that she’d let herself believe they could work things out, all because she didn’t want to admit she’d made a mistake with him. She wanted to believe they really were good together and were experiencing a temporary bump in their marriage. Ha! This was no bump, this was a boulder, and if she didn’t wake up, it would land right on top of her.