The Saint's Wife (11 page)

“Hey, easy.” David appeared beside her, a gentle arm around her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m a terrible person.”

“What? Why?” He pulled her closer. “Joanna, you’re not a terrible person.”

“For God’s sake.” She drew back enough to meet his eyes. “The first thing I thought when the doctor said they could extend his life by a year or two was ‘Oh God, I can’t take another year or two.’” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands again. “I don’t want him to die, David, but I…I want this to be over. I can’t keep being his wife. But I can’t leave either. I’m a terrible—”

“No, you’re not.” He touched her shoulder. “You’re exhausted. Anyone would be in your position.”

“It’s more than that. I was exhausted before he was diagnosed the first time.” She wiped her eyes shakily and looked in his. “No one ever tells you how to lose someone you don’t want to be with.”

David blinked, and she cringed, expecting him to put her in her place. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder and softly said, “How do you handle the death of someone you were planning to divorce?”

“Yeah.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can’t speak ill of the dead, you can’t speak ill of the dying, but to hell with the living who can’t seem to catch a goddamned break.”

He said nothing. He just gestured for her to get up, and when she did, wrapped his arms around her and let her lean on him. And, God, she hadn’t realized how much she’d needed exactly that—just a shoulder. A set of comforting arms, a shoulder that wasn’t cold and someone who’d let her let it out. The fact that it was David offering her what she needed should have blown her mind, but she was too grateful for it right then to care about their rocky past. And lately, he’d been so good to her, so to hell with the past.

“I should’ve left when he wasn’t sick.”

“But where would you have gone?” He pulled back to meet her gaze. “You were smart to stay and get your ducks in a row so you could support yourself.”

“And look where that got me.” She sank back into the chair, stealing a glance at the tequila bottle, but resisting the urge to grab it. “I just don’t know what to do now. Like it or not, I’m in for the long haul. And I’m…”

“Exhausted.”

She nodded, avoiding David’s eyes. “Under any other circumstances, my two choices would be to sort things out with him or leave. And quite frankly, I can’t ask Chris to spare the energy for either of those things. He can’t cope with any more stress. He shouldn’t have to.” She sighed, rubbing her hand over her face. “All I can do now is sit back, smile and pretend our marriage is okay.”

He blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine it’s an easy position to be in.”

“It isn’t. And before you or anyone else suggest it, I don’t want his money. I don’t want this house or all the pretty shit or the parties. All I want is to feel like someone loves me as something other than a goddamned decoration.” She snatched the bottle and took another deep swig, grimacing when it burned its way down. “You know, maybe someone who holds my hand in public because he wants to, not because he wants people to know he
owns
me.”

“I know. He’s…not been the best husband.”

She laughed bitterly. “To say the least.” Her shoulders sank, and she stared at the bottle for a moment. Then she shoved it aside. “Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t been the best wife. I’ve…I’ve definitely contributed to this.” She met David’s eyes. “I don’t give up on marriage easily. I tried. I really did. I tried to fix it, roll with it, make it work, pretend it
was
working…”

“You did. Why he couldn’t see that…I don’t know.”

“And anyone I talk to is just going to tell me to suck it up and stick it out. But…Jesus, David.” She swiped at her eyes and sniffed. “I just can’t anymore. I have nothing left. But don’t you dare try to tell me I’m not being fair to him or I don’t care about him. If I didn’t, I’d be long gone and the divorce papers would be delivered right to his bed.”

“You’re not being unfair.” David touched her shoulder. “You’re allowed to be unhappy, you know.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes again. “I just want someone, somewhere to admit the cancer didn’t turn my husband into a fucking saint. He walked all over everyone—you, me, employees, everyone—and drove all of us crazy, but now…” She gripped the tequila bottle in a chokehold. “You know, maybe I could cope with all this if I didn’t know that the minute we lay him in the ground, I won’t be allowed to acknowledge a single emotion I’ve had for the last fifteen years. I won’t ever be able to resent him for anything.” Bringing the bottle up to her lips, she snarled, “Not even for knocking up his fucking PA.”

“Wait, what?”

“He was fucking her right in our bed, for God’s sake! As if I wouldn’t catch on and—”

“
Joanna
.” Something in his voice made her stop. Deep crevices formed between his eyebrows. “What did you just say?”

“I said he was fucking his—” Joanna froze. She lowered the bottle and clapped her other hand over her mouth, staring at him with wide eyes. “Oh God.”

