Chapter Thirteen

“OKAY. YOU NEED to tell me. Why the name change? Why did Bruno become Trey?”

Trey stared at him. “Hello to you too. Can I get out of this wet jacket, maybe? Grab a beer?”

Connor had hated to see Miranda leave their happy celebration so disheartened. Things had gone so well until she noticed what Connor had forgotten—the damned wedding band on the third finger of his left hand. He didn’t blame her for being down. He should have told her. And he couldn’t avoid the question staring him in the face—who gets married and then keeps it a secret? Shouldn’t that have been a red flag?

Ah, even he was embarrassed to witness his own internal protest, the one he’d have scoffed at if anyone other than a lovelorn teenager had voiced it. “But I love him.”

It was the truth. In the clear light of day, it came down to that. Trey was charming and handsome. Smart. He was good to Connor. He was great in bed.

And he knew his being together with Trey had gotten back to Steve and that gave him a sense of satisfaction, even though he knew he was being petty.

Connor smiled. “Sure. I’m sorry to come at you like that when you just walked in the door. But Miranda knows now, knows we’re hitched.” Connor sighed. “And she’s not happy.”

Trey pulled off his wet denim jacket and hung it over one of the dining room chairs. Calmly, he grabbed a fork and speared a bite of potato. He chewed thoughtfully as he looked out the window.

Connor had an odd thought, one he banished from consciousness. Buying time to get your story together? He shook his head. He didn’t want to be that guy—the paranoid and mistrustful husband. A relationship was doomed without a foundation of trust.

Trey moved to the kitchen, and although Connor couldn’t see him, he could hear him opening the refrigerator and the release of pressure as he opened a bottle of beer.

He returned. “Let’s go sit down in the living room.”

Connor took a seat on the couch, watching Trey as he turned on the gas fireplace. Once the flames were dancing, he smiled at Connor. “Nice, huh?”

“Yes. Are you gonna answer me? You said we’d talk about this at some point. I think some point has arrived, prompted by my daughter finding something in your closet with the Bruno Purdy name on it.”

“She was snooping in my closet?”

Still buying time?

“Yeah, but let’s put that aside for now. She not only knows we’re married, but that you’re also using a different name.”

“You use a different name. Every time you publish a book.” Trey sat down and took a swig of beer. He held up the bottle. “Sorry. Did you want one?”

“I’m fine. And I feel like you’re avoiding the issue.”

Trey laughed, but there was something mocking and brittle in it that made Connor bristle.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Trey began.

Then why are we just now discussing this?

“Okay, I have to confess, I’ve been wondering—for quite a while now—why we haven’t talked about this before.”

“Honey,” Trey said. “It’s nothing, really. I do want you to know me, really know me. But it’s hard.” He drank his beer and Connor watched the wheels turn. “There’s a lot of darkness…”

Was Trey was fabricating a lie? Or was it simpler?

People did change their names—for one reason or another. Beyond an authorial nom de plume, folks had all sorts of reasons for wanting to alter their basic identity. And while a more extreme form of that change was making it legal, he’d heard of a person or two who simply decided to go by another name, for whatever reason. He didn’t think he knew anyone personally outside of his publishing and writing circles who’d done that, but it didn’t necessarily have to mean they were hiding something or lying.

“Come sit next to me.” Trey patted the couch and leaned forward to set down his beer on the coffee table.

Trey rose and put a coaster under the bottle, then plopped down next to Trey. Trey flung an arm around Connor’s shoulder and Connor had to admit—it felt good, secure, like home. For the briefest of moments, he considered saying, “Forget it. It’s late. Let’s just go to bed. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

But sadly, Connor, who’d always avoided conflict rather than face it, had relied on this particular modus operandi most of his life. Yet, he couldn’t think of a single occasion where it had served him well.

He knew that putting things off was futile. Tomorrow he’d find another excuse to avoid facts and then the next day, and the one beyond that. His whole life was literally and literarily wrapped up in a world of make-believe, so he was comfortable there. Plus, he found it hard to believe there was anything harmful or deceitful in this man. Yet he needed to keep an open mind…

“So we haven’t talked much about my family.” Trey eyed Connor. “The Purdys.”

Connor nodded. “No, hon. I really know so little about your background.”

Trey stood and turned out the lights. He lit a candle, and the darkness outside seemed to swell and brighten with the sudden dimness. He sat back down beside Connor. There was the sharp tang of Trey’s sweat in the air.

“You ready? Let me tell you about the Purdys.”

Connor started to say something but knew this was a time to simply sit back and listen. He focused on the flames dancing in the marble-trimmed fireplace and simply let Trey’s deep voice wash over him.

“The Purdys were a prominent family. We lived not just in one of the North Shore suburbs of Chicago, but in one of the most exclusive of exclusive—Kenilworth. It was a quick Metra train ride into Chicago, but most people in the enclave seldom left it. The air up there was just too rarified. The city was too dangerous, too dirty, moved too fast. Kenilworth was another world. An affluent bubble bordered on the east side by Lake Michigan.

