The Saint's Wife

by Lauren Gallagher

  David awoke from a dead sleep and was already on his feet and halfway to the door before he was consciously aware of Tiffany crying in the other room.

  At her door, he paused for two seconds to collect himself—if she’d had a nightmare or something, she didn’t need to see him freaked out and think there really was something to be scared of.

  Calm and composed on the outside, he stepped into her room and found her sitting up in bed, the nightlight illuminating her face as she reached for him.

  “Daddy…”

  “Hey, hey.” He sat on the bed beside her, wrapped his arms around her and rocked her gently. “Easy, baby. Daddy’s right here.”

  She buried her face against his shoulder, still sobbing softly.

  “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

  She nodded without lifting her head.

  He stroked her hair and reassured her that everything was okay, that he was there, and slowly, the sobs quieted.

  “Do you want me to stay for a bit?” he asked.

  Tiffany looked up at him and nodded.

  He wiped the tears off her cheeks, then gently tucked her back in and sat on the edge of the bed. Before long at all, she was out cold, curls falling over her forehead and her thumb in her mouth. He and Alexandra were trying to break her of the thumb-sucking habit, but he wasn’t going to deny her any kind of comfort right now. If that was what she needed to sleep, so be it.

  He smiled down at her. She was already getting to the stage where she could, once she’d gotten over the initial scare, calm down and realize that the dream was over and the world was back to the way it should be. Another few months, maybe a year, and she’d probably be able to put herself back to sleep, but for now, he was happy to comfort her until she wasn’t scared anymore.

  He stroked her hair, just gazing at her sleeping face. And he couldn’t help himself. He searched her features, looking for something to betray her genetics, but that was pointless. Everyone had joked from day one that she was the spitting image of her mother, without even the slightest nod to her father. And that was still true—she had Alexandra’s brown eyes, not to mention the dark curls that Alexandra painstakingly straightened on herself but left full and bouncing on Tiffany.

  An uncomfortable feeling wrapped itself around the base of his spine. As he watched Tiffany sleep, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to what Joanna had said. Anger burned in the back of his throat—she could be angry at her husband all she wanted, but bringing Tiffany into this? What the hell?

  But, a quiet voice in the back of his mind interjected, what if she is right?

  Except Tiffany was so much like him. The book obsession. The insomnia. The absolute refusal to eat cucumbers.

  None of those were necessarily genetic, though. She might’ve seen him wrinkle his nose at the prospect of eating cucumbers. And had he screwed up her sleep patterns when she was an infant by continuing to walk the hall or—more often than not—read his book even after she’d gone back to sleep in the middle of the night?

  For that matter, Alexandra wasn’t a great sleeper. And she loved books. They had, after all, met at the bookstore where they’d both worked in college.

  David swallowed hard, watching Tiffany in the dim light. Was it possible that Joanna was right? That Alexandra had cheated on him, and his little girl…wasn’t?

  He winced. No. She hadn’t cheated. Had she?

  They’d both contributed to their marriage falling apart. David worked too much. Alexandra worked too much. He’d spent too much time at the office. She’d spent too much time with…

  His stomach dropped.

  She’d been Chris’s personal assistant. The very nature of her job meant they’d been inseparable. When he was at the office, she was at the office. When he traveled, she traveled. She didn’t just know his schedule, she’d made his schedule. And lived it. With him. Constantly.

  But David had never suspected her of having an affair. Least of all with Chris.

  And hadn’t Chris avoided discussing or acknowledging Alexandra’s pregnancy? Or Tiffany’s arrival? Never mind the obviously frosty air between Chris and Joanna. David had been puzzled by it but hadn’t had a spare moment to really think about it and piece it all together.

  Of course, Alexandra had explained it away as Chris and Joanna being preoccupied with Joanna’s stay in the psychiatric hospital, not to mention their own bitterness toward each other about their inability to start a family.

  A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Neither Chris nor Alexandra had ever fully explained why she’d abruptly resigned two months before Tiffany was born. They’d always gotten along well—too well?—and she could put up with his demands like no one else. Then suddenly things had gone sour. She’d claimed that the travel and stress were too much to deal with on top of being pregnant, and that Chris was a lot less bearable when the hormones kicked in. Chris had always stayed mum, ostensibly out of respect for David. Even after the divorce, Chris had never said anything nasty about Alexandra as a person or a professional.

  The knot grew. They’d been having an affair right under his nose, hadn’t they? And the pregnancy… That had soured things, hadn’t it? He did recall the air growing colder between his wife and best friend just days after he himself had found out she was pregnant. Knowing what he did about Chris, David had just assumed that Chris was pissed off that his personal assistant wouldn’t be at his beck and call the way she had been for the last few years. It hadn’t even dawned on him that there’d been more to the story.

  He gazed down at Tiffany and brushed a few curls off her face. She stirred a little but didn’t wake up.

  Watching her now, studying the shape of her face, the color of her hair, he couldn’t begin to tell if she was his biological daughter or not. Without a DNA test or confirmation from Alexandra—or Chris—there was simply no way to know.

