Chapter 12—Simon #2
Christa turns from the window. “An assumption you encouraged.”
“I didn’t encourage anything.”
I snort but don’t directly contradict him. It takes restraint, but Christa has the right to handle him herself.
“You stood beside my pregnant sister while Walter Grayson congratulated you on having a son with your wife.”
“I wasn’t going to make a scene in the middle of the club.”
Christa absorbs the sheer audacity of that answer with a sound of disbelief. “You took her there,” she says.
“Because we had lunch.”
“How unfortunate that restaurants don’t allow mistresses unless they’re disguised as wives.” Her tone is scathing, and I grin in approval.
He’s fully whining now. “Stop calling her that.”
She returns my smile. “What would you prefer?”
“Charla and I are together.”
A beat passes before Christa answers. “You and I are still married.”
“Only because you’re making this as difficult as possible.”
She gives a short laugh. “I filed Monday.”
“You could have waited.”
“For what?”
He’s whining again. “You know I asked you for thirty days.”
“Yes. You neglected to mention that you wanted them so Charla could reach fourteen weeks.”
Another noise comes through the phone, followed by Tate’s sharp exhale. “Who told you that?”
“My attorney can read.”
“Your divorce attorney had no business digging into my family’s trust.”
Christa laughs at him. “Apparently, she disagrees.”
“Christa, listen to me. You don’t understand what you’re screwing with here.”
“I understand fourteen weeks.”
That shuts him up for several seconds. When he speaks again, some of the fury has been replaced by urgency. “This transfer has been planned for years.”
“Interesting. Charla has only been pregnant for eleven weeks.” She seems to be mostly amused. I don’t know if it’s true or a veneer, and she’ll end up in tears again when it’s over. Either way, I’m here.
“You know what I mean. The trust was written for this. Dad has been preparing me to take control since I was little. He and Mom didn’t give up until they had a boy. This is about legacy.” He sounds proud of them disregarding his sisters.
“Then you should have no trouble qualifying honestly.”
“I’m trying to.”
Christa actually looks at the phone as though she can’t believe what he just said.
Tate barrels onward before she can answer. “Charla is carrying my son. That’s the qualifying event. Your petition came out of nowhere three weeks before certification, and I needed time to deal with it.”
She scoffs. “You asked me to work on our marriage.”
“I was trying to keep everything from blowing up.”
“You were sleeping with my sister.” Her amusement has faded, and her voice rises.
“We were already done, Christa.”
Her expression hardens. “You neglected to tell me.”
“You hired a divorce attorney without telling me.”
I can almost see him gloating about scoring a point and dislike him even more than I did before this call.
“I wasn’t sleeping with your brother.”
Tate makes an angry sound. “That’s different.”
She laughs without humor. “I imagine you need it to be.”
“You’re twisting everything because you’re angry.”
“I am angry. That’s a rational response.”
“Then be angry at me. Take whatever you want in the divorce. The house, the accounts, or whatever makes you happy. Leave the trust alone.”
Christa leans against the windowsill. “I don’t want your money.”
He’s smart enough to sound wary. “Then what do you want?”
“My name back would be a start.”
He huffs. “It was one visit to my parents.”
“And Bellweather.”
“Fine. Two.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek.
Christa stares at the phone in disbelief. “You committed identity fraud twice, so I should relax? What’s the allowed number of times before I should register a protest? Three? Five?”
He curses again. “Nobody stole your identity.”
“Charla bought a McLaren with it.”
The silence is immediate.
I straighten.
Tate says, “What?”
“She used my name, Social Security number, driver’s-license information, and credit to finance a two-hundred-eighty-six-thousand-dollar car.”
He scoffs. “That’s bullshit.”
I’m so proud of Christa when she maintains a calm tone. “The lender disagrees.”
“Charla wouldn’t do that.”
“She already admitted it in writing.”
His voice shifts away from the phone. “Charla!”
Christa and I look at each other. He called me to yell at Christa while Charla was nearby. What a jerk.
A door slams somewhere on Tate’s end. “Charla!”
A muffled female voice answers from farther away.
Tate’s words become indistinct for several seconds. Then he comes back louder. “What car?”
Christa’s eyebrows rise. “The silver McLaren she’s been posting online for five weeks.”
“Her father bought that.”
“No. I did, according to the financing application.”
He sounds less certain. “Hold on.”
“I’ve been holding on all week.”
“Christa, shut up for one second.”
My temper surges, but she points at me before I can say anything.
Tate apparently leaves the phone uncovered. His voice carries as he calls Charla again. “Get in here.”
