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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.”
“Youuse 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?
Peopledidchange 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 ofGone 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.”
