The Broken Vow

Suspicion

Margaret was passing the guest room. Four weeks home already.

Then she heard a voice through the door.

"Yes. It's going well."

She stopped.

It was Christopher. His voice was flat and quick.

"No, nothing to worry about. Everything is going well."

A pause. Then a short laugh.

Margaret leaned closer, holding her breath. She waited for one more sentence, maybe her daughter's name or the family name. She wanted to prove to Rosalie that this man was up to no good. She moved closer. Unfortunately, her slipper came down on something that rolled.

An empty water bottle, left behind, shot across the tiles and knocked against the door. In that quiet house, it sounded like a plate breaking.

The voice stopped.

Margaret turned as fast as her stitches would let her and slipped into the alcove behind the tall flower vase. Her heart thumped against her wound. She heard the door yank open. She heard him step into the corridor and stand there, looking one way, then the other.

A long silence.

Then the door closed again, and a key turned in the lock.

Locked?

In her own daughter's house, a man was locking a door. Talking quietly.

She was still crouched behind the vase, trembling, when the front door opened downstairs and a tired sigh drifted up the staircase.

******

Rosalie came into the house and stepped out of her heels, one and then the other, wincing. She wore a green dress that had looked sharp at eight that morning. Now it looked as tired as she looked. Her hair was coming loose. Her eyes had the flat shine of a person who had been told no all day, in many different voices.

Margaret came down the stairs one careful step at a time and stopped at the bottom.

"Where is Alex? Tell your husband to come home now and throw this bastard out of this house!" Margaret ordered.

Rosalie shut her eyes. "Mom. I told you a hundred times. Alex is no longer part of this family. We're divorced, Mom. He is none of your business any longer." Her voice was tired, and under the tiredness it was hard. "I chose him, and now I choose Christopher. I decide who I'm with. I'm not a 13-year-old."

"That man is up to no good." Margaret's voice shook and echoed in the quiet house. She didn't care if Christopher heard her or not. "He will break your heart, Rosalie. He is not what you think he is."

"Oh, please." Rosalie sank onto the arm of the sofa. "I'm so tired of this. I haven't even sat down. I'm still begging two companies for attention. My business is crashing, my employees are resigning. I came home hoping for one quiet hour, and you can't even say welcome."

"You're becoming an ingrate. I didn't raise you like this."

The word hung in the air. Rosalie stared at her like she didn't know the woman standing there.

"You're misunderstanding everything, Mom."

"I am not!"

"You are, Mom. You can't just decide who he is. Did you expect me to spend the rest of my life with a maid?"

"The bastard you brought home, what help has he done for this family? For your business, Rosalie? Open your eyes!"

Rosalie sighed.

"If you marry this man," Margaret said slowly, "I will never support it. Not one day. Do you hear me?"

Tears slid down Rosalie's face, and she wiped them with the back of her wrist. She was angry, tired and frustrated. "Why? Why can't you just like him? Chris is kind. He's the one I wanted before I ever met Alex. What do you want from me, Mom?"

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Christopher came down in his shirtsleeves, unhurried, wearing a face of mild worry. He looked from one woman to the other.

"I heard raised voices. What's happening?"

He turned and gave Margaret a small nod. "Good evening, Ms. Hycent."

Margaret didn't answer. She didn't even blink.

He let the silence pass, as though it hadn't touched him, and went to Rosalie. His hand settled on her shoulder. "You've had a long day," he said quietly. "Come, sit properly. I'll get you some water."

It was that gentleness that broke something in Margaret.

"Don't touch her, you bastard." Her voice had dropped, which was worse than shouting. "Take your hand off my daughter."

"Ms. Hycent…" Christopher began, and Rosalie winced. "Mom."

"Liar." She said it clean and cold. "I heard you. Upstairs, behind that door. Who were you talking to? What is going well?"

Something crossed Christopher's face, there and gone. Then he smiled, patient and a little sad, the kind of smile you give a sick old woman.

"I think the medication is confusing you," he said softly. "I was speaking with my mother."

"I don't believe you. Son of a bitch."

"Mom, stop," Rosalie said.

"He locked the door, Rosalie. Ask him why a man locks a door in your house."

"It was a private call," Christopher said, still gentle, still reasonable. He looked at Rosalie. "I don't want to fight with your mother. She's only just come through surgery."

He would not take offense. He would not raise his voice. He just stood there being kind, and that kindness made Margaret look like the villain in her own living room.

Rosalie rose from the sofa and turned on her mother with something close to fury.

"Listen to yourself. Your marriage fell apart, so now you think every love ends in betrayal. Just because Dad left doesn't mean I'll end up alone. I'm not like you, Mom."

The room went still.

Margaret felt the words land low in her chest, past the stitches, in a place the surgeon had never reached. Daniel Hayes had left her with a name she had to hand back and a daughter who watched it all. And now that daughter was holding the wound up like a weapon.

She didn't shout. She straightened, and looked at Rosalie for a long time. It was the look of a woman memorizing a face.

"You will regret this," she said quietly. "You'll remember tonight, on the day you finally see what I saw."

She turned and climbed the stairs. One step. Another. Her knee shook, and she didn't let it show.

Neither of them called her back.

Rosalie sagged, tears sliding down. "I'm sorry."

"Shh. Calm down." He wiped her cheeks with his thumb, then lifted her into his arms, one hand pressed gently against her stomach. "There. So it won't hurt."

He carried her upstairs.