It’s uncanny. It’s unbelievable. It’s unsettling.
He breaks away from the group and walks my way. “Excuse me.” I blink a few times, realizing he’s speaking to me. “Do I know you?”
With a meek smile, I respond, “No, and I apologize if you caught me staring. I mistook you for someone else.” I take a step back, attempting to make my escape, but as I do, he takes a step forward.
“No apology necessary. You look familiar as well. I feel like we’ve met before.” He looks at me quizzically, trying to jog his memory.
I grasp my clutch with both hands at my waist and answer politely, “Probably at this same event last year.”
“Well, my parents usually just attend. This is the first time my family’s all here since we’ll be presenting tonight. Are you alumni?” He’s standing casually, one hand tucked in the pocket of his tuxedo pants, the other holding a drink.
“Yes. You?” I ask. He nods his response. “That must be it.” My shoulders soften in relief.
“Were you an engineering major?” He asks.
Shaking my head, I can’t help but laugh at the thought. “As far from that as you could get, actually. I studied social work and psychology.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. Damn, where are my manners?” He pulls his hand from his pocket and holds it out to me, giving me a strikingly familiar smile. “Nathan Whitford.” I lift my hand, about to take his, when I replay his words in my head.
And time slows.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” My neck prickles and burns instantly.
Just then, I hear a voice approach from behind, “Nate, there you are, man. We’re presenting in two minutes. Quit your flirting and get up to the stage. Mom’s starting to panic, and Dad’s getting pissed.”
I turn toward the voice and feel the blood drain from my face, as the pieces start to fall together.
We stand just feet apart, but it may as well be miles. He’s here. At a gala. Looking gorgeous in a custom tuxedo I’ve never seen before. My CJ. The one who works in a factory and crashes at his friend’s apartment. The one who held me all night while I cried over Thomas. The one who had a “party” to attend tonight. The one who has been lying to me for the past year.
With the pain rapidly building and surging through my chest, my mouth drops open waiting for the words to flow, but I’ve lost the ability to think. His body straightens and stiffens as I watch the recognition wash over him.
“Christina.” It comes out on a short breath. “You weren’t supposed to get in until tomorrow.”
And with those words, my heart shatters.
We remain frozen to our spots as a voice breaks through the event’s sound system. “We would like to invite our hosts for the evening, the Whitford family, to the stage, as we begin …”
I look towards the stage then back to CJ, asking weakly, “They’re calling you to the stage? Why?”
When he doesn’t answer, I turn on my heel and head for the exit as fast as my four-inch heels will allow, knowing he’ll follow. With every step, my pain grows.
I enter the foyer and round the corner with CJ just a step behind. I reel on him and poke him in the chest. “Why are they calling you to the stage?” He waits a second too long to answer so I shout, “Why, CJ?”
He gives in and responds sadly, “Because I don’t just work at the distillery. I own it.”
I’m stunned speechless, unable to process his betrayal.
He rushes me, his voice frenzied, “Christina, I wanted to tell you so many times. I was going to tell you tomorrow. I swear.” He’s running his hands up and down my arms but I don’t feel it.
I feel … nothing.
When I’m able to speak, I sound exactly like what I am. Broken. “Tomorrow? After all this time together, you were going to tell me tomorrow? When? When you picked me up from the airport in a Bentley? When we pulled up to your parents’ estate?”
“Christina …” He mumbles my name and frantically runs his hands from my arms up to my neck and back down again, memorizing every curve and every line. He lifts my hands and kisses the tops of each one, rubbing his thumbs over them and kissing them once more, this time leaving a few tears behind.
But they mean nothing to me. I am completely numb. Yet one thought powers through the fog … I’ve been played.
I charge and pound into his chest … once, twice, three times. I can feel that I’m hitting him but can’t see, as my own tears have started pouring down my face. He grabs my wrists and forces me to face him.
“Don’t,” I spit. “We are done.” I try to wrestle out of his hold, but it only causes him to tighten his grip.
The anguish twisting his face and the wetness in his eyes does nothing to me. I step in close, erasing any space between us and spit, “How far do the lies go, CJ? Was any of it real? Did my family put you up to this? Just to fuck with me for their own sick entertainment? What did they offer you?”
At the sharpness in my voice, he releases my wrists, only to take hold of my shoulders. “Nobody put me up to anything, Christina. Every minute was real.” His grip tightens, his fingers digging in deep. “I swear to you. I just didn’t want you to think I was everything you were trying to escape. The money. The bullshit. I’m real. This is real. I love you, Christina. I fucking love you.”
He digs his fingers in tighter, leaving bruises no doubt, as he holds his eyes to mine. I can see a twinge of hope in them, the hope that I’ll forgive him and the hope for this to pass. So I absorb every ounce of my own pain, of my own humiliation, and do the most hurtful thing I can in this moment. I give him nothing. No anger. No tears. No forgiveness. No fight. When he sees all emotion leave my face and my body soften, he knows.
He releases me and pulls at his hair before pacing a few steps back and forth. Glancing into the large room, I hear the president of the university begin to address the crowd. CJ notices as well and his panic rises.
