Honest Betrayal

by Girard, Dara

  She returned her gaze to him. “How it must gall you to see the freedom of thought Hunter has. He has no chains gripped to his mind to keep him under your control—so you created those chains, those handcuffs. You call them honor and loyalty so he will heed to your beliefs. However, I won’t succumb to your chains.”

  Orson walked to a picture. A simple charcoal sketch of a man’s face. He studied it giving no indication of how her words affected him. “He once had a younger brother. We named him Lionel. He was found dead in his crib one day with a towel wrapped around his neck. Hunter held him in his arms. Hunter had always been jealous of his mother’s affection. Marlene came and saw what Hunter had done and lost it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Orson turned to her. “You’ve never seen him jealous. He doesn’t care enough about you enough to reveal that side, but we’ve seen it. Angie’s seen it.”

  His words made her inwardly tremble. “You’re telling lies so that you can control me too, but this...” She shook her head. “No, I won’t believe a word.”

  “Exactly and if you can’t handle this truth how do you think Hunter would feel?”

  “Were you there when it happened?”

  “No.”

  “Who was there?”

  “I could show you his grave.”

  Brenna smiled with condescension. “You could show me a grave. It may not be his.”

  “Why would I lie about a five year old boy?”

  “Knowing you, I’m sure there would be a reason. You could make this easy and tell me why.”

  Orson made an impatient movement with his shoulders. “Don’t try to change the topic.”

  “The subject is Hunter. Why did you really give him the job? Especially if you’ll continue to run it.”

  “Because it’s my company.”

  She nodded. “As long as you’re alive. But the years are catching up to you. You’re powerless against time. But you know about feeling powerless. You lived with it. When society had tried to take away your right to be a man. A fully grown man not just a Southern black boy. Weakness in any form is abhorrent to you from what you’ve seen. How many times did some shopkeeper call you boy? A grown man with a wife? How many times did you actually feel the color of your skin as though it were a disease that you wished you could peel off?”

  “I’ve never been ashamed—”

  “How many times did your worth feel less than the mud clinging to your shoes? How often and how long were you a Boy?”

  He tossed his drink in her face. “Now that there was just a nice cool whiskey,” he said with a hint of a smile as sweet as venom. “Don’t force me to throw my fist.”

  She wiped her cheek unafraid although she could feel her anger build. “I thought a gentleman like you would be against hitting a woman.”

  “I don’t see one standing in front of me.”

  Brenna lifted a brow and grinned. “I will decline sharing what I see in front of me.”

  “People need to know their place whether they be man or woman.”

  “Hunter’s dangerous to you, isn’t he? In Hunter’s eyes you see a rebelliousness, a spirit on fire just barely tamed and you watch and study it not because it reminds you of the young man you used to be. No, Hunter is something far worse. In your sons you can see your face reflected. Even in Doran and his siblings, but in Hunter it’s something new. Something that threatens the castle walls you’ve erected. You see a man in a different form. A man who can be gentle and strong. A man who can love freely, passionately.”

  Brenna raised her voice before he could speak. “I know he doesn’t love me. But I know he loves by the way he cares for his family. Call it loyalty if you must. In him you see another way to live in this world. A way of being that is the antithesis of your truth. Eighty is a long time to be alive. You’ve seen a lot, but allowed yourself to only experience a small amount. In order for survival, for your spirit to be intact you had to forge your own rules. But those rules don’t apply to everyone. And they don’t apply to him.”

  Orson set his glass down. “Fine words, young woman, but what do you know about experience?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “You have me there, sir. But see I’m too clever to get into a competition with you. You only compete when you know you’ll win. Your ego couldn’t stand it otherwise.”

  Orson rocked on his heels. “And what do you know of my ego?”

  “Hunter is stronger than you. That’s why you won’t let him create. You won’t let his ideas ever succeed. They’ll stay in your warehouse or on your desk until they turn to dust. You need to keep him down. You need him to fail. My question is why?”

  “He’s free to do what he wants.”

  Brenna stood, anger making her tone falter. She took a deep breath knowing anger was her enemy. “You know he’s trapped by his loyalty to you.”

  “Yes, and I’m proud of that. It’s for his own good. A man needs a code to live by. His mother was crazy and he’ll end up the same way too without rules to keep him in line. I’ve seen men drown in their despair, because of their compulsions. You think I’d let any blood relation of mine do that?”

  “But there is no compulsion in him.”

  “Angie told me—”

  “How quick you are to believe the worst of him. You are labeling something you don’t understand.”

  “I’m a man. I understand him far better than you. He may be safe at home in your loving arms.” His mouth twisted in sarcasm. “Though I expect your arms are pretty cold. I won’t be surprised if he finds those loving arms elsewhere. A man knows there are wolves out there.”

  Brenna sent him a significant look. “I’m well aware of the wolves out there.”

  Orson chuckled in amusement. “Yea, I’m one of them, no shame in that. And I have no shame saying his life belongs to me.”

  Her tone hardened. “No, it does not.”

