Destiny by chance: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel (24 page)

Justine stepped from the luxurious executive room ensuite and finished packing her Luis Vuitton monogrammed bags.  She would never have to use faux anything again.  Uri lavished her with every extravagance a wife could ever want.  There was even an expense account, in which he kept, at least, ten thousand dollars at all times, so she was never in want of anything.  Mostly.  They’d been together for almost nine years now.  Ten if one counted the time that she was pregnant when she mysteriously disappeared from his life.  The moment they met, there was an instant spark between them.  An intense spark, at that. 

They met in Italy during her family vacation in 2000.  Uri sought her out within minutes of seeing her at his vineyard, one of his many businesses, and spent the rest of the time she was in Italy wooing and then bedding her.  He probably wouldn’t even have cared that she was already involved with someone if she had bothered to tell him.  Uri promised her the moon and gave her more.  He begged her to stay.  Justine promised she’d be back after she wrapped up her affairs stateside. 

Except that, the day she returned to the States, she started getting sick, attributing it to the rough flight home.  After two days, she suspected it was food poisoning or the flu.  Her physician assured her it was none of the above.  When Justine found out she was pregnant, she panicked—not something she would usually do.  She blamed her emotional state on her hormones, went home, composed herself and contemplated what to do next. 

Bill was a nice guy, and he was sweet, but Uri was well-dressed and virile. Though he was ten years her senior, he was fit and athletic, not to mention he had a commanding presence.  There was a sophistication about him; Uri was so sure of himself; self-confident.  Only now, she knew he was also full of himself.  Most importantly, he was loaded. 

Bill was a jeans-and-flannel-shirt kind of guy, who worked a boring job in a boring city.  For Justine, in the end, it was a no-brainer.  The timing of the pregnancy, however, was going to be a problem—simply because she had told Uri she was a virgin, and she was pretty sure the child was Bill’s.  Justine considered herself a pretty good actress and felt her performance with Uri their first time in bed made a believer out of him, not that she had to overact since he had another excellent attribute:  Uri was
very
well-endowed. 

She explained her need to stay in the States once she was back home, telling Uri she was now expected to be the caretaker of her ailing grandmother, who was actually long deceased.  When her mother realized her plight, she insisted Justine marry immediately or give up the child for adoption. Justine started contemplating all her options and plotting her eventual outcome.  She knew she didn’t want to be married; she certainly didn’t want to be married to Bill, but she didn’t want to be a single mom living on food stamps and child support, either. 

Being an adopted child herself, she refused to have her child grow up in the system.  And though she didn’t practice her Catholic faith, she could hear the nuns screaming into her ear that she couldn’t have an abortion.  So she went crying to Bill, mostly because she was genuinely heartbroken that he was her last resort.  And he took her in, as she knew he would.  He proposed.  She accepted.  Her mother was thrilled.  But Justine was miserable. 

Bill had tried to be a good husband, and he was a good father.  His attentiveness was well-intended.  He would bring her soup if she felt sick, massage her feet when they hurt and put pillows under her knees when her back hurt.  Justine actually felt a little sorry for him because he sincerely had no clue as to the fact that she never had any intention of staying.  She contemplated, albeit not for long, that she might take Sydney with her.  However, in all her scenarios, showing up at Uri’s door with a child that more than likely wasn’t his wouldn’t have ended well.  When she would finally show up at his door, she knew that he also would have soup brought to her, but hand-prepared by his personal chef.  And if her feet hurt, he would hire a masseuse to massage any part of her that hurt, at a moment’s notice.  And the pillows he would place under her knees would be covered in the best milled Egyptian cotton and stuffed with the finest goose-feathers.  There was no comparison.

When she left, she took everything with her, including the pictures.  Then she burned them all.  There needed to be no proof of their life together that could ever come back to haunt her.  When she left, she quietly walked out of the door, hailed a cab, and took the first flight to Florence.  She was on Uri’s doorstep within two days and in his bed the night after that.

