Chapter 13—Christa
TATE WEARS A VICTORY suit to the meeting. I know it’s a victory suit because I bought it for him two Christmases ago, back when I still spent unreasonable amounts of time considering which shade of navy made my husband look most commanding in a boardroom. Apparently, the answer is this one.
He walks into the trustees’ conference room at two fifty-three Friday afternoon with Charla beside him, both of them dressed as if they’re arriving to accept an award instead of answer questions about impersonating me to secure a multimillion-dollar transfer of voting control.
Charla has chosen cream. The dress skims her pregnancy without emphasizing it, which would probably read as tasteful restraint on anyone else.
On my identical twin, it irritates me on sight.
Jai closes the folder in front of her. “You don’t have to look at them.”
“I absolutely do.”
She studies me for half a second, then nods. “Okay.”
Celeste sits on my other side with Marjorie Keene beside her.
She hasn’t spoken to Tate since last Friday.
She told me he called her seventeen times, sent twelve messages, asked their mother to intervene twice, and finally dispatched Bernard to her house yesterday.
Bernard left after Celeste told him that if he wanted a relationship with his granddaughters, he should reconsider opening a conversation by explaining why Tate’s unborn son matters more than all four of them. I wish I’d been there.
Bernard enters behind Tate and Charla, with Judith beside him. Judith looks as if she hasn’t slept well. Bernard looks furious enough to keep the room warm without the heating system, and neither one greets me. That doesn’t bother me as much as it would have a month ago.
One of the trustees, Walter Hensley, stands near the head of the table with two other men and a woman I met once at a Meade foundation dinner.
The woman is Cynthia Rourke, according to the brass nameplate in front of her.
She appears to be in her late sixties and has spent the last ten minutes reading instead of making small talk. I like her already.
Tate pulls out Charla’s chair before taking the seat opposite me. His attention goes first to Jai, then Celeste, then me, and he smiles. The arrogance of it almost makes me laugh.
Charla avoids looking directly at me. She rearranges her purse beside her chair, then smooths her dress over one thigh. I know that gesture. She’s nervous.
Tate leans back and rests one forearm on the table. “Can we get this over with?”
Walter doesn’t sit. “We’re waiting for one document.”
“The paternity report?” Tate’s smile doesn’t change.
“Yes.”
“I authorized release yesterday.”
Walter glances at the file in front of him. “So did Ms. Kaffey. The laboratory advised counsel that the report would be transmitted directly to the trustees when complete.”
Charla finally looks up. Tate glances toward her, still confident. “There. Five minutes, and everyone can go home.”
Celeste turns her water glass slowly. Tate notices and aims the same smile at her. “Are you really going through with this?”
Marjorie answers before Celeste has to. “Any communication regarding my client’s challenge should come through me.”
Tate barely looks at her. “I’m talking to my sister.”
Celeste sets the glass down. “I’m sitting three feet away. I heard you.”
Judith presses her lips together while Tate looks from Celeste to me. “This is ridiculous.”
I settle farther into my chair. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it is.” Tate leans forward, impatience replacing the polished smile. “At most, you’ve delayed the transfer until the divorce is final. Then Charla and I get married, the certification gets corrected, and I take control a little later than planned.”
In Tate’s mind, he hasn’t lost anything important. I’ve just inconvenienced him.
I’m not done with him yet.
I twist the cap loose on the bottle of water Jai gave me. “You seem very confident the trustees are going to overlook the part where you tried to get control by passing my twin off as me.”
His jaw shifts. “My attorney will handle that.”
“He’s having a busy month.”
Tate ignores the comment as Celeste turns a laugh into a cough. “You wanted the divorce. Fine. You’re getting it. Once it’s final, Charla and I can marry without any confusion about the marital line, and everyone moves on.”
Charla sits a little straighter beside him. Apparently, she’s fond of that version too.
I take a drink of water. “That’s an optimistic interpretation of fraud.”
“It’s a family trust, Christa. Nobody is sending me to prison because people confused identical twins.”
Across from me, Celeste’s expression hardens.
I set the bottle beside Jai’s folder. “You didn’t correct them.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Yes. You keep hoping repetition will turn lying into an administrative inconvenience.”
Tate exhales through his nose and looks toward Walter instead, already bored with me. “Can we proceed?”
Walter’s expression remains neutral. “When the report arrives.”
Tate settles back into his chair again, apparently satisfied.
