Her Secret Affair

by Arlene James

  How simple that sounded. Perhaps it would be simple if she was like all those other women who seemed to think nothing of committing themselves to marriage, motherhood and career. Yet, everywhere she turned she saw and heard the hand-wringing and debates. Our children are at risk! Women are in crisis! Only in her own family did everyone seem balanced and happy—and the women of her family did not mix motherhood and career. Brodie and Seth made her believe that she could be the exception, but could she? Could she really? At this point, she could only hope so, because the moment of decision was definitely at hand.

  It was time to face the fact that she loved Brodie Todd and his son, to put aside her fears and embrace the possibilities. It was time to commit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Brodie walked into the family room, Janey, Brown and his grandmother were already in place. From her position next to Brown on the comfortable chintz-covered love seat, Janey was regaling Viola, who looked politely bored, with news of her amazing recovery pace. She was giving credit, much to Brown’s apparent dissatisfaction, to Nate Begay.

  “I’ll admit that I was skeptical at first,” she said upon spying Brodie, “but as usual my dear husband made a brilliant decision in hiring Nate.”

  Brodie smiled to himself, trusting that Nate could hear what was being said about him. Of course, Janey had no real inkling about certain areas of Nate’s expertise. “That’s good of you to say,” Brodie told her, taking a seat on the sofa next to his grandmother.

  “Oh, I mean it,” Janey gushed. “Why it’s positively miraculous what that man has wrought! I swear, I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

  “As fit as you’ve ever been, I’m sure,” Brodie qualified with a straight face.

  “Yes, indeed, and more than ready to take up my place in, er, life again.”

  She glanced at Brown, took a breath, and went off on another subject, specifically, the sad state of her wardrobe. It had been two years, after all, since she’d last done any “serious” shopping, except for the few “essentials” that she and Brown had managed to pick up in the past few days. Brodie mused that an expensive pair of ostrich-skin shoes and a matching handbag were not exactly his idea of “essentials,” but he considered the cost justifiable, a small price to pay for the hours that she had spent elsewhere.

  Before he was required to make another comment in response to Janey’s prattle, the doorbell clanged, the sound reverberating throughout the house. Every head turned toward the door, including his own. That should be Chey, according to plan—unless she’d decided that matters at the office were more important than what was going on here. But, no, she wouldn’t do that. They had worked too hard together to bring this moment about. She knew how important this was to their future.

  Didn’t she?

  Yes. Yes, of course, she did.

  Nevertheless, he wished he’d had a chance to discuss his plan in detail with her, but since circumstances had prevented that, he’d have to trust in her support. He couldn’t help feeling anxious as he faced the room once again, however. After quickly checking his wristwatch, he straightened the crease of his slacks. He had not until this moment thought about what he would do if, for some reason, Chey did not show, but how much difference could it make, really? A cold feeling in the pit of his belly told him that it made a great deal of difference, indeed, to him. Still, she must know that he was counting on her. She wouldn’t disappoint him.

  Within moments, the click of heels could be heard coming down the hall. Brodie secretly heaved a sigh of relief, recognizing the sound of Chey’s footsteps. Sure enough, an instant later she walked through the open doorway. Janey frowned and traded a look with Brown, who openly scowled. Brodie leapt up and hurried forward to escort the new arrival to a comfortable armchair only recently installed.

  “How is everything?” he asked solicitously. “Anything valuable taken?”

  She smiled tiredly, and it occurred to him that she hadn’t had much more sleep than he had. “Nothing important, really,” she answered, exhaustion lowering her voice. “The broken glass has been cleaned up and replaced, and I’ve decided to go with a padlock until a new grille can be installed. The repairmen are saying they’ll get to it by the end of the week,” she finished gamely.

  “Not more repairmen!” Janey complained, obviously overhearing only the last part. “I thought we were through with all that.”

  “These repairmen are working at Chey’s shop,” Brodie told her. “If you’ll recall, there was a break-in of some sort.” He looked a mild warning at Chey.

  She smiled wanly and said, “No cause for alarm.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Viola said heartily.

