Genuine Lies

automatically closed off. “That choice was mine as well, and I wasn’t married to Brandon’s father. Travers was married to Tommy’s.”
    “Yes, she was—and Tony already had two perfectly healthy and perfectly spoiled children by his first wife. He chose not to acknowledge a child with flaws.”
    “You should have sliced his balls off.”
    “Ah, well.” Eve smiled again, pleased to see anger rather than unhappiness. “My chance for that is lost, at least literally.”
    “Tell me about Travers’s son.”
    “Tommy’s nearly forty. He’s incontinent, can’t dress himself or feed himself. He wasn’t expected to live to adulthood, but then, it’s his mind, not his body.”
    “How could she have said her own son was dead?”
    “Don’t condemn her, Julia.” Eve’s voice had gentled. “She suffered. Travers agreed to Tony’s demands because she was afraid of what he might do to the child. And because she blames herself for Tommy’s condition. She’s convinced the, let’s say, unhealthy sexual practices under which the boy was conceived are to blame for his retardation. Nonsense, of course, but she believes it. Maybe she needs to. In any case, she refused what she considered charity, but agreed to work for me. She’s done so for more than three decades, and I’ve kept her secret.”
    No, Julia thought, she didn’t condemn her. She understood too well the choices a woman alone had to make. “You’ve kept it until now.”
    “Until now.”
    “Why do you want this made public?”
    Eve settled back in her chair. “There’s nothing Tony can do to the boy, or to Travers. I’ve seen to that. My marriage to him is part of my life, and I’ve decided to share that life—without lies, Julia.”
    “If he becomes aware of what you’ve told me, of the possibility of it being published, he’ll try to stop you.” “I stopped being afraid of Tony a lifetime ago.” “Is he capable of violence?”
    Eve moved her shoulders. “Everyone’s capable of violence.”
    Saying nothing, Julia reached into her briefcase and brought out the pair of notes. She handed them to Eve. On reading them, Eve paled a little. Then her eyes darkened and lifted.
    “Where did you get these?”
    “One was left on the front stoop of the guest house. The other was slipped into my bag sometime last night.”
    “I’ll take care of it.” She pushed them into the pocket of her robe. “If you receive more, give them to me.”
    Slowly, Julia shook her head. “Not good enough. They were meant for me, Eve, so I’m entitled to some answers. Am I to consider them threats?”
    “I’d consider them more pitiful warnings issued by a coward.”
    “Who could have left one on the stoop?”
    “That’s something I have every intention of finding out.”
    “All right.” Julia had to respect the tone, and the gleam in Eve’s eyes. “Tell me this. Is there anyone besides Anthony Kincade who would be unnerved enough about this biography to write these notes?”
    Now Eve smiled. “Oh, my dear Julia. There are indeed.”

Eve didn’t often think of Tony, and that period of her life when she had enslaved herself to the darker side of sex. It had been, after all, only five years out of her sixty-seven. She had certainly made other mistakes, done other deeds, enjoyed other pleasures. It was the book, the project she had instigated, that had her reviewing her life in segments. Like pieces of film in an editing room. But with this drama she wasn’t about to let any clips end up on the cutting-room floor.
    All of it, she thought as she downed medication with mineral water. Every scene, every take. Damn the consequences.
    She rubbed the center of her forehead where the pain seemed to gather tonight like a bunched fist. She had time, enough time. She would make sure of it. Julia could be trusted to do the job—had to be trusted. Closing her eyes a moment, Eve willed the medication to kick in and gloss over the worst of the pain.
    Julia…. Concentrating on the other woman eased her as much as the drugs she took in secret. Julia was competent, quick-witted, packed with integrity. And compassion. Eve still wasn’t certain how she felt about seeing those tears. She hadn’texpected empathy, only shock and perhaps disapproval. She hadn’t expected to have her own heart twisted.
    That was her own arrogance, she reflected. She’d been so certain she could direct the writing of the script and have all the characters take up their assigned