Poker Face (11 page)

“No. It’s the principal behind it, there doesn’t need to be
another Mackenzie who has things dropped miraculously in his lap.”

“You might as well get used to it. Ranch, or no ranch, you can’t
stop Jonathan’s son from inheriting what belongs to his father.”

Jonathan. How lovely his wife was on a first name basis with the
scoundrel. “What all did you do with him?” He found himself blurting out. Nine
years he’d been dying to ask that single question. It gnawed at him, though
he’d hid it well. Pride, self-loathing for his insanely jealous tendency’s,
afraid of what knowing the truth would do to his ever growing suspicious
side—all these things had kept him from asking.

“Who?” she blinked.

“Mackenzie.”

“Father or son?”

He shook his head in frustration.

“We went to the opera and out to fancy restaurants. Sometimes we
cooked and stayed in,” Her sarcasm caused acid to swirl in his gut. Everything
around him was slowly falling apart, like a battered beach surrendering to the
rising sea. People drive loved ones away with constant insane accusations. He
knew it, but heavens above he could not stop the thoughts that ran through his
head in a given day. Thoughts of his perfect wife, and the “things” she had
done before she’d met him.

He suspected he would have felt the same jealously toward her
first husband if the man wasn’t dead.

Paul’s jaw tightened. The years had only managed to make her more
beautiful, a curse, on every man that ever came in contact with her, especially
him. “Don’t play coy, you know what I mean.”

Her coffee cup clattered as she set it down harder than necessary
on the table top, a brow arching. “What do you think we did, Paul?”

“Did you have sex with him?”

“Yes.”

There it was—the truth he’d feared all these years. Some insane
need stirred his insides, need to yell, need to make her feel ashamed, need to
strike her. No. Paul had never hit a woman in his life. That bastard Mackenzie
was laughing behind his back, for once in his life the man had not bragged over
one of his many conquests. His wife, the most giving loving person he’d known
had given herself freely to that son-of-a-bitch! That little detail had been
left off the table. How many times? No, he didn’t need to know. “Why? Why would
you do that when you barely knew him? ”

“My husband died, I had a small child who asked every day when her
father was coming back. Mackenzie made me forget all that.”

“Do you ever think about him?”

Lillian’s blue eyes narrowed. “Is that what this bet is about? You
think I still want him. Will this silly competition between you two ever stop?
I. am. with. you! You have obtained a small fortune, but it’s never enough, I’m
not enough.” she stood, palms splayed on the table top as she leaned in, her
face only inches from his, her expression grim, full of hurt and pain. “If
you’ll remember correctly, I ended it with him long before you ever came along.
If I had known he was your friend and soon to be business partner, I would have
never accepted your invitation to dinner, and we wouldn’t be having this
conversation.”

“Why did you… end it?”

“Because, I didn’t like his lack of integrity,” she hissed.

Integrity, the word jarred him like a blow to the jaw. “Obviously,
you’ve given Mackenzie some thought.”

“Yes. In the last few days, I’ve given him a considerable amount
of thought… thanks to you. ”

Day Six

The smell of bacon tempted the eleven year old out of his bed.
Clumps of dark hair rose wild on his head as he made his way to his walk-in
closet, pulled on black gym shorts over his boxers, and tugged a white cotton
T-shirt over his head. Sunlight filled his room with warmth as he tiptoed
barefoot over polished cherry hardwood floors, and cracked open his bedroom
door, just a fraction, ever so gently, prepared to snap it shut if he needed
to.

The bacon odor assaulted him full force. How long had it been
since he’d eaten anything? His brows came together in thought. A day? No, he’d
had cold cereal in his room last night, he’d almost forgotten.

With cautious brown eyes he peered out into the long hallway,
listened hard for the sound of his father’s bed creaking, moans or giggles of
any kind to alarm him it wasn’t safe yet to venture out of his room.

Nothing. All the boy heard was the pop and sizzle of bacon and
pans clanging.

