by M. Leighton
I turn and walk in that direction. According to Tag, the renovations came to a standstill because the old family friend who was acting as contractor was involved in a car accident. He had to postpone work for three months while he completed physical therapy after his knee surgery. I think that was only about two months ago, not long before I arrived, so the cabin should still be vacant. Private. Searchable.
I feel paranoid, like someone could but look at me and know that I’m up to no good. I glance guiltily left and right as I traverse the shaded path that leads to the cabin. I find no one watching me, but it does nothing to calm my nerves.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the big oak that stands guard over the quaint little cabin. It has two small dormers and a rustic front porch that make it perfectly suited to the mountainous backdrop. The inside will be state of the art after the remodel is complete, but it will still retain all of its traditional vineyard charm.
The front door is unlocked, so I push my way in and close it behind me. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light, but when I do, I can see what great work has been done thus far. The kitchen has been outfitted with stainless steel appliances, tile backsplash and a skylight, and there are two slabs of granite resting on the island, as though someone stopped mid-project expecting to return the following day. Only no one did.
I take a minute to look around. It’s been years since I’ve been inside this place.
My casual browsing comes to a screeching halt when I reach the bedroom. Beneath the plastic sheeting, the same kind that has been placed over all the furniture, I see a small desk pushed into a corner. The construction dust is hardly noticeable, which is in sharp contrast to the thick coating that covers every other piece. Someone has come to this desk recently. Or maybe often. They’ve peeled back the sheeting to look underneath. I just hope whatever drew them here is still present.
Carefully, I fold the sheeting onto itself, revealing the wooden desk with its four drawers and matching chair. A laptop rests, closed, on the surface, making me wish that I had more time. I’ll need to have a better idea of where Tag is and when he left before I attempt to break into his computer. For now, I’ll have to settle for going through the drawers.
There is a key lying at the edge of the laptop, in plain sight. Even though it’s a long shot, I grab it and see if it fits the master lock for the desk.
And it does.
I pause, frowning. If he left it unlocked, or the key so easy to find, there can’t be anything of import here. But then I reason to myself that since the cabin has been empty of both guests and contractor for two months, maybe Tag just left it unlocked because he was the only person here.
Until me. And he probably never thought poor little rich girl, Weatherly, would ever catch on to his ruse.
Whether my logic is flawed or not, I know it won’t hurt to at least look while I’m here. So that’s what I do.
Going through the drawers, I flip through notebooks and papers, files and folders. There are all sorts of things about the running of Chiara, things any caretaker might track, but nothing suspicious. I find information about the passing of Joseph Barton, Tag’s father. The death certificate, the obituary, some pictures of their family in the early years. Nothing that I need, though.
I’m about to give up when I see an envelope sticking out from underneath that stack of papers. It’s simply labeled Jameson Gregory Randolph III.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up when I read that name. Jameson Randolph is the owner of Randolph Consolidated, the company that has been staging a hostile takeover of my father’s company. Why in the world would Tag be in possession of something that references him or belongs to him?
A week ago, I wouldn’t even have considered going through Tag’s things this way. A week ago, I had no reason not to trust him and every reason to give our marriage a real shot. But today isn’t a week ago. Today everything is different. Today I don’t have the luxury of trust. That’s why, with trembling fingers, I turn over the envelope and reach inside for the contents.
There are two letters inside, one on plain, white copier paper, the other on thick, creamy stationery. I unfold the white one first.
Dear Mr. Barton,
My name is Franklin Evans. I am the lead attorney for Randolph Consolidated as well as the personal counsel for Jameson Gregory Randolph, Jr. I realize this will come as a surprise to you, but I beg you to read the enclosed letter in its entirety and then call me at my home number, listed below. There are some very important matters that we must attend to regarding the death of your father and his estate.
I look forward to hearing from you,
Franklin J. Evans, Esq.
I set the first letter in my lap and unfold the second, my heart thumping heavily against the inside of my rib cage. Some primal, intuitive part of me knows that I will not like what I find within the rich, vanilla folds of the second letter, but I have to know. The gloves have come off. The fight has gotten dirty. And in a battle like this, information is power. I’ve heard my father say that all my life, but I never thought it would hit so close to home one day.
Tag,
This is probably the first you’ve heard of me and I’m not going to apologize for that. Your mother and I made the decision jointly to keep you removed from my world, to let you grow up outside the dog-eat-dog business that she hated so much. I doubt she ever even told you about me, but I’m your father. Your biological father, that is.
