Golden Lies (15 page)

David Hathaway had been so many things to her. She had liked him, loved him, hated him, then loved him again. Every time she had tried to cut him out of her life, he had come back in some unexpected way. He had brought with him nothing but trouble, nothing but pain. He had shamed her, and in turn she had shamed her family. She had spent the past twenty-two years being shunned by the people who had once loved her. And all because of David. So why had she come here now?

Because she still cared. God help her.

She found herself in front of his room. The door was closed. Was he alone? What would she say if he was not? They would wonder who she was, why she was here. Or maybe they knew. She thought back to Paige's visit. There had been a question in Paige's eyes that had nothing to do with the dragon or her father's accident. Paige suspected something; she just hadn't had the courage to ask, and for that Jasmine was grateful.

She tapped quietly on the door. No one answered. She slowly opened it. The room was small but private. There was a man in the bed, lying perfectly still. There were machines surrounding him but no one else. Where were they—this family that he adored, that he could never leave, that he had chosen over her? Why weren't they here by his bedside, praying for his recovery, holding his hand, talking to him, pleading for him to wake up?

Once in the room, she stopped by the bed, her heart breaking yet again as she looked at his face. There was a huge, ugly bruise just beneath the bandage around his head. Her eyes blurred with tears. It couldn't end like this. The charming, outgoing David Hathaway, who spoke so passionately about art and history and life, could not go so quietly out of this world.

She picked up his hand. It had been a long time since she had held his hand. His skin was cool, as if the blood couldn't quite reach his fingers, as if his heart was slowing, his body shutting down. But the machine was still bleeping. She could see jagged lines of what must be his heartbeat. His chest moved in and out. He wasn't gone yet.

"Don't leave me," she murmured. "Not like this, not without a good-bye."

"What on earth is going on?" A woman's sharp voice broke through the silence.

Jasmine turned, knowing whom she would find behind her.

Victoria Hathaway stood in the doorway, her face shocked, her eyes angry. She drew herself up, throwing back her shoulders, lifting her chin. She was so beautiful, with her blond hair, her blue eyes, her perfectly made-up face, not a wrinkle, not a shadow anywhere, nothing to show she was worried about her husband. Dressed in a white suit with sheer stockings and high heels, she looked as if she'd come from work, as if her life hadn't changed at all since her husband's assault.

Jasmine felt short and heavy, uncomfortable with her old, unstylish clothes and her heavy, thick black hair that hadn't seen a hairdresser in several years. Not for the first time she wondered how David could have left Victoria to come to her. But she hadn't always looked this way. There had been a time when men thought she was pretty, when she had laughed and enjoyed life. Meeting David had changed all that.

"Who are you?" Victoria demanded, walking farther into the room.

"Jasmine Chen," she replied.

Victoria's face paled. Did she recognize the name? Had David actually spoken of her? Jasmine's heart lightened just a bit.

"You have no right to be here." Victoria's harsh words sliced through Jasmine like a knife. "How did you get in here? Where is the nurse?"

Jasmine didn't reply right away, not sure what she wanted to say. Although she had feared it was not her place to be, now that she had come, she wanted to stay. She had lost so much because of this man. Didn't she deserve to at least stand by his bedside at this moment? Everyone would say no. She was not the wife. She was not family.

"How is he?" she asked, ignoring Victoria's request that she leave.

"That is none of your business. Please go."

"Why haven't you asked me who I am, how I know David?" Jasmine saw the truth in Victoria's eyes. "You know, don't you?"

"I know that you don't belong here in my husband's room."

"I love him, too." Jasmine was shocked by the words that had come from her mouth. She hadn't said them in twenty years, not to anyone, not even out loud to herself.

Victoria stuttered over a reply, as if she couldn't believe what Jasmine had said.

But it was done. It couldn't be taken back. Jasmine looked at David, wondering if he would be angry when he woke up. He had asked her for secrecy, and she had always given it to him. Until now. She had betrayed him to his own wife. Would he be able to forgive her? She told herself she should not care. But she did. And she was sorry. Would she have a chance to tell him how sorry she was?

"Get out of this room now," Victoria hissed. "You have no right to be here. I don't care who you love. For that matter, I don't care who he loves. He's my husband. I'm his wife. And that's the way it will stay."

"I didn't come here to cause you trouble. I simply wanted to see him." Jasmine cast David one last lingering look, wondering if this truly would be the last time she saw his face. She wished she could commit it to memory forever, so that she would never lose him. Not that she had ever really had him. She had been his lover, not his wife. That title belonged to the woman on the other side of the bed. "I'm sorry," she added belatedly.

"I don't want your apology."

"I shouldn't have told you, but I—"

"I already knew," Victoria said harshly. "Did you think I was stupid?"

A look of truth passed between them, and Jasmine realized that she had not betrayed David's secret at all. It had never been a secret, or perhaps only for a short time. His wife was not the fool; Jasmine was. In some strange way, the secrecy of their affair had made the love between them seem deeper, more important. Theirs had been a passion forbidden by society. In her heart she had always believed that only great passions dared to cross the bounds of propriety.

"Did you think you were the only one?" Victoria added, taking delight in sending another shaft through Jasmine's heart. "Ah, I see. You did believe that. What a pity."

Victoria was wrong. David had told her many times that he had only come to her and no one else.
Was he the liar? Or was it his wife?

She turned away from the bed, then stopped, startled by the presence of another woman in the doorway—Paige. Behind her was the man who had come to the apartment with her earlier. She wondered how long they had been standing there, how much they had heard.

"Mother?" Paige asked. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine," Victoria said with ice in her voice. "Ms. Chen was just leaving. And she won't be back."