He’s back in my space, pleading. “Please, Christina, just stay. I’m begging you. Come inside, let me make this right. Please. Just promise me you’ll stay.” I look away and release a small laugh. A deep, pained laugh that gives him his answer.
I wipe my face and nod towards the stage. “It looks like you’re needed in there.”
“Fuck them, Christina. I’m with you. Always with you.”
My words are slow, methodical. “I was honest with you, CJ. I told you everything. I gave you everything. And what did you give me? Lies. About everything that matters in a relationship. Everything that you know matters to me.”
Torn and irritated, he raises his hands swiftly in defense, “And can you honestly say you would’ve given me a chance if you knew who I really was? Where I really came from?”
I slowly, achingly look away then back again, before answering dryly, “I was never given the chance. I guess we’ll never know.”
The president of the university’s voice carries through the room and into the hall. “So it is with great respect and admiration that I introduce tonight’s hosts. A family who is not only alumni but strong university supporters through and through. With their significant financial backing, we have been able to expand our Science and Engineering department, bringing it into the modern age and allowing us to compete with any university in the country. So, please, without further ado, may I present the Whitford family, founders of Monument Spirits …”
“Goodbye, CJ.”
“What? No, don’t say goodbye. I won’t let you.” He reaches for me, grabbing hold of my waist, desperate to hold on to any party of me as I stand motionless. I force myself from his grip and back away.
But in one final, frantic attempt, he wraps his hands around the back of my head and pulls my face to his, planting a firm kiss on my lips. His way of silently begging me one last time to stay—to promise him that I will not leave him. As I taste his tears on my lips, I give him a slight shake of my head, because I refuse to make him that promise. I refuse to lie. Unlike every word he’s ev
er spoken. Unlike every moment we shared.
Proving, once again, with money comes lies.
Defeated and lost, he kisses my cheek, then the other. When he kisses my forehead, he holds me there firmly.
He finally releases me and steps towards the room. Turning to me, he announces, determined, “I won’t let you go, Christina.”
It’s the last thing he says to me.
I watch as he walks through the maze of tables and makes his way toward the stage. The crowd is applauding, but he only acknowledges me, looking back every few steps, knowing at any moment I’ll be gone. I watch until he joins his family on stage, taking in each and every one of them, along with the painful reality that tonight I lost more than the man I love. As his father begins speaking, he takes his place next to his brother and sister. I allow myself one last look before slipping out and away.
Relief passes over me when I see Max in the distance. I spent the entire flight back to New York crying, so by the time Max sees me, I’m broken and exhausted. But one thought has lit a fire in me that has turned the tears into rage.
Just like Alanzo. Just like William. My family is behind this.
I am such a fool.
I’ve spent my life being their toy to play with, their tool to manipulate, their garbage to toss aside. Yet as certain as I feel, I still need the proof. Any kind of physical evidence exposing them to be the demented monsters I know them to be.
“This is everything I could dig up on short notice. There is nothing linking him or his family to your father or the corporation.” Max reaches over the seat, handing me a thick file folder with all the information one could ever want on a Mr. Christopher James Whitford IV. I set the folder on my lap and begin to read the top page. When Max doesn’t turn back to drive, I look up, confused. “Chrissy … I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected you. I let you down and I’m so damn sorry.”
I reach up and grip his shoulder. “Max, don’t. Don’t think for one second this is your fault. This is no one’s fault but my own. I should’ve learned from my mistakes.”
Max places his hand over mine and squeezes before turning back and taking us home.
I quickly scan the first few pages, absorbing the basic information. The family’s money originated in soft drink bottling plants his father bought all over the country in the 70s, before selling to the manufacturer for over two billion dollars, thus funding the Monument Spirits company.
Dammit, all this time, while I was enjoying the ride, I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.
As I read further, the lies deepen. CJ owns the apartment in New York, just like he owns a condo in Vail and another two in Chicago and San Francisco. His name is on not one, not two, but five cars that include a Porsche and an Aston Martin. He personally gave over a million dollars in charitable contributions last year, with the family and company giving ten million dollars collectively.
I flip to the next page and come to a photo of what I now know to be the Whitford family. Jim and Elizabeth Whitford, an attractive, polished older couple seated on Adirondack chairs surrounded by CJ, Nathan, and Emily. His family is the one thing I have proof he didn’t lie about. The information below the photo states that the Whitford children all have VP positions within the company and each has a personal net worth of over twenty-five million dollars, with the company currently being valued at over five billion dollars.
There’s much more information here. Max went above and beyond in the short amount of time he had to gather it, but I’ve seen enough. If I want more, and I do, there’s only one place to get it.
The house is dark and quiet. I make my way up the back staircase to Father’s office and flip on the light. Without a second thought, I sit at his desk and start opening drawers, one after the other, searching through files as I go, but nothing stands out. I turn in his chair and try the cabinets that run the length of the back wall. Every cabinet and drawer is more of the same. Except one. The only drawer that is locked. I definitely didn’t come across a key, but I quickly search the drawers again, inside and out, and again come up with nothing.