Throughout her pregnancy, she had used expensive lotions and oils to help her skin’s elasticity, in the hopes of not having any daily reminders of ever giving birth.  Justine prided herself on being able to explain her way out of anything, and up to now that had served her well.  Stretch marks?  She explained how she had shamefully gained weight while acting as her grandmother’s caregiver.  Thankfully, she was able to lose most of the weight, though she feigned disappointment.  And as for Uri’s calls?  Taking care of a seventy-eight-year-old Alzheimer’s patient had taken such a toll on her.  It had been difficult for her.  After all, he was on the other side of the world.  Uri’s letters?  She had conveniently routed those to a secret post office box. The lies only became easier and easier with time.

Justine was becoming skilled at deception.  She had an answer for everything.  In the end, it was Uri who ended up apologizing, for ever questioning her.  They were married in a private ceremony two months later.  None of her relatives were in attendance.  Only because Justine had disposed of their wedding invitations instead of mailing them.  Although Uri offered to pay for their flights, she made plausible excuses for their absences, after which he showered her with more gifts to help her overcome her sorrow at her family’s lack of consideration.

But now the clock was ticking.  Literally.  Uri was getting impatient for a child, an heir.  He wanted a son but would settle for a girl.  She no longer trusted birth control pills since she’d been on them when she got pregnant.  After Sydney’s birth, Justine got the Implanon implanted to ensure that she couldn’t get pregnant again, covering the incision with a beautiful tattoo.  Poor Uri.  After several years with no results, he had gone through every conceivable test to assure that he wasn’t shooting blanks.  Of course, anytime Uri suggested Justine get tested. she would conveniently fly back to the states to see her personal physician, rather than one, of his choosing, in Florence.  However, instead of seeing a doctor, she would spend the weekend at a spa, working on her story for when she returned.  It was on Justine’s last trip to the States before the new year when her excuses were getting as thin as Uri’s patience that she decided to make a little side trip. 

Justine drove the streets that she hadn’t driven on in over ten years.  So many things had changed, so many never would.  As she drew close to her destination, she slowed.  She glanced out the window to her left as she drove past.  It was called the Kemper House.  She was simply amazed at what he had done with the place.  Justine remembered the day they drove by the old run-down building years ago.  Bill had offhandedly remarked that someone should buy that old place and turn it into something amazing.  He had done just that.  When she had called her mother to announce her marriage to Uri, her mother told her he had bought it.  She laughed.  He must have gone off the deep end after she left him.  She was sure he’d end up bankrupt.

Now, as she drove by the manicured property, she narrowed her eyes slightly.  He had actually made something of himself.  Justine turned the corner, made the block and slowly drove by again.  Her mother had felt obligated over the first few years to update her on Bill and Sydney’s lives.  She would send Justine articles she clipped when national magazines featured the Kemper House.  And sometimes she would send her daughter pictures of Sydney that Bill sent her at Christmas.  Justine disposed of them all immediately.  Thankfully, her mother had moved away within two years of Sydney’s birth, so her updates were less frequent, albeit still occasional.  Then when they stopped altogether, she was grateful, until she realized her adopted mother had died.  Then she was sad.  But like everything else in her life, she got over it.

Justine was hoping to get maybe just a glance of Sydney, if only out of curiosity.  She pulled to the street corner across from the famous bed and breakfast and then stepped from her rented BMW.  She took out her cell phone and pretended to snap pictures of the beautiful house, but was hoping Sydney would appear.  It was afternoon, about the time school let out, and carpools and school buses would be delivering children to their rural, ordinary lives. 

As if on cue, a blue Honda CR-V slowed and pulled into the wide white rock drive and stopped.  Justine side-stepped casually, her phone still close to her eyes.  Then she saw her.  The dark-haired child jumped from the back of the car and rushed eagerly down the driveway right toward her.  Justine froze.  Sydney looked into the mailbox and pulled out the large stack of mail, rooting through it.  After a moment, Sydney glanced across the street, right at her.  Justine felt her face flush.  Sydney looked at her for a moment after which she smiled and waved.