  “But,” Janey injected, “I’m sure you’d rather be there than here just now.”

  “Actually, I asked Chey to be here,” Brodie said pointedly.

  Janey did not take that news well. Her delicate brows drew together and her plump lips pursed in a pout. “I don’t see why we need her for this.”

  He had known she was going to say that, of course, and had planned exactly how to derail her complaints. “But, Janey, didn’t you say that you wanted to make some changes in the house? This is your chance to itemize them.”

  Janey immediately brightened at that, though Brown’s suspicious nature moved her to pinch her charge in warning, not that it did any good. Janey merely brushed away Brown’s concern with a slap of her hand, then sat forward eagerly and began speaking again as if the floor was hers by right anytime she wanted it.

  “The main problem is the colors,” she told Chey. “Golds and greens aren’t flattering to me. I need pinks and creams. And well, this furniture is all so old-fashioned.”

  Brodie traded amused glances with Chey and sat down next to his grandmother once more. Janey happily prattled on, telling Chey just what she’d like to see changed, from the paintings to the rugs. When she started talking about Egyptian artifacts and Danish furniture, Viola made a strangling sound, then covered it by harshly clearing her throat. Thankfully, the bell rang again.

  This time Brodie managed not to look at the door, knowing perfectly well that the new arrival would be either Harp or his own personal attorney. A few moments later, Harp appeared, grumbling about having to find his own way through the house alone.

  “Marcel is needed at the door,” Brodie told him.

  “Well, where’s that woman, that skinny housekeeper?” Harp wanted to know.

  “She’s with Seth,” Brodie answered calmly, then adroitly changed the subject. “Why don’t you take that comfortable armchair over there, Harp? It’s a new addition. Chey had it brought all the way from Boston.”

  Harp grunted and swaggered across the floor to drop down into the chair. “What’s this all about?” he wanted to know.

  “All in good time,” Brodie assured him and once more directed the conversation onto safer paths, saying, “Janey, you may want to rethink your plan to overhaul the house yet again. Are you aware that twice recently people have stopped by to ask if they can look around inside? If this keeps up, we’ll have to start charging admission.” He chuckled to show that he was teasing, but, as expected, Janey took him seriously.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked eagerly, apparently calculating her share of any such profits. “Do you really think people would pay to see inside?”

  “Ah, that’s hoo-haw,” Harp insisted. “Ain’t nobody with a lick o’ sense gonna pay to see inside some old house.”

  “Oh, but they do,” Viola told him. “All along the River Road, in the French Quarter and right here in the Garden District, people pay admission to the historic older homes. Many families and organizations support themselves that way.”

  Janey was enraptured. “You don’t say!” Before she could warm to this new subject too obnoxiously, that glorious gong reverberated again, and suddenly Brodie’s nerve endings went on alert.

  This was it. Finally. He tried to think it all through clearly one more time and found to his horror that his
mind was a perfect blank. Instinctively, he looked to Chey and found her looking at him, the softness of her gaze wrapping around him like a warm blanket. Resolve returned. He rose to his feet and was standing at the end of the sofa, one hand resting lightly on its back, the other at his waist, when Marcel appeared, followed by the final player in this farce.

  “Mr. Harvey,” Marcel announced.

  Brodie clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “Excellent! Now we can begin.” Looking at Marcel, he said, “You may serve now, please.” Marcel made a little bow and hurried away. Brodie smiled at the man standing before him. “I suppose introductions are in order.” He glanced around the room and said, “Allow me to present my personal attorney, Mr. Lionel Harvey.”

  Harp leapt to his feet at that. Brodie looked from one to the other of them, mentally comparing them in a snap. Both were solidly middle-aged, and together they made a perfect study in opposites. Wary little Harp, his thinning hair plastered across his balding pate with some sort of dressing, stood there in pointy-toed cowboy boots with heels so high that he seemed to be standing on an incline, eyes darting around the room as if he expected an ambush. The tail of his faded T-shirt was cinched into the waistband of his baggy jeans with a cheap vinyl belt stamped to look like snakeskin. Tall, controlled, substantial Harvey, on the other hand, fairly shouted wealth and status, from the distinguished gray at his temples to the cut of his expensive pinstriped suit and the brilliant shine of his Italian shoes. The hang of his burgundy tie against the front of his French blue shirt was as perfect as the slender line of the briefcase at his side. Absolute opposites: snake oil and grease, integrity and substance.