I’ve delivered mail to Father hundreds of times over the years, but have never gotten a glimpse of what’s inside this drawer. Countless others, sure. I’ve seen files out and doors ajar. But never this drawer. He never seems to touch it, and that makes me want in that much more because I know the trail of deceit begins here.
I give my best effort and pull on the handle, propping my foot on the neighboring drawer for leverage, to no avail. I pry a letter opener into the groove, but it doesn’t budge. With each failure, my resolve only builds, and I make a choice that I would never have dared before tonight.
I quickly walk down the hall to the maintenance room, grab a few supplies, then head back before I change my mind. I start with the flat head screwdriver, wedging and hammering at the tool just above the lock. The more force I use, the more pronounced the dent I make in the custom cabinetry, but I couldn’t care less. Thoughts of every betrayal, every hurtful comment, every manipulation I’ve experienced since my mom’s death fuel me on until I see a slight gap in the cabinet’s opening. Smiling, I flip the hammer over and manage to pry open the drawer just a fraction more. But it’s not enough, the drawer refuses to open farther. This is not your standard, weak file cabinet lock. Which means one thing—this is intentional. There is something important in here. Something too valuable and too personal for Father to store in the family safe. Something he needs to keep close to him.
Attempting to break the lock isn’t getting me anywhere. My only other option is to break through the face of the cabinet. Without any care or concern to the punishments I could face, I stand with my legs spread, raise the hammer, and begin my assault, swinging again and again, with more power than I’ve ever known myself to have. The wood on the face of the cabinet starts to splinter and crack, so I keep going, pulling fragments and throwing them to the side as they break apart. I flip the hammer around again and pull at the small opening I was able to create, making it larger and giving me a glimpse of what I’m so close to discovering. I tear enough of the wood away to finally get a better angle on the lock mechanism and continue to pound away with every bit of strength I have. It bends slightly to the left, giving me an opportunity to pry it apart. A horrible scraping sound lets me know I’m making progress, encouraging me to push ahead and pour twenty years of anger and hurt into the task. I hammer at the lock, over and over again, until I hear the distinct clink of metal land on the wood floor. I stand in stunned victory as I watch the drawer slowly slide out.
Holy shit. I did it. I’m in.
I’m not sure if my chest is burning from the exertion of what I’ve done, or the emotion of the moment, but I don’t care. I only care about the truth that sits only inches away. I lean over the drawer and peer inside.
The drawer is deep and long, meant to hold dozens of standing files, but right now, it contains nothing close to that. It is empty except for one lone, manila envelope lying flat on the bottom. The envelope is plain except for some small writing on the top right corner. As I take a closer look, I see it’s a date. I grab at my chest and turn my face away, needing to calm myself before taking a second look. Because this is not just any date. This is the date that plays center stage in my worst nightmare. The date that forever changed my life. The date that, no matter how hard I try, I will never, can never, forget. The date of my mother’s death.
With shaky hands, I lift the envelope and am surprised that something that weighs so heavily on my heart, weighs so little in reality. I sit in Father’s chair and face his desk, lifting the clasp on the envelope as I go. With the gentleness I imagine one would use to dismantle a bomb, I slide the contents out onto the desk and am immediately forced to take in images that I’ve fought for years to forget.
“C’mon baby, we’re going on a trip,” my mom says as she takes my hand in hers.
“To Disney World?”
“Yes, baby, to Disney World.”
“Can I bring Hannah? Hippos love Disney World, Momma.” I hold up the purple animal proudly.
“Of course, Honey. Bring Hannah.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Can I bring my shiny red shoes, too?”
“I’ve got you all packed, but we have to leave now.”
“Right now?” I pull on her hand, puzzled.
“Right now, Christina.”
“Okay, Momma. I’ll go get Daddy.”
“No, Christina. Daddy can’t go on this trip. It’s just you and me. We’ll call Daddy when we get there.” She quickens our pace.
“Okay, Momma. Are we taking the airplane there?” My small feet skip to keep up.
She opens the car door for me, looking from side to side before putting a hand to my bottom and scooting me inside. “No, honey. We’re driving. Now get buckled up. It’s going to take a little while, so just rest your eyes.”
I wake up to a car horn. Then another. And another. Momma is yelling at the big black truck in front of us, telling it to go. But it doesn’t, so Momma looks behind us, and I feel the car move backwards. When I hear her say a bad word, I stretch my little neck and try to see what all the fuss is about. Another car is so close to us, but I can’t see the person inside because the windows are dark.
The rest happens so fast. Momma’s car door flies open. I hear a man yelling at the same time I hear Momma screaming, “Just don’t hurt my daughter! Leave her alone!”
A long, black-clothed arm pulls Momma from the car. She’s still screaming, and I watch her out the window as she wildly swings her arms and tries to fight her way out of the man’s grasp. A second later I hear two funny popping noises and the screaming and fighting stop. I can’t see Momma. The man with the black shirt gets behind the wheel of the car, but I’m too scared to cry. The black truck in front of us drives forward as our car follows. I rise to my knees, just enough to look out the rear window for Momma. And that’s when I see her. Lying on the road, eyes wide open in a pool of red.
Beautiful Lies Page 16