Some Women (24 page)

“I did read an article about his company this morning in our competitor's newspaper,” Mackenzie admitted. “I wasn't going to say anything, but it seemed really positive. Like things were going in the right direction with the deal. I mean, it's public knowledge that he's trying to take over Digitcorp.”

“People believe anything they see in print,” Piper declared.

“I'm a little savvier than most people.” Mackenzie balked.

“No, that's not what I meant.” Piper thought for a moment. “Fern quoted that to me this morning. I can't even remember why. But I distinctly remember her saying it: ‘People are very gullible. They'll believe anything they see in print.' It's from
Charlotte's Web
. She's always spouting little bits of wisdom from her favorite book, but I've learned to tune them out, to some degree.”

“I'm not really following you.” Annabel appeared confused, as did Mackenzie.

“Okay, so hear me out.” Piper cleared her throat. “What if that article is exactly what they want the public to believe?”

“Who's they?” Annabel narrowed her eyes.

“
They
is Digitcorp.” Piper spoke slowly. “They want the public to think everything is going swimmingly, and that includes everyone at Henry's company, with the exception of Henry, who knows otherwise. This way, no red flags will be waved before the deal goes belly-up.”

“Wait—” Annabel tried to interrupt.

“Hold on a minute.” Piper held up her hand as she continued to speculate aloud. “And what if Lillian is actually
not
on Henry's side, but, rather, is manipulating him on behalf of the enemy.”

“That's crazy.” Annabel was clearly dubious.

“Actually, it's not crazy,” Mackenzie countered. “It's not crazy
at all. One of the other things the article said this morning was that—rumor has it—Lillian used to date the CEO of Digitcorp a million years ago.”

“Very interesting.” Piper stood up, walked over to the desk in the kitchen, grabbed her laptop, and sat back down. She typed Lillian's name into the search window, and turned the screen so all of them could see. Then she clicked on the images tab and started flipping through every photo available, to the tune of Annabel's retching sounds. Unfortunately, their preliminary search turned up nothing.

“Look under his name,” Mackenzie suggested. “Brett Myland. He's the CEO of Digitcorp.”

“Good idea.” Piper did as she said.

“Hold on a minute.” Mackenzie pointed at a small snapshot of what appeared to be Brett Myland at his birthday party, flanked by his minority partners. “When was this taken?”

Piper checked the date. “Last week.”

“It's just a group of guys.” Annabel frowned.

“Yeah, but look right over here.” She touched the screen with the tip of her finger, indicating the somewhat blurry silhouette of a woman in the background.

“Zoom in,” Mackenzie ordered, and Piper obliged. “That's no guy, my friend.
That
is Lillian Duffy at Brett Myland's birthday party. Just last week. Obviously, she was trying not to be caught on camera.”

“Holy shit.” Annabel's eyes widened with excitement.

“Holy shit is right.” Piper nodded and then grinned at the two of them meaningfully. “Ladies, I think we're about to blow the lid off a major story.”

At first, Mackenzie had been furious, bitter, and humiliated. Once she'd had some time to adjust to her new reality and the primal rage had subsided, she'd just felt sorry for herself, sinking beneath the surface of the pity pool that had become her life. It was unlike anything she'd experienced before. She'd always been a floater. Someone who rose to the surface. Someone who not only splashed around in the water, but, when she decided to jump out, did it with vehemence. Someone who pulled others out with her so they didn't drown in their own sorrow. Because playing the victim had never been her style. There was too much to look forward to in life. Too many milestones to anticipate. Too many joyous occasions to celebrate. She was a glass-half-full kind of girl. No. She was a glass-
completely
-full kind of girl, because her glass had always runneth over.

Was she being punished for that now? She'd often wondered,
whenever anything good or bad had happened to someone she was close to, whether life events were meant to achieve some sort of universal balance among all mankind. For example, if you'd had an easy childhood, were you doomed to divorce? Or if you were in a happy, secure marriage, would you have trouble conceiving? What if you'd had an easy childhood, were in a happy marriage, and had a brood of four beautiful, healthy kids? What then? Was there a cataclysmic tragedy in your near future? Like the loss of a spouse or—heaven forbid—the death of a child.

Admittedly, there were people who seemed to be eternally unlucky. They were the ones who broke off the shorter end of the wishbone and whose cars got towed when they were parked in a perfectly legal spot with a paid meter. The ones whose homes were flooded every time there was heavy rain. Mackenzie's father had always taught her that most things in life had nothing to do with luck. He'd instilled in her the idea of the self-fulfilling prophecy, and had explained more times than she could count on both hands that you forged your own path, designed your own destiny. That everything happened for a reason. And that reason was not due to some divine intervention. Rather, it was a result of the way you conducted yourself and the choices you made. In essence, it was an extension of the golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Only his philosophy went beyond that to suggest that everything you did, every decision you reached, and every action you took was the first in a domino effect that could impact not only your fate, but also the fates of everyone around you.

