Chapter 7—Simon #3
That hurts her. The reaction is plain, and I don’t particularly regret it.
Charla gives a short laugh without humor. “So that’s what this is. You finally found a version of me you want.”
My anger rises quickly enough that I choose my words carefully to avoid shouting or making a scene. “Christa isn’t a version of you.”
The answer strips the expression from her face. She seems devastated but recovers after a moment. “You’re judging me while waiting for my sister’s divorce to go through so you can sleep with her.”
“I’m not waiting for anything from Christa.” I keep my voice low because the corridor still has occasional traffic. “She filed before I knew her well enough to know her coffee order. I haven’t asked her for anything beyond work she agreed to do.”
“You want her.”
I don’t insult either of us by denying it. “Yes.”
Charla stares at me.
“I also know she’s married. Wanting her hasn’t required me to interfere with that.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it.
I take a small amount of satisfaction in it. “Tell Christa yourself if you don’t want me to.”
Charla’s expression hardens. “Stay out of it.”
“You asked me not to tell her less than a minute ago. I’m offering you an alternative, but she will know the truth today.”
“This is family business.”
“She’s your family.”
Charla looks away.
I think about Christa laughing yesterday when she told me Charla once switched places with her during a high-school awards dinner because she wanted to escape a boy. Christa told the story like an old family joke.
How many little trespasses has she forgiven because people expect identical twins to share more than other sisters? This isn’t one of them. “Tell her.”
“I can’t.”
“Then Tate can.”
“He won’t.” The answer comes without hesitation. At least one honest thing has been said in this alcove.
Tate is visible through the terrace doors, talking to Bernard. He looks remarkably relaxed for a man served with divorce papers forty-eight hours ago. His pregnant mistress is twenty feet away after spending the afternoon pretending to be the wife who’s leaving him.
I finally understand why Christa couldn’t explain his panic Monday. She was missing most of the information. “I’m not protecting this or you.”
Charla’s composure cracks. “Simon, wait.”
I put my phone back in my pocket. “No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Her face hardens. “You’re enjoying this.”
That stops me.
I look at her for several seconds before answering. “I’m going to tell a woman I care about that her husband has been sleeping with her sister, her sister is pregnant, and the two of you are using her identity to lie to his family. What part of that sounds enjoyable?”
Charla looks away first.
I don’t wait for another answer. Tate notices me leave the alcove and takes one step in our direction, but Bernard catches his arm and says something that keeps him where he is.
I walk out of the club.
My driver opens the rear door when I reach the curb. “Office, Mr. Nichols?”
“Christa Kaffey’s studio.”
He nods and closes the door behind me.
I text Misty before we pull away.
Simon: Cancel the rest of my afternoon.
Her response comes within seconds.
Misty: Everything okay?
Simon: No.
Three dots appear.
Misty: Do you need me?
I look back at the Bellweather Club as we turn onto the street.
Simon: Not yet.
She sends a thumbs-up, which is Misty’s version of obeying me while reserving the right to interfere later.
I put my phone away.
Christa is going to believe me. That doesn’t make telling her easier.
Yesterday, she sat on the floor of my library sorting brass hardware into tiny labeled containers and told me Tate had asked for thirty more days. She laughed about it because the alternative was probably admitting how much his sudden panic bothered her.
Now I know why he panicked.
He needs his wife long enough to use her marriage for a child she isn’t carrying.
Charla knew Christa had hired an attorney, which makes it worse. She tried to slow her sister down while sleeping with Tate and carrying what Tate believes is his son, if Charla isn’t lying about that too.
I look out the window as the city passes.
There are betrayals people see coming. An affair with a coworker. Someone from a business trip. An ex who never entirely disappeared.
Your identical twin shouldn’t make the list.
I don’t call Christa because this isn’t news I want to deliver over the phone. I also don’t want her hearing the first sentence while she’s driving, standing over a client piece, or surrounded by employees.
My driver gets me to the studio in under twenty minutes.
I’ve only been here once, but I recognize the brick building and dark green door immediately. I tell him I don’t know how long I’ll be before stepping onto the sidewalk.
Inside, the front reception area smells faintly of wood, wax, and coffee. A woman behind the desk looks up from her monitor. “Mr. Nichols.”
I’ve met her before, though I can’t remember her name quickly enough to use it. “Is Christa available?”
“She’s with Melissa in the back. Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” I glance toward the workroom doors. “Tell her Simon is here, please.”
Something in my expression must discourage questions. She gets up and disappears through the double doors.
I remain beside the reception desk, suddenly aware I haven’t worked out what I’m going to say. There isn’t a good version.
The doors open again less than a minute later.
Christa comes through wearing dark trousers and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled past her elbows. Her hair is pulled back loosely, and there’s a pencil tucked behind one ear. She sees me and smiles automatically.
The smile lasts until she gets close enough to read my face. “What’s wrong?”
I touch her arm. “Can we talk somewhere private?”
She searches my expression. “Yes.” She leads me down a short hallway and into her office. I wait while she closes the door.
Her desk is covered with photographs and notes. A coffee cup sits near the corner beside a roll of blue painter’s tape. The ordinary details make the reason I’m here seem even uglier.
Christa turns toward me. “Simon, you’re scaring me.”
I don’t try to soften it into something that will only make her wait longer. “I saw Tate with Charla at Bellweather today.”
Confusion crosses her face. “Together?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She watches me, waiting for the rest. “Why is that scaring you?”
I choose the shortest route through it. “They’re having an affair.”
Christa doesn’t move. For several seconds, she simply looks at me.
I don’t fill the silence.
Finally, she shakes her head once. “What?”
“I spoke to Charla.”
She looks at me more sharply now. “She told you that?”
“She didn’t deny it when I confronted her. Tate was touching her like a man touches the woman he’s sleeping with, and she confirmed enough of the rest that there isn’t any ambiguity.”