Do Us Part (The Dumont Diaries (#4)) (5 page)

He is doing well, his improvement holding steady, which only means he is toeing the right side of death’s line. I sit and hold his hand, my heart lifting when he opens his eyes and smiles at me.

“Go back to sleep,” I whisper. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“It’s not Wednesday,” he says in confusion.

I smile. “No. I’ll be here more often now. I’ll explain it later. Go to sleep.”

I
need
his sleep. I need to look over and see him in serenity while I make sense of the fucked up reality that is my new life. I feel Pam at my side and look up.

“Did something happen?” she asked, taking the seat to my right. “With you and Mr. Dumont? You both looked so happy in the Bahamas.” Her face is tight, and I realize that she has been living my fairytale right along with me, the tabloids her peephole into our world.

I sigh. “Yes.” I can’t generate much more conversation than that, and she takes her cue and lets me be.

I
turn my phone on, hoping for and then dreading the words that fill the screen. NEW MESSAGE. I call my voicemail, then lean back, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Candace. I am hoping you get this before you reach the hospital. Cecile … she doesn’t understand our agreement, and she doesn’t want me to continue the support of your father. She had me call Crestridge and pull the funding. I assure you, I will figure this out, and I will keep my promise to you. I just …”

There is a heavy blow of air into the phone, and I picture him, leaning back in his chair, his beautiful face a mess of frustration.

“I just can’t tell her no. Not right now, when she is finally back, and I can finally hold her again. I’m so sorry. But it’s like my world has suddenly returned, and I can’t do anything to jeopardize it right now. I’m sorry.”

I look at my screen, at the indicator, which tells me that his message is complete. I save the message for later — for when I need my heart to be reopened and stabbed a few more times as a reality check.

In a small way, I have expected this. She has such a hold over him, a hold that has only strengthened in her absence. In her mind, he is hers — his body, his home, his money. She will want him to cut all ties, won’t approve of his support of an old flame’s father. Flame was too strong of a word. An old fuck. That would be more apt.

I had expected this, and in anticipation of my demise, I took, for quite possibly the first time in my life, a step down the road of proper planning. Researching Cecile wasn’t the only thing I did at the library that day. I also took my passport and the piece of paper Drew had given me, with Jennifer’s social security number and the account number written neatly on its front. I knew the bank’s name; Nathan had me call and set up an appointment for us.

So there, using a courtesy phone in the library’s lobby, I used a prepaid long-distance calling card and called the bank, one day before our flight, and transferred some of the funds out of Jennifer’s account.

I didn’t take much, though
much
is such a relative term. It wasn’t much when you looked at the balance in the account, but it was a massive infusion to my old bank account — an account that had never carried a balance of more than four figures.

$4,500,000 — approximately half the interest that had accumulated in the account in the four years since Nathan’s big deposit. Despite the appearance to Nathan, the account
had
earned a healthy rate of return, allowing me to siphon off a large chunk without tipping him off.

Mr. Brantling was correct; the transfer was easily done by phone. I downloaded the appropriate forms, scanned in a copy of my passport, and had the item notarized by the receptionist. Fuck saving fifteen percent on car insurance in fifteen minutes. I became a millionaire in half that time.

I know what you’re thinking — that I am no better than her — both of us stealing from this man, using him for financial gain. But for me, it was simply an insurance policy. I had Nathan’s word that he would take care of my father. And I knew given the hold she had on him, that his word might not be enough. I needed to protect myself, needed to have a parachute in case I got ripped from the Dumont luxury jet. Three days ago I had gotten a small opportunity, a window that opened briefly, and I had to decide in that split second if I would take the opportunity or let it pass. Poor planning had always been my downfall. That one, single moment, I had wanted to make the right decision, wanted to do something that would turn my life in the correct direction, for my father and me. I could always give the money back, if things went right and Nathan kept his word. But I would never be able to recreate that opportunity. I would never have that chance again.

So I took it. I took the money, just like Cecile, just on a smaller scale. But unlike her, I didn’t run. I was pushed out that mansion’s door, with one hard shove by a tan, manicured hand.

I
check into a Residence Inn three blocks from Crestridge, and spend the first few days at my father’s side. He is overjoyed about the constant companionship, but seems worried, his watery eyes often on me, his mouth frowning without him even aware of it. When I look up, when I catch him watching, he straightens, fixes his mouth into a smile, and reaches out with a shaky hand to grip my knee.

I will tell him soon. I just can’t right now. It’s too soon, and I won’t be able to speak without sobbing.

Today is Monday. I’ll stop by Mr. Hinton’s office first, and then go to Dad. Friday, I went to a local branch of my bank, my old identification card in hand. I was escorted to a private office, and sat down across from a girl who looked to be five years my junior. I explained about the hospital payments that would be necessary, and asked about an increase to my debit card’s daily spending limit. She made a face as if that would be a problem, pulling up my account with quick efficiency.

Thirty seconds later, I was introduced to the bank president, and assured that they would do everything but move mountains to make me happy. I walked out of the bank with a fifty thousand dollar daily limit, and promises that I would receive a new credit card within twenty-four hours. I was also printed several counter checks, and told to give those to the hospital.

I pull into Crestridge, following the long, curved drive, my eyes picking up on all of the details that combine to create exorbitant billing. A huge gated estate with acres of gardens and rolling lawns, in an area known for high property values and ridiculous taxes, the security guard who waves me through with a familiar hand. The building, a complex that houses four floors of cutting-edge medical technology, a cafeteria that puts Ruth’s Chris to shame, and a patient-to-staff ratio that defies all financial logic.