  “You like living well.” He gestured to the surroundings. “But this can change. I own this house and all that’s in it.”

  “No not all. But what you do own, you could take it all away and it wouldn’t matter to me.”

  “Yes, I know it wouldn’t bother you, but it would make Hunter topple like a rotten barn.” Orson sat, his tone becoming slow and nonchalant creating the enticing web of the southern storytelling tradition. “You don’t know what being a man is so I’ll explain it to you. It’s the ability to provide. It’s the ability to stand head to shoulders with other men. It’s status. It’s pride in your work, knowing your place in the hierarchy of things.” He stood and walked towards her. He waved a dismissive hand. “We know you women like equality, circle type systems with lots of hand holding and God knows what else. It has its place for women. But take away a man’s work, his dignity, his purpose. You could love him all you want and what you’ll be loving is a dead man. I suggest you think about it.” He looked so pleased with himself she knew all he needed was a brandy and cigar.

  She stood and stared up at him. “You’re afraid he’s better than you.”

  “I’m better than both of you.” He grabbed her cane with such swiftness she lost her balance and pitched forward onto her knees. A sharp pain shot up her thigh. She adjusted her position before her knee locked. She swallowed back tears.

  Orson casually tossed the cane up in the air then caught it. He gazed down at her. “Not so tough without this.”

  Brenna held out her hand. “Give it back.”

  He watched her in a detached way, as though she were a beetle in his path he had the choice to step over or crush. He sat down. “Come and get it. I’d like to see you crawl. Might teach you some humility.”

  “How do you live without a heart?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a heart and it will stop one day. Unfortunately, for you that day’s not today.”

  “Too bad I can’t rip it out for you.”

  “Pretty hard to do when you can’t reach me. So full of words, but useless. Like a bucket full of air. Pity.�
�

  His words pierced her heart. Instead of rage—her shield, her protector—she felt sorrow. A sorrow beyond tears, beyond any type of healing. He’d left her naked and now taunted her because he knew his power and knew he could win.

  Orson rested a hand on the armrest. “I wasn’t sure I should let you marry my grandson. You’re stubborn. But you’re teachable and today I’m going to teach you.” He leaned forward as if to pat her on the head. “See you might be surprised, but I know a few things about being a woman having had so many in my life. I know that looks are important. We say that they aren’t, but we know that they are. You have looks, you’re a pretty woman, but you were cursed. They don’t use terms like that nowadays, but it comes down to the same thing—like a black mark on your soul you could never be like the others. Women like Angelina will always be above you.”

  Hot tears burned behind Brenna’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “No one is above me.”

  He tossed the cane to his other hand. “Love is important too. Women like to be loved. Hunter doesn’t love you, but you’re a practical woman so you know that and you think you can live without it, but you can’t. As the years drag on it will gnaw at you. Don’t think he’ll be faithful because he won’t. As the other women take precedence in his thoughts it will make you bitter. But you’ll have your job and maybe a kid or two so you’ll focus your love on them. But you’ll never have him.” Orson pointed the cane at her. “I saw him with Angelina and I see him with you and you don’t even come close. Hurts doesn’t it? Yes, you can stiffen that chin of yours, but you’re not that strong.” He stood and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. He stared into her face then smiled cruelly. “You poor little bitch.” He laughed, the sound raking her ears. “You do love him. You nearly had me fooled. Bet you even fooled yourself.” His grip on her arm became a vice, his tone like poison as his brown eyes met hers. “I want you to learn to fear me. I suggest you start now.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He tightened his grip causing tears of pain, but she refused to cry out. “Only fools speak without thinking. Are you afraid of seeing your brother go to prison?”

  She clenched her teeth. “He’s not going to prison. He’s innocent.”

  “He’s a blue collar worker—”

  “With no record.”

  “And evidence stacking against him.”

  “He’s innocent.”

  “It would be a shame if any more evidence started to appear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Control your husband, stop your investigation about his mother and you won’t have to find out.”

  “No.”

  He stroked her head and said in a soft tone, “You disappoint me. When I’m disappointed I do unfortunate things.” He handed her the cane. “One day you’re going to beg—”

  “The only thing I’d ever beg for is the day I can smell your flesh roasting in hell.”

  He abruptly released her. “So you’ve made your choice.” He began to grin. “You’re going to regret this day for the rest of your life. I’ll make sure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The elevator smelled like stale potato chips. Stephen barely noticed as he hit the button for the right floor. At least he wasn’t home. He was tired of hearing Fiona remind him that he shouldn’t have gone back. Crying about how alone she’d be without him. He still couldn’t believe he was out on bail. In a few weeks he’d face a judge and jury that might convict him of a crime he hadn’t committed. He could go to prison. He smiled bitterly. All his life he’d been a decent, law-abiding citizen and that seemed to mean nothing.

  When the elevator stopped, he shook himself of his melancholy thoughts. He just wanted to see Tima’s Mustang. He might as well do what he could before it was too late. He knocked on the door.

