White Lies (A Twisted Fate Series) (Volume 1) (3 page)

“She arrived just before you, after spending the night with her sister. I imagine Mildred is gathering her things from the guest house. Alex said she had until today to leave.”

I gave Chris a quick hug. “Thanks. I know this has been a tough few months with Alex’s condition. I promise it’s going to get better.”

“I worry about you, Willow.” The tone in his voice told me there were doubts to my words, which was fair. I had said something similar to him and Mildred about two months ago.

The truth was I worried about myself, too. How long was I going to be able to keep piecing everything back together? Dad always said marriage should be a lifelong commitment. But were there extenuating circumstances?

At times, I hoped the answer was yes.

Alex and I still had a lot to work out even after last night. I was still processing the fact he didn’t want kids. A month ago he informed me he’d changed his mind and kids were no longer an option for us.

“I appreciate you always looking out for me, Chris.” I took a few steps. “I need to go convince Mildred to stay. I’ll be back. I hope she will.”

Chris nodded. “Of course she’ll stay for you.”

I hoped so. The thought of her leaving left another empty hole in my chest.

Baby steps.

One day at a time.

That was the advice my therapist gave me for dealing with someone who had PTSD. I held out hope Alex and I were able to figure it out because this was our last chance.

T
he sun shone bright on this spring day in the Hamptons as I took off to the guest house on the left side of the painting studio. Landscaping hid the studio and guest house from the front.

Mildred’s familiar black car was parked next to her garage. Thank goodness she hadn’t left. As I got closer, I saw the door was left open. Sniffling sounds resonated through the air.

Pausing, I knocked. “Mildred?”

The air grew quiet, and then I heard Mildred answer. “Come in, Willow.” A duffel bag was near the door. “My brother is going to come help me get the heavy stuff. My sister just left with a load.”

Without thinking, I walked up to Mildred and threw my arms around her. “You’re not fired. I just found out from Chris what Alex did, or I would have come home last night. I stayed in the city. Mildred, you have a place here for as long as you like. Please don’t leave me.”

Strong arms came around my back as the middle-aged woman brought me to her. “I’m so sorry, Willow. I had no idea I was messing with Mr. Alex’s things. He lost his temper. I try. I really do. I love it here.”

Putting a little distance between us so I could see Mildred’s face, I felt the tears burning at the back of my eyes. At times, Alex had been a monster since he came back. “I love you here, too. Please stay. I will work everything else out. You’re family, Mildred. You will always have a place here.”

Later, when things simmered down, I would get the full story from Mildred. Right now, she was too emotional, and I knew she wasn’t ready to talk about it.

The normal fiery redhead, who kept the house in tiptop shape, wept some more. “I love you, too, Willow. So much. You’re like a daughter to me.”

“Will you stay? Please.”

She nodded with watery eyes. “I could never leave you, Willow. My heart broke thinking I had to leave.”

I shook my head fiercely. “Never. You will never have to leave here. If anything ever happens, come talk to me first, okay?”

I had to remain strong when all I wanted to do was cry after the beautiful night Alex and I shared.

More sniffles came from Mildred. “Okay. I’m going to freshen up and then head to the main house. I’ll have my sister bring back my stuff. How does lasagna sound tonight?”

The mention of lasagna made my mouth water. Being from a heavily influenced Italian ancestry, pasta was the way to my heart. “Mildred, please take the night off.”

She squeezed me and then stood back to wipe away the remnants of her tear. “Nonsense. Cooking helps relieve stress. I’ll make gelato for dessert.”

Gelato was my favorite form of ice cream. In fact, it was my go-to comfort food because of Mom. Mildred knew she had won. There was no way I could say no to gelato. “Will you make mint chocolate chip?”

“You bet. Let me straighten a few things out and I’ll be up at the main house.”

Crisis averted.

My nerves were frayed, and I was feeling like the hope had been diminished and last night had been a fluke.

Regardless of how Alex had been at the hotel, we needed to have a serious talk. Some things would need to change if our relationship was going to move forward. “I’m going to be in the painting studio. If Alex comes home, call the studio phone and I’ll be right up.”

“I will. I’m sorry about this mess.”

“It’s not your fault. Things are going to change, I promise.” My words were spoken as a vow.

Mildred gave me a small smile as the light in her eyes grew. “I’m so glad you’re painting again. Off you go.”

Mildred walked me to the door and we hugged again. With little shooing motions, she ushered me out. “I’ll have dinner waiting. Take your time painting.”

“I will. Thank you, Mildred. Thank you for staying on while it’s been difficult. I promise things are going to change.”

With a deep breath, she responded, “We’ll get through this.”

An unspoken statement came out in her words.
Life has been hard.
And she was right. How had I got myself into such a mess?

I meandered back across the lawn. My heart was torn. Last night, it felt like Alex was the man I fell in love with in college. The man I thought I’d married. But after hearing about the altercation with Mildred, I wasn’t sure.

For good measure, I took out my phone and called Alex.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“This is Alex. You know what to do.” Beep.

He never picked up his phone. Internally, I wanted to scream. But I took a deep breath and hung up. Instead I would text him. When Alex got home, he would see how serious I was.

Me: Please call me. We need to talk about Mildred. She’s staying and that is not negotiable. Hopefully, you were serious about things changing last night. I can’t go back to the way they were. I won’t.

I stared at the phone, willing a response to come. My message stared back at me almost in a mocking manner.

Were people able to be saved after they let a demon take root in them for so long? I hoped the answer was yes, that our story was just beginning after having a rocky start.