No, she wouldn't be back. This was not her place. This was not her role. She didn't come to David; he always came to her, and having met the cold-hearted woman who called herself his wife, Jasmine understood much more clearly just why he had come to her in the first place and why he couldn't seem to stop himself from coming back. A spiteful part of her wanted to tell Victoria exactly that. But when Paige moved to stand next to her mother, the spitefulness faded. Paige was David's daughter, and unlike her mother, she seemed terribly worried about her father. Even now she had her hand on his arm, as if she would protect him from the tension in the room. Paige didn't deserve to be caught in the middle.

"I am leaving," Jasmine said. "I wish your father well."

"Ms. Chen, wait," Paige said unexpectedly.

Jasmine felt a shiver run down her vine at the question in Paige's eyes, the nervousness in her stance as she looked from her mother to her father, to Jasmine.

"Don't get involved in this," Victoria warned her daughter. "It does not concern you."

"I think it might. I think she's Dad's—"

"I know what she is." Victoria cut her off abruptly.

"You do?"

"Yes, I've known about her for years."

"Have you also known about Alyssa?"

Jasmine's heart stopped. How did Paige know about Alyssa? That was one secret she was sure David had kept. Victoria, too, looked taken aback, her face as white as her suit.

"Stop, Paige, please just stop. Don't say whatever it is you're thinking," Victoria said.

"I can't. I have to know. Do Alyssa and I share the same father?"

Alyssa checked her watch as she got off the bus early Friday morning and headed toward her mother's apartment in Chinatown. She hated going into the neighborhood, with its crowded buildings, the smells of fish and livestock in the butcher shops, her mother's small apartment with its dark rooms, its heavy cloud of incense, the memories of so many nights when she had gone to sleep hearing her mother cry—because of him. The
him
who remained a mystery even today. The man who had fathered her, who had left her and her mother, who had caused them to live in shame, who had made her half white, half Chinese, half of nothing.

Her friends told her that her unusual looks—her brown eyes, long black hair, pert, pointed, very un-Asian nose—made her more beautiful, more exotic, but she knew the truth. Different wasn't beautiful; it was just different. And her looks made her feel ... wrong. There was no other way to describe it. Her own family didn't accept her, especially her grandparents, who treated her illegitimate birth like a mark of shame upon the family. Every New Year, they prayed at the family altar that her mother's sins would be forgiven and that the rest of the family would not suffer for those sins. They also prayed that she would not travel the same road, that she would not dishonor the family as her mother had done.

She had no intention of dishonoring anyone. She just wanted to live her own life. She had a college degree now and a career in banking. Maybe it was just an entry-level job as a loan officer in a downtown bank, but she thought of it as a stepping stone to a future in high finance. She would not live hand-to-mouth as her mother had done. She would not have to sew late into the night to make enough money to eat, or sell precious pieces of her soul, as her mother had sold her paintings, to keep a roof over their heads. Someday she would have plenty of money and she would buy her mother a big house, and it wouldn't be anywhere near Chinatown.

The familiar smells were already turning her stomach. She usually made her mother meet her downtown in a café where they could eat with a fork, drink Diet Pepsi, and munch on potato chips, instead of sipping tea and using chopsticks to scoop up endless piles of rice. It wasn't that she didn't like Chinese food. She did. She'd grown up on it. But she had a love-hate relationship with everything Chinese.

Sometimes she wondered what kind of ethnic background her father had. Was he Italian? Irish? German? English? Was he a mix of something like she was? The only thing she knew for sure was that he wasn't Chinese.

Crossing the street, she quickened her pace. She didn't know why her mother had asked her to come so early, but the tension in her voice had persuaded her not to argue. Still, she didn't want to be late to work. She took her job seriously. She supposed she took everything seriously, but she didn't know how else to be. It had become clear early in her life that she had not brought joy and lightness into the world with her birth. She had to work hard to make that better. To be worthy of being born.

She took the steps to her mother's apartment two at a time, grateful for the tennis shoes she wore to work. They might look silly with her business dress, but they were comfortable. At work, she would put on her heels and add three inches to her five-foot-two inch frame. Then she would be ready to deal with the world. But that world would have to wait, at least for a few minutes. She had this world to deal with.

Her mother opened the door before she could use her key.

"What's wrong?" Alyssa asked quickly, sure now that something was up. It wasn't that her mother was crying or looking stressed, but rather that there was an unusual light in her eyes, an energy in her stance, maybe even a bit of anger in the tilt of her chin. Anger? That wasn't Jasmine Chen. Her paintings could be angry, but she was always quiet, complacent, accepting of her fate, her penance, her punishments. Sometimes Alyssa wanted to shake her mother, tell her to get mad, to tell her family to go to hell—that she didn't deserve to be treated like some lesser human being just because she'd had a child outside of marriage.

"Come in." Jasmine took her hand and pulled her into the apartment. "We must talk."

"You're not sick, are you?"

Jasmine shook her head. "No. It's not that. I wasn't going to say anything, but somehow they know. I don't know how they know, but they do. They'll come to see you. I couldn't allow that to happen, not without talking to you first."

Alyssa couldn't make sense of what her mother was saying. "Okay, start over and slow down. Who knows what?"

"Your father."

"My father?" Alyssa asked in wonder. She'd asked her mother many times to tell her about her father, to describe him, identify him, but Jasmine had always refused.

"He is hurt. Hurt badly."

"You know where he is? I thought you didn't know where he was."

Her mother's expression was usually unreadable, but not today. Today the truth was written all over her face. Her mother knew where her father was. She had probably known for a long time. Every time Alyssa had asked, she had been told that he had disappeared and that her mother could not bear to speak of him.