Chapter 12
I stayed up far too late reading that journal.
Xavier continued showing up more and more on the pages—both when Gus was there and when he wasn’t.
And it was clear to me by what she was saying that Sinclair’s mother was falling in love with the other man.
The way she described his eyes and his perfectly styled black hair, his clothing, his hands—poetic, appreciative, musing.
But not once did she mention kissing or even touching him, other than on the arm.
Maybe, though, she left all that out—sex behind closed doors in the movies, unmentioned in a diary.
One entry in particular made me wonder.
It was written mid-April and, by that point, Xavier was almost all she talked about, other than the children and an occasional mention of her husband.
I invited Xavier to lunch.
When he asked what the occasion was, I told him I wanted to talk to an adult.
Fortunately, he didn’t ask other questions.
He stayed the entire afternoon, but we finally went upstairs because the staff wouldn’t leave us alone—constantly filling drinks, asking if I needed something.
Had Gus put them up to that?
It wouldn’t have surprised me a bit.
He wants to control every aspect of my life and I’m sick of it.
We stayed upstairs for hours but Xavier had to leave before dinner.
I have to say I haven’t felt that fulfilled in a long time.
I hope we can do it again.
Had they made love that afternoon?
I knew there were plenty of other activities they could have engaged in “upstairs.” She didn’t say if they were on the second or third floor or if she just wanted to get away from the staff.
And wouldn’t they have wondered where the couple had disappeared to, what they were doing?
If they were reporting to Gus as she suspected, surely that behavior wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.
And then I wondered—how long did their affair last?
Was Xavier Sinclair’s father?
I glanced at the clock: eleven-thirty.
I really needed to sleep, but I was hoping to find evidence that would confirm my suspicions.
Right now, there was no definitive answer, but I would have bet on it.
A court of law would have called it nothing more than circumstantial evidence .
As I continued reading, Xavier’s presence remained, but he seemed to move a bit in the background when Augie came home for the summer from his first year at boarding school.
It was clear that she adored her children but was especially fond of her oldest, perhaps because he seemed to be so “steady and strong,” in her words.
In early August, there was an entry that put Xavier’s possible fatherhood into doubt.
Gus came home from yet another Europe trip, but this time I wasn’t about to greet him at the door or ask him how the trip was or anything.
I decided I wasn’t going to keep desperately seeking my husband’s attention or approval.
All it did was break my heart further when he rejected me yet again.
I knew he was due to arrive sometime after 8:00.
I kissed the boys good night and told them they could stay up until ten as long as they played quietly.
They promised to keep their Game Boys turned down low.
I trusted them, especially because Warren adores Augie, and he clings to him even more now, knowing that Augie’s going to be heading back to school at the end of the month.
When Augie says it’s bedtime, Warren will listen.
He wound up sleeping in Augie’s room again.
But I retired to the bedroom, taking a long bubble bath and then putting on my favorite lavender lotion before sliding between the clean sheets.
My goal was to be sound asleep when Gus got home so he would get the message that I would no longer be the doting wife.
And it worked!
I hadn’t managed to fall asleep, and I even heard the low rumblings of what I thought was his voice in the hall—so I got out of bed and tiptoed to the door in the dark, pressing my ear up against the cool wood.
He was talking to the boys—who were either in the playroom or Augie’s room.
I rushed back to the bed, noting that it was just a little after nine o’clock—and I rested my head on the pillow, closing my eyes just before the door opened.
He turned on the light, rude as usual, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of showing that it bothered me.
Instead, I kept pretending to sleep.
To my surprise, he shut the light back off—and I heard him lock the door.
His driver would have to leave his luggage in the hallway.
But I was shocked. Was Gus actually being thoughtful?
Did he really care that I get my sleep?
He went in the bathroom, the light spilling into the bedroom, and I slightly opened the eye closest to the pillow.
He still wore a suit, but he was removing the jacket and tie—and then he closed the door.
I hoped I could truly fall asleep before he came out.
I heard him turn on the shower and tried so hard, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Soon, he exited the bathroom again, but I didn’t open my eye this time.
It wasn’t long before I felt him get into bed on the other side and I assumed he would go right to sleep as he often did.
I anticipated hearing his light snores long before I would actually go to sleep.
But I was so wrong.
He got close to me, pressing his body up to mine, and even through my filmy lingerie, I could tell he was naked.
His heat radiated through the fabric, and he wound his arm around me, sliding his hand onto my belly.
His breath was hot against my ear.