“Hi,” she called across the street.

Justine slowly raised her gloved hand and waved back.  “Hi.” She watched her daughter turn and walk back to the side of the house.  A dark-haired woman put her arm around the child and walked with her inside. 

Justine slowly lowered her phone, stepped to her car and climbed back in.  She sat in the seat, staring straight ahead, her heart racing, her breathing accelerated.  Slowly, Justine pulled off her gloves, lifted the phone and began to look at the pictures she had just taken.  There were dozens of the young girl as she walked away; every angle that Sydney had turned, Justine tried to capture, until the moment she had disappeared inside the large house.  Her fingers pushed the arrow forward and then back until she found the picture she sought.  Her heart stopped.  Sydney had his chin and his eyes.  Her hair was jet black; she had an olive complexion.  A horn honked and she looked up suddenly with a start, only to find a woman who had become annoyed with an older couple driving too slowly, so she had mashed on her horn, just before shooting them the finger.  Justine looked back down at the phone, refreshing the screen and enlarging the picture.  She couldn’t believe it.  After all this time.  Was it possible? She looked at the house and back at the picture, certain she was looking at Uri’s daughter.

Sydney threw her backpack on the kitchen island, dropped her jacket and kicked off her shoes.

“Whoa, young lady,” Destiny said.  “Your father would have my hide if I let you slack off while he’s away.”

“Really?” she pouted.

“Really,” Destiny replied firmly, handing her the backpack and standing over her.

“Fine,” Sydney growled dramatically, throwing her head back and picking up all her belongings before heading for her room.

“And he also said—”

“I know.  Book report first!” Sydney called from the hallway.  “You do realize I’m on Christmas vacation,” she added, before shutting her door.

Destiny smiled to herself.  The front doorbell rang, and she walked through the kitchen and into the hallway still decorated for Christmas, arriving just as it rang again.  There before her stood a beautiful woman in a colorful Missoni dress, a stunning ankle-length cashmere belted coat, and calf-length leather boots.  Destiny smiled and invited her in.  “You must be Mrs. Watson,” she said, reaching to shake her hand.  “We’ve been expecting you.”

The woman took her hand tentatively as her eyes took in her surroundings first and then slowly settled back on Destiny.  Without removing her expensive Persol sunglasses, she shoved her hands into her coat pockets.  “Is Mr. Ireland here?”

Destiny narrowed her brow at the tone of her request.  “No, I’m sorry, he’s out of town for a few days.  But I can help you.  I’m Destiny, his house manager.”

Justine stepped past her as she looked around, walking into the library and looking side to side.  She didn’t say anything until she turned back to Destiny.  “Destiny, what a lovely name.”

“Thank you.” Destiny was a little curious at the woman’s cryptic demeanor.  “Are you not Mrs. Watson?”

The woman didn’t’ answer, but her smug smile spoke volumes, as did how she carried herself.  She had an air of superiority, and it was more than slightly irritating.

“Was Bill expecting you?”

“Bill?” she asked coyly, her smile growing.

“Mr. Ireland?”  Destiny was now getting mildly annoyed.  “I’d be happy to take down your name, or if you’d like to leave him a card, I’d be glad to give it to him.”

“I’ll bet you would, Honey.”  Justine held onto the banister, leaning around it to look upstairs.

Just then Sydney emerged from her room.  “Cookie time!” she exclaimed.  She stopped when she saw the woman before her.

“Hi.” Justine’s demeanor softened.  It was like looking at a picture of herself twenty years ago.  Only Sydney’s face was that of a happy child, not one whose childhood was wrought with abuse—physical and emotional—by the hand of those who conceived her.  She had the face of someone who was loved, not one of fear of and resentment toward those whose blood coursed through her veins.  “What’s
your
name?”