His mother used to cook breakfast, every morning. Pancakes heaped
and dripping with sticky syrup. Omelets with cheddar cheese and ham. Cinnamon
toast. Maybe
she
was back! He felt a sudden jolt of overwhelming
happiness that made him want to sprint into the kitchen, wrap his arms around
her, and beg her to take him with her next time. Hope quickly dissipated. No.
His father said she was never coming back, and he believed him. Why would she?
He’d seen how she had been treated: the violent fights, his father’s endless
drinking, and his father’s taste for more than one woman at a time. He knew
these things, because he had caught his mother crying more often than he cared
to remember. “You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s your father,” she would murmur
with a weak smile.

If that was truly the case, then why hadn’t she taken him with
her? One of the many questions he’d like to ask her—if he ever saw her again,
which his father had assured him, he would not.

Again the boy inhaled the bacon adding the familiar odor to all
the memories he stored away in an imaginary box where no one could turn them to
shit. The boy licked his full lips as his stomach growled pushing him further
out into the hallway, to the corner where the kitchen could be seen from a safe
distance.

The woman was thin with beautiful, long hair as richly colored as
all the mahogany furniture in their home. She was dressed in one of his
father’s white buttoned down dress shirts, collar flipped up, sleeves rolled,
and she was wearing a pair of white panties, nothing more. Her hips dipped and
swayed in front of their stainless steel stove as she hummed the saddest song
he’d ever heard: a spatula in one hand, a glass of red wine in the other.

The woman turned her gaze on the hallway and froze mid swing. The
intense blush that came to her cheeks caused his heart to leap into action,
blood pumped fast through his veins. It was the same puzzled look he always saw
when one of his father’s guests caught him lurking about. Surprise and
confusion. This one’s reaction was immediate as she darted behind the bar to
cover her naked bottom half. “I’m sorry, I thought I was the only one here.”

The boy was his philandering father’s best kept secret.

“It’s okay… I’m used to it,” he said his gaze sweeping the great
room and all the mess left over from the party the night before: wine glasses
with red lipstick stains, glass ashtrays with cigars snubbed out in them, the
smell of puke and sex competing with the cooking food. Sleepily, he went over
and started to gather empty liquor bottles from the glass coffee table.

“How sad,” she muttered, and he knew this one was different. He
shrugged a shoulder and the color in her cheeks flared again, “Were you here
all night?”

“Yes.”

“In your room?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?

“Yes.”

“I’m going to go get dressed. Why don’t you save the cleaning up
for later and I’ll help you. Have a seat and we’ll have breakfast when I get
back,” the woman said pointing at the dining room table in the adjacent room.

He eyed the stack of pancakes and bacon strips waiting on the
counter. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she returned with a smile looking him over once more
before scurrying out of the room.

This was a first, having breakfast with one of his father’s
mistress’s. That thought caused him to suddenly feel sorry for the woman. He
liked this one, and knew it was only a matter of time, before she, like all the
others, was gone.

The woman came back wearing an emerald green flowing sundress that
touched her ankles. She smoothed it over her bottom and sat in the dining room
chair across from him. “I see you’ve already put out plates and forks, brought
the food in, and remembered the syrup. You’re very efficient for someone so
young.”

“You cooked. It was only right I set the table.”

The pancakes were amazing. Fluffy. Sweet. Just like his mother
used to make them. The bacon was a little too burnt for his taste, but he
didn’t complain licking the grease from his fingertips. He felt the woman
watching him and paused in between bites to ease her conscience. “You feel
guilty….don’t.”

One of her perfectly shaped brows shot up. “I shouldn’t feel
guilty about a young boy catching me in his father’s kitchen in my underwear?”

He absently took a sip of his milk. “No. I’ve seen worse… believe
me, you in your underwear wasn’t that bad.”

She laughed the sound bringing back memories of his mother. “You
are awful mature for your age,” she glanced up at him through long lashes,
“probably more mature than your father.”

He smiled. Oh yes, he liked this one. She was funny.

“Your disposition reminds me of my daughters though… so grown up
and tough, believing you don’t need anybody.”

“You have a daughter?” that explained a lot: her mothering nature,
her concern…. “How old is she?”

“A few years younger than you I believe,” she said taking a bite
of her pancake. Her brows pulled together with concern again. “I really didn’t
know you were here… I would have never stayed the night if I had.”

“I know. Where is your daughter?”