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THE UNFAITHFUL WOMAN
FROM BEHIND THE damask curtains of her living room, Anastasia watched the fire-red Ferrari race up the curved driveway. The unique famed roar of its engine pulsed, then went silent when it came to an abrupt stop next to the flowing fountain. A smile played across Anastasia’s face. Only one person could be behind the wheel of the high-powered sports car.
How Tristan had come to be there when Anastasia hadn’t worked up the nerve to call him to tell him about Minnie’s funeral was anyone’s guess. The last time they’d spoken, Tristan told her they should go their separate ways and disappeared from her life. In the past three decades, except for their two-week encounter and the dutiful attendance to her parents’ funerals, Tristan slipped out of Anastasia’s life as quickly as he came into it.
Anastasia felt a pressure in her chest, heavy and tight when the tangles of emotions long buried rushed at her. Tristan always managed to stir her insides without much effort.
The cold, steely glint in Anastasia’s hazel eyes softened the moment she saw Tristan squeeze his six-foot frame out of the tight-fitting Ferrari. It felt like an eternity since she’d last seen him, yet the moment she did, the memories unspooled in her mind as if they’d happened yesterday.
Tristan Ferguson was her first love, the boy she’d shared her first kiss with. Tristan was the idealistic teenager who’d asked for her hand in marriage then disappeared from her life. Now here he was, after all these years looking tall, tanned, and as gorgeous as she remembered. D&G sunglasses perched on his nose the wind blowing through the long, honey-brown hair, Tristan looked like the subject in one of his famous paintings.
Anastasia watched Tristan slide the dark sunglasses off and flick blue eyes over the green rolling hills that stretched for acres to woods celebrating summer. The gardens that wound around the house were a rainbow of colors from lilac, roses, bleeding hearts, and rhododendrons in full bloom.
Tristan smelled it now, the familiar scents of horse and manure, and he looked over to the paddocks. His lips slowly curved when the mare whickered, big brown eyes aimed at him. His pulse picked up at the muffled thunder of hooves lifting off the earth as they raced around. There was no sound like it on earth, he thought. It had been a long time since he’d been around horses. God, he missed it.
Tristan’s smile widened as the memories came flooding back. Stillbrook Estate was where he grew up, the place of his boyhood, and even after steering clear for decades, Tristan still considered it home.
On the stretch of grassed land, in the turn-of-the-century home, with its large picture windows and tall column entrance, was where Tristan had spent many memorable days. He and Anastasia had played and spent every waking minute together on that land. They’d mucked stalls in the stables, spent summer days swimming in the pool. Mill Pond was where they’d fished for trout. On sunny days, alongside Anastasia at the reins of her horse Bandit and he on Sparky, they’d ridden over the roll of land. Afterward, under the shade of the willow tree, he’d read to her.
In his artistic leaning phase, under the willow tree, with Anastasia watching on, Tristan flipped through the art books he frequently checked out from the local library. Tristan read about oils, impressionism, expressionism, and every ism there was. He absorbed the information like a sponge does water. Those books had steered him to the canvas, and in time, art became his passion and his chosen career.
Stillbrook always brought back good memories, but in the decades passed, Tristan had set foot on the land he considered home twice. The first time was for James’ funeral when, at the young age of seventy-two, the unexpected heart attack took him in his sleep. The second time was one year later, for Caroline’s funeral, who, after her thirty-seven years of marriage to James, Tristan believed she died of a broken heart. Now, he was here for Minnie’s funeral.
Filling his lungs with air scented with earth and pine, Tristan rounded the car and picked up his overnight bag from the passenger seat. The tote was all he needed on this visit. He wasn’t planning an extended stay this time, either. He was scheduled to fly out the day after the Minnie-bration—leave it up to Anastasia to come up with the cookie idea—to make an appearance at his art exhibit in Florence.
Bag in hand, Tristan walked up the stone walkway flanked with tulips dripping with color. At the tall, mahogany doors, Tristan hesitated for a beat, debating whether to use his key. In the end, he decided to ring the doorbell. Stillbrook hadn’t been his home for too long. It was now Anastasia’s, Colin’s, and the twin’s home.
On the second bell chime, the door swung open, and there she stood as if frozen in time.
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ANASTASIA STUDIED THE TIMID EIGHT-YEAR-OLD boy with eyes as blue as the sky. He was way tall, Anastasia thought, and the short, sandy-blonde hair was way neat. He had long eyelashes above the large eyes and rosy cheeks. His T-shirt and blue jeans were way too clean. He wasn’t anything like the messy, dirty boys from school.
