What’s Not True: A Novel Read online

  PRAISE FOR WHAT’S NOT SAID

  “Taylor’s dialogue is snappy and contemporary. . . . A witty and often amusing marriage drama.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “In this dramatic tale of love, lust, and lies, author Valerie Taylor crafts an entertaining and gripping story…a shocking novel full of secrets, twists, and turns, but it also has elements of pure humor and deep love. If I had to pick one word to describe What’s Not Said, it would be the word ‘captivating.’”

  —Readers’ Favorite

  “What’s Not Said is highly recommended for women who look for not just stories of marital relationships, but the unexpected revelations that revolve around life purpose and the immortality of love.”

  —Midwest Book Reviews

  “What’s Not Said is oh-so-clever at illustrating the unintended consequences of secrets. Valerie Taylor’s characters face a tangle of events and emotions that keep the reader turning pages!”

  —Joan Cohen, author of Land of Last Chances

  “Wonderfully entertaining! You’ll find yourself rooting for the main character from the beginning as she finds herself divided by mixed loyalties and her own desires. Taylor has written a sharp-witted and fun story, so grab a seat, buckle in and enjoy!”

  —Marianne Lile, author of Stepmother: A Memoir

  What’s

  Not True

  Copyright © 2021, Valerie Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2021

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-157-1

  E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-158-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021905129

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This sequel to What’s Not Said is dedicated to

  Ayse, Lyn, and Vicki . . .

  for making this book, and my dreams, come true.

  A List of Chapters

  In honor of Kassie

  1. Say Cheese

  2. Mommy Dearest

  3. Splitting the Difference

  4. Let the Games Begin

  5. C Stands For

  6. Getting to Know . . . Him

  7. Taking Care of Business

  8. Duck, Duck, Goose

  9. Memory Lane

  10. Putting Off the Put-off

  11. Climb Every Mountain

  12. Magic Moments

  13. Hello Dolly

  14. Ticketless in Boston

  15. Queen for a Day

  16. Lunch with Tiffany

  17. Crossing That Bridge

  18. Come Again?

  19. What’s Fair Is Fair

  20. Eyes Opened Wide

  21. Where There’s a Will

  22. Men and Directions

  23. Mother, Please

  24. Tea for Two Times Two

  25. As Luck Would Have It

  26. Timing Is Everything

  27. Nobody Loves Me

  28. There’ll Always Be Paris

  29. Culture Shock

  30. Once a Gentleman

  31. Parlez-vous Français?

  32. What’d She Say?

  33. What’s Age Got to Do with It?

  34. Father and Son Reunion

  35. The Forgiven

  36. Movin’ On

  37. Who’s Who

  38. Home Sweet Home

  39. Breaking News

  40. You’re Not the Boss of Me

  41. Initial Reactions

  42. Words Matter

  43. Cecilia’s Back

  44. Whose House Is It Anyway?

  45. Her Just Desserts

  46. Under Lock and Key

  47. Déjà Vu All Over Again

  48. Guest Wish List

  49. She Is What She Is

  Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.

  —Aldous Huxley

  Truths and roses have thorns about them.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.

  —Soren Kierkegaard

  Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t goin’ away.

  —Elvis Presley

  1

  Say Cheese

  We should’ve stayed in Venice. For once, Kassie kept her thoughts to herself and planted both feet on the bottom of the private water taxi Chris had arranged to take them to Marco Polo Airport. Quite the balancing act for a woman with a reputation for opening her mouth and inserting her foot without much forethought.

  The challenge of booking a hotel room should’ve been the first clue that going to Paris in July was a bad idea. The second should have been how difficult it was to get there in the first place. Kassie suggested they take a Thello night train, but trains from Venice to Paris at any hour that Saturday were filled to overcapacity. When she checked flights, she stumbled on two seats on a late morning flight that would land them midafternoon. Perfect timing. The goal was to get to the hotel by dark. They had fireworks on their minds.

  “Sei fortunato. La domando ha guidato l’offerta,” the fellow at the airline ticket counter said.

  Kassie’s eyes begged Chris to translate.

  “We’re fortunate. Demand drove supply.” Chris fed her the words, as usual. “They’ve added flights.” When he smiled at her, she melted as she did in their early years.

  After landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport, they grabbed their carry-ons and found the Uber driver Chris had scheduled. That was the easy part. The ride into the center of the city was ten times as tedious as normal as the driver meandered through the narrow cobblestoned alleyways, avoiding as much as possible the gridlocked thoroughfares and army of traffic cops, who battled to instill calm among chaos.

  “What a cluster,” Kassie said under her breath, not wanting to annoy the Frenchman, be branded an ugly American, or have Chris accidentally hear what she’d said and interpret it for what she really meant.

  If he had, she’d blame the sea of raucous Parisians and wine-fueled tourists that swarmed the boulevards and sidewalks or the rank smell of diesel fuel and car exhaust as the final proof that Paris wasn’t always the best idea.

