Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also By Zoe McKnight
Part I
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
Part II
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Part III
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Delicate Truth
Zoe McKnight
A Delicate Truth is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Zoe McKnight
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-9850967-2-4
Also By Zoe McKnight
Living In Glass Houses
PART I
“What is hidden in the snow,
comes forth in the thaw.”
-Swedish proverb
ONE
It’s amazing how much can change in a short span of time. I can clearly recall the days when just the sight of Vaughn made me sick. Days I wished I could have pushed him in front of a moving car. Days when I believed my life would be so much better if he didn't exist. And not in a I-wish-he-had-never-been-born kind of way, more in a I-wish-he-would-die-in-a-plane-crash kind of way. My husband has many wonderful attributes. Being faithful, however, was not always one of them.
There have been a slew of random women in and out of our lives for years. According to Dr. Lane, my therapist, men cheat because they’re insecure. Vaughn is anything but. He has no reason to be. Not only is he gorgeous, but he’s magnetic. He bursts with charisma and is blessed with that indescribable, unique trait that appeals to both sexes. Women want to sleep with him and men want to have a beer with him. When he walks into a room, he owns it. People love him and I believe they would even if he were a mail man, and not a former professional football player.
“Morning, Baby.” He presses his lips against mine. It’s a deep, hard kiss. Too hard for so early in the morning—seeing as how we’ve already made love twice since the sun rose. So hard that Rosa, our cook, blushes and turns away as if she walked in on us.
Vaughn sits beside me at our kitchen table, resting his leather carryall by his feet.
“You’re traveling pretty light for a five-day trip,” I say.
“Change of plans. Postponed San Fran to next week. Have to handle a little business in Miami this afternoon, but I’ll be back in time to help set up for the party.”
Rosa rests his plate down before him, just as she’s done nearly every morning for the past eight years.
He leans over and lifts Morgan out of her high chair, then playfully tosses her six inches into the air. “How’s my baby girl?” Her face lights up, and she giggles uncontrollably. I absolutely love to watch them together; it’s the reassurance I sometimes need, to confirm I’ve done the right thing.
Children have a way of cementing relationships. And Morgan’s birth, nearly twelve months ago, did that for us. But even before Vaughn knew I was with child, he’d initiated a reconciliation. He surprised me with an impromptu trip to Turks and Caicos. Once there he indulged me: a sunset dinner cruise, luxury spa treatments and finally, a catamaran ride to a private island. It was on that stretch of mile-long beach, where he extended a heartfelt apology, asking forgiveness for all of his past transgressions. He wanted another chance. And I wanted my old husband back. So we renewed our vows, and returned to New Jersey resolved to make it work. As luck would have it, I was pregnant with Morgan then; the timing couldn’t have been better to begin anew, on a fresh slate.
“There’s not much else to do,” I say. “It’s all pretty much taken care of. I met with the caterers yesterday, the landscapers are coming on Friday to touch up the grounds. I still have to call a few stragglers who haven’t rsvp’d yet. What else...” I skim my ‘to-do’ list. “Ah, the bakery just sent me a picture of the cake design. I love it.” I scroll through the photos on my iPad and show him the three-tiered, Minnie Mouse themed cake.
“Nice,” he says, “but I think her name should be larger and maybe in a fancier script. And change the ‘happy birthday’ from pink to yellow.”
“K. I’ll tell them. Oh, and I meant to tell you,” I say as I fill Morgan’s sippy cup with apple juice. “You got a delivery yesterday.”
“It came?” He beams. “How does it look?”
“It’s beautiful, but don’t you think she’s a bit young for a set of monogrammed luggage?”
“Not at all.”
“She’s only a baby. It’s not like she goes on weekend getaways.”
“I only have one little girl.” He squeezes Morgan’s thigh. “Only the best for her.”
I agree that our daughter should have the best. But I don't want her to become one of those spoiled little girls who believes she's entitled to everything she wants, simply because her father—well, her parents—are rich. Now I know there are people who’ll say that I’m spoiled, and yes, I may be, but I've earned every diamond, vehicle, and article of clothing I own. I’ve put up with a lot these past fourteen years, more than I'd like to admit.
But that's behind us now. Dr. Lane tells me that forgiving is a choice, one which doesn’t just come overnight. So, I had to make a conscious decision to forgive my husband—and I have.
Vaughn eyes his watch. “I’ve got to run.” He stands and reaches out for my hand. “Come. Walk me to the car.”
I walk him outside, where Cliff, our driver, is leaning against the fender of our black Tahoe. He’s tapping away on his phone, likely engrossed in a game of virtual poker. Vaughn and I hug, he tells me he loves me and kisses me again before sidling into the back seat of the SUV. I watch the Tahoe maneuver down our circular driveway until it disappears from my view. I know it will only be a few days, but I miss him already.
