The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  I slipped it out of the inner pocket and draped the jacket on my arm as I read the handwritten address for Maxfield Towers on the back of the light blue envelope. There was no sender information on it at all but the pretty cursive was decidedly feminine. Since it was sent to his work address, I figured it wasn’t a personal correspondence.

  Then why the hell is he carrying it in his inner pocket?

  I held the card for a long moment, debating whether to stuff it back into his jacket or read it.

  I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.

  On the other hand, I needed every clue available to find out why Brandon’s been so high-strung the last few days.

  In the quest for my husband’s happiness, I’ll peek. The end justifies the means, right?

  I sighed, knowing it really didn’t, but my fingers were already reaching inside the envelope and grasping the card.

  My brows knitted as I stared at the caricature of a house and a moving truck on the front of the card. In a comical font, ‘We’ve Moved!’ was printed right at the top of the illustration.

  I flipped it open and the first thing I saw was the small, wallet-sized photo taped to the bottom right side of the card just right under the sender's new address. In the photo was a toddler with fine brown hair and hazel eyes.

  Hazel eyes. Not quite the ones I’m intimately familiar with but hazel all the same.

  My hand started to tremble as I forced my eyes away from the photo to read the note on the left, written in the same cursive as the address on the envelope.

  Brandon,

  I know you told me not to come to the city but it’s time we stop hiding. We can go on as we have without hiding like a dirty secret.

  I’ll stay out of your way. You don’t even have to visit although it would be lovely to see you.

  You’re married now and I completely understand.

  Zach misses you though. He hasn’t seen you since his first birthday.

  He's speaking a little bit now, you know? Said 'Dada' last time. It was a bittersweet to hear. Someday soon, I'm going to have to tell him about his father.

  In case you want to visit, we’re going to be at the first apartment you got for me. You know the way.

  Take care, Brand.

  Nicole

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it rushed out of me in one sharp, shaky exhalation.

  I've never drowned but this must be how it would feel like—a heavy, oppressive weight on your chest, your lungs fighting for air, burning until they were near bursting, your temples throbbing from the painful pressure.

  I stared at the note on the card through a film of stinging tears, gasping heavily as I tried to breathe.

  It hurt.

  God, it hurt—like a knife was wedged deep inside me, making a crevice for itself in my heart.

  The pertinent words seemed to float out of the script to fit together like puzzle pieces.

  It explained a lot—his agitation, his late evenings, his evasiveness.

  Brandon has a secret—one that's big enough to cost him your marriage. No wonder he's terrified.

  Remembering his words earlier when he made those fierce declarations to me brought back the very fresh memories of the earth-shattering sex we just had.

  I shuddered, suddenly conscious that he might have gone straight home from his mistress's bed and nailed his wife against the shower's tiled wall.

  Bile rose in my throat and my skin crawled.

  A storm of different emotions hurtled through me, leaving me even more breathless than I thought possible.

  Grab on to something—anything. Don't let the currents take you.

  Preferring a stronger emotion that would hold me up on my feet like a shot of adrenaline, I passed over the sense of betrayal and the raw pain.

  White hot fury surged through me and I seized it instead.

  Before I could think better of it, I found myself striding down the hallway and flinging the bedroom door open, as ready as a missile launcher loaded, cocked and aimed.

  But my target was sprawled on the bed, curled on his side, wearing nothing but a pair of gray boxer briefs, his damp, dark hair gleaming from the low light of the bedside lamps.

  He was breathing deeply, his lips parted and his dark lashes feathered against the sharp planes of his cheeks.

  He must’ve been so tired he just dropped unconscious on the bed.

  That’s what you pay for a sex marathon with your mistress and your wife.

  My teeth ground together in barely suppressed anger, my fists clenching before I remembered that I was wrinkling the card in my hand.

  Get up, Brandon. Get up and fight me until I can’t feel anything anymore.

  No words or sound came out of my mouth though.

  I stood there, gazing at his sleeping form, half-ready to bring the house down on him and half-aching to tuck the sheets around him so he wouldn’t be cold.

  A sound confused between a snort and a groan finally escaped my lips as I shook my head in disgust.

  This was what I had been reduced to—a voiceless victim still tempted to offer what was left of her hacked off limbs to the man slaughtering her.

  With slow, unsure steps, I walked toward the bed, gazing down at my husband—the same man who’d told a four-year-old girl an hour ago that he loved me the most in the world, and who’d savagely made love to me like a man about to go off to war at daybreak.

  The card was damnably incriminating.

  Every insecurity I’d managed to keep at bay in the recesses of my heart and mind surged in like a pestilence, eating away at any remaining shred of hope I was stubbornly trying to cling to.

  Brandon wouldn’t lie to Rose, would he? He couldn’t really possibly be carrying on an affair with some woman he apparently has a son with, could he? He won’t deceive you like that.

  My heart clenched painfully.

  Unfortunately, deception was something he and I were equally skilled at—our marriage was proof of that.

  He'd managed to fool his father whom he has the greatest affection and respect for. Would it really be that hard for him to do the same to me?

