Their Wicked Wedding (6 page)

“Oh, I’m sure Calder will emerge whenever he’s done,” I say with a snort. “I just hope it’s before the wedding.” The petty words slip out before I can stop them, and Lou raises her eyebrows in surprise at my tone.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m just… stressed about the wedding. And I wish he didn’t have to work so hard this week.”

She gives a nod but doesn’t say anything. Her hands smooth over the dress one more time.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I know he’s your brother, and—”

“There’s something else going on between you two,” she says without looking at me.

There’s no point in denying it, though I’m not sure how much I should involve his sister in this. Still, I’m desperate to talk to someone.

“Something’s going on with him,” I say carefully. “I just have the feeling he’s hiding something from me.”

“Hiding something? Like what?”

“I don’t know. And honestly it doesn’t even matter
what
he’s hiding. We’re getting married in less than a week. We’re not supposed to be keeping secrets from each other.”

Lou seems to ponder this.

“Maybe it’s a surprise for you,” she says finally, smiling at me. “A wedding surprise.”

Honestly, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. But when I think back on his odd behavior last night, and then again this morning… it’s not possible. I know him. I saw the look in his eyes.

“No,” I say. “Something is wrong. I
know
it is.”

Lou is silent again. I lift the box with my veil up to the shelf above the dress. My hands tremble slightly, but I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m upset about Calder or because handling the dress and the veil—these symbols of the promise I’m about to make—suddenly make me so
nervous.
I feel a little like I’m going to be sick as I pull my hands back.

When I look over at Lou again, her hands are on her belly and she seems to be lost in thought.

“I know I’m not exactly an expert on my brother,” she says after a moment, “but the one thing I do know is that he’s never been good about expressing his feelings. You guys are about to get married. I don’t care how long you’ve been living together—that’s a huge step. And people deal with that stress in different ways.”

I nod.

“He loves you,” she continues. “That’s friggin’ obvious. And that’s the thing that matters, right?”

“I know. He’s just… frustrating sometimes.”

She laughs. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

And something about her smile—that acknowledgment of a shared joke between us—makes me laugh, too. Here’s someone else who understands how difficult Calder can be—and who loves him just the same.

I really am gaining a whole new family, aren’t I?

“I’m sure he’ll come to his senses,” I say. “I just wish he’d be quick about it.” I don’t want to spend this whole week worrying about him. We should be enjoying ourselves and celebrating all the wonderful new changes in our lives.

“So,” I say teasingly, eager to change the subject to happier things. “Speaking of weddings, will there be any others in the near future?”

I only ask her so bluntly because of a couple of comments she’s made to me recently, and I know I’ve hit on something when her cheeks redden slightly.

“We’ve talked about it,” she says, though she won’t look at me. “Nothing formal. Just talking.”

I smile. “And?”

“And I think if it were up to Ward, we’d be married already.” She gives a small laugh. “He’s gone all ‘traditional’ on me. Thinks since we’re having a baby together we should make it official.”

“And you?”

She rubs her belly absently. “I don’t want to get married just because I’m pregnant. Not that I think that’s his only reason. Or mine. I mean, I want to marry him. I really do. I just…” She shrugs. “Everything has moved so fast with me and Ward. I don’t regret any of it. But I also don’t want to feel like we’re rushing through this relationship. I want to slow down. Enjoy each other. There’s plenty of time to get married. Right now, I’m just happy being with him.”

And it’s clear, from the look in her eyes, that she
is
happy—if her actions around Ward these past couple of days weren’t proof enough.

“Ah, geez,” she says, wiping her eye. “I can’t talk about anything without getting all teary. Friggin’ hormones. Between them and the cravings, I feel like a complete psycho.”

“You’re not a psycho,” I assure her. “And anyway, I’m having a few cravings myself. How about a snack before dinner?”

I hook my arm through hers and together we head out the door. I throw a glance down the hall toward Calder’s room, but the door is closed.

People handle stress in different ways
, I remind myself. Lou was right—Calder has never been particularly good about expressing himself. I just need to be patient.

Even if it kills me.

CHAPTER SIX

CALDER

I wasn’t lying when I said I had work to do. But though I initially locked myself in my room with every intention of losing myself in my accounts, I should have known it would be a lost cause. No matter what I do, I can’t get this whole Taran Harker business out of my mind.

I tell myself that I’ll have more information in a couple of days, once Joe Osborne has had the time to do his research. But I’m not sure I can wait that long. And I’m not content to just sit around doing nothing.

Which is why, not half an hour after Lily and Louisa leave to get the dress, I borrow my sister’s car and take off on my own errand. I’m now at the public storage locker where I left boxes and boxes of my father’s effects in the months directly following his death—those things I couldn’t sell and didn’t want to deal with. I spent months going through his financial statements after he died, but I largely ignored his other papers and keepsakes. I didn’t want to dive too deeply into his memories. Now I wonder if there’s something among these boxes—a letter, a photograph, or even a journal—that might shed some light on Mr. Harker’s claims.