  On one hand, he wanted to know. Now. He wanted confessions and apologies and explanations. When had it started? When did Alexandra know who’d fathered the baby? How long did she think she could keep it from David before he knew he was raising someone else’s child? How much did Chris know?

  He was tempted to pick up the phone and call…one of them. Alexandra. Chris.

  No, not Chris. Whether he’d been fucking David’s wife or not, the man’s health was fragile now. He needed all the—

  David’s blood turned cold.

  He stared down at Tiffany and gulped. Hadn’t there been talk of Chris having a genetic predisposition to this particular type of cancer?

  He gently rested his hand on Tiffany’s tiny arm. Was she carrying a gene that would put her at risk of the same thing? He’d joked with friends that she wouldn’t even be allowed to date until she was forty. Chris was thirty-nine, and he was dying, and if he was Tiffany’s father…

  A million emotions surged through David. He wanted to pretend Joanna’s comment was just a throwaway remark made out of drunken anger, but if there was even the slightest possibility that it was true, and that Tiffany carried the same gene that might be killing Chris, then there was no avoiding a DNA test.

  But…what if he did find out the truth? Then what? Because no matter what, this was his little girl. He’d been there the day she was born, carried her up and down the hall at all hours of the night, changed her diapers, been there when she’d said her first words and taken her first steps. He was the one who’d sat with her in the saddle the first time she’d ridden a horse, because even as a toddler she wasn’t satisfied with a pony. He’d gotten her hooked on Star Wars before she could crawl, and taught her to sing “Highway to Hell” at the top of her lungs in the car before she’d started preschool. Just today, he’d introduced her to video arcades and probably created a lifelong gamer out of her. Even with the demands of the company he ran with that son of a bitch, he’d made damn sure he didn’t miss out on Tiffan
y’s childhood. No amount of tests, confessions and documents could change any of that.

  He’d confront Alexandra, and if she admitted that Tiffany was Chris’s daughter, then at least they’d know. She could be tested for the gene that caused Chris’s cancer, if such a test could be done.

  But nothing would change. Nothing.

  As she slept peacefully, sucking her thumb and gripping the pillow, he vowed that no matter who her father actually was, he would always be Tiffany’s dad. He still wanted to know the truth. Her mother owed him that much, if Joanna’s accusation was true.

  But nothing would change how much he loved Tiffany.

  The next morning, David’s stomach was in knots as he let Alexandra in.

  Alexandra fussed with her purse strap. “Is she ready to go?”

  He put his fingers to his lips and whispered, “She fell asleep watching cartoons. I was going to wake her up, but she had kind of a rough night last night.”

  His ex-wife straightened, her eyes widening. “Rough? How so?”

  “She had a couple of bad dreams.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. She’s good. Just a little tired.”

  Alexandra pursed her lips. “Poor kid.”

  They headed into the living room, where Tiffany was curled up on the couch. Side by side, they watched her sleep for a moment.

  “Well,” Alexandra said. “I guess I should wake—”

  “Wait.”

  She turned to him. “What?”

  Heart thumping, David said, “Alex, we need to talk.”

  Impatience and annoyance twisted the corner of her mouth. “Traffic’s already starting to get heavy.”

  “Please. It won’t take long.”

  She scowled but then sighed. “Okay. Fine. But we need to keep it short.”

  “I know.”

  They both glanced at Tiffany. The little girl was still snoozing soundly on the couch, so they stepped out onto the patio where they could see her, but she couldn’t hear them.

  Alexandra closed the sliding glass door. They faced each other, each stealing a glance at Tiffany before making eye contact. “What’s this about?”

  A sick feeling of dread grew in the pit of David’s stomach. “There’s something I need to know. I need you to answer me honestly.”

  She shifted impatiently, probably biting back an all right, all right, just get on with it. “Okay?”

  He swallowed. “And whatever the answer, it won’t change anything. Not with…” He nodded toward their little girl. “I promise.”

  Alexandra tensed. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  He struggled to form the words: “Am I Tiffany’s biological father?”

  “What?” She threw up her hands. “My God, David. What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “One I need an answer to.”

  “What do you think I am? Some kind of—”

  “Am I her father or not?” he snapped. “Because if I’m not, then I deserve to know.”

  She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “And what makes you think you aren’t her father?”

  “A little bird suggested it.”

  Alexandra’s eyebrows jumped, and her arms loosened slightly. “Oh really? And they… What exactly did that little bird say?”

  He held her gaze and then shook his head. “None of it matters. Honestly, I don’t want to know who, or why, or…” He showed his palms. “All I want to know is how this concerns Tiffany and me.” He glanced at the little girl’s sleeping form, then faced his ex-wife. “I will always be her dad. Nothing can change that.” He pulled in a deep breath. “But if I’m not her father…”

  The tension in Alexandra’s shoulders didn’t change. Then she rolled her eyes. “This is insane, David.” She started pacing across the patio, her heels thunking hard on the weather-treated boards “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that. And if you’ll always be her dad no matter what, then it shouldn’t matter.”

  “If I’m her biological father, then why is it so hard for you to look me in the eye and just say it.”

  Alexandra stopped. Her back was to him, and the muscles beneath her blouse were cable tight.