  Harp brought his hands to his hips and demanded, “What’s this all about? Why’ve you brought your lawyer in, and how come the old lady and the other one are here?” He pointed an accusing finger at Chey.

  “I’ll thank you to speak civilly of my grandmother and Ms. Simmons,” Brodie told him, taking a firm rein on his temper. “Otherwise, you’ll miss the celebration, Harp.”

  “Celebration?” the small man echoed. “What celebration?”

  “Daddy,” Janey interrupted anxiously, “I told you. Brodie’s going to see to my, er, our future.”

  “He don’t need no lawyer for that. Lawyers is what got you in trouble before!”

  Brodie rolled his eyes. “If you’ll just shut up and sit down, Harp, all your questions will be answered.”

  Harp huffed, but he dropped back into his chair. Brodie put the attorney in his own place on the couch next to Viola, the briefcase parked next to his feet. Just then Marcel wheeled a service cart into the room. It was filled with crystal champagne flutes and a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne so recently uncorked that it was still vaporizing. Quickly, the flutes were dispersed and partially filled. Afterward, Marcel parked the cart out of the way and left the room. Armed with the requested prop, Brodie waved his glass airily.

  “Now where were we? Oh, yes. Introductions. You already know my grandmother, Lionel, so allow me to present the others. I’d like you to meet my ex-wife, Janey.”

  Janey caught her breath at that, and Harp started blustering again, but Brodie ignored them.

  “Next to her is her faithful nurse, Brown, and as you might have guessed, this is her father, Harp Shelly.” He pointed to Harp, then abruptly turned his back on the man, who seemed to be gathering himself for another outburst. “And, finally,” he said, smiling at Chey, “Ms. Chey Simmons.” She was beautiful, astonishingly so, and the one truly bright spot in the whole room. He stood there looking at her and made a sudden decision. “Or I should say,” he went on, “the future Mrs. Brodie Todd.”

  That announcement carried all the impact of a bomb. Chey gasped. Harp Shelly plunked his glass down on the floor next to his chair and yelped an expletive. Brown screamed hoarsely, while Janey dropped her champagne and keeled over in an apparent faint, even as Viola called delighted congratulations and Lionel calmly saluted Chey with his glass and drank, making it a toast.

  Chaos reigned for a moment, with Harp, Lionel and Viola all speaking at once. Brown managed to set her own champagne flute safely aside and cradle Janey against her on the love seat while Brodie stared at Chey. Would she refuse him outright or step into the role? It wasn’t as if they hadn’t discussed marriage—in a roundabout way. They had even used it, obliquely, as the ultimate threat with the Shellys. Perhaps he shouldn’t have made the announcement this way, but the moment had seized him and he had run with it. Now he prayed that she would understand the dual purpose here. This was meant to rout the Shellys, yes, but it was also what he wanted.

  His heart in his throat, Brodie held out his free hand to her. After a moment, Chey rose and placed her hand in his. Elation filled him. He lifted his glass in a silent salutation, inviting her with his eyes to join him in a toast to their future. She looked down at the glass in her hand, then lifted it to her mouth and sipped the sparkling champagne. The chaos receded. A moment of peace wrapped around him.

  Then Harp Shelly stuck his face up close to Brodie’s and shouted, “Bastard! You can’t do this!”

  The room and all its chaos came back into focus, along with a fresh sense of purpose. “But of course I can,” Brodie replied, calmly stepping aside. “What’s to stop me?”

  Harp stabbed a finger at Janey, who lay slumped against Brown’s lap, and accused Brodie with both tone and words. “Just look what you’ve done to my girl! A shock like that could kill her! You know what the doctor said!”