The tall woman holding his hand tilted her eyes down to Anastasia. Her smiling eyes looked like luminous black pools in a flawless face that might have been carved out of polished onyx. Her hair, dark as her skin, was rolled into a bun, making her look taller. She had an exceptionally long, thin neck, like a giraffes Anastasia thought where a canary-yellow bauble necklace that matched her summer dress hung. Her arms and wrists were slim but elegant. She looked like the Nubian Queen Anastasia had seen in a book in her father’s library.
“Who are you?” Anastasia studied Minnie, a frank and cagey stare out of brown eyes.
“This here is Tristan Ferguson, and I’m Minnie Williams, your new maid. “And you must be Anastasia,” Minnie said.
“How do you know my name?” Anastasia blew a bubble of gum as pink as her lips.
“I’m a friend of your father’s,” Minnie told the petite girl with the delicately upturned nose dotted with freckles.
Anastasia brushed the cloud of chestnut hair around the pretty, heart-shaped face back. “Daddy has a lot of friends. He says that when you own a large law firm, everyone wants to be your friend.”
“Is that so?” Minnie stifled a chuckle. “I like your dress. It’s frilly and flowy, and yellow like mine.”
“I like yours too. Daddy never told me about a new maid with a shy boy. You going to live here?” Anastasia eyed the suitcases.
“You are an inquisitive one.” Minnie smiled a quick flash that deepened the lines time had etched on her face. “Yes, I’m going to live here.”
“Him too?” Anastasia’s eyes latched onto Tristan.
“He is.” Minnie slung an arm around the young boy entrusted to her through death. “We travel together. You could say we’re a package deal.”
Anastasia shrugged her shoulders. “Did the cat get his tongue? That’s what Mama says when I don’t answer her back.”
“He’s just a bit shy. Aren’t you, Tristan? But something tells me, Anastasia, that in time, you’ll draw all that shyness out of him.” Minnie gave Anastasia a wink.
“I can do that. I’m six and three-quarters years old. How old are you?”
“Well, go on, boy tell Anastasia.”
“I’m eight.” Tristan’s voice was quiet and flat.
“I bet you can’t pronounce my name.” Anastasia’s defying tone prodded.
“Can too.” Tristan shot back indignantly.
“Prove it. Go on, say it.”
“Ana ... Anas ... ummm ... Tassie.”
Anastasia’s giggle sounded remarkably girlish. “I told you.”
“I can’t say it because it’s a stupid name.”
Anastasia crossed her arms. “Nuh-uh, it’s a princess’s name.”
“Sure, it is. Anyway, you look like a Tassie to me,” Tristan’s lips proudly spread when she smiled.
“I like it. You can call me Tassie. Do you want to play? I have lots of toys in my bedroom. I’ll share them with you.”
Tristan lifted his eyes to Minnie. “Can I go play with Tassie, Auntie Minnie?”
Minnie smiled at the pleading eyes, staring up at her. It was the first time since his parent’s death he’d expressed an interest in anything. “Of course you can, honey.”
“Well, come on, follow me,” Anastasia said, and Tristan did.
Since that day, Tristan followed Anastasia everywhere, becoming inseparable best friends, sharing everything.
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“HI,” TRISTAN’S EYES HELD ONTO ANASTASIA’S.
She wore jeans, tight and faded, a flowing teal blouse, tucked at the waist, and patent ballet flats at her feet. Her long, chestnut hair spilled around the unpainted face seemingly untouched by time. It had been years since he last saw her, but she was as beautiful as the picture he’d taken and carried with him all this time.
“Hi.” Anastasia stepped back and let him in. “Nice ride. It suits you.”
Tristan’s lips curved into a smug grin. “The fiery-red is me,” he said, setting his carry-on down on polished tiled.
“I was leaning more toward the midlife crises message it screams out.” Anastasia let out a quick smirk.
“If I recall, you’re only two years younger than me.” Following her into the living room, Tristan headed straight for the bar. “And by the way, I’m three years away from fifty, which is the official mid-life crisis age.”
“There’s an official age?” Anastasia fell back into the soft leather of the long sectional, which had replaced the Victorian couch.
“There is for me. I see you’ve remodeled. I like the modern look. It’s very ... you.” Tristan eyed the glass, leather, and chrome that filled the room. “Brandy, still your drink?” Rounding the bar, he caught sight of the large vase filled with freshly picked roses. He remembered how, at first bloom, she’d fill every vase in the house with fresh daisies from the gardens.
“Yes, but we only have cognac.” Brandy’s not a woman’s drink. From now on, you drink cognac, Colin told her when they’d married and replaced brandy bottles with Remy Martin. “Isn’t it too early for a drink? It’s only ten in the morning.”
