Two Truths

Chapter One

A weeping fig saved me today. Weeks ago, my best friend, Cammie, made reservations for two at The Enchanted Garden, a trendy little café on the periphery of downtown Charlottesville that offers an informal yet private dining experience amid a veritable forest of exotic greenery. This afternoon, I arrived there out of breath and somewhat disheveled, having jogged three blocks from the closest on-street parking spot, wearing heels no less. I was more than a half-hour late, so the host surprised me by saying she had to give our table away because Cammie had not yet arrived.

As the woman disappeared into the jungle to search for alternative seating, I checked my phone to find several messages, none from Cammie. I sent her a text. At Enchanted. Can’t wait to see you.

The host returned and invited me to follow her into the dining room, where we wove through the flora until we reached an empty table at the back near the busy entrance to the kitchen. The table next to it was also free and had the benefit of being a tad further from the chaos.

Could we sit there instead? I pointed.

I’m sorry, but someone has already reserved that one. This is the best I can do.

Neither table was one I would have chosen had we arrived on time, but Cammie and I were lucky to get any at all. It was Saturday and hungry diners packed the room, the murmur of soft voices and clinking silverware filling the air. I settled myself in the chair furthest from the kitchen doors and ordered our beverages.

Able to relax at last, I leaned back and enjoyed the enticing aroma of spices that wafted out each time the doors swung open. I had a book signing this afternoon, but it didn’t start until two o’clock and the bookshop was right around the corner. There was still plenty of time to enjoy a delicious, if not leisurely, meal—if only Cammie would arrive.

Campbell Randolph Allerton, Cammie for short, has been my best friend since childhood, and she has the impeccable social skills that her name implies. She would never stand me up. The first tendril of worry had just worked its way into my thoughts when, as if by magic, it withered. I thought I heard my husband’s voice.

Jon is a prominent oral surgeon with a thriving practice on the opposite side of the city. To accommodate his patients’ schedules, he works Saturdays, and I knew he would not leave the office at midday to visit a restaurant where the ambiance encourages diners to linger. No sooner had I convinced myself that I was wrong, that Jon must be at work, than I heard chairs scraping the floor. The host was seating someone next to me. My ears pricked. When the host finished her lines, he spoke.

Thank you.

Two words. Zero doubt. Jon was at the next table. I was about to pop up and surprise him when a woman whispered.

This place is perfect, Jon. The tables are so private.

My mind kicked into overdrive.

My husband is with a woman whose voice I don’t recognize.

A woman who calls him by his nickname.

A woman who is whispering.

A woman who wants privacy.

On any other day, I would have told myself she was a colleague going through a rough time, someone whom Jon knew well from work, who had some type of personal problem and needed his help. But Cammie’s unexplained absence had already rattled me, so on this day, I did something I am both ashamed to admit and proud to tell. I parted the weeping fig tree enough to peek through the leaves.

A woman was sitting next to Jon, so close their elbows almost touched. I could only view her profile because she had angled her chair to face my husband and long, dark hair hid half her brow, but her pert nose and pouty lips were easy to see from my vantage point. I was certain I did not know her.

What happened next changed my life forever.

As I watched, the tramp leaned forward to kiss my husband, her glossy lips puckered and moist. When her dark tresses fell from her shoulder and caressed his chest, he turned to face her and their lips met. She laughed and whispered a single sentence.

I wish we’d met sooner.

Blind with shock, I reared backward and knocked over my drink as I fumbled to grab my purse. I threw a few bills on the dripping table to cover my tab and bolted through the swinging doors next to me. Inside the brightly lit kitchen, I almost collided with a server carrying a tray laden with food and drink.

Lady, you’re not supposed to be in here.

The fire exit was straight ahead. Ignoring the shouts of wait staff and cooks, I ran forward and shoved my body against the crash bar. The door opened, and I tumbled out onto what was once the rear porch of a grand antebellum house. I caught the railing in time to avoid falling down the stairs, but not before the chalky centuries-old paint left a gray slash across the front of my custom-made Shetland wool suit jacket. As I steadied myself, the door slammed shut behind me.

I was alone.

Stunned, I made my way back to my car, where I sat in a stupor staring at the dusty stain. I had splurged on the knee-length jacket when vacationing in Scotland last summer, and even though I’d paid twice what I should have for shipping, after coming home I still had to wait over two months for its arrival. The cloth was the perfect shade of pale blue to complement my slacks, but the dirty line now bisecting my midriff was as ugly as my mood.

I was busy rubbing the nubby fabric with tissues when my phone sounded an alert meaning I had a new text message. It was from Cammie. So sorry. Took mom to hospital. False alarm but still scary. Another day?

I thought for a second before typing my reply. No problem. Glad your mom is ok.