It’s the same feeling I used to have, back when he and I attended Syracuse University, when he would leave for his away games. On Sunday nights I’d sit in my dorm room waiting for the call, letting me know he was back on campus. Then I’d speed over to his room and sit indian-style on his bed as he unpacked and recounted all of his highlights—although I’d seen it all on TV. I’d never been much into college football, but whenever Vaughn was playing my eyes would remain glued to the 19 inch screen, searching for his jersey in the throng of Orangemen. Even back then I knew he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
We’ve had ou
r share of setbacks, but we’ve rebounded. We’re back where we belong and I can finally say that I’m a happily married woman. Vaughn has delivered on everything he’s promised. I no longer doubt his words or question his whereabouts. My closest friend, Elle, wasn’t so convinced that he could change, but unlike her, I believe in second chances. After all, all humans are flawed; we all make mistakes. I know I've made mine. And while Vaughn doesn’t quite know about them, they still haunt me every time I look at my daughter’s face.
TWO
“Blair, I just love this tree. The smell. Your ornaments. It is just exquisite,” Celine says.
I look up at our fifteen-foot Douglas Fir. It is exquisite. As is this, our first ever Christmas Eve fête since we bought the house nine years ago.
“Thank you. We had a hell of a time getting it in the front door. Eventually we had to take it through the garage. What a project that was, wasn’t it?” I say to Vaughn.
His arm is draped over my shoulder, my arm wrapped around his waist. He nods, smiling fondly before taking a sip from his snifter.
Edward, Celine’s husband, laughs. “Hope you didn’t scratch up that Roadster in the process. Vaughn, listen, my offer still stands. Whenever you’re ready, I’d be delighted to take it off of your hands.”
Vaughn shakes his head. “Now you know that’s never going to happen. I put way too much blood, sweat and tears into that car.”
By blood, sweat and tears he means cash, cash and more cash. The 1952 Jaguar XK 120 Roadster was his gift to himself for his thirtieth birthday. I’ve only seen him drive it twice. Mostly it sits in the third slot of our four-car garage. Every weekend he backs it out and hand washes it as if it even has the opportunity to collect dust beneath its cover. Then he’ll sit behind the wheel and play around with the radio, his long legs cramped in the front seat. Although he’s never admitted it, I imagine that’s why he rarely drives the car. It simply wasn’t designed for a man of six-foot-four.
Ever since our Labor Day barbecue, Edward’s been drooling over the Roadster, even offering to pay a fifty percent markup for it. But to no avail. Each time Vaughn politely refuses, but I can tell it annoys him. Just like this latest offer, masked as light-hearted banter, is annoying him now.
“Babe,” I say, shifting to loop my arm through his. “I think the Wests are about to head out. We should go say good night.”
Vaughn and I excuse ourselves and head out of the great room.
“Good God, would he stop it already? Why doesn’t he just get his own?” Vaughn says, sounding like a little boy who doesn’t want to share his toys.
“I know, right?” I laugh. “But he’d have to get Celine’s permission first.”
Celine and I often joke about the tight ship she runs. Although Edward, an orthopedic surgeon, is the breadwinner, she makes most of their financial decisions. Both at home and at work, where she’s the de facto manager of his practice. She says it’s the former accountant in her. She’s a different breed than most of the other women in my circle. They, like me, are wives of former or current athletes. A few are business owners in their own right. Others like to pretend they’re CEO’s simply because they have a tax ID number and a website, but they don’t really do anything. Then there are those who have no qualms about the fact that they are stay-at-home moms, but I would hardly call them homemakers. They have staff to do the “dirty work.”
I suppose, on some level, I fall into that category. I worked in public relations for a few years, up until I had Morgan. But now my job and focus is her. After she’s off to school, I’ll reconsider my options. Maybe even revisit the idea of starting my own PR firm. Celine could likely help me; she has a good head for business. When she and I hang out we talk about things beyond fashion, home decor and pop culture. Topics my other friends seldom move past. She also seems to be unaware of my history with Vaughn. And if she is, she pretends not to be. She’s not one for a lot of gossip, a rare thing in our small community. God knows I know everyone else’s business without even the effort of prying. These women like to talk, and I must admit my past did make for some juicy gossip.