“Dad was a physician—a heart surgeon. Mom was his devoted housewife. Her time outside of the house consisted of lots of volunteer work and, in winter, playing on our country club’s curling team. I attended Roycemore Academy and my sister, Elizabeth, went to Regina Dominican. Our house was not visible from the road we were on. You had to wind your way up a curving brick drive before you reached it. It was like something out of Gone With the Wind, set down in the Midwest. Except we had expansive views of Lake Michigan from our backyard.

“Idyllic. I think that’s the word that would spring to mind if you were a casual observer of my family. We rode our bikes to Lake Michigan and tanned on the beach in summer. In winter, we cross-country skied in the woods surrounding our house, mansion really.

“All people saw of the Purdys was a classic American family, wealthy, attractive, and seemingly already in possession of all the rest of the world’s hopes and dreams. We had the best of everything—cars, clothes, toys. The Purdys escaped to their summer home on Lake Geneva when it was warm. And when it was cold, if we weren’t jetting off for Cabo San Lucas or maybe Santorini, we were at our townhouse in West Palm Beach, with its upper and lower levels overlooking the intracoastal waterway, where our boat was moored.”

Trey smiled and patted Connor’s leg. “Don’t get the wrong idea. While it looked like we had everything, you have to understand. Beneath all the wealth, the expensive cars and homes, and especially the smiling family portraits, lurked a monster.

“This wasn’t a happy family.” Trey stopped suddenly. His hands moved up to cover his face. In just a few moments, his shoulders began to shake.

Connor moved closer and flung his arm around Trey’s shoulders as he sobbed. “Hey, hey. If this is too hard, we can talk about it another time. Or not at all.”

Maybe it’s just as simple as having a horrible family with terrifying secrets. Maybe he just no longer wants to remember. My family wasn’t rich, but we were loving and kind. I know all too well that can be a rare gift.

“No,” Trey said, brushing tears away from his face and sniffling. He sat up straighter, composing himself. “You need to hear this. You’re my husband. You need to know. I should have told you sooner.”

“Okay,” Connor said softly. “But know we can stop anytime you want if this gets too painful.”

“I’m a big boy. And strong.” Trey blew out a quivering sigh and paused to stare into the fire.

He began again.

“Okay, so you know how appearances can be deceiving? That chestnut, I suspect, was coined for my family.” He looked away again and then, as though drawing on inner strength, he started talking fast and with resolution. He stared off into the distance, seeing things Connor couldn’t see.

“The secrets of my family all revolved around my dad. And my mom, who aided and abetted, even though she’d say when it all came down, she knew nothing about what was going on behind the closed mahogany doors of our house. She was willfully ignorant. She didn’t see because she didn’t want to see.”

Trey paused for a long time, staring at the floor.

When he picked up the thread of his story, his voice was deep—and dead. There was no emotion. And maybe that, Connor thought as he listened, was simply self-protection coming into place. Numbness.

“My dad started abusing both my sister and myself when we were little kids. The first time I remember I was about eight. Elizabeth was a few years older, and I think she got the worst of it—it had been going on for her for years. I found out later the assaults late at night started for her—” He let out a shaky sigh and Connor feared he would start to cry again. “I can’t even say it. It makes me sick. Still.”

He shook his head. “Look. My dad, a prominent surgeon and philanthropist, had a darker-than-black side. He didn’t just abuse us sexually and psychologically; he was involved with one of the largest child pornography rings in the Midwest. This was back in the days when Polaroids and videotapes were swapped and sold. My dad was a hub for this kind of thing.”

He stopped again for a very long time. Connor was about to tell him he didn’t need to go on, but Trey looked up at him. In the firelight, his eyes were bright with tears. “We were his stars. Should I tell you what he did to us? What he made us do to each other?” Trey lowered his head.

“No. I can imagine.” And Connor could. It nauseated him. He wanted to power wash his brain to rid it of the images that were suddenly, and unbidden, arising.

“This is why I didn’t want to be Bruno Purdy anymore. You might have even seen a news story about it when everything broke wide open when my sister finally told a guidance counselor what was going on. Google us and you’ll see.

“I just wanted to separate myself. I always meant to legally change my name, but it’s been surprisingly easy, for the most part, to just be Trey, so I never got around to it. I’m sorry if you feel—and your daughter feels—I was deceiving you.

“It wasn’t deception. It was a way to keep myself sane. An alternate reality from the horror and nightmare of my childhood and teenage years.”

“Oh my god,” Connor whispered. He held Trey close and told him, “You don’t need to say any more. I’m sorry I made you revisit this pain, which I can’t begin to imagine. But it’s okay. You’re safe now.” He squeezed him tight and listened to Trey sob.

It all made sense now. Of course, Trey wanted to distance himself.

Who wouldn’t?