  I remembered him laughing off my question when I once asked in the beginning of our scheme, if he had any children I should know about. He'd easily claimed he didn't but would he really admit he'd fathered a child if he wouldn't acknowledge him?

  'It's an old war I'm fighting, Charlotte.' That's what he'd said. Maybe he was disputing the child's paternity.

  Knowing Brandon and his soft spot for children though, I couldn't imagine him being cold and cruel like that to his own child.

  Maybe it really isn't his and this Nicole is just foisting the boy on him for child support. Who better to fund your kid than a billionaire Dad?

  I slowly opened the card again and studied the boy's sweet face, noting some similarity in the bone structure. And of course, the hazel eyes.

  He was a cute and happy-looking boy. Even if he weren’t his flesh and blood, how could Brandon resist such an angel? I know I wouldn’t.

  I sighed and slid the card back into the envelope, pressing my knuckles against my pursed lips as I debated what to do next.

  A part of me was calling out for blood and another was doing a pep rally for Brandon’s trustworthiness—with cartwheels and handstands.

  l desperately wanted to believe that this was just a badly written twist in the plot where a misconception gets blown out of proportion. It wouldn't be as unsalvageable as the possibility that Brandon had lied to me outright and carried on with his baby mama.

  Sure, you both schemed and lied. You're just as guilty of it as he is. Does that make you completely incapable of the truth then? Do a few mistakes define you for the rest of your life?

  “Oh, Brand,” I whispered, blinking as a few hot tears spilled down my cheeks. “Will our lies forever haunt us?”

  Deciding that I wasn’t one to pass on judgement without giving him a fair chance at explaining himself, I sl
ipped the card back into the jacket pocket and draped the discarded garment on the back an armchair.

  No matter how hard, show the same mercy you wish to be granted. When it's your turn to plea guilty, Charlotte, wouldn't you want a sympathetic jury?

  It would be so easy to give in and let my rioting emotions flood the banks. It would be so easy to destroy the very best thing that happened to me with a few angry words.

  You both have black marks on trust. Your redemption starts with someone taking a risk to trust you again. Be that someone for him, Charlotte. He deserves it.

  Not knowing where the courage came from, I endured throughout the night—curled up in bed next to Brandon, unable to sleep, fighting tears, and wondering whether the memories we shared were lies or truths.

  If a lie could be this beautiful, Charlotte, would you live it? Or would you rather have the truth even if it means losing Brandon?

  When sleep eventually claimed me, I still had no answers.

  ***

  I felt like someone waiting on death row—dreading the final hour but anticipating my freedom from the endless wait.

  I’d resolved to give Brandon a chance to explain but he was gone by the time I got up the next day. It was the first time we hadn't woken up and eaten breakfast together since we got married.

  While I'd admit it was rather late when I got up after the fitful sleep that eventually came over me, the coincidence made me more uneasy.

  I was trapped.

  I wanted answers and advice but the only person I could talk to about it wasn't around. I didn't want to go to Brandon's family and ask them.

  For one, I'd feel really pathetic being his wife and being the last to know about any of this. Second, if this was supposed to be a secret for a really good reason, I didn't want to jeopardize it by nosing around, especially with a little boy's welfare at stake.

  After I did all my duties with Felicity, who was helping me become self-reliant in managing my social responsibilities since she was going back to school this fall for her masters, I took the kids out for lunch and then to the park for a couple of hours.

  Normally, I would enjoy every moment of my time playing with them but my heart was tight as if a fist clenched around it, and my mind kept wandering off to Brandon's secret family.

  I told myself not to make assumptions yet but while I tossed a frisbee around with Mattie and Rose, I kept thinking all kinds of things—just like someone suffering from sores couldn’t help but pick at them until they bled further.

  Did Brandon hold his baby in his arms when he was first born?

  Has he played chase with his son?

  Did he sing lullabies to him until he fell asleep?

  With a wretched sigh, I eventually forced the torturous thoughts out of my head.

  It was hard to remain objective and detached from the situation when doubt racked every conscious second I counted down to the moment I could finally confront Brandon and demand the truth.

  I dropped off the children with their respective parents early in the afternoon and during the drive back to the condo, I sat in the back of the car in distracted silence, so much that Gilles, who normally didn’t say more than a handful of words in an entire day, asked awkwardly if I was okay.

  I smiled faintly as I reassured him that I was indeed okay, wondering how long it would be before my despondency gave away my inner turmoil.

  I couldn’t afford for people to ask questions because I didn’t have ready answers of my own yet.

  Maybe you shouldn’t just wait around for them then. Find them until you get to the truth.

  “Gilles?” I asked my chauffeur. “Could you drive to Maxfield Towers and park close to where we would see my husband’s car leave the building?”

  Gilles’s normally stoic expression turned puzzled as his eyes met mine on the rearview mirror. “You mean...”

  I steeled myself. “I mean, park somewhere near Maxfield Towers where we’ll be able to see Brandon’s town car leave the building so we can follow it. It's Monday. He should be working his regular hours.”