“Sydney.” The girl reached out her hand, as her father had taught her.

Justine bent at the waist, taking the small hand gently into her gloved hand and holding it for just a moment longer before releasing it.  Of course she knew the name.  She had named her daughter the day of her birth, after her grandfather on her mother’s side.  A man she had adored.  The only person who had stood up to his own son when he found he was sexually abusing his granddaughter.  Not that it did any good.  His son had simply taken his wife and his two daughters and moved to another city, where no one seemed to care much about such things.  As she rested her hands on her knees, she looked into the young girl’s face.  “My, you are beautiful,” she said, tapping her on the chin.  “You have your father’s eyes.”

Destiny reached over and put her arms around Sydney’s chest, pulling her backward to herself.  “I didn’t catch your name,” she said as sweetly as she could muster.

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you, Dear.”  Justine looked around once more, then added.  “I’ll come back next week.  What day did you say he’d be back?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” Destiny replied flatly.

Justine looked at her for a moment then smiled wryly.  A worthy competitor.  She bent slightly at the waist again and smiled at Sydney.  “Nice to meet you, Sydney.”

Destiny stepped back, taking Sydney with her.  She stepped around the woman and opened the door, the simple act speaking volumes.  Justine stood there for a moment, smiling defiantly for effect, slid her hands back into her coat pockets and walked out without another word.  Destiny closed the door behind her and locked it before peeking through the sheer curtains.  She watched as the woman got into her car and drove away.  “Well, that was weird,” she muttered to herself.

“Who was that?”

“Beats me,” Destiny replied, walking to the kitchen.

“You know?  I saw her outside.”

“When?”

“Before, when I went to get the mail.  She was taking pictures of the house.  I thought she was a tourist,” Sydney replied, as she rooted through the refrigerator.

“You didn’t talk to her did you?”

“I just said ‘hi,’” she offered.

“Did she say anything back?”

“She said ‘hi,’” Sydney grinned.

Destiny pursed her lips.  “Hmm.  Interesting.”  She glanced at the clock.  “Three-thirty, Syd.  Cookie time.”  Nervously, she glanced out the kitchen window at the street.

“Gotcha,” Sydney said, taking out the cookie pans and the dough that Destiny had made that morning. “Can we do pizza for dinner?”

“That’s an excellent idea!” Destiny seemed relieved that she didn’t have to cook or clean up.  “You call it in after we check in all our guests and tell them to have it here by five thirty.  Sound good?”

Sydney hugged Destiny.  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Destiny smiled, stole a ball of cookie dough from the pan and popped it into her mouth.

“Hey!” Sydney exclaimed.  “Omah says that’ll give you worms.”

“Then I’m sure my belly is full of slimy, slithery, wiggly worms by now,” she said, leaning over and tickling Sydney’s stomach.  “Because I’ve been eating dough all my life.”

“That’s disgusting.”  Sydney made a face.

“No, disgusting is that new sauce recipe your dad tried for the chicken the other night,” Destiny remarked, glancing toward the street through the curtains again.

“Um.  I’m going to tell him you said something he made was disgusting.”

Destiny grabbed Sydney and tickled her again, not letting her go.  “I seem to remember that you scraped all yours off and didn’t eat much chicken, either.”

Sydney wriggled and laughed. “That’s because it was disgusting,” she finally conceded.

Destiny released her.  “Uh-huh.”  She pointed at the fridge with the knife she used to cut the dough.  “I think it’s time we accidentally pour that sauce down the garbage disposal.”

Sydney smiled.  “I’m with ya!” she exclaimed, moving to the refrigerator and taking the sauce out.  She popped the lid and poured it into the sink.

“Aww,” Destiny whined dramatically.  “What a waste.”

Sydney giggled and walked past Destiny, who grabbed her and swung her around the kitchen several times before releasing her.  Had she looked out the window once more she would have seen the same steel gray BMW that had driven past the house several times pass by once more.