“It’s four in the afternoon where I’m from.” Tristan poured two glasses and walked them, and the bottle, to the sofa. “You look great, Tassie.” He shook off the pain he felt in his heart when she reached for the handed glass, and her wedding band doused him in reality.
“You do too, but as a painter, shouldn’t you espouse the poor starving artist look?” Over the sexy soccer player one, she held back saying.
“Why should I? I’m neither starving nor poor. I sold my last painting to Oprah for half a million dollars. Before that, the Clintons bought my The Art of Politics for as much.”
“You’ve come a long way.” Anastasia watched Tristan walk to the baby grand when he caught sight of the collection of photographs. “Olivia and Jimmy are eighteen now.”
“I know.” Tristan cast an eye over the framed photographs, and the ache went into him fast.
Aside from the black-framed glasses, Olivia was the spitting image of her mother. Dark, intelligent eyes, long, chestnut hair, ivory skin, and a daintily upturned nose. As her twin, Jimmy looked much like Olivia, with a masculine allure. Seeing the photographs stung deeply, and Tristan downed the cognac in one swallow to soothe the pain.
Tristan imagined the joy of being a father. Marriage and fatherhood hadn’t been in the cards for him. The only woman he loved slipped through his fingers, and he’d never married and made a family. It wasn’t by design. It was just how things had worked out for him. So instead, Tristan had focused his time and energy on his career. Just as well, becoming a worldwide renowned artist had taken a lot of time and energy.
“You haven’t seen the twins since Mama’s funeral.” Anastasia crossed one leg beneath her.
Tristan’s eyes never left the photograph as he refilled his glass with a double shot. “It’s best that way.”
“In case you were wondering, they’re in London right now, getting themselves settled into their residence at Oxford.”
“Oxford?” Tristan arched a brow. “Impressive.”
“Jimmy is planning to study law. Olivia is also, with a minor in art. Although I have a feeling, it will in time become her major.” Anastasia studied Tristan over the rim of her glass. She was pleased to see the smile of approval on his face. That Olivia had a proclivity for something, he was so passionate about undoubtedly pleased Tristan.
“Good genes in those kids.”
The comment made her smile. “They take after their parents.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Tristan tipped the glass to his lips, drank deeply.
“They’re staying at the Royal London Hotel for a couple of days before they settle into their dorms. Then they’ll be off on a tour of Europe. It’s their graduation gift. They left last week before Minnie left us. When they found out, they were devastated. They wanted to take the next flight out, but I told them what Minnie would want for them is to focus on making memories rather than thinking of death.”
Tristan nodded. “That’s exactly what she’d have said.”
“Colin’s with them.” Anastasia crossed one slender leg over another, drawing his eyes. Those legs were still as long and as toned as he remembered. “He flew out with the twins. We were supposed to go together, but when Minnie took a turn for the worse, I stayed behind.” Anastasia lied.
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“THE DOCTOR SAYS HER CANCER HAS metastasized, Colin. He says Minnie has weeks, if not days left.” Anastasia dabbed a tissue at her teary eyes.
A stoic Colin continued to stack folded shirts and pants into his suitcase. When Anastasia reiterated the diagnosis, Colin’s only response was a succinct, “And?”
Anastasia stared at him with disbelief. When she pointed out they couldn’t leave Minnie at the end of her life, and they’d need to postpone their trip, Colin angrily shot the idea down. Flinging rolled socks into his suitcase like projectiles, Colin made it clear he and the children were not putting their life on hold for a dying maid.
Anastasia shot Colin a shocked look. Minnie was family. She was a part of the family, had been an integral part of Anastasia’s life since she was a child. Minnie raised her, raised the twins. But Colin was adamant. He and the children weren’t sticking around for death to fetch Minnie. They were leaving in the morning—with or without her.
“I don’t care if you stay behind.” I prefer it if you did. “But my children and I will not lower ourselves to cater to a common maid.” Colin waved a hand in Anastasia’s face to silence her. “End of discussion. Now, make yourself useful and help the twins pack and, Anastasia, not a word about Minnie to them.”
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“COLIN’S GETTING THEM SETTLED IN. HE won’t be back for a week,” Anastasia added, watching Tristan dip his hand into his shirt pocket for the pack of cigarettes. “Sorry, you can’t smoke in the house. Colin doesn’t like the smell.”
“Colin doesn’t like much, does he?” Tristan tucked the pack back into his pocket. “Does he know I’m staying here?”
“Of course.”
Tristan’s eyebrows shot up at the blatant lie. “Really.”
“Really. Will you stay the week, Tristan?” Anastasia watched him considering and assuming he was leaning toward turning her down said, “I want you to stay. I miss talking to you. I miss having you around. I miss you, Tristan.”
