by Mary Campisi
“She, as in your wife or your girlfriend? Or maybe you’re talking about both?” There were days when Harrison grew tired of the constant battles and the stupidity of others. Why did everyone always think he would clean up their messes no matter how much stench they caused? When he’d been laid up with the recent illness—he still refused to call it a stroke—nobody had bothered him unless it was a request to move a body part or practice his speech. There’d been a small amount of peace in that but if he were honest, he’d admit he wanted to be in the middle of decisions, even if they’d been pulled from a cesspool. It was all about control and he was a man who thrived on it.
Carter polished off his whiskey, clutched the empty glass in is hand. “I’m talking about Camille.”
“Your wife.”
His brother ignored the jab, frowned. “If she hadn’t stirred up the whole town with her woe-is-me story, my practice wouldn’t be suffering. But it is, and it’s put me in a bind. I need your help, Harrison.” Pause. “One last time.”
Carter meant one last time until the next time. Harrison ignored his brother’s begging, circled back to the mention of his practice. “Maybe people don’t want a doctor removing their moles when they aren’t sure what else is happening on the exam table.” His source had told him about the escapades in Carter’s office with the girlfriend. There’d been others, too: the receptionist, the medical supply salesperson, the sister of one of his patients. Harrison had never been a saint, but at least he had used discretion.
Carter rolled up the sleeves of one of the designer shirts he loved so much, wiped a hand over his brow. “Maybe I’ve made a few bad choices, but I’ve learned from them. Things will be different, you’ll see. I just need a little time and capital.”
The more his brother talked, the more desperate he became, like the bird trapped in the blueberry netting when Harrison was a child. His mother had insisted the netting cover all the blueberry bushes and when the little bird got caught, she wanted him to dispose of it. He’s done enough destruction, she claimed. Get rid of him. He’s breathed enough air on this earth. He offers no value. He caught the bird but ignored his mother’s demand and tried to untangle it from the netting. The bird’s tiny feet twisted in the netting and when Harrison finally freed the animal, it limped away in a sad testimony to freedom. He’ll be someone’s dinner tonight, his mother had said. You would have been better off putting him out of his misery. Think about that next time you want to show mercy. He wondered about the bird for years after, still thought about it some days, usually right before he went after his next target. Would life have been different if he’d had parents who possessed an ounce of compassion? Or was cruelty inbred in his soul? “I’ll help you get your practice back to full capacity; I’ll even tell you how to do it.”
His brother sat up, anxious, eager, not unlike the bird caught in the netting. “You will? Just tell me what to do Harrison. Anything.”
“Get rid of the girl. There will be no divorce.”
Chapter 6
If almost thirty years of marriage had taught Camille Alexander one lesson, it was that no matter how much you wanted it, divorce was an ugly animal. It was one thing to live with the failings and annoyances of another person, to make side deals with your conscience that said you’d look the other way when you smelled another woman’s perfume on his shirt or when he arrived home after you’d gone to bed... You could even tell yourself you didn’t care that he no longer looked at you with longing or vague interest, and you could do it all because you’d made a deal. But the deal wasn’t with him because you’d realized long ago there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to change his ways or his disinterest in you and the marriage.
No, the deal you’d made was with yourself. How much could you take, for how long, and to what degree? Of course, you always started out vowing not to settle for anything, and yet, when faced with the reality of a less-than-ideal marriage, two small children, and a mountain of broken dreams, did you just walk out? Could you? That’s when you negotiated with yourself and changed your expectations. Maybe that’s when you stopped believing in happily-ever-after or even happy-for-now and settled for surviving-and-still-breathing.
And as the years and betrayals increased, so did what you were willing to ignore until you didn’t recognize who you’d become. Camille could blame Carter for his cheating ways, his glib tongue, his self-absorption, but she was the one who’d permitted it, accepted it, and changed because of it.
What did that say about her? Years ago, her brother had taken her aside and in the soft-spoken, nonjudgmental manner that made Jonathan Donovan one of the most respected people in the community, he’d tried to guide her. There’s been talk, Cammie...about Carter. It’s not good...it involves other women. He hadn’t said another woman because that would have been a misstatement and her brother was not given to those. You always had such dreams... If you need my help, I’m here. She’d been unable to do more than nod because once she spoke the words, they would be too real. Her brother hugged her, offered his help once more, and never again spoke of Carter’s affairs.
What might have happened if she’d asked for that help? Would she have found the strength to leave Carter? File for divorce? Raise the children and start over? She’d clung to her marriage and the life she enjoyed because of it and refused to acknowledge both were built on lies.
Now, all these years later, Carter was no different than he’d always been. Still too handsome, too arrogant, too self-absorbed with a young girlfriend...a pregnant young girlfriend. Camille sighed, rubbed her temples. Who was she kidding? Should she pretend surprise or shock? Mindy, the sex toy, was probably not the first young, pregnant girlfriend but Camille did not want to know. At some point a person had to shut down the past and refuse to scratch open more wounds that would bleed details and only make the hate stronger.