Which I still believe are completely false, of course.

It will take me hours to go through all of these boxes. There are a few dozen of them, and I’m not even sure where to begin. I never bothered to organize them in any particular way before leaving them here. I merely filled them and secured them and locked them away, as if hiding my father’s mementos would make it easier to forget him and get on with my life. That means it’s no small task to look through these boxes now; I have no idea what I’ll find when I peel back the tape.

A beep in my pocket signals an incoming text. I tug out my cell. The message is from Louisa:
Dinner at 6 sharp! I’m making frutti di mare tonight!

I smile, but honestly, food is the last thing on my mind. And having my phone out reminds me that I still haven’t listened to the message from yesterday. I’m tempted to just delete it, but that feels cowardly. I don’t even know it’s from him.

My thumb presses the voicemail button before I can change my mind.

Hello, Mr. Cunningham?
comes a familiar voice.
My name is Taran Harker. I know you probably don’t know who I am, but I’m calling to see if I can meet with you. I have some information about your family I think you might like to know.
There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is a little shakier, a little more uncertain.
I know you have no reason to believe me, but this is important. I’d really like to meet with you. This isn’t something that should be discussed over the phone. My number is 555-2395. I can meet with you anytime. Again, this is Taran Harker.

I frown at the sound of the click. I can no longer delude myself into believing that it was a solicitor trying to call me these past few days. Obviously Mr. Harker was eager enough to speak with me that he decided to show up at my office when he didn’t get an immediate answer to his message.

I don’t even want to think about how he got my number, or how he found out where I worked—I suppose either of those things was easy enough to discover if he was determined and had access to the internet. What troubles me more is how anxious he sounded in the message—like he was genuinely nervous to speak with me. But I’m sure that’s all part of the act. He’s probably just a skilled actor.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and kneel down next to the first box. I can analyze that message for hours and not get any closer to the truth. But one of these boxes might hold my answers, and I need to get to work.

The first box is a random assortment of newspapers, playbills, and old magazines. I pull the magazines out first, just to get them out of the way. They’re mostly related to my father’s many collections—publications about art and antiques, or catalogs from auction houses. I leave them in a stack to the side.

The playbills come next. My father loved theater, and he took regular trips to New York and London to catch the latest productions on stage. There are also programs from various international operas, orchestras, and ballets. I glance briefly at the dates and cities, looking for anything from the dates in question, but even if I stumble across something that fit those categories—which I don’t—I’m not sure it will prove anything. Just because he went to a play doesn’t mean he took another woman there. Or that he was sleeping with that woman behind my mother’s back.

That leaves the newspapers. Most of them are from days of historical importance—my father knew the value of keeping such things—but my father also kept papers from days that were important in
his
life. I find a paper from the day I was born. And behind it, one from Louisa’s birthday. There’s one from the day my mother died. One from the day they were married.

But there are also several whose significance I can’t determine. There’s nothing in the headlines to indicate that anything important happened historically, but I also don’t recognize the dates as particularly special.

There’s one, though, that falls within the timeline Mr. Harker suggested to me. I draw my phone back out of my pocket and pull up the internet. A quick search brings me no closer to finding the meaning of the date.

I frown. And then I try a new search, this time with “Taran Harker” added to the end.

Again, nothing.

I try searching Taran Harker’s name on its own. This gets a few hits, but nothing substantial. A couple of references to his job—he seems to be in insurance sales—and a social media account. I click through to his profile, but the privacy settings keep me from learning anything of value. He doesn’t even have a picture. How the hell am I supposed to learn anything about this guy?

I shove the phone back in my pocket.

The next two boxes are even less helpful. Old yearbooks from his days at prep school. Awards of recognition from organizations he supported over the years. Business cards from art dealers and other former contacts. Nothing about any illegitimate children or wild affairs in London.

The next box, however, holds photo albums.

I remember packing these up. I didn’t even want to look at them at the time. Now, almost two years later, I can admit I was afraid. Photographs are a funny thing. They’re but an imitation of life; not even a tenth of the full story. And yet there’s a power to them, a
presence
that’s overwhelming to someone determined to forget.

I pull the top album out of the box and open it. We had an official family photographer that covered all major events—birthday celebrations, banquets, holiday functions, plus a full set of family portraits each year—but my father also fancied himself something of a photographer. He purchased the finest camera he could find and tried to capture us when we least expected it—playing in the garden, or working on our studies, or sitting on the beach during one of our summer excursions to Hvar in Croatia.

That’s what this album holds—snapshots of our childhood through my father’s lens. There’s one of Louisa, no more than five, her pale blue dress covered in mud. There’s me, maybe nine, with my horse Rudolph. There’s one of Martin in the kitchen, his eyes alight with exasperated humor as he ignores the camera lens in favor of the food he’s attempting to prepare.

My chest tightens slightly. But I didn’t come here to lose myself in memories. I put that album aside and pull out another.

I don’t know what I expect to find. It’s not like a man committing adultery would keep photographic proof of the affair in his family albums. But I can’t seem to stop flipping through them. One day, Lily and I will have our own albums. Maybe even our own children. That thought terrifies me more than I want to admit, and at the same time, a sense of pride fills me. She and I are starting a family, continuing the story found in these books of photographs.

I look down at the page in front of me. I’ve found my parents’ wedding photos. They look so happy—positively enthralled with each other. No one could see these photos and doubt that they were deeply in love. It’s the same way I feel about Lily, the sort of love I never expected I’d be lucky enough to find. No one who knows that kind of love would stray. It’s impossible. Taran Harker is a liar.

I can’t stand to look at the albums anymore. I return them to their box and move on. It’s not until three boxes later that I discover one more photograph, and it’s entirely an accident. I’m pulling some leather-bound notebooks out of their cardboard prison when something flutters from between the pages of one and lands next to my knees. A picture.

I pick it up and flip it over. It’s a picture of a baby, but not any that I recognize. Certainly not me or Louisa.

The back of the photograph reveals no details—no name, no date. I stare down at the baby again, involuntarily looking for some resemblance to my father. Or to me.

The child’s eyes are dark blue. Apparently blue eyes are common in infants, so that doesn’t tell me much. There’s a scattering of dark hair on the child’s head, but that doesn’t reveal anything either. There’s nothing to indicate whether the baby is a boy or a girl. But judging by the quality of the photograph, this image is some twenty or thirty years old.
That
is a clue, if nothing else.

This can’t be Taran Harker, can it? But if it isn’t, then who is this child? How did my father get this photograph, and why did he keep it?

I grab the notebook from which it fell and flip open the soft leather cover. Inside, I find the neat scrawl of my father’s handwriting.

The notebooks at the top of this box were full of scribbles and lists—my father’s notes on his various projects, addresses he wished to remember, thoughts about galleries he’d visited or investment opportunities he was researching. This notebook is different. In fact, it looks like a journal.

June 23rd. Munich.

Today I decided to wander down to the market and…

I flip forward through the notebook.
It’s not just a journal
, I realize quickly.
It’s a travelogue.
My father was recording stories and thoughts from his travels.

I skim through the pages, looking for any reference to London, or to the year in question.

And twenty pages from the end, there it is.
London
. The first couple of pages talk at length about the museums, the food, the galleries. There’s no mention of any women. Until I get to this entry:

Aug. 18th. London.

Not much of note in the collections today—unless you ask Mick. He’s been sweet-talking one of the buyer’s assistants for two days straight, and today she finally agreed to let him take her to dinner, on the condition that she can bring her friend along. Mick’s been begging me all afternoon to join them and play date to the broad, and though I’ve reminded him I’m married, he’s reminded me that I still owe him for the Nashill portrait. And so it looks like I’ll be accompanying the group to Sully’s tonight.

My cell phone blares, and I nearly drop the journal. I fish the device out of my pocket and clap it to my ear without looking at the screen.

“Hello?” I snap.

“Mr. Cunningham, I’d like to apologize.”

I freeze at the sound of that voice. I can’t believe that bastard has dared to call me again after that stunt in the parking lot.

“Please, Mr. Cunningham, don’t hang up,” Mr. Harker says. “I know I dropped a bit of a bombshell yesterday, but I hope you’ve had time to think about it a little more.”

“What’s there to think about?” I demand, not even bothering to hide my anger. “Your claims are still lies.”

“I know it’s hard to take in, but—”

“I’m not going to listen to any more of your bullshit,” I say. “My father never had an affair.”

“If you’d just listen—”

“I’ve done enough listening. My father has been defamed enough since his death. I won’t have his marriage questioned, too. And I don’t care what ‘proof’ you have—we both know the truth.”

And before he can say another word, I hang up. My eyes fall back down to the journal and my father’s scrawl.

The lady’s friend wasn’t nearly the ogre I expected. Reminded me a bit of that movie star—the one in all the cigarette ads. And she was sweet, too.

I clap the journal shut and hurl it across the room.

This is bullshit. This is all sheer, utter bullshit. I don’t care what Mr. Harker says. And I don’t care how sweet the girl in my father’s journal was. I saw my parents’ wedding pictures. No one can doubt their love.

The photograph of the mysterious child is still by my knees. I grab it, thinking to crumple it up, but at the last minute, I set it aside. Destroying the picture won’t accomplish anything. Far better to pass it along to Joe and see if he can figure out who the child really is. It’ll set my mind to rest.

Mr. Harker’s claims are lies. There’s no reason to upset myself over my father’s things. I just need to be patient, and Joe will prove the truth.

I climb to my feet. I’ve been here too long already. I grab the photo of the baby and then, after only the briefest of hesitations, retrieve the travel journal. I’m not a coward, and anyway, I have no reason to be afraid of these things.