I hate the word “celebrity,” and it’s hardly the one I’d use to describe my husband, but his career in the NFL has afforded him considerable notoriety. On occasion, we’re stopped in the street by fans seeking his autograph or a picture opportunity, which he always gives with the utmost grace. In part because he was trained well from a PR perspective (he’s always telling me that he’s not just a retired player, but a brand), but also because he basks in the attention. He loves it. I tolerate it. And somewhere in the middle we meet, so that interrupted dinners cause little strife. It’s the one downside to this life we lead, but without it we wouldn’t be here, standing in the entryway of this twelve-thousand square foot home. Nor would we have that mountain of Christmas gifts under our “exquisite” tree, or have plans to fly down to St. Barts the day after next to celebrate New Year’s Eve in one of our vacation homes.
“When are we sending all of these people home?” Vaughn whispers in my ear. We’re standing at the foot of our staircase. “I want to go up these steps, take off all of your clothes and...”
I giggle like a schoolgirl. This invitation resurrects memories of our college years, when he would say such things to me in the hallway between classes.
“Are you interested?” he asks, his hand slipping up the back of my blouse, his fingers teasing the clip of my bra.
“It’s still early, Babe. We can’t kick them out before midnight. That’s when all the fun begins.”
He takes my hand and nods towards the ceiling. “C’mon, ten minutes. They won’t even miss us.”
I tilt my ear towards the great room, and hear the rumble of lively voices. He’s right. We probably wouldn’t be missed for ten minutes. Or even twenty minutes. I tell him I’ll just go show my face for a second, make sure everything is running smoothly and then meet him upstairs. He makes quick work of climbing the steps, and I head to the kitchen to check on the caterers. Just as I’m rounding the corner, I hear voices.
“So, how is Blair treating you?”
“She’s cool,” says a voice I quickly identify as Hannah’s, our twenty-four-year-old nanny. “She doesn’t ride me like some moms do.”
I hired Hannah about eight months ago, at the recommendation of Celine, for whom she had worked a few years back.
“And Morgan? Is she a good baby?”
My ears shoot up.
“Oh, she’s a doll,” Hannah says. “No problems at all. Vaughn spoils the shit out of her though.”
“Uh, yeah,” says the voice I now recognize as Celine’s. “Did you see that pile of gifts under the tree? She’s only a little over a year. Ridiculous to spend that much on a baby.”
“As long as I get my bonus, I don’t care what they spend.”
“It’s still over the top. New money, that’s what you call it. Even though we could afford to, Ed and I would never squander our money on such foolishness. It’s very poor taste. But that’s how these athletes are, the money comes fast and they spend it just as fast.”
This bitch. Half of me wants to charge into the kitchen and confront her on the spot, allowing her no time to put a spin on her words. But the other half of me is curious to hear what else she has to say about my family. To see just how far she’ll go.
Curiosity reigns. I don’t make a move. Instead, I stiffen, arch my neck and strain to hear the rest.
“Like that tree,” Celine says. “What does she think this is, the showroom at Fortunoff? Gaudy.”
Hannah chuckles.
For a fraction of a moment, there’s silence, and I’m afraid they’ve discovered me eavesdropping.
But then Hannah says words I’m wholly unprepared to hear. “I didn’t want to say anything, but who do you think Morgan looks like?”
“Hmmm,” Celine muses. “Now that you mention it, she doesn’t really look like either of them, and now that I’ve met his parents and her mom, I really d
on’t see any family resemblance.”
My stomach drops.
“Ya know,” Hannah says, “I’ve often wondered if she’s adopted. I once overheard Blair on the phone with one of her friends saying something about not being able to have kids, something about a miscarriage. I didn’t catch it all, but ever since, I’ve been watching Morgan to see if she’s going to develop any of their features. But nothing.”
“Interesting. You know, I’ve never actually seen her pregnant. By the time I met her Morgan was already a couple of months old. Maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“It’s nothing,” Celine says. I can tell she’s pausing for effect. I’ve heard her do the exact same thing when she wants to add dramatic flair to her stories.
Hannah takes the bait. “What? Tell me. What?”
Celine’s voice lowers. I can all but see her craning her bird-like neck to ensure they’re alone. “Maybe that’s Vaughn’s baby. You know, from one of his “indiscretions” and they paid the mother off so they could raise her as if she’s their own.” I struggle to hear her. “That happens you know. Ed has an associate who did that. They paid the mistress something like twenty-five thousand dollars to have the baby and go away. Then his wife allegedly went to Europe for a few months, to see her family in Wales, and came back with a baby.”
“Whaaaat? I thought shit like that only happened in movies.”
“Happens more often that you think,” Celine says. “Hmmm, I’m going to have to take a closer look at that child. Is she sleeping yet?”
I want to storm into the kitchen, grab the closest pan and pummel her to the ground. Then choke her until she gasps for air. But I don’t. Instead it is I who struggles to breathe. I feel like all of the breath has been sucked from my body.
“She should be,” Hannah says. “I put her to bed half-an-hour ago.”
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