David’s eyes were huge, his expression teetering between shock and barely contained rage. “Only one of Chris’s assistants has ever been pregnant that I know about.”

“I am so sorry,” she murmured, her hand muffling her voice. “David, I’m—”

“Jesus Christ.” He threw up his hands. “For fuck’s sake, Joanna. It’s bad enough you’re throwing all these accusations around about Chris.” He stabbed a finger at her. “You leave my daughter out of this.”

She lowered her hand but not her gaze. “David, I’m sorry. I didn’t…” She swallowed, breaking eye contact. “I didn’t mean to let that slip.”

“Let it slip?” He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “You’re fucking delusional. I don’t know what you think you saw, but for all the problems we had, Alexandra was
not
a cheater. And that little girl is
my daughter
.”

“David, I—”

“I was actually starting to feel bad for you, but you really are nothing more than a vindictive, spoiled bitch.”

“David, just listen to—”

But he was gone, and he slammed the door so hard, the whole workroom shook.

“Oh God.” Joanna slumped back against the chair, staring at the closed door. This was why she drank alone—less opportunity to say something stupid. Something that might hurt somebody. Chris didn’t even know Joanna knew about the affair with Alexandra. And she’d sworn she’d never let it out. Not to Chris. Definitely not to David. Because there was a child involved, and she didn’t deserve to get hurt. And neither did David. Not even when Joanna had still thought he was an asshole.

But a few too many drinks, a desperately needed chance to vent, and…

Shit. What did I just do?

Chapter Thirteen

There is no way in hell this kid isn’t mine.

Tiffany was curled against David’s side on her bed, a stuffed tiger tucked under her arm while he read her fifth bedtime story for the evening. After a playdate this morning, an afternoon at the movie theater and her first-ever trip to a video arcade, she should have been wiped out and sound asleep, but every time he finished a book, she wanted another one. And, well, there were worse ways to be an indulgent parent than reading a few extra stories to her. Especially since she was starting to pick up the words on her own. It wouldn’t be long before she could read them herself, and she’d probably be like he was as a kid—staying up late, reading under the covers with a flashlight.

Yep, she’s definitely my kid.

How else could he explain the fact that a long, busy day like today hadn’t knocked her out? Or that she was already obsessed with books? Like insomniac bookworm father, like insomniac bookworm daughter.

Joanna had been drunk. God knew what other bullshit she would have been spewing if she’d had a few more shots before David had walked in. Even if Alexandra had been unfaithful—and David couldn’t believe she was—there was no way in hell this kid
wasn’t
his.

After the seventh story, Tiffany’s eyes were finally starting to get heavy.

“One more?” she asked sleepily, right before she yawned.

“I think it’s time for you to go to sleep.” He carefully freed himself and got up. “Especially if you want to go biking tomorrow.”

“But I’m…” Another yawn. “Not tired.”

“You may not be, but your old dad’s gotta drive tomorrow.” He made himself yawn and made it as dramatic as possible, which brought a giggle out of her. “I need to get some sleep, and so do you.”

“Okay.” Insomniac or not, she had never made a big fuss about bedtime. Though for all he knew, she already had a flashlight and some chapter books under her pillow, and was just waiting for him to go away so she could read them.

The thought made him chuckle as he tucked her in.

“Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead, then turned off the light, checked to make sure her nightlight was on and stepped out.

Though it was still relatively early, he was exhausted. It wasn’t just the long, high-energy day with his daughter. He and Chris had been balls-to-the-wall working through proposals for next year’s product release, not to mention the slow, steady process of shifting Chris’s responsibilities to David. And, of course, he hadn’t slept for shit the last few nights since his conversation with Joanna.

So he turned in early, leaving both bedroom doors ajar. Sometimes Tiffany slept through the night, sometimes she didn’t. Either way, he made damn sure he’d hear if there was anything wrong in the bedroom across the hall.

David awoke from a dead sleep and was already on his feet and halfway to the door before he was consciously aware of Tiffany crying in the other room.

At her door, he paused for two seconds to collect himself—if she’d had a nightmare or something, she didn’t need to see him freaked out and think there really was something to be scared of.

Calm and composed on the outside, he stepped into her room and found her sitting up in bed, the nightlight illuminating her face as she reached for him.

“Daddy…”

“Hey, hey.” He sat on the bed beside her, wrapped his arms around her and rocked her gently. “Easy, baby. Daddy’s right here.”

She buried her face against his shoulder, still sobbing softly.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

She nodded without lifting her head.

He stroked her hair and reassured her that everything was okay, that he was there, and slowly, the sobs quieted.