Across the table, Charla looks at me with open irritation. “You’re enjoying this.”
The accusation deserves consideration. “Yes.”
She blinks, and I savor it. I haven’t had many opportunities to surprise my sister in thirty-three years.
Charla shifts toward me. “You think this is fun?”
“No.” I place my water beside Jai’s folder. “I think watching consequences arrive is satisfying.”
She sneers. “You’ve always been sanctimonious.”
“Maybe, but I’ve never financed a McLaren with your Social Security number.”
Bernard’s chair scrapes backward half an inch, and Judith closes her eyes. Tate mutters a curse. “We’re dealing with that separately.”
I look at him. “The lender certainly is.”
Charla’s face changes at that. She knows exactly what I mean.
My father called me last night. He had spent three days trying to convince himself that there had to be another explanation for the car.
Once Jai sent him the lender documentation and Charla’s messages, denial became difficult.
His first question was whether I had agreed to the loan.
His second was whether paying it off would protect me. His third came after a long silence.
How many times have I fixed things for her that I shouldn’t have?
I didn’t answer for him. He didn’t ask me to withdraw anything, and that matters more than I expected.
The door at the far end of the conference room opens, and a young man in a gray suit steps inside carrying a sealed envelope. Every conversation stops as he hands it to Walter, who checks the label before passing it to Cynthia.
“The laboratory also sent the electronic copy to counsel,” Walter says. “Ms. Rourke is serving as reviewing trustee for the parentage documentation.”
Tate relaxes visibly. He actually buttons his jacket.
Celeste notices too. She meets my gaze for a second before returning to Cynthia. Charla doesn’t relax. She’s staring at the envelope.
Cynthia opens it, removes three pages, checks the identifying information at the top, and reads. Nobody moves.
Tate gives it about fifteen seconds. “Well?”
Cynthia reads the second page.
Charla grips the edge of her chair, and Tate finally glances at her. “Relax.”
She doesn’t answer. My attention stays on her now.
Cynthia places the first page on the table, then the second. Her expression gives nothing away. “The laboratory confirms that the maternal blood sample was obtained from Charla Kaffey and matched the identification provided. The paternal sample was obtained from Tate Meade and similarly verified.”
Bernard shifts forward. Tate looks at me and smiles again.
I almost roll my eyes.
Cynthia picks up the third page. “The result excludes Tate Meade as the biological father of the fetus.”
Nobody reacts immediately. The sentence is too clear for what it does to the room.
I look at Cynthia, then Tate, then Charla.
Tate laughs, one short burst of disbelief. “No.”
Cynthia doesn’t change expression. “The report excludes you.”
“No.” He reaches across the table. “Give me that.”
Walter intercepts the report before Tate can take it. “Mr. Meade.”
“There’s a mistake.”
“The laboratory completed the analysis twice,” Cynthia says. “The report reflects both runs.”
Tate stands so abruptly that his chair rolls backward and strikes the credenza behind him. Judith startles, and Bernard says his son’s name, but Tate doesn’t even look at him. His entire attention is on Charla.
She has gone white. Her cream dress no longer looks restrained. It makes her look sick.
Tate points at her. “Who?”
Charla’s lips part, but nothing comes out.
My pulse starts pounding hard enough that I can count it. I stay in my chair anyway.
This isn’t what I came here expecting.
It’s better.
“Tate,” Judith says.
He ignores her. “Who is the father?”
Charla pushes her chair back a few inches. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You don’t know what happened?” He gives a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
“The test could be wrong.”
Cynthia closes the report. “It isn’t.”
Charla looks toward her, but Tate steps between them before she can argue. “You told me he was mine.”
“I thought he was.”
The room seems to contract around those four words.
Tate stares at her. “You thought?”
Charla reaches for him. “Tate, listen.”
He jerks away before she touches his sleeve. “You told me you hadn’t been with anyone else.”
“I wasn’t seeing anyone else.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Jai moves her chair an inch closer to mine. I don’t need protection, but I appreciate the instinct anyway.
Charla glances around the room and finally seems to remember how many people are watching her. “Can we do this somewhere else?”
Tate laughs again. This time there’s nothing uncertain about it. “No. You wanted to be my wife badly enough to pretend to be her.” He points at me without looking away from Charla. “You can explain it here.”
I should probably be offended at becoming a prop in his argument. Instead, I cross one leg over the other.
Celeste catches the movement, and her mouth twitches.