None of it mattered. Camille was not the person she’d been, the one who would not give up a bad marriage because of the children, the status, the money, her right to remain married. She’d done all of that and to what end? The children hadn’t even come home for Christmas, thanks to their father’s meddling. What did that say about them? Simon and Victoria hadn’t been interested in finding out any details behind their father’s comments that their Mother was on a rampage and had kicked him out of the house. Indeed. No child wants to be plunked in the middle of a divorce, no matter their age, but could they not have been a tad concerned for their mother’s welfare?
Apparently not. They hadn’t even asked about their gifts. Camille massaged her right temple harder. Life was not going to get better until she stopped feeling sorry for herself and the disappointments that stymied her. Booting her husband from the house and filing for divorce were the first steps in a long journey, but if she were going to have a second chance at happiness and a decent life, she’d have to find a way to remain upbeat, to persevere, no matter what.
And it was time to let her children accept their actions along with the accompanying consequences. No more obsessive parenting or trying to remove every negative outcome from their existence. Reality held a multitude of disappointments, and Camille was done inserting false hopes and reworked agendas so that Simon and Victoria would never know a second of defeat.
It was time to take care of herself, grow stronger, more resilient, more alive, and she was going to do it.
No matter what.
The self-help and renewal mantra spiraled through her and took shape in the form of daily journal writing, exercise, meditation, reading, and she’d even signed up for a ballroom dance class. Imagine that? She didn’t tell anyone, not even Rose, the queen of ballroom dancing, because this was private and something she planned to do just for herself. Camille had even signed up two towns away so Reunion Gap residents wouldn’t recognize the estranged wife of philanderer Dr. Carter Alexander.
Yes, it had come to that. In the past she’d held her head high and if anyone were bold enough to stare at her a second too long, she’d
skewer them with a look. But once she’d acknowledged the cold and bitter truth that her husband would never change no matter what she did, the fight to pretend she controlled her marriage and her husband ended. Now it was a matter of getting through the divorce and figuring out what to do with the rest of her life.
Staying busy was key and putting in hours at Nicki’s boutique helped. Plus, Camille had her own confidante and cheerleader in Nicki Price. The woman was young and vibrant, with two small children and a husband who adored her. Nicki knew about love and commitment and wanted to give back to the town that had welcomed her one lonely Christmas and changed her life. You’re a big part of this town, she’d told Camille. I’ll always be here for you.
Camille removed a red dress from a box filled with designer clothes, smoothed the Peter Pan collar, and slid a glance at Nicki. “My nephew brought home a wife… A pregnant one.”
Her friend stared at her. “Luke? The one you told me would never settle down?”
“Yes, that one. Rose said the girl’s a real looker: dark-haired, eyes the color of amber, quiet, with the nicest manners.” She shrugged, narrowed her gaze on the gold buttons stitched along the front of the dress. “I can see how he’d be attracted by the good looks, but the quiet and the manners? That doesn’t sound like Luke’s type, but who knows? Maybe she’s changed him, or maybe news that he’s going to be a father has...” Dear Lord, she hoped the girl hadn’t trapped her nephew.
“You’ll get a better feel when you meet her.”
“Right, but Rose is a pretty good judge of her children’s significant others. She hit it right on with Tate and she loved Elizabeth, though it took a while for her children to see the merits of their future spouses. Not Rose.” A smile flitted over her lips. “Rose always knew. She seems to like Luke’s wife but says she doesn’t know much about her. Name’s Helena. Classy, don’t you think?”
“Helena,” Nicki repeated. “Yes, very classy. So, give me the details. Where’s she from, what does she do, how does she act toward Luke?”
“The real question seems to be what happened to my nephew? I hear Luke’s waist-deep crazy about her and not afraid to show it. That was never his style. He’s what they used to call besotted back in the day. Can’t see anyone or anything but his wife. Rose says there’s something about the girl she can’t quite figure out: a sophistication that goes beyond the name and the manners. I can’t wait to meet her and draw my own conclusions.” She let out a soft laugh. “I do love puzzles and investigating. I think I missed my calling.” Hadn’t the private investigator who’d visited Reunion Gap said she had good intuition and an inquisitive nature? Yes, Lester Conroy had told her that and she should have pressed him for details on how to turn those traits into a profession. She missed the lanky former Texan and had thought about contacting him a time or two. Maybe she still would...see what he had to say about her pursuing an investigative career.
“But what about Helena?”
Yes, what about Helena? “Rose said she was waitressing in a Chinese restaurant somewhere outside of Denver. Luke had a bad cold and went in search of hot-and-sour soup and found Helena. Next thing you know she’s pregnant and they’re getting married.” There were a lot of holes in that short story and Camille was going to find every one of them. Family protected family, and no one was going to hurt her nephew. Luke Donovan might think he was big and tough and he was, but she’d bet her diamond bracelet he didn’t know about a broken heart—unless he was the one doing the breaking.
“Well.” Nicki picked up a lint roller, eased it over a pair of black slacks. “Sounds a bit...quick.”
“Hmm. I’d say.” Camille pushed the dress aside, grabbed a pad of paper and pen, and began making notes. An investigator must be prepared.