“Constance, are you awake?” I didn’t say a word, even as he began nibbling on my earlobe.
Could it be? Did he still love me?
His erection pressed into the small of my back as he began kissing my neck, his hand moving up to cup my breast—and I was unable to help my response.
I arched into his hand, wanting him to take me.
Even had I lay completely still, the wetness that appeared between my legs would have been a dead giveaway.
I gave myself over to him, just as I had years ago, and as I came, tears welled into my eyes.
I had my husband back.
But it was a fluke. As I kept reading, my heart broke for Sinclair’s mother as she discovered her husband had just been horny for her that one particular night.
Even the next morning at breakfast was more of the usual.
It wasn’t hard for me to do the math, though.
Sinclair very well could have been his father’s son, conceived in a brief fleeting moment of love and passion.
There was doubt, though…
and I wondered how much Sinclair knew—and if he wondered too.
By the next morning, I had the old psychology question of nature versus nurture rolling through my head.
Sinclair was obviously his father’s son, regardless of if he’d inherited his traits through genetics or environment.
As if to present that evidence, he was cold and quiet at breakfast, and it made me angry—so I only said good morning to him and then got up and ate my breakfast at the island where I could talk to Edna.
What I was doing was almost like his mother pretending to be asleep in that journal entry I’d read last night—but I doubted my tactic would work.
Of course, it wasn’t a tactic to get him to come running back to me; instead, I wanted to send a message that I could ignore him too.
But that night at dinner was a different story.
After Edna had left and Sinclair and I were finishing our entrées, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” He didn’t deserve any more detail—and it was true.
I was. Although there was a little residual soreness, it was barely anything to speak of.
I was walking fine as if nothing had happened.
Even Edna had mentioned earlier in the day that my medicine seemed to be working.
“I would like to spend some time with you this evening—if you’re up for it.”
Suddenly, I was his mother, so eager to capitulate for such a small token.
I only hoped it didn’t show on my face, because it took me a few moments to regain my facade: I couldn’t care less .
But there was more to it than that.
I had been angry with him for stripping me of the one thing I could give my future mate and then leaving me like a ragdoll that he didn’t care about at all.
Did this mean he cared…
or was he just toying with me now?
I didn’t even look up from my plate when I answered.
“You would?” I hoped my tone had the sound of indifference I was trying to project.
His voice took on a steely edge—but I didn’t know what that meant.
“I would.” I looked up at him then, unable to stop myself.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“I know I’ve been preoccupied and I get the feeling that’s upset you. I’ve had a situation at work I’ve needed to deal with. But when I haven’t been focused on that, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
I nearly dropped my fork as saliva pooled on my tongue.
Was it true? God, I wanted it to be.
I wanted to mean as much to him as I’d foolishly allowed myself to feel about him.
After swallowing, I opened my mouth…
but no words would come out.
I couldn’t read his cobalt eyes as they searched mine.
“Don’t feel obligated. I don’t ever want you feeling like you have to spend time alone with me due to our contract. This is something else entirely—and if you don’t want to come to me willingly…” His voice drifted off as if he was sure that was what I was thinking.
Maybe I too was hard to read—but my heart was no longer willing to have him believe that I didn’t want him too.
“I do. I would like that.” I was no longer hungry for the food on my plate.
One corner of his mouth turned up, emphasizing the small scar on his lip, and my entire body responded.
My skin turned warm and all nerves stood at attention like a battalion awaiting orders.
I bit my lower lip as I searched his eyes, and he pushed his plate away.
“No better time than the present.” Reaching his hand over, he touched my cheek.
It was warm and gentle, and I brushed the side of my face against his knuckles, closing my eyes.
“Why don’t we head upstairs?”
For a moment, I’d almost hoped he’d make love to me right there on the table—but the dining room windows, though far away from the sidewalk, did face the street, and anyone curious enough would have been able to see anything we did.
Regardless of loving this man, I wasn’t ready for our relationship to be public, especially in that way.
I took his hand as he walked me through the mansion and up the stairs to his bedroom on the second floor.
It looked just like it had the other night—bed made, nothing out of order.
I knew Edna made his bed during the week and the sister cleaning crew changed the sheets on Monday.
I made my own bed, although Edna had offered more than once to “tidy up” for me.
But telling her no was more than not having her take over that chore—it was also not wanting anyone getting that close to what little I owned here.
And I also didn’t want to get caught with those journals.
“You’re sure you’re up for this?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
“Oh, yes.”
It started with a kiss that eventually transported me to heaven.