  A man answered, not the same man as before. This was a young man a few years older than himself with paint splattered on his gray T-shirt and sneakers. Stephen hesitated then said, “I’d like to speak to Tima.”

  “Okay.”

  Tima came to the door and stared at him, surprised.

  Stephen rested a hand on the doorframe. “I’m not here to kill you if that’s what you’re afraid of.” It was a poor attempt at humor. She didn’t laugh.

  Instead she hugged him. He hadn’t expected that and for a moment rejected it. Rejected the soft feel of her—the support, the comfort. He felt his throat close and shut his eyes. He didn’t need her kindness he didn’t want her pity, but somehow he couldn’t let go. She smelled like turpentine and strawberries. When she drew away he opened his eyes and saw tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were red and her nose was too. But she stared at him unashamed.

  He looked around for a tissue. “Don’t do that. I—”

  She covered his mouth and shook her head then motioned him to wait. She grabbed her coat, key and handbag then took his hand.

  He pointed to the other man. “What about—?”

  “He’s fine.”

  The sun shone brightly outside, Stephen squinted against the glare. For the first time in weeks he allowed himself to experience spring crawling through the air. He reminded himself of the season and inhaled the fresh earthy scent of new leaves and grass emerging from the stubborn lasting patches of snow. A balmy breeze touched his skin. Tima stood by her car then opened the hood. They didn’t speak as though they were two people in a museum admiring a sculpture. The engine was beautiful.

  After a while she handed him the keys. Without a word they got inside. They drove with the windows down and music blaring, not knowing where they were headed and not caring. She began to sing off-key; he followed. They looked at each other and laughed. At a small highway restaurant, they ordered fried clams and ate with their fingers; made bad jokes and funny faces. People stared, they didn’t care. In the car, she sketched him and he tried to sketch her. He hated the outcome but she stopped him from tearing it up. They finally drove to the Grand Yardley Hotel as the sun was beginning to set. It was his favorite place, a place that brought him calm. But he knew he didn’t need to tell her that.

  Tima rested her head back. “When this is all over I want you and Fiona to rent a room and watch the sunset from the towers.”

  Stephen rested an arm on the doorframe. “Fiona’s busy.”

  “She can make time.”

  “It’s expensive.”

  “I’ll pay for it.” She turned to him and smiled. “Any more excuses?”

  He smiled back. “No.” The smile soon fell and he hung his head. “I shouldn’t have gone back.”

  “Why did you?”

  “I don’t know. He was just on my mind.” He stared ahead. “I thought I could help him. I was stupid.”

  “Why? Because you’re a good person who saw a lonely old man in need of a friend?”

  “Lonely old man,” he said with contempt. “He just saw me as a mark. I should have known.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I can’t believe I’m putting my family through this and Fiona.” When he said her name, the discord between them came to his mind threatening to overshadow the joy of the day. “Fiona will never forgive me for this.”

  Tima scratched her head. “Why do you need her to forgive you? You didn’t do anything wrong and your lawyer will prove it.”

  “She told me not to go back.”

  “And you did. So what? You were living your life. You’re allowed to. Despite what happened you made his last day happy. That’s important. What I don’t understand is why you feel guilty. Tell her to go—”

  He shook his head. “She cares about me. She nags when she’s concerned.”

  “Fine.” Tima opened her purse and pulled out a candy. She offered him one. He shook his head. She shrugged and popped one in her mouth.

  Stephen draped his arm over the steering wheel and stared at the building. He saw one of the tower lights turn on as a couple entered the side entrance. “He had this bottle o
f chardonnay I helped him buy. He never got to drink it. I saw it on one of the shelves. The sight of it appears in my dreams.”

  “Because your life has been like that bottle? You’ve been waiting so long for the right moment you may never get to taste it?”

  He shot her a glance. “You annoy me.”

  She laughed. “I know.”

  The setting sun dyed the towers a red and yellow, igniting a purple hue across the water of the pond. The green on the trees became an almost iridescent color as they gently swayed. “How old are you?” he asked.

  “At times like this I forget. I feel as ageless as the sky. And then there are days—”

  “You feel older than stones. Me too.” He rested his chin on his arm, pretending to look at the building although he stole glances at her. Almost as though he was seeing her for the first time. He didn’t understand her, yet everything about being with her at this moment felt right. He didn’t care that her sandals didn’t match her clothes, that her sweater had a hanging thread and was the strangest color purple he’d ever seen. He didn’t care that she wasn’t thin or dainty or tactful. He didn’t even care that in her strange career she’d probably make more money than he’d ever see.

  “Why doesn’t it matter to you?” he asked.

  She turned to him. “What?”

  “Me. Brenna thinks I’m not motivated enough. Fiona thinks I’m too motivated, but you...you don’t care.”

  “It’s not that I don’t care. I just keep opinions to myself.” She winked. “Sometimes.”

  He sat back. “What’s your opinion of me?”

  “What’s your opinion of yourself?” She sent him a direct gaze that made him uncomfortable.

  He shrugged. “I think I’m a good guy.”

  “What does that mean?”