Charla’s answer is clearer this time. “I’m on the phone.”
“I don’t care. Did you finance your car in Christa’s name?”
A pause follows. Christa lowers herself into the chair beside the worktable, and I move closer, resting one hand on its back. She isn’t laughing anymore. The phone rests in her palm while we listen to Tate demand an answer from the woman he’s been defending at Christa’s expense.
“Tate, I’ll talk to you after my call,” Charla says, then lets out a yelp. “Give it back.”
I visualize Tate snatching her phone and hanging up on whomever. “He seems rattled.” I grin at Christa.
She nods, looking pleased.
“No. Answer me.” His voice is farther from the speaker now, and I picture him crossing whatever room they’re in to confront her. “You told me Scott finally agreed to the car.”
“He wouldn’t.” Charla’s answer comes sharper. “I was going to pay it.”
Tate gives an incredulous laugh. “That’s not what I asked. Is the loan in Christa’s name?”
Silence answers him. “Dammit, Charla.”
“I was going to fix it.”
“How?” He curses again.
“I don’t know. Refinance it later.”
“With what income?”
Charla’s voice rises. “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
“You stole my wife’s identity to buy a fucking car!”
Christa’s eyebrows climb. I lean closer to her chair and murmur, “Apparently, this is where he draws the ethical line.”
She covers her mouth, but a laugh escapes anyway.
Tate hears it. “Is this funny to you?”
Christa lifts the phone closer. Her shoulders have relaxed again, although I don’t mistake that for the call no longer hurting her. “A little.”
“You knew about the car and didn’t tell me?”
She looks at me as if Tate has finally managed to ask the stupidest question of the morning. “Why would I?”
He sighs raggedly, like he’s at the end of his patience. “Because I’m trying to fix this mess.”
“No, Tate, you’re trying to get your trust transfer. You’re thinking of yourself, as usual.”
Something scrapes on his end. “They’re the same problem now because you made them the same problem.”
Charla says something behind him that we can’t make out.
Tate snaps away from the speaker, “I’m talking to Christa.”
“Then don’t scream my business across the room,” Charla shoots back.
Christa’s amusement disappears.
I look from her to the phone, and neither of us makes a sound.
Tate’s next warning is low. “Don’t.”
Charla either misses it or decides she’s finished obeying him. “What? That’s somehow better? Your parents think I’m Christa. Half the club thinks I’m Christa. You’re pissed about a car?”
“I didn’t take out a loan in her name.”
Charla lets out an angry screech. “You need me to be her for the trust.”
“Stop talking.”
“You stop acting like you’re better than me.” Something shatters against the wall.
“Charla has a temper.” Christa shrugs. “That sounded like the Waterford vase his mother gave us for our first anniversary.” She’s smiling again. “I always hated it.”
Tate swears, followed by the scrape of something moving hard across a floor. “Get out.”
“Gladly.” A door slams with enough force to make the speaker crackle.
Christa flinches at the noise. I slide my hand from the back of her chair to her shoulder, and she covers it briefly with hers before letting me go.
For several seconds, Tate says nothing. I hear his footsteps, then a ragged exhale close to the phone. When he speaks to Christa again, he does a good impression of control, as though the last minute somehow didn’t happen.
“This is exactly why you should have talked to me before you started making accusations.”
Christa stares at the phone. “I’m sorry. What part of the last two minutes made you think I owe you an apology?”
“I’m handling Charla.” Tate sounds exhausted now, but the self-pity doesn’t soften anything he’s done. “The car will be dealt with.”
“The lender is dealing with it. So is the fraud department.”
That jolts him. “You’re pressing charges against your own sister?”
Christa gets up from the chair and walks back toward the escritoire, taking the call with her. “I haven’t decided what happens criminally. I’m cooperating with the lender.”
“Scott can pay off the loan.”
“Paying it doesn’t erase the application, and Dad isn’t responsible for bailing her out of trouble. Ostensibly, she’s an adult.”
He sounds sad, like Christa has become completely unreasonable. “Everything has to become a war with you now.”
She puts the phone on the worktable again and picks up the clean cloth she abandoned earlier. “You asked for thirty days of marriage while planning a baby and a future with my twin. I don’t think I’m the person who turned this into a war.”
“I didn’t plan the baby.”
“Maybe not, but you planned everything after it.”
“Because I have a son coming, Christa.” His certainty returns as soon as he talks about the baby. “I have obligations to him.”
Christa folds the cloth once, then again. Her movements are controlled enough that I know the amusement is gone for good.