  “Vous êtes courageux,” the driver said. “Coupe du monde demain!”

  “World Cup tomorrow!” Kassie and Chris shouted in unison. That explained it. Had they been so into each other the night before they’d forgotten what else was happening in the world? Seemed so.

  In any normal year, Paris in July was mayhem but manageable, with the Tour de France and Bastille Day celebrations. Add France playing in the World Cup finals? Mon Dieu.

  Chris wrapped his arm around Kassie’s shoulder. “I don’t know, I think being fortunate and brave in one day is a good thing.” He
leaned in and kissed her cheek. “A sign, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Perhaps you were fortunate to have found me alone last night,” Kassie said with a slight shove of her shoulder into his chest.

  “And you’re the brave one to take another chance on me,” Chris whispered in her ear.

  Kassie turned and gazed out the car window. The squabble that ensued between her heart and her mind prevented her from noticing the quaint and bustling neighborhood bars, cafés, bookstores, and wine shops they passed. Preoccupied, she wondered whether their time in Paris would launch Kassie and Chris 2.0, or would it be a summer pilot that would be cancelled once they returned to Boston and their attempt at reconciliation became a reality shitshow.

  Paris was easy. Three thousand four hundred and thirty-five miles away from home, they were free to take up where they’d left off a year ago with no ramifications. Lovers, albeit with a past. A past they’d swept aside the night before in her hotel room in Venice. But second chance? Not so sure. Not so fast.

  Chris had caught her off guard. She’d had no time to assess the situation, to make a list of the pros and cons of going round two with him. He didn’t even ask. She didn’t say no. Would she have if he had?

  Once the driver pulled up to Hotel de Fais de Beaux Rêves, Chris jumped out and ran to open the car door for her. She interlaced her fingers with his, as she had in bed last night, and stepped out of her comfort zone and into unforeseen territory. Before her trip to Venice, she’d taken the year to demonstrate her total commitment to the company, to her boss, and to the board. No more distractions, she’d promised herself. Achieving the gold ring at the top of the corporate ladder had replaced the possibility of a lifetime with Chris.

  And then he showed up uninvited. In St. Mark’s Square of all places. Pandemonium exploded inside of her. Maybe if she hadn’t been sitting in the same café where she’d met him six years before, she would’ve had the strength to rebuff him. Flashbacks blurred her ability to think logically. His piercing blue eyes fixed on hers dismantled any strength she had to tell him this, whatever this was, would not be a good idea. She feared if she blinked, he’d be gone. And truth was, she didn’t want it to be a dream and had touched his hand, almost pinching him.

  Kassie thought she’d buried the memories. Damn it. Where was Bad Kassie when she needed her alter ego to stand firm—or sit firm, as it were—and reject the game Chris and her best friend, Annie, conspired to play?

  “Let it be,” he’d said. So she gave in, letting the magic of Venice reawaken her desire and longing for him.

  Last night under the covers, Chris had suggested moving their reunion from Venice to Paris. A fresh start, he proclaimed. Kassie agreed, though sensing she was losing control. Fast. Of herself and the situation. She’d surrendered to Chris, to Annie—co-conspirators at the top of their game—when her plan was to be on top of hers.

  That’s how she found herself in Paris.

  As Chris grabbed their roller bags and slapped the driver on the back, Kassie stood like a statue gawking at the faded green splintered doorway and sorrowful facade of the hotel.

  “Doesn’t look like they’ve painted since the Revolution.” Kassie bit her lip.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Chris nudged her toward the entryway.

  “Less than twenty-fours?”

  “What’s less than—”

  “Spouting proverbs already?”

  “That’s your gig, Kassie, not mine. Just saying, we’re lucky again. Lucky we’ve snagged a place to stay at all. If it doesn’t work, we’ll try somewhere else.”

  Kassie had called her assistant, Vicki, late Friday night and didn’t have to beg her for help finding a place to stay in Paris. Always the resourceful one, Vicki phoned her counterpart in the local office of Calibri Marketing Group. Didn’t matter it was in the middle of the night; global partners ignored time zones. Vicki’s contact found a room for them at a centrally located Saint-Germain hotel.

  Vicki peppered Kassie with questions about the change in her vacation plans.

  “You’re with Chris? How’d that happen?”

  “A setup. Between him and Annie. What are friends for?”

  “You okay with that?”

  “What? Their grand plan, or being here with Chris?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “They gave me no choice. It is what it is.”

  “A new beginning maybe? And Paris, the City of Love, Kassie. Ooh la la!”

  “We’ll see. Nothing’s changed. I’m just taking one day at a time.”

  “Is Chris?”

  “Ciao,” Kassie said.

  “It’ll be au revoir in France. Don’t be confused. Think before you speak. Remember where you are.”