My husband was having an affair. There was no problem bigger than that.

For a moment, I considered marching back up the street and confronting him, but I didn’t. It wasn’t fear of embarrassment that had my body rooted in place. I’d already made a fool of myself in the restaurant. It also wasn’t doubt that immobilized me because I knew what I saw and heard. No, it was a much stronger force that kept me from returning, a bond forged by lineage and ancestry.

It was because I am Alexis Chandler Leneghan.

––––––––

I’d intended to get to the bookshop early, but due to what I will henceforth refer to as unforeseen circumstances, I arrived late and shivering, having left my jacket in the car even though it was winter. By then, a crowd had gathered, some of whom were grumbling and glancing at their watches. Most were clutching a copy of my newest novel, while the proprietor passed out refreshments and promises, assuring her customers that, despite my tardiness, there would be plenty of time for questions.

I stifled a groan, pasted a smile on my face, and slid into the hard plastic chair that would be mine for the next two hours. Or, to be more accurate, one hour and forty-five minutes, a benefit of arriving late for my party. The table lurched as everyone pressed forward at once, threatening to topple the stack of my books that someone had taken great care to place along the edge. I grabbed the pile just in time and moved it to a safer spot, also straightening the pens and notepad provided for my use.

Most successful writers are expert self-promoters, and I am no different. I opened the top book and flexed its spine before balancing it upright at the opposite corner of the table so the front cover faced my readers and, I hoped, would attract additional customers. With the book in this position, the back of the dust jacket faced me, my own eyes staring at me because, once again, I had failed to persuade my publisher to omit my publicity photo. It was a few years old, and I would soon need a new one.

I have never enjoyed posing for photographs. In school, I was the girl with the face that a classmate once compared to a bulldog. For years afterward, I pestered my parents for a nose job until, when I was fourteen years old, they agreed. That was the first of several plastic surgeries, which, together with the skillful application of makeup, have all but erased the resemblance. Still, I am no beauty, and I know it.

My one redeeming feature is my hair, thick and so shiny it is almost luminescent. Most days I wear it piled on top of my head in a messy topknot that appears casual but requires effort to create. The day I met my husband, Jon, for reasons I can no longer remember, I wore my hair down, cascading across my back. Many times, I have said a little prayer of thanks that he first glimpsed me from behind. Now, I silently cursed as I replayed the scene from The Enchanted Garden in my mind and stared at my headshot.

With a quick twist of the top, the bookshop owner opened a sweaty bottle of still water and offered it to me, along with a look of gratitude. No doubt for a while she thought I wouldn’t show up. I took a big gulp of the lukewarm liquid, and we were ready.

Thank you all so much for coming today. I realize you are eager to meet one of Charlottesville’s favorite local authors, so I’ll keep this short.

Someone clapped, and I squeezed my lips together to keep from snickering.

My name is Barbara Zielinski, and as an independent bookseller, I am indebted to each of you. Businesses like mine wouldn’t be possible without avid readers like you. So have fun and, if I can assist, please let me know. Now, without further ado, I am proud to introduce our very own Alexis Bethel. She turned toward me, clapping her hands, as the group broke into genuine applause.

Bethel is my pen name, chosen when I was still under the heavy influence of my mother, Elizabeth Lane Chandler—better known as Libby Lane before she married my dad. Her family, the Lanes, trace their lineage all the way back to Robert Betheland, or Beheathland, or even Behethland, if you prefer. There is some disagreement about how our dear ancestor spelled his surname, so I chose the one that worked best for my purposes and shortened it to a word more comfortable on modern tongues. Despite the debate about his name, on this point, most historians concur. Robert was an original settler of Jamestown, Virginia, and that fact, in the Tidewater area of our state, makes my mother’s family a type of royalty. The name Bethel is my tribute to her birthright.

My mind ceased wandering as the first impatient reader stepped forward. I noticed she held two identical books.

"It’s so nice to meet you, Alexis. Can I call you Alexis? Your newest novel was so good. I’m Pamala, with the letter A, not an E. I wrote my name on a post-it so you wouldn’t get it wrong. She pointed at the book jacket and looked confused. Oh, no. Where did it go?"

At this rate, I’ll be here forever. "That’s okay, Pamala-with-an-A. I think I can handle it. That’s spelled P-A-M-A-L-A, right?"

Yes. She punctuated her answer with a small bounce on her toes.

I smiled, hoping I looked sincere as I signed the cover page and returned the book to her.

She read what I’d written aloud. ‘Always remember to travel light.’ That’s so clever.

This time, my smile was genuine. As usual, I had prepared a few inscriptions relevant to the theme of my novel and would cycle through them throughout the event. The first person in line always got the best one.

"Would you sign this copy, too? It’s a present for my sister, Eloise. She spells her name E-L-O-I-S-E."