“Do you want me to stay for a bit?” he asked.

Tiffany looked up at him and nodded.

He wiped the tears off her cheeks, then gently tucked her back in and sat on the edge of the bed. Before long at all, she was out cold, curls falling over her forehead and her thumb in her mouth. He and Alexandra were trying to break her of the thumb-sucking habit, but he wasn’t going to deny her any kind of comfort right now. If that was what she needed to sleep, so be it.

He smiled down at her. She was already getting to the stage where she could, once she’d gotten over the initial scare, calm down and realize that the dream was over and the world was back to the way it should be. Another few months, maybe a year, and she’d probably be able to put herself back to sleep, but for now, he was happy to comfort her until she wasn’t scared anymore.

He stroked her hair, just gazing at her sleeping face. And he couldn’t help himself. He searched her features, looking for something to betray her genetics, but that was pointless. Everyone had joked from day one that she was the spitting image of her mother, without even the slightest nod to her father. And that was still true—she had Alexandra’s brown eyes, not to mention the dark curls that Alexandra painstakingly straightened on herself but left full and bouncing on Tiffany.

An uncomfortable feeling wrapped itself around the base of his spine. As he watched Tiffany sleep, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to what Joanna had said. Anger burned in the back of his throat—she could be angry at her husband all she wanted, but bringing Tiffany into this? What the hell?

But,
a quiet voice in the back of his mind interjected,
what if she is right?

Except Tiffany was so much like him. The book obsession. The insomnia. The absolute refusal to eat cucumbers.

None of those were necessarily genetic, though. She might’ve seen him wrinkle his nose at the prospect of eating cucumbers. And had he screwed up her sleep patterns when she was an infant by continuing to walk the hall or—more often than not—read his book even after she’d gone back to sleep in the middle of the night?

For that matter, Alexandra wasn’t a great sleeper. And she loved books. They had, after all, met at the bookstore where they’d both worked in college.

David swallowed hard, watching Tiffany in the dim light. Was it possible that Joanna was right? That Alexandra had cheated on him, and his little girl…wasn’t?

He winced. No. She hadn’t cheated. Had she?

They’d both contributed to their marriage falling apart. David worked too much. Alexandra worked too much. He’d spent too much time at the office. She’d spent too much time with…

His stomach dropped.

She’d been Chris’s personal assistant. The very nature of her job meant they’d been inseparable. When he was at the office, she was at the office. When he traveled, she traveled. She didn’t just know his schedule, she’d
made
his schedule. And lived it. With him. Constantly.

But David had never suspected her of having an affair. Least of all with Chris.

And hadn’t Chris avoided discussing or acknowledging Alexandra’s pregnancy? Or Tiffany’s arrival? Never mind the obviously frosty air between Chris and Joanna. David had been puzzled by it but hadn’t had a spare moment to really think about it and piece it all together.

Of course, Alexandra had explained it away as Chris and Joanna being preoccupied with Joanna’s stay in the psychiatric hospital, not to mention their own bitterness toward each other about their inability to start a family.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Neither Chris nor Alexandra had ever fully explained why she’d abruptly resigned two months before Tiffany was born. They’d always gotten along well—too well?—and she could put up with his demands like no one else. Then suddenly things had gone sour. She’d claimed that the travel and stress were too much to deal with on top of being pregnant, and that Chris was a lot less bearable when the hormones kicked in. Chris had always stayed mum, ostensibly out of respect for David. Even after the divorce, Chris had never said anything nasty about Alexandra as a person or a professional.

The knot grew. They’d been having an affair right under his nose, hadn’t they? And the pregnancy… That had soured things, hadn’t it? He did recall the air growing colder between his wife and best friend just days after he himself had found out she was pregnant. Knowing what he did about Chris, David had just assumed that Chris was pissed off that his personal assistant wouldn’t be at his beck and call the way she had been for the last few years. It hadn’t even dawned on him that there’d been more to the story.

He gazed down at Tiffany and brushed a few curls off her face. She stirred a little but didn’t wake up.

Watching her now, studying the shape of her face, the color of her hair, he couldn’t begin to tell if she was his biological daughter or not. Without a DNA test or confirmation from Alexandra—or Chris—there was simply no way to know.

On one hand, he wanted to know. Now. He wanted confessions and apologies and explanations. When had it started? When did Alexandra know who’d fathered the baby? How long did she think she could keep it from David before he knew he was raising someone else’s child? How much did Chris know?