I met your mother many years ago when she was working as a maid here at my home. I was married, but she was young and beautiful and I was accustomed to taking anything I wanted whenever the mood struck me. But your mother was different. She wasn’t like the other women I’d grown used to. She was kind and wholesome, too good for a man like me. That’s why when she told me she was pregnant, we decided to part ways. She could never have been happy here and I wanted to do right by her for once. That’s why I let her go.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my wife was barren. It wasn’t a concern until I had my first heart attack just over a year ago. Since then, I’ve been trying to convince Stella to tell you about me, but she refused. She wanted to honor the memory of the man you’ve always known as your father. I understand that, but I find that I can’t abide by her wishes any longer. I have an empire that I’d like to see live on after I’m gone, a legacy that should be passed on to the next generation of Randolphs. I don’t want those greedy bastards on the board to take control, so I have to bequeath my shares and all my personal holdings to someone. I’d like that person to be you.
I don’t expect that I’ll be alive very much longer. This might even reach you after I’m gone. I just ask that you at least hear what my man, Franklin, has to say before you walk away from your inheritance.
Although you didn’t know it until now, on the day of your birth, you became Jameson Gregory Randolph III. Regardless of the name your mother gave you, your blood is Randolph. Live up to it.
Sincerely,
There’s simply an illegible swirl where a name should be, as though Tag’s father signed this as a business memo. I can’t even imagine receiving a bomb such as this. A letter out of nowhere, changing my entire history. And, likely, my entire future.
My heart is torn, part of it feeling great sadness and empathy for Tag, the other part feeling even more betrayed than I did a few minutes ago. His deception runs deeper than I thought and it’s even worse than my father suspected. The man I know as Tag is the person behind all of my current misery. He’s the face behind the company that’s threatening my world. He’s the reason for . . . everything. He’s the reason I was being coerced to marry Michael. He’s the reason my father closed my trust fund. He’s the reason my family stands to lose everything Dad worked so hard for. He’s the reason my soul is shattered.
On the flip side, he’s also the reason I found hope, the reason
I fell in love, and the reason I want to go back to bed and never wake up. For a split second, he was everything good. And now, he’s everything bad. How could this be? How could I be so blind?
A crushing sensation settles over my chest, as though Tag physically kicked me right in the vicinity of my heart. With heavy limbs, I replace the envelopes, taking great care to put the key where I found it and roll the dust cover back into place.
Numbly, I make my way out of the cabin and back to the main house. When I get back to my room, I pull out my other suitcase and start filling it with the remainder of my belongings. I never unpacked from our honeymoon, so there isn’t that much to gather. I stop at the small desk that sits in one corner of my room and I scribble a note for Tag.
I want a divorce.
Clear. Simple. Honest.
I leave it on the bed and carry first one bag and then the other down to the garage, stowing them in the backseat of my car. My chin trembles as I start the engine and back out into the circular drive. As far as I know, I might never see Tag Barton again. He has what he wants. Or at least he thinks he does. He might let me go and never even try to find me and explain.
I close my eyes against the pain.
He’s taken so much from me, even if he never manages to get Chiara legally. He still stole it from me. It was a place of such peace and refuge for me, a place where I could come to remember better days, but now it will never be the same. He might as well have burned it to the ground and left only the ash.
Because of that, part of me is dying as I shift out of reverse and into drive. To make my way forward. Forward, away from the vineyard. Forward, away from Tag. Forward, away from all the hope and possibility that was just within my grasp, but then so cruelly ripped from it.
I begin the drive back to Atlanta, scanning the lush vineyard through watering eyes as I say a silent good-bye to Chiara and all the false happiness I found here. Despite the cold, hard facts, I know that I will never be the same after the last couple of months. I’m leaving a big piece of my heart on this mountain. A big piece that’s been crushed into tiny slivers left to mingle with the dirt and die in the warm night.
When my front tires hit the main road, I dial my father’s number. His gruff voice is anything but comforting and I almost hate to give him the satisfaction of being oh-so-right. But he’s more equipped to deal with treachery of this magnitude. He’s lived and breathed this kind of business for as long as I can remember.
“Look into Jameson Randolph’s son, Dad. I think you’ll find a trail that leads back to Tag. I’ll call you in a few days.”
I hang up before he can ask questions. I hang up before he can hear me fall apart. I turn off my phone so that I can grieve in peace. And I do. All the way back to Atlanta.
TWENTY-SIX
Tag
Even before I see the raised garage door and empty bay where Weatherly’s car was parked, I know that something is wrong. I can feel it, almost smell it in the air like a storm is coming.
I park at the top of the circle and take the front steps as well as the inside steps two at a time. I know before I enter the bedroom what I’ll find. Weatherly is gone.
After I check the bathroom and find that, indeed, all her toiletries are gone as well, I see the note lying on the bed. It’s short, to the point and bothersome as hell.
I told her I was falling in love with her last night. Why would she leave? I thought she’d like hearing that. She told me she loved me on our wedding day, for God’s sake. I would’ve thought she’d be pleased to hear that I have feelings for her, too. Feelings far beyond just the physical.