  Brodie nodded sagely. “Um, yes, that would be the same doctor who so recently gave Lionel here a signed, notarized statement indicating that you somehow misunderstood his prognosis for Janey. That is the term he uses, Lionel, isn’t it? Misunderstood.”

  Harp gaped like a landed cod.

  “Um, yes, misunderstood,” Lionel confirmed in his calm, unruffled way. “The exact term, actually. Concerning the notion that honesty would somehow set back Ms. Shelly-Todd’s recovery, especially in reference to the state of your past marriage and subsequent divorce, it was all a big misunderstanding.”

  Brodie smiled benignly, enjoying himself now. “There you have it. Misunderstandings are so easily arrived at, especially when one thinks one is hearing what one wishes to hear.”

  Harp drew himself up as tall as he could and made what was for him a cogent reply. “Damn you, Brodie Todd!”

  Brodie grinned with obvious relish. “Game’s up, Harp. Get over it.”

  Janey whimpered pathetically and slid off the love seat onto the floor.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Viola muttered.

  Seething with rage, Harp coldly ignored her. Clucking like a mother hen, Brown knelt at her side and alternately chafed Janey’s limp wrist and shook her as she might a misbehaving child. Lionel Harvey merely raised an eyebrow, as if to say that he found the whole thing in very poor taste. Viola rolled her eyes, and Brodie chuckled to himself, winking at Chey, who was disciplining a smile. Suddenly, Brodie wanted nothing more than the lot of them gone so he could kiss his bride-to-be.

  “Well,” Viola commented firmly, it becoming apparent that Janey wasn’t going to give up the pretense anytime soon, “I say that’s good news for everyone concerned. We can all get on with our lives now.”

  “You mean he can get on with his life!” Harp snapped. “How’s that good for anybody else? It sure ain’t good for my girl or me, far as I can see!”

  “Yes, I understand why you would think that,” Brodie mused, studying the bubbles rising through his champagne. He switched his gaze to Harp’s face, feeling a fierce satisfaction. It was time to end this. “I know you were hoping that Janey could get more out of me than she already has, and your last supposedly private conversation with Brown proves it.”

  Harp went very still, but then he carefully blanked his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Allow me to jog your memory, then,” Brodie said affably. He called out for Nate
Begay. The male nurse opened the door that led into the back hall and stepped inside, the tape recorder in one hand. “Janey was very right earlier to laud Nate’s expertise,” Brodie went on. “Nate, you see, is a very interesting person. Why, did you know that before Nate decided his heart lay in nursing, he was one of New Orleans’ most highly decorated police officers?”

  “He’s a cop!” Brown brayed at Harp. “I told you! I told you both!”

  Janey opened her eyes then, staring up accusingly at Nate. Harp suddenly looked hunted. “Now, see here,” he began, “there ain’t nothing illegal about looking out for your own!”

  “No?” Brodie turned a cold smile at Nate and instructed, “Turn the volume all the way up.”

  “Yes, sir.” With that, Begay switched on the recorder.

  A few seconds into the tape, Viola began to tsk and Harp to bluster. After hearing enough to know that the scam really was blown, Janey suddenly sat up and glared at her father. “You old fool!”

  True to form, the Shellys neatly turned on one another. “Don’t you talk to me like that, you stupid bitch!”

  “Stupid!” Janey shrieked, and Brodie signaled Nate to turn off the recorder, which he did immediately, while Janey pecked herself repeatedly in the chest with her thumb. “I lived right here in the same house with him for weeks pretending to be in a coma,” she bawled, “and got away with it! You waltz into town and get yourself recorded!” Realizing suddenly what she’d said, she flew a glance at Brodie and immediately changed tactics. “It wasn’t my idea. None of it was my idea! Brown bullied me into going along. From the moment I opened my eyes in that ambulance, she—”

  “Ambulance?!” Brodie echoed disbelievingly, bringing his hand to his hip as Chey slipped free of him then. “You came out of the coma in the ambulance on the way to New Orleans? You’ve been pretending this whole time?”

  Janey glanced at Brown, then lurched to her knees and quickly climbed to her feet. “Now, Brodie,” she said placatingly, “please remember that you’re speaking to the mother of your child.”