“I fly out the day after tomorrow. I have an art exhibition to attend...”
“In Florence, at the prestigious Le Gallerie Degli Uffizi. Yes, I keep track of you, Tristan,” she said when his brow winged.
“Yes, well, I need to be there.”
“Colin’s not here, Tristan. You don’t need to run away. This is your home as much as it’s mine. It’s our home.”
“It’s not, Tassie. It’s your home, your husband’s, Jimmy, and Olivia’s. It’s your family’s home.”
Something in the way he spoke the words made Anastasia’s stomach knot. She reached for his hand, tightening it to keep him from walking away. “We’re your family, Tristan.”
At the feel of her warm hand on his, it felt as if she touched his past.
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“WHEN I GET OLD ENOUGH, AND you do too, I’m going to marry you, Tassie,” Tristan looked deep into her eyes.
“Okay.” Anastasia beamed.
Tristan reached into his pocket, and drawing the Cracker Jack prize ring slid it on Anastasia’s finger. “As long as you wear it, Tassie, you’re my girl.”
Anastasia held it up to the sunlight to admire. The plastic diamond sparkled in the light, and she thought she’d never seen anything so beautiful. She promised Tristan she’d never take it off.
Anastasia was eight, and he was ten when they swore on the promise, but that wasn’t how it worked out. At eighteen, Tristan went off to school in Milan to study art. Five years later, when Tristan was due to return home, he found out Anastasia had married Colin Wilder and built a new life for herself—without him.
Something crumbled inside Tristan, but he had no one to blame but himself. He should have never left Anastasia. Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder, he thought. It drove the woman you loved to seek comfort in the arms of another man. It made the woman you wanted to spend the rest of your life with slip away and into Colin’s arms.
The heartache Tristan felt was like a sharp knife cutting deep and clean, and he planned to fly back and win Anastasia back. He’d made it as far as the boarding gate when he realized disrupting Anastasia’s life was selfish of him and vowed to remain in Milan.
Tristan pledged then never again to set foot at Stillbrook.
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“DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID, Tristan?” Anastasia’s voice brought him back.
“Yeah, you got my room ready for me and lunch is at noon and dinner is at six. No doubt more of Colin’s rules,” Tristan said, slamming his empty glass on the bar counter.
“Don’t be like that.”
“Well, am I lying?”
Anastasia dismissed the jab. “I’m sorry about Minnie, Tristan. I know she was like a mother to you.”
Emotions swam into Tristan’s eyes. Minnie had been his rock, his protector. Without a second thought, she selflessly assumed the role of mother and father when his parents died. Were it not for Minnie, Tristan would have ended up in foster care, living with strangers, bounced through an imperfect system. Tristan’s life would have been much different from the caring, loving one he’d had were it not for Minnie. Minnie made him the man he was today.
And he’d repaid her by leaving, absolved himself from the guilt of deserting her with the random call home. He called Anastasia weekly, and when told she wasn’t available to take the call, he’d default to speaking to Minnie, but both knew she hadn’t been his primary reason for calling.
Tristan hoped Minnie understood he couldn’t come back to Stillbrook because he couldn’t stomach the idea of coming back to the home he no longer considered his. He’d rather die than see the only woman he’d ever loved sliding into the arms and bed of another man. No matter the reasons, the excuses Tristan made didn’t justify leaving Minnie. She’d sacrificed her life for him. Minnie had given up everything for him and opened her heart to him. Everything Tristan had, who he was, he owed to Minnie, and now it was too late for him to make it up to her.
He’d carry the guilt for the rest of his life.
Anastasia drew herself off the couch, walked to Tristan. “I wish you would come back more often than for funerals. I’ve missed you, Tristan.” Anastasia took a step forward. Tristan took one back. She always managed to draw feelings from him with few words.
“Me too.”
“I want you to stay.” Anastasia stirred more than old memories.
It wasn’t a good idea to stay under the same roof with her. Anastasia was a married woman, a mother. She had a family, and he was an intruder now. “All right, but only for a couple of days. After the funeral, I’m leaving,” Tristan said without a second thought.
Anastasia considered it a small victory. “Up to you, but you can stay for as long as you want. You must be tired from the long flight. Get settled in. Maybe take a shower to wash the day off. You know the way.”
“I do.” Tristan’s hand on the doorknob, he stopped. “Do you want to go for a run? I’m wound up from the flight. The run will relax me. We can run to the pond and back.”
Anastasia’s eyes lit with a smile. “Like old times,” she said, thinking it wasn’t going to be an ordinary couple of days.