To Eloise, enjoy the journey—Alexis Bethel

As Pamala inspected my work, a sly grin grew on her lips. Sibling rivalry never disappoints, even when the prize is as inconsequential as the best inscription.

Thanks. Eloise is going to love it. She turned away and then thought better. Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to ask, where did you get the idea for this novel?

And there it was. Every author’s favorite question. Not that it was a bad one. Quite the opposite. As all fiction writers know, inspiration strikes in the unlikeliest of places for the silliest of reasons. Often, the story behind the story is indeed a wonderful tale. Sometimes, it’s even as good as the one in the book.

The problem with Pamala-with-an-A’s question was that it was not her question. It was every reader’s question, and they were about to ask it over and over again while I simpered and scribbled and pretended it was the first time I’d ever heard it.

I could not wait for my book signing to end.

––––––––

Back home, I indulged myself by building a fire before settling in with a small glass of sherry. I was sitting in what Jon and I call our living room, which the architect labeled great room on his blueprints because it extends into our expansive backyard and has floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. It’s a beautiful space, but one that I would have taken for granted had it not been for my husband, whose middle-class upbringing taught him—and by extension, me—to appreciate our good fortune to live in such elegant surroundings.

Motorized solar shades top the huge glass panes, and multiple times a day on a seasonally rotating schedule, the shades spring to life, as a ballet of pirouetting gears and twirling fabric executes the installer’s choreography. The sudden motion has startled many guests, and some have spilled beverages on my imported matching Italian sofas. The problem is so common that I now offer the uninitiated only sparkling water and donate the money saved on cleaning to charity.

Dusk comes early in winter, and as the light faded, the shades began their last dance of the day. I sipped the amber liquid and watched the dense woods behind our house disappear from view while attempting to practice gratitude. I’ve never been a big fan of book signings. They are something my publisher requires of me. That said, I rarely take them for granted.

Writing challenges me. My books are never more perfect than the last second before I type my first word, that infinitesimal moment when anything is possible and everything is going to happen. But whereas other writers bemoan the empty page, blank space beckons me, begging to be filled. I conjure characters and settings with the click of my keyboard, letter by letter, word after word. My ability to tell a story is a gift, and for that, I am normally grateful.

Not today.

Mere hours ago, I watched in disbelief as my husband, my confidante, my everything, kissed another woman. Worse yet, instead of confronting him, I sneaked away to my book signing. As I thought about my decision now, bitter bile rose in my throat, and I slammed my glass onto a coaster meant to protect the side table. Droplets of sherry sprayed the wooden surface before uniting to form a small pool of liquid. I stared at the blob for a second before deciding to ignore the mess. Our housekeeper, Audra, would be here on Monday. She could clean it up. And if she couldn’t, because the alcohol had sat too long and ruined the finish, the mark would serve as a painful reminder of just how stupid I was ever to have trusted Jon.

The fire wasn’t helping me to relax, so I pushed the logs deep toward the back of the fireplace and did my best to separate them before picking up my purse and heading upstairs, where I intended to take a shower to wash the day’s filth from my body. I never made it there. As I climbed, I dug my cell phone out of my bag and noticed two missed calls. The first message was from my publicist, who wanted to know how the book signing had gone. I would call her later when I could conduct myself in a business-like manner. When I touched the screen to listen to the second message, the doorbell rang. I wanted to ignore it, but whoever was outside was insistent, ringing two more times and then knocking.

Go away. I want to be alone.

Despite protesting, I turned around and retraced my steps back down the stairs, my purse still dangling from my arm. I had almost reached the front hall when the person outside rang the bell several more times.

Who do I know that is this rude?

I hurried across the foyer and peered out the peephole. A police officer was standing on the porch.

What could the police possibly want from me?

I opened the door a crack but left the chain attached. Now I saw not one officer but two.

Mrs. Leneghan?

Unfortunately. Yes, may I help you?

The closer man held up his badge so I could see it. I’m Officer Nobles, and this is Officer Cruz.

He pronounced his name No-bliss. The sherry had made me tipsy, and as I stifled a giggle that became a hiccup, I said a silent prayer the officers wouldn’t smell the alcohol on my breath.

Is your husband Dr. Jonathan Leneghan? Nobles asked.

Not for long if I can help it. Yes, Jon is my husband.

We need to speak with you, Mrs. Leneghan. May we come in? Nobles seemed to be the one who did all the talking.

What is this about, officers?

We’re here about your husband. It would be best if we could speak to you inside.

It would make my day if you were here to arrest him. Jon isn’t at home right now.

We’re aware of that, Mrs. Leneghan. May we please come in?

A prickle of fear began working its way up my spine. "I guess that would be okay. I’ve just got