  I could tell the man wasn’t thrilled about the idea of tailing his employer.

  I wasn’t either.

  I hated any kind of deviousness but for the first time in my life, I had a lot to lose and I couldn’t act hastily.

  It was like knowing that getting in front of a speeding car would be a sure way to die—or get seriously hurt—but crossing the street anyway in the hope that you’ll make it to the other side without a scratch.

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Maxfield,” the man started slowly, using the formal address I was still battling him to do away with. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I need to know I can trust him, Gilles,” I said quietly, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  The man was quiet for a long moment that at first I thought he hadn’t heard me at all.

  “Trust is no trust at all if you require conditions,” he said with a deep sigh that no more startled me than his words did.

  Tears stung my eyes as I turned away to stare out the car window.

  If I don’t protect my heart, I’d have none of it left to have and give. If I trusted with no reservations, I would’ve been shredded to pieces by my parents alone a long time ago.

  Ten minutes later, Gilles parked by a spot along the sidewalk of a row of shops from across the east section of Maxfield Towers.

  It was about mid-afternoon and if Brandon followed his normal schedule, he should be out of the office in an hour.

  Gilles and I sat in silence as we waited even as the hour passed and there was still no sign of Brandon’s town car.

  I was starting to feel ridiculous and was about to tell Gilles to maybe turn around and head back to the condo when my phone sounded off with a text message.

  [I have some urgent work stuff to do. Will miss dinner and might be home late. Don’t wait up for me.]

  I stared at the screen for a moment, my heart twisting painfully.

  So I didn’t even get a call now? Just a mere text message. One day, I might stop getting any kind of courtesy notice altogether.

  I was in the middle of typing up a reply when another line popped up in the message thread.

  [I’m sorry. Will make it up to u. Date next weekend. Love u.]

  I deleted the first few words of my scathing reply and typed a quick OK instead.

  If you’re lying to me like I dread you are, there will be no weekend date. There might not even be a marriage any longer.

  A sharp pain stabbed through me at that thought.

  How much could I accept? How much could I forgive? Will we be ever the same?

  I shook my head as if it would physically rid my mind of the voices that were swarming me from every direction.

  “Gilles, we probably should go—”

  “I see him,” Gilles said at the same time and my heart slammed inside my chest as I glanced up and across the street.

  I recognized the car immediately. It wasn’t his town car but his sports car instead—the one he drove around on his own when he didn’t need Freddy about.

  So, Brandon was working out of the office today.

  “Tail it, Gilles,” I said in a stony voice I hardly recognized as my own.

  When the chauffeur hesitated with a glance at me, I scowled. “I said tail it. If you won’t, I’ll grab a cab and go on my own.”

  Without another second of delay, Gilles revved the engine to life and pulled out into traffic.

  We followed at a discreet distance, maybe a two or three car lengths, alternating lanes after a few blocks. If I weren’t so nervous, I would’ve asked Gilles whether he’d been some kind of clandestine operations agent or something similar before. It would certainly explain the non-expression expression he always wore.

  Not before long, we were getting into Southie (or South Boston). It was a vibrant area—full of history and character being among America’s oldest neighborhoods.

  Looking around
the street name signs, I realized in dismay that we were near the address stated in that card from Nicole.

  ‘The first apartment you got for me. You know the way.’ That was what she said.

  My stomach clenched like I ate something very bad.

  We approached a block of charming, tightly huddled townhouses and saw that Brandon’s car had pulled up in front of a tall but narrow brownstone townhouse.

  Gilles parked discreetly at the end of the block behind an old station wagon, on the other side of the street the townhouse was at.

  From where I sat, I could see most of the front steps and the sidewalk right along it.

  I didn’t want to see anything that would confirm my worst suspicions but I couldn’t tear my eyes away either.

  “Again, I ask that you reconsider, Mrs. Maxfield,” Gilles quietly said. “You might think you’re looking for reasons to trust him but we both know you’re looking for reasons not to.”

  I bit my lip as I leaned forward to watch Brandon’s car. “Don’t they mean the same thing in the end?”

  “They do,” he answered bluntly. “Either way, it means you already don’t trust him.”

  I glowered at Gilles despite the pang of guilt I felt at his statement. “You know, it was so much more convenient when you weren’t saying much.”

  Gilles gave me a half-smile. “Since I’m the only one here with you, I feel compelled to point out what you already know but you’re stubbornly ignoring.”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Insolence is what I get for being so nice to my staff.”

  The chauffeur’s smile deepened this time. “No. Concern is what you get for being so nice to your staff. None of them want to see you get hurt.”

  Even reluctantly, I felt myself smile when a movement from Brandon’s car caught my attention.

  My heart resumed its nervous, ragged beating as I watched Brandon emerge from his car and pull something out—a huge plush panda.

  He was just rounding his car when the front door of the townhouse opened and a woman stepped out, holding her arms out to him.

  Tears stung my eyes but I blinked them stubbornly away, refusing to miss any bit of the truth that was being revealed before my very eyes.