  Kassie signed off knowing exactly where she was. And who she was. Neither time nor country would change the past. Twenty-four hours ago, a future with Chris appeared inconceivable. Now, that impossibility faded like the doorway of the Sweet Dreams Hotel.

  “This is a first, you know?” Kassie said, turning toward Chris.

  “For what?”

  “We’ve never checked into a hotel together as a couple before,” Kassie whispered as her eyes widened, yet blind to the vaulted ceiling and rich antique interior of the lobby.

  “Passports, si’l vous plaît.”

  The clerk opened their passports and announced Kassandra O’Callaghan, Christopher Gaines aloud.

  Kassie swiped her damp forehead and tapped her fingers on the mahogany reception desk. Oh, God. They weren’t married. Would that be a problem?

  “We’re in France. Relax,” Chris mumbled, standing to her left and giving her a reassuring squeeze around her waist.

  I’m having an affair with my husband’s son, and he’s telling me to relax. Kassie hoped the clerk wasn’t a mind reader.

  She reached for the gondola necklace Chris had a jeweler craft for her more than a year ago, pressing her lips together as she remembered she’d left it home, swapping it for her Moissanite solitaire pendant when the gondola came to symbolize a wish she’d assumed would never come true.

  I’m having an affair with my husband’s son. Kassie continued praying the clerk didn’t have Superman powers and couldn’t see the invisible crown of thorns she’d worn for more than a year bearing those words. A mere scarlet letter would’ve fallen far short of describing what she had done. And what letter would it be? A for adulteress? C for cougar? S for stepmother?

  Oh, no. The clerk looked at her and then at her passport. Had she said the words out loud?

  “Is something wrong?” The saliva in Kassie’s mouth vanished like the onset of a tsunami. She tried to lick her lips. Nothing. She rummaged in her purse for ChapStick.

  “No, no, Madame. Or is it Mademoiselle?”

  “Madame,” Chris interjected, saving Kassie from having to answer.

  When Kassie’s eyes hit the floor, she noticed the exquisite Persian rug she’d been standing on, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “We have a message for you, Madame. An envelope.” The clerk disappeared.

  “What’s wrong?” Chris said.

  “You have to ask? What if he knows?” She gulped.

  “Knows what?”

  “Who you are. Who we are. I don’t even know if I’m a mademoiselle or a madame.”

  “Standing here, you’re a madame. Upstairs, you’re my mademoiselle.” He winked.

  The clerk handed Kassie a light green envelope. She stared at it and stuffed it in her purse.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Chris accepted the room key from the clerk and led Kassie to the stairs.

  “Later. Probably a snarky welcome note from Vicki. She’s the only one who knows I’m here.”

  “Or Annie.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I emailed her. She wanted to know about Venice. If the flamingo had landed.”

  “Really? You two have become rather chummy.”

  “I needed someone to talk to. You don’t
have a problem with that, do you?”

  “I’ll think about it. But a flamingo? Am I a code word now?”

  “It’s her idea. She feared someone had kidnapped Bad Kassie. Have you been keeping your head in the sand lately?”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. Bad Kassie is on hiatus. Keeping her head down, but not out. She’ll be back when the time is right.”

  They gasped for breath and laughed as they reached the fifth floor, neither willing to admit how they’d struggled to get there.

  “Wow. If this is the last room they had available, I’d like to see the others,” Chris said.

  Kassie flipped on the antique chandelier, tossed her purse on the floral slipcovered Queen Anne chair, and twirled. “It’s beautiful.”

  She flung open a door to a modern full-size bathroom. “Look! A shower and a tub. Imagine that!”

  “But is there a toilet?”

  “Ah, yes! And toilet paper too!”

  Chris ran his hand across the light blue French provincial drop-leaf desk in the far corner of the room.

  “Don’t get any ideas. No work while we’re here, you hear?” Kassie walked up behind Chris and wrapped her arms around him.

  “You’re right. This week is about you and me. No distractions from me, I promise.” Chris turned and kissed her forehead.

  “We have a great view. Look.” Kassie pulled away, opened the French doors, and walked onto a small deck with a round wrought iron table and two chairs. The aroma of freshly baked bread wrestled with the box of pink, purple, and white geraniums on the railing of the deck. The bread won.

  “I’m starved.”

  “Me too, Mademoiselle.”

  An hour later, Kassie was sure she’d died and gone to heaven. The boulangerie across the street, not Chris, was the source of her desire. Confident she was onto something before they were otherwise occupied, they followed her nose and discovered croissants of every variety imaginable. Baguettes to die for. And melt-in-your-mouth chocolate bread, reminding her of the bread she and Annie pigged out on every day when they’d vacationed in Saint-Martin.

  A few doors down, the distinctive smell of fresh cheese was too delicious to ignore. A quick stop at the fromagerie and then the wine shop was all they needed for the perfect late lunch on the intimate porch off their hotel room.