  “Just tell me,” he said softly. “Yes or no. If the answer’s yes, I’ll never bring it up again.”

  Neither of them moved or spoke for a long, long moment.

  Finally, she turned around.

  And the tear running down her cheek answered his question.

  David burned rubber on the way from his condo to Chris’s place. Gripping the wheel so tight his hands ached, grinding his teeth hard enough to hurt, he broke every posted speed limit and made it there in record time.

  All the while, he heard his ex-wife’s pleas in the back of his mind.

  “If you’re angry about it, take it out on me,” Alexandra had begged. “Whatever you want to say to me, say it. But please, promise me you’ll leave him alone. He’s too sick for this.”

  Too sick, hell. Being on an accelerated track to the afterlife didn’t negate what he’d done.

  I’m your best friend, Chris. What the fuck?

  “It was my fault,” she’d said.

  “Took two to tango.”

  “I know, but…” And she’d lowered her gaze and sighed, and his heart had dropped even more, because what woman in Chris’s world didn’t try to cover for him?

  Now he understood Joanna. She wasn’t a bitch. She wasn’t a shrew. She was a woman who’d gotten tired of the games Chris played, and he’d played them with all the women in his life, from his high school girlfriends on up to his wife and, apparently, mistress.

  At the gate to Chris’s neighborhood, David punched the code into the keypad so hard he was surprised he didn’t break the buttons. The gate took its time opening, and as soon as there was a wide enough gap, David slammed on the gas, squealed his tires and shot through it.

  When he reached the house, the garage doors were closed, but he figured Chris was home. There hadn’t been any texts from anyone to let him know Chris was in the hospital or would be at an appointment instead of working from home. Most likely, he was either at his desk or in his bed.

  David slammed his hand onto the steering wheel. Chris didn’t deserve to get away with this. To be given a free pass to fuck his best friend’s wife, knock her up and then give her the cold shoulder while she was carrying his baby.

  You fucked my wife and you treated her like shit? Who the fuck do you think you are?

  He jerked the key out of the ignition and got out of the car. Storming up the walkway, into the house and across the foyer, he balled his fists and ground his teeth and barely resisted the urge to punch a hole in the wall. That son of a bitch!

  He took the stairs two at a time, ready to strangle Chris with his bare hands, and fought the urge to sprint to Chris’s office door. If he wasn’t in the office, then he’d be in the bedroom, probably resting. Because he was sick. Dying.

  David raised his fist to pound on the door, ready to give Chris a piece of his mind. And quite possibly that fist.

  You really want to be known as the guy who punched out his terminally ill best friend?

  David winced and lowered his hand.

  He couldn’t. He just…couldn’t. A few months ago, or a few years ago, he could have gone in there and let fly, ripping into Chris and quite possibly taking a few swings at him. But Chris’s goddamned death sentence was like a universal pardon. Amnesty for every slight he’d ever committed, no matter how bad.

  A lump rose in David’s throat. He hadn’t been this furious in eons. He’d damn sure never been this hurt before. He’d been betrayed by both his then-wife and his then-best friend, and what could he do about it? Nothing. Not without potentially losing his daughter, and not without being the guy who tore into a man on
borrowed time.

  David’s eyes stung. This was how Joanna felt, wasn’t it? She couldn’t speak ill of her dying husband. Couldn’t leave him. Couldn’t get away from the toxic, life-sucking marriage to a man who treated her like shit, because he was, in the eyes of everyone around them, a saint. Redeemed not by remorse and amends, but by the army of cells slowly killing him from the inside out.

  Asshole or not, the man was dying.

  And David couldn’t do it. He just…couldn’t.

  “You son of a bitch,” he whispered into the silence.

  Then he turned on his heel and started back down the stairs.

  But he didn’t leave the house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Someone knocked at Joanna’s workroom door.

  “Oh for God’s sake.” She tossed the knife onto her workbench so hard it skittered across the end and fell to the floor with a quiet clink. She considered picking it up, but if Chris had taken the time to come clear down here instead of paging her, then he was probably already in a dickish mood. “What do you want now?” she muttered on her way across the room.

  Teeth clenched and chest taut with preemptive annoyance, she opened the door and—

  “David?” She swallowed. “This is unexpected.”

  “I know. I…” He met her gaze across the threshold. Joanna had never seen him cry before, but his eyes were definitely red and wet.

  Joanna stepped closer and reached for his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “You were right.” He grimaced, the pain palpable in the twist of his lips. “God, you were right.”

  “Oh shit. Here, come in.” She stood aside.

  David shuffled past her, shoulders sagging and gaze down. “Tiffany.” He halted, speaking over his shoulder. “You were… My…my daughter isn’t…”

  She touched his arm and guided him to the window seat. As he sank onto the cushion, she sat beside him and murmured, “I’m so sorry, David.” She took his hand. “I swear, I didn’t mean to let that slip out. I was drunk, and I—”

  “It’s okay.” He lifted his head and met her eyes. “I’m not pissed at you. I…I get it. But…God. Chris? And Alexandra?” He winced, lowering his head again. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. And that…I mean, that they did it.” He raked an unsteady hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”