Broken Heart Attack Read online

  As I tapped my fingers on the diner's dusty table, I considered my options. If I stood my ground, Myriam would continue to itemize everything she'd felt was an influential enough reason to push me out of Braxton. If I let her obnoxious attitude roll off my shoulders like it meant nothing, she might eventually tire and bore of chiding me every moment of every day. Before I acted too severely, it'd be beneficial to have my first official meeting with Ursula to understand her perspective on the situation.

  Eleanor agreed to drop Emma off at our parents on her way home since our mother was remaining in for the evening. Our father had an out of town golf game that weekend which meant our mother planned to curl up with the latest regency romance novel from her favorite author—her sister, Deirdre.

  A few minutes later, I pulled into the South Campus parking lot and grabbed the printed course outlines and film suggestions from my briefcase. As I entered Paddington's Play House, someone shouted terse stage directions at the actors and loudly dropped a prop. It sounded like something made of glass when I heard the earth-shaking shatter as it hit the stage. I ambled around the lobby hoping whatever commotion was stirring up inside the theater would settle down.

  Paddington's Play House had been built by Charles, Millard, and Eustacia's father in the late 1940s while his children were young. None of the other colleges had a theater program or entertainment venues, and the Paddingtons were determined to always be first in every endeavor. Built in the shape of a large octagon that resembled Shakespeare's Globe Theater, it seated up to one-thousand guests. Unlike the original Globe Theater, there was no standing room. A large cathedral ceiling with reclaimed wood beams, antique gilded and cushioned seats, and plastered walls painted an ivory white offered a charming and bespoke atmosphere. The college played four shows a year, one of which was always a Shakespearean production to properly celebrate the Bard.

  I admired the inlayed, two-toned natural wood flooring as I descended into the seating area hoping the ruckus had died down. Arthur and Myriam attempted to co-direct several reticent actors on stage. They both waved their hands furiously and stomped across the narrow expanse demonstrating what the actors should've been doing. I was too far away to hear their words or see the expressions on their faces, but it was obvious they provided contradictory direction.

  Two female voices startled me from the corner. A dark brunette in designer jeans and low-cut red blouse said, “He told me how pretty I looked earlier. I think maybe I have a chance.”

  “Get out. He's too old for you, Dana. Why would you be interested in him?” the thin, taller girl with a pasty complexion and nasal voice replied. She'd pulled her neon-green hair up under a baseball cap and was dressed in a pair of old, ratty sweats.

  Dana said, “I know he's not exactly the hottest guy and he might be a little on the older side, but he's hilarious. And he knows so many famous people.” She swooned as she spoke, then looked toward the stage. As her head turned, she caught sight of me.

  I nodded in her direction. “Excuse me, would you know when they'll take a break? I need to drop something off for Myriam Castle.”

  “Ugh, you better wait until she's done. Dr. Castle doesn't like to be interrupted,” Dana said.

  “We're about ready to do a scene change. I'm the set designer, Yuri,” the girl wearing the sweats replied. Now I understood why she looked more casual than the rest. “She's Dana. You are?”

  I remembered seeing the name Dana on Arthur Terry's cell phone earlier. Could she have been talking about having a crush on Arthur? Dana could barely have been nineteen or twenty-years-old, and he was my age. “Kellan Ayrwick. I'm one of the professors here at Braxton.”

  “Awesome sauce. Let's head up together. They'll be done by the time we get to the front. Just wait in the front row until I climb on stage to change the set,” Yuri said.

  Dana followed. “I'm handling props for the show. I'm not an actress, but I love everything about the theater.” Her bouncy walk and flashy grin demonstrated vast excitement over working on the show.

  “You must be a student at Braxton?” I asked remembering Myriam had indicated everyone who worked on the play had to be a current or former Braxton attendee. They'd first casted any performers and hired all back-of-the-house roles from currently enrolled students. If there was a special need or talent not in existence at the school, they'd solicit help from alumni.

  “Sophomore. Studying drama and psychology. I want to work on Broadway one day, but my parents forced me to take something practical as a back-up. It's not like I'll ever need to get a real job. My family's loaded,” Dana said shrugging her shoulders.

  She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. “What did you say your last name was?”

  “Um, Taft, but my mother's family has the money. You must know the Paddingtons. They own this place,” Dana said with a slew of pretentiousness that hadn't gone unnoticed by either of us.

  That's why she looked familiar. She had the same patrician face and narrow jawline as Eustacia and Millard. “I've met a few of your family members. What branch do you hail from?”

  “Grandmother is Gwendolyn Paddington. Grandfather passed away last year, but my parents are still around. Do you know Richard and Ophelia Taft? The grand dame is named for Grandmother's favorite Shakespearean character.” Dana leaned against the side wall while Yuri scattered toward the stage once the scene finished.

  “I saw your grandmother earlier today. She was visiting my nana,” I replied. If Dana was related to Gwendolyn, she might be one of the family members possibly trying to do away with the difficult matriarch. “You must spend a lot of time with your grandmother, too?”

  