“Camille?” Nicki leaned toward her, glanced at the notepad. “Name of restaurant? Town in Colorado? Length of stay? Mutual friends? Hometown?” She scrunched her nose, frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting ready to meet Luke’s wife,” she said with a sly smile. “How am I going to find out the truth if I don’t know the right questions to ask?”
Two days later, Camille strutted into the Donovans’ carrying a container of Luke’s favorite chocolate oatmeal cookies and a six-pack of craft beer. The boy had always been partial to heavy ale and, according to Tate, this was a winner.
Rose took her coat and motioned toward the back of the house. “They’re in the sunroom looking at baby pictures of Luke.”
“Ah.” Camille leaned close to Rose, whispered, “What have you done with my nephew and who’s the impostor in his place?” The Luke she remembered didn’t like to have his photo taken, and if he were forced, he made everyone miserable until they gave up.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Rose shrugged, her lips pulling into a gentle smile. “My boy’s in love and it’s a miracle to watch. I’ve never seen him kinder or more caring than when he’s around Helena.” She laid a hand on her heart, blinked hard. “I just want him to be happy and I pray she’s everything he thinks she is.”
Camille laid a hand on Rose’s arm, worked up a smile. “That’s why I’m here, Rose.” Her voice shifted to a no-nonsense tone. “To make sure she’s exactly who she says she is. Don’t you worry; we’ll find out.”
“But what if she’s not?” Rose’s eyes filled with tears, her voice wobbled. “What then?”
Worries like this sent Rose into a tailspin and a downward spiral. It had happened after Jonathan’s disastrous money losses and again with his tragic death. She’d been unable to pull herself out of the sadness and misery that had suffocated her, and while medication and doctors helped, they were not a cure. Camille would not have Rose’s mental state on her conscience. “Let me handle this. I promise to find out and report back to you.”
An hour later, Camille determined that Rose had not misread or underestimated her son and his wife’s affection for each other. The couple was in love, no doubt about it, but that wasn’t what Camille wanted to ascertain. No, she needed the background information on the newest Donovan addition so she could determine the woman’s intentions. Unfortunately, with Luke within touching distance of his wife, it wasn’t going to happen. The boy seemed overprotective and determined to shield Helena from too many questions. Inquiring was the Donovan way and he knew that, which was most likely why he’d opted to answer most of the questions—even the ones directed at his wife. After he’d intercepted the first few inquiries, Helena sat very still, shoulders squared, expression unreadable though she did offer smiles when appropriate. But the darn smiles did not reach her eyes or spread to the rest of her face, a clear indication that Helena was not pleased with her husband’s interference. The behavior also revealed something else, something far more important: class and style.
Luke may not have recognized them for what they were—signs of a privileged life—but for a woman who’d spent too many years emulating them, Camille spotted them. Helena was hiding a life she didn’t want Luke to know about.
The only question that mattered now was why.
The opportunity to study Helena Donovan and gather information without intrusion came the next day when Camille invited her for coffee at her home. Actually, coffee was off the list because according to Rose, Luke and Helena wanted only healthy choices for their child. Good for them. Healthy choices. Safe choices. It was an admirable goal and yet quite unattainable once the child left the womb. Parents could grow organic food, encourage intellectual stimulation, and promote an active lifestyle, but they could not keep them safe from bad choices, accidents, or the wrong partner. “So, you plan to make your own baby food? Interesting concept.”
Helena nodded, her amber eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I’ve read up on making baby food and it looks so easy. You can even freeze the food in small containers.” She sipped her water, nodded again. “Peas, green beans, sweet potatoes. Luke said he saw something about baby smoothies you can make, and he wants us to try it out.”
“Lu
ke said that?” Camille raised a brow. That did not sound at all like her nephew. The boy had never been interested in healthy choices, a healthy lifestyle, or healthy anything. Big, bold, risky, stuffed with flavor had been what interested him. His father had caught him smoking at sixteen, drinking, too...and the girls? She did not want to remember the times she’d listened to Jonathan worry about his second son or the poor choices he was making that would no doubt make him a father.
And now it had happened, and while he was older and—hopefully—more mature than he’d been as a teenager, this was still Luke they were talking about—the reckless Donovan who’d once vowed never to be tied to one woman. Hmm. But he’d tied himself to this delicate flower by giving her a ring and a baby in her belly. Camille sipped her coffee, studied the young woman. The fresh complexion, pale lips, and dark hair were a refreshing change from Luke’s usual painted and dyed companions. But the absence of a tight sweater and the bosom size to go with it was very interesting.
Camille would like to believe that her nephew had grown up and selected a partner whose heart and intentions were as wholesome as her physical appearance. But looks didn’t always tell the true story and who knew that better than Camille? She’d pretended around her relationship with her husband most of her marriage, and she owed it to Luke to find out why his new wife hadn’t told him what Camille suspected: Helena had known wealth and privilege. The subtle airs, the casual grace, the unmistakable manners were indicators of a past life and intuition told Camille there was more the woman hadn’t told her husband.