Now I know without a doubt that I should’ve told her sooner. But because I didn’t, because I didn’t tell her everything, I never felt right about telling her how I really felt about her either. Knowing what I knew. Knowing what I was keeping from her. On some level, maybe I was trying to save her from falling for me when she didn’t know the ugliest parts. Maybe I was afraid she’d stop loving me if she found out. Maybe I’m not the man I thought I was, the man I hoped I was. Whatever the reason, my inability to confess my full feelings for her might well have cost me her.
I shake my head, throwing off that reasoning.
No, it can’t be that. Weatherly isn’t the type to run because of something like that. She wouldn’t throw away what we have just because I can’t say the L word yet. She’s not that fragile. No, it has to be something else. Something has happened. That’s the only plausible excuse. I know . . . I know . . . that Weatherly loves me. I can see it in her eyes, feel it in her touch. Women can’t fake shit like that. And even if they could, Weatherly couldn’t. She’s not that kind of woman. She’s real.
So then why is she gone? Why now? Why without a word? Jesus H. Christ, what the hell happened?
I think back over every word, every minute of the less-than-twenty-four hours we’ve been back and the only thing I can figure is that her father said something to upset her. Upset her enough to want to leave me. And divorce me.
I want a divorce.
I bound back down the stairs. I don’t pack a single belonging. I head straight for Mom’s place.
The front door is open, so I swing through the screen just enough to talk to her where she’s sitting in the small kitchen.
“Will you be okay if I’m gone for another day or two?” I ask, suddenly feeling guilty for leaving her again. But this is something I have to take care of. I have to find Weatherly and bring her back here. I can’t figure out how to help her if she’s in Atlanta, hiding things from me. Her place is here. At Chiara. With me.
She raises her eyes to mine. I see the concern in them, but I don’t see pain. She just looks tired, as she so often does. “I’ll be fine. Are you going after her?”
“Yeah. How did you know she was gone?”
She shrugs. “Besides hearing her drive off, I just had a feeling that she would leave.”
I frown at that. “Well, I’m gonna bring her back and figure this out. I just have a feeling it’s something I’ll have to do there. I don’t expect her to answer her phone. Not after the way she left.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect so.”
“The food service people will still be cooking for you. And cleaning up. Whatever you need. I know I told you they were contracted through our honeymoon, but I didn’t give them an end date for their services. And I won’t. So use them, okay? Don’t be stubborn and try to do everything for yourself.”
“I’m not—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, giving her a withering look. “Don’t even try it. We both know you’re stubborn, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving if you’re not going to use them. It’s either use them or I’ll be forced to stay and you’ll ruin my chances with Weatherly. So which will it be?”
Her smile is small and sad. “A ruthless negotiator, just like your father.”
We both know that’s not the best of compliments, considering that my real father was a sharklike businessman.
“Hey, if it gets me what I want . . .” I say with my own shrug.
“That’s just what he would say.”
Normally, I’d take exception to that, but I don’t have time to debate the despicable traits that I inherited from my father. I’ve got a wife to find and bring home.
“Promise me, Mom.”
Her sigh is weak but audible. “Fine. I promise. But you have to promise me something.”
“Like what?”
“Promise me that you’ll tell her the truth. All of it. Promise me that you’ll do your best to let her in. She’s good for you. I can see it. And she could mean the difference between you turning out like your biological father and you living a good, happy life that would make any mother proud.”
“So you’re saying I’m destined to be an awful person if I can’t get her back?”
“No, I’m just saying that a life wi
thout love leaves room to love the wrong things. Money, power, influence. Those kinds of love can destroy you.”
“You know I’m only interested in one thing, Mom.”
“But don’t let your determination to have your way cloud your view of right and wrong.”
“Are you saying that it already has? Is that what this is about?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Although her expression is grieved, she doesn’t try to argue with me. That alone is answer enough.
“I’ll have my phone with me at all times. Call if you need anything, okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“And remember your promise,” I tell her as I back out the door.
“Remember yours.”
As if I could forget.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Weatherly
I’ve been home less than two hours when a knock sounds at my door. There’s only one person it could be and I really don’t feel like dealing with him. But if I don’t do it now, he won’t let me rest until I do. One can only avoid William O’Neal for so long.
I swing open the door to my father’s angry red face. “I’ll sue that son of a bitch! If he thinks he can get away with this, he has no idea who in God’s great kingdom I am,” he says as he storms past me.
With a sigh, I close the door behind him, bracing myself for a furious tirade. “You can’t sue him for being a liar, Dad. It’s not illegal. If it were, half the people you do business with would be in jail.”
I don’t add that he, too, would likely be imprisoned.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do! I employ some of the most vicious lawyers on the eastern seaboard. I can do anything I damn well please.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is typical O’Neal temper rearing its ugly head. Reason and rationale go right out the window when he gets like this. He just wants someone’s blood and he wants it now.