Hopefully, things would settle and rational Alex would walk through the door when he got home. Normally, I hardly ever called Alex because he kept his phone turned off and rarely had it with him being an undercover cop. However, he said he’d be home tonight in his note, which meant he wasn’t undercover.

I let out another sigh. I hated Alex being an undercover cop because I knew the situation was less than ideal for someone diagnosed with PSTD. A few times, I asked him how he passed the medical assessments to become an undercover cop. The doctor we’d visited together signed the release. No doubt the doctor was a quack. I hadn’t trusted him from the second I entered his office. But Alex refused to get a second opinion. A shudder ran through me at the memory of some of the fights we had when I questioned him. The subject was closed. Period.

At times, I had to pick my battles, and the doctor’s diagnosis was an already lost battle.

I had a number to call in emergencies while Alex was working, but wondering about his location wasn’t justifiable. Thank goodness a need to use the number never arose.

My phone dinged, and for a moment I thought it might be Alex. The caller ID confirmed it as Carson. Still, a smile formed at the familiar name. We’d been each other’s best friend since we were in preschool—a brother I never had. On the playground, I used to make him be my pretend husband when all the girls wanted to play marriage. He hated every second of being the groom.

Carson: Worried about you with how upset you were last night. How did it go with the lawyer?

Me: I didn’t go yet. Alex showed up and we talked. He’s coming home tonight and I’m going to see if it’s salvageable.

Carson: I’m here for you. Let me know if you need anything even if it’s simply to talk. I come home in a few days. Let’s get together. Mom and Dad want to see you, too.

Me: I’d love that. Let me know when you’re available.

Carson: I will. I’ll check in later after my meetings.

Me: Knock ‘em dead.

Carson: I’ll try.

I tucked my phone away. Currently, Carson was overseas tending to his hotels. One of their hotels in Italy currently had issues. He’d been there a lot over the last two months. The Whitmore Hotels were a five-star hotel chain unlike any other in their extravagance. I was proud of my best friend and all he’d accomplished.

Entering the studio, I stopped and looked at the half dozen unfinished works taunting me to finish them. But nothing came. I had no idea what was missing in them. Another couple dozen blank canvases stared at me from against the wall.

For hours I stared at them, willing inspiration to strike. It hadn’t in a long time. Nothing was going to be solved until Alex arrived home. Until then, painting would pass the time.

Quickly, I whipped my blonde hair into a messy bun. Then grabbed one of my white, paint-splattered, button-up work shirts that swallowed my small frame.

The images from earlier began to flow as I looked at the blank slate before me. Taking my paintbrush, I hovered over the pallet, figuring out which colors to pick. My hand shook as it had the last time I tried to paint. I tried to push the negative aside. My mind lost focus while the painting block returned, and my spirits plummeted as I worked to recapture the inspiration.

A picture of Alex and me caught my attention. It was from college before he left. We were happy. In love—like last night. His arms were wrapped around my shoulders while my lavender-grey eyes stared at the camera.

When the shutter on the camera clicked to capture the moment, I remembered thinking I’d found my happily ever after.

Love. We’d been in love then. I knew it.

I remembered the note from this morning and pulled it out of my jeans pocket, tracing the words. There was still hope. I looked again at the picture, wondering how we allowed ourselves to get so lost.

Grabbing my palette, I mixed my mediums as I kept glancing at the note, which now lay on the nearby stool. As I brought my paint brush up to the canvas, my hands shook again. I closed my eyes and felt the wood of the handle. I thought of the picture and the emotions I’d felt as my friend took several pictures.

The magic sparked through my fingertips as I let love encapsulate me.

Love.

That was the answer.

My eyes opened as a smile formed. The images from earlier came back, begging to be let out. I dabbed my brush in a blue-green mixture on my palette to make the mediums for the sky. This color was exactly as I’d imagined it. As I continued with my strokes, I felt at peace with my steady hand. My soul had found what it was looking for.

Finally.

Hours flew by as I got lost in the painting before me. It was like entering a trance. My father painted the same way. It wasn’t until we stepped back that we were truly able to see what we’d created. Mom said it was our gift of being able to paint with our hearts versus our eyes.

I took a step back to see my creation and grabbed a Twizzler. When I was done painting, I always snacked on them while contemplating my art. Dad had always had peanuts. As I looked at my creation, I knew I’d gotten the habit from him.

Before me, a man walked through the forest toward a light at the end of the road. The hues became warmer as the light drew near. Darkness beckoned him from the other side. Though his hand reached toward the light, he was still only halfway through his journey.

I sat back on the stool, thinking about the precipice of the man’s decisions. Whichever way he chose would affect him for the rest of his life. Dread came over me, feeling as though this was where my relationship was.

What if the man chose the darkness?

Where did that leave the light?

Was the light enough?

There was hope, though, where the light shone bright.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I jumped at the sound. My heart slowed as I realized someone was at the studio door. “Coming!” I called.

I quickly stored my brushes and traipsed toward the door, unable to shed my deep thoughts of the meaning behind my painting.

The door swung open. Chris stood there with two officers—all with solemn looks. A ball formed in my stomach, reminding me of the time the officers came to the door to tell us Mom was in an accident. That was the last time they had beckoned our door. I still remembered standing behind Dad as they told us the news.

I’d never forget the sound of agony ripping from my dad’s chest when he found out Mom was dead.

Hoping my voice was steady, I swallowed hard before asking, “What’s going on?”