For her part, Mackenzie hadn't subscribed to his theory entirely. She'd maintained the belief that sometimes awful things happened without anyone being to blame. Although now, the more she thought
about it, he may have been on to something. Perhaps she could have been a more attentive wife. Perhaps they could have talked more, really opened up to each other. Often it felt like she and Trevor were a married couple, yet neither of them actually knew who the other one really was or even what they each did all day, despite working for the same company. They were like two planets orbiting each other. Two planets who attended events together, occasionally had dinner together, and slept in the same bed at night. But if you asked either of them what the other one's hopes and dreams were, what their favorite color was, or something seemingly insignificant like what they'd had for lunch the day before, neither of them would have a clue. Maybe that should have been a sign that their relationship wouldn't last. Mackenzie knew firsthand that it worked for a lot of couples, as it always had for them. Or so she'd thought.

She'd lived through one near divorce already with Annabel. She'd seen how profoundly it had hurt her, how stung she'd been. Whether Annabel admitted it or not, Mackenzie suspected her friend still hadn't truly come to terms with the idea of living her life without Henry. As livid as Mackenzie had originally been, the more time that had elapsed—the more time she'd had to acutely analyze her situation, to peel back the layers of the onion until she'd reached the root—the more she realized that she may never have actually been in love with Trevor. She loved him, of course. Until now, he'd never done even the smallest thing to injure her. He'd always been kind and generous. He'd been the husband she'd expected him to be. He hadn't failed her in that way. But he'd never been a true partner. Someone she could wake up in the middle of the night to convey a random thought to or even to discuss a problem that was nagging her. And it wasn't because he was insensitive;
it was because that simply wasn't the manner in which they interacted.

For those reasons and so many others, she'd finally texted Trevor and said she was willing to talk. He'd suggested they do it in the privacy of their own home. She'd replied that the office would be fine, behind closed doors of course.
Her
closed doors. Mackenzie wanted to be in a public place so that emotions wouldn't run high, but not too public of a place where strangers would be trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. Trevor had relented—she hadn't given him much choice—and now, sitting behind her desk, while her soon-to-be ex-husband fidgeted in the chair across from her, she felt even more resolute in her decision.

“If it's okay with you, I'd like to start.” His eyes were bloodshot, his face unshaven, and his overall appearance unkempt. It seemed as though he'd had a rough go of it since Mackenzie had caught him in the act. Rightfully so.

“Go ahead.” She nodded.

“First of all”—he cleared his throat—“I am so sorry. So, so incredibly sorry.”

“Okay.” Mackenzie couldn't help but roll her eyes. He was going to have to do better than
sorry
.

“I'm sure that falls completely flat.” He looked at her hopefully.

“It does.” Her tone was clipped, and his expression wilted.

“I want you to know that what you saw in Piper's office is all that has ever happened between me and . . .” He paused. Mackenzie could tell he was afraid to say her name. “Lucy,” he whispered. As if it were some sort of secret. As if she hadn't seen Lucy's lips pressed to his.

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“I'm sure you do. But it is the truth. I'm not saying that makes it okay, but it's the truth, for whatever that's worth to you.”

“Okay.” Mackenzie nodded. Her truth was that it didn't actually matter. If anything, she'd come to realize that he'd done her a favor.

“And it will never happen again.”

“Sure it will.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You have my word that it will not.”

“Do you love her?” Mackenzie's expression remained neutral. She wasn't prepared to reveal her cards until he'd revealed his.

“What?” he asked, as if she'd sucker punched him in the stomach.

“Do you love her?”

“I love
you
.”

“That doesn't address my question.” She spoke slowly. “Do. You. Love. Lucy?”

“I don't know.” He dropped his head. He couldn't even look her in the eyes. Which was her answer.

“Yes, you do. And, at this point, I think you owe it to me to be honest.” She exhaled. “One more time. Do you love her?” He nodded without speaking. “When?”

“When what?”

“When did this happen?” Mackenzie wasn't sure why it was important. But suddenly she wanted a sense of the timeline. To understand at what point things had gone wrong. At what point she'd lost him without even knowing it.

“I—I'm not sure,” he stammered.

“Yes, you are. I need to know.” She refused to let him get away with being a coward.

“It was a slow progression, I guess. She helped me out with that project a while back.”

“I forgot about that.” She circled her hand in the air to indicate that he should continue.

“And we got along really well.” He hesitated. “Then she was on my plane home from a business trip to Boston. She grew up outside the city and was coming back from visiting family. Randomly, she'd been upgraded to the seat right next to me in first class. We ended up just talking the whole time. It was so easy. Like nothing I'd ever experienced before. With a woman.”

“The trip to Boston, when I lost the baby?” Her throat felt like it might close up.

“Yes.” His face fell. “That's why I didn't say anything then. Somehow I knew immediately. I had these instant feelings for her and—”

“So this has been going on for months, then.”

“
No
. I mean, yes. But there's been nothing going on. We just . . . talk.”

“You were doing more than talking when I saw you that night on top of Piper's desk.”

“As I said, that was the first time.”

“The first time what?”

“The first time we kissed.”

“And then?”

“And then nothing! I swear to you.”

“I believe you. I think.” She felt sorry for him. He hadn't even been man enough to take her to bed.

“Now what?” Trevor was waiting for her to decide. He knew he was powerless, which in and of itself made him seem that much more pathetic in her eyes.

“Now we go our separate ways. We say good-bye.”

“Good-bye?”

“Yes.” She stood up, walked toward him, and kissed him on the cheek. “You're a good man, Trevor. I wish you'd had the courage to come to me with this. And I hope you have the courage moving forward to find true happiness.”

“Mackenzie . . .” He reached out to touch her, but she recoiled.

“We're not there yet.” She shook her head. “But who knows? Maybe one day we'll be friends.”

“I hope so.” He smiled weakly and took his cue to leave.

Once he'd closed the door behind him, all she felt was a little sadness and a lot of relief.

•   •   •

Mackenzie returned from lunch to find a note on her desk from Angela, CeCe's assistant, saying that CeCe needed to see her urgently and to come by as soon as she returned. When CeCe Mead used the word
urgent
, you listened.

As she approached her mother-in-law's office, Mackenzie could hear her haranguing someone over the phone for whatever offense they were guilty of this time. It was remarkable how much of her day, week, month, and year was devoted to berating, lecturing, and ranting, in no particular order. With any luck, she was taking out all of her frustrations on whomever was on the other end of the line, thereby leaving Mackenzie to face the most pleasant version of CeCe that was realistically possible.

“You can go ahead in,” Angela encouraged, and smiled anxiously. Angela was one of those nervous people who spent her life on guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now in her late fifties, she'd been working for CeCe for nearly three decades, since the
minute she'd taken the helm as CEO of Mead Media in the aftermath of Trevor's father's death. It was hard to imagine that anyone could stay on such a violent emotional roller-coaster ride for that long, but Angela had a stomach of steel. And if she didn't, she certainly did a bang-up job of pretending she did.

“Are you sure? It sounds like she's still on a call.” Mackenzie was more than content to wait until CeCe was finished. It was a well-known fact in the office that she did not appreciate being interrupted under any circumstances.

“Yup.” Angela nodded. “She said in no uncertain terms that she wanted to see you the second you got back. No matter what she was doing.”

“Great.” Mackenzie rolled her eyes and then filled her lungs with air, puffing out her chest before exhaling. She should have had a shot of vodka with her Cobb salad at lunch. “Here goes nothing.” She pushed open CeCe's door, and instantly CeCe swiveled around in her chair.

“Marco, I have to go. My daughter-in-law has just walked in.” Mackenzie could hear a frantic, muffled voice through the receiver. “Well, I'm sorry. You'll just have to figure it out for yourself,” she growled, and slammed down the phone.

“You wanted to see me?” Mackenzie walked toward CeCe's desk, on which a spray of white lilies sprouted from a massive ceramic vase—a bouquet so elaborate, it looked more like a small tree. “Wow, those are beautiful.” She pointed to the flowers on steroids.

“Have a seat.” CeCe ignored Mackenzie's observation and motioned to the chair facing her. She leaned forward on her forearms. “Now tell me how the baby making is going. Did you see Dr. Billingsly?”

“Um, no.” Mackenzie was confused. Surely Trevor had told her about the situation with Lucy. Weeks had passed since she'd walked in on them. And she'd thought all this time that Trevor might have been staying at his childhood home. Plus, it was unlike him to keep anything from his mother. “Remember, Trevor didn't want to see a fertility specialist?”

“Then go without him.” She flicked her wrist in the air like it was no big deal. As if she were suggesting that Mackenzie go supermarket shopping and leave Trevor at home.

“It's not really that simple.
Anymore
.”

“Why is that?” CeCe focused her beady eyes on Mackenzie.

“Honestly, CeCe, I think this is a conversation you should have with your son. There have been . . .” She searched for the appropriate word. “Developments.”

“Please don't tell me you're talking about his
interaction
with that assistant girl.” So she did know.

“It wasn't really an
interaction
. It was a kiss. At least, that's all that I saw.”

“And?” CeCe didn't appear the least bit ruffled by Trevor's dalliance. Maybe she thought it was okay for men to step out on their wives.

“And he kissed another woman. Who's not me. His wife.”

“I understand that.” CeCe spoke deliberately, as if she were explaining something to a small child. “I just don't see what the big deal is. It's not like he's actually going to
be with her
.”