The money has brought me peace. Without it, today would be my father’s last day, and I’d be having a conversation with him that admits my failure. Instead, I am able to fix the issue, and take over his fate with one smooth swipe of my pen over the signature line of a check. I park in front of the building and reach for my purse.

This trip to administration is infinitely less stressful, now that I know why I am going there. I am cheerfully greeted by a receptionist and ushered to Mr. Hinton’s office.

He looks up with a smile, taking off his glasses and standing to shake my hand.

“Mrs. Dumont, wonderful to see you again. I was so glad that this matter was resolved so quickly.”

I pause, halfway to my seat. “Resolved?”

He tilts his head, squinting at me slightly, the way a pigeon would when trying to determine if you are friend or foe. “Yes. I assumed you knew. Mr. Dumont called earlier. Made a payment on Mr. Tapers’s account.”

Nathan called. Granting my father a little more time. What a prince. I settle into the seat. “Well, I would like to take over the payment arrangements from this point forward. I brought a voided check, my bank says you can draft future payments from there.”

He shakes his head slightly. “There shouldn’t be any future payments. Mr. Dumont made a deposit that should cover at least three years worth of treatment.”

My mouth dropped open. “Three years?”

“Yes. It’s a little unorthodox, but should your father’s health improve to a level where he can leave, I assured him we would refund him the credit.”

I hate him for this
. I hate him for giving me another reason to love him. His financial abandonment had been proof of his unworthiness of my love. Now that that slight is restored, I have less to lean on, less to hold against him in the lonely night when my heart is weak.

I push my checkbook back into my purse, zipping it closed and standing. I feel deflated — my independence at taking over my father’s care drained. Also circling the drain is my ruined justification for skimming funds from Jennifer’s account. Nathan has kept his promise. I should be happy. But I feel sick, disgusted with the weakness of my heart and the inability of my mind to think of anything but him.

His mouth on mine.

His body over me, hands upon me, the trail of his fingers as they strum my body to exquisite pleasure.

His eyes when they soften and look at me like I am whole.

His voice when it grows gruff and intimate, when it says words that make me swoon.

I thank Mr. Hinton for his time, and stand, moving unsteadily down the hall toward the elevators.

D
ivorce, as it turns out, is a nasty bitch. Even with two parties willing to part ways, the dog and pony show that you perform is ridiculous. Counseling has been the biggest joke. Nathan and I both had to attend private sessions, the courts determining that two hours in the presence of a psychiatrist is enough to convince someone to change the course of their marriage’s fate. I don’t need a psychiatrist to convince me that I belong with Nathan. That, unfortunately, has already been decided by my stubborn mind.

Today is the group session — Dr. Bejanti, Nathan, and me. I’m sure Cecile wanted to attend, wanted to dig her manicured nails deep into Nathan’s arm and hiss possessively at me, pulling up her silicone-enhanced lips to reveal razor-sharp teeth.

I have threatened, bribed, and begged my soul to not be excited, to not look forward to seeing Nathan. It is unhealthy for me to continue to want him, to continue to need his touch, his stare, that flare in his eyes that tells me he wants to fuck
now
. But my heart doesn’t listen. It is pattering, it is quivering, it is jumping up and down in my chest and screaming “YES” when a black Range Rover pulls up to the office and he steps out. He is effortlessly pulled together in a blue polo, worn jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Casual Nathan. A side I haven’t often seen. A side that weighs down my pussy and causes a latent need inside of me to awaken. I look at the tinted passenger window, certain
she
is there, that she is the shadow moving behind the glass, and I am surprised she doesn’t come in, doesn’t stalk the waiting room and snatch him up the minute he steps out.

His tan arms tug open the door, and suddenly he is before me, his mouth curving into a smile, his arms reaching out, pulling me to him for a hug. “Hey Candy,” he whispers, and I melt against him.

It’s the smell that gets me — the scent of his cologne that takes me right back to every good memory I have. Standing there, my face buried in his shirt, his arm around my waist … I can close my eyes and be back as his wife. Which is humorous, considering we are stepping into divorce counseling. The thought jolts me back to the present and I step back. “Hello Nathan.”

Oh my God, my voice actually behaved.
Cool and confident, it doesn’t waver or squeak. I don’t sound like a besotted reject or a love-struck teen. I sound … casual. Unaffected. “Cecile’s not coming in?”

He watches me closely, unmoving, his blue eyes on mine. “No,” he says finally. “She’s going to wait in the truck.”

I nod and sit, glance at my watch, the Tag Heuer that I couldn’t stop myself from putting on this morning.

He sits next to me, too close, the scent of him undoing me, causing my eyes to involuntarily close, my body to lean … I straighten, open my eyes, and reach for my phone, scrolling through it in an attempt to appear busy.

“How are you?” He leans in, putting his arm around the back of my chair, his fingers running gently over my arm. I start at the contact, turning to look at his hand, the strong fingers of it playing gently with my soul.

“What are you doing? Stop touching me,” I snap.

He shoots me a wounded look, withdrawing his arm and checking his own watch. “Sorry,” he mutters. “You don’t have to act like it — ”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dumont?” The man before us is Indian, short and round, with a face that beams, wire glasses tight against round cheeks.

We stand in unison, Nathan gesturing for me to go ahead, and we follow the man to his office.

It is a small office, probably designed to force the sparring couple closer, as if less space can overcome irrevocable differences. In my case, it works perfectly. Any proximity to Nathan causes me to swoon like some bad heroine in an 19
^th
century romance novel.