He was tempted to pick up the phone and call…one of them. Alexandra. Chris.

No, not Chris. Whether he’d been fucking David’s wife or not, the man’s health was fragile now. He needed all the—

David’s blood turned cold.

He stared down at Tiffany and gulped. Hadn’t there been talk of Chris having a genetic predisposition to this particular type of cancer?

He gently rested his hand on Tiffany’s tiny arm. Was she carrying a gene that would put her at risk of the same thing? He’d joked with friends that she wouldn’t even be allowed to date until she was forty. Chris was thirty-nine, and he was dying, and if he was Tiffany’s father…

A million emotions surged through David. He wanted to pretend Joanna’s comment was just a throwaway remark made out of drunken anger, but if there was even the slightest possibility that it was true, and that Tiffany carried the same gene that might be killing Chris, then there was no avoiding a DNA test.

But…what if he did find out the truth? Then what? Because no matter what, this was his little girl. He’d been there the day she was born, carried her up and down the hall at all hours of the night, changed her diapers, been there when she’d said her first words and taken her first steps. He was the one who’d sat with her in the saddle the first time she’d ridden a horse, because even as a toddler she wasn’t satisfied with a pony. He’d gotten her hooked on
Star Wars
before she could crawl, and taught her to sing “Highway to Hell” at the top of her lungs in the car before she’d started preschool. Just today, he’d introduced her to video arcades and probably created a lifelong gamer out of her. Even with the demands of the company he ran with that son of a bitch, he’d made damn sure he didn’t miss out on Tiffany’s childhood. No amount of tests, confessions and documents could change any of that.

He’d confront Alexandra, and if she admitted that Tiffany was Chris’s daughter, then at least they’d know. She could be tested for the gene that caused Chris’s cancer, if such a test could be done.

But nothing would change. Nothing.

As she slept peacefully, sucking her thumb and gripping the pillow, he vowed that no matter who her father actually was, he would always be Tiffany’s dad. He still wanted to know the truth. Her mother owed him that much, if Joanna’s accusation was true.

But
nothing
would change how much he loved Tiffany.

The next morning, David’s stomach was in knots as he let Alexandra in.

Alexandra fussed with her purse strap. “Is she ready to go?”

He put his fingers to his lips and whispered, “She fell asleep watching cartoons. I was going to wake her up, but she had kind of a rough night last night.”

His ex-wife straightened, her eyes widening. “Rough? How so?”

“She had a couple of bad dreams.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. She’s good. Just a little tired.”

Alexandra pursed her lips. “Poor kid.”

They headed into the living room, where Tiffany was curled up on the couch. Side by side, they watched her sleep for a moment.

“Well,” Alexandra said. “I guess I should wake—”

“Wait.”

She turned to him. “What?”

Heart thumping, David said, “Alex, we need to talk.”

Impatience and annoyance twisted the corner of her mouth. “Traffic’s already starting to get heavy.”

“Please. It won’t take long.”

She scowled but then sighed. “Okay. Fine. But we need to keep it short.”

“I know.”

They both glanced at Tiffany. The little girl was still snoozing soundly on the couch, so they stepped out onto the patio where they could see her, but she couldn’t hear them.

Alexandra closed the sliding glass door. They faced each other, each stealing a glance at Tiffany before making eye contact. “What’s this about?”

A sick feeling of dread grew in the pit of David’s stomach. “There’s something I need to know. I need you to answer me honestly.”

She shifted impatiently, probably biting back an
all right, all right, just get on with it
. “Okay?”

He swallowed. “And whatever the answer, it won’t change anything. Not with…” He nodded toward their little girl. “I promise.”

Alexandra tensed. “What in the world are you talking about?”

He struggled to form the words: “Am I Tiffany’s biological father?”

“What?” She threw up her hands. “My God, David. What the hell kind of question is that?”

“One I need an answer to.”

“What do you think I am? Some kind of—”

“Am I her father or not?” he snapped. “Because if I’m not, then I deserve to know.”

She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “And what makes you think you aren’t her father?”

“A little bird suggested it.”

Alexandra’s eyebrows jumped, and her arms loosened slightly. “Oh really? And they… What exactly did that little bird say?”

He held her gaze and then shook his head. “None of it matters. Honestly, I don’t want to know who, or why, or…” He showed his palms. “All I want to know is how this concerns Tiffany and me.” He glanced at the little girl’s sleeping form, then faced his ex-wife. “I will
always
be her dad. Nothing can change that.” He pulled in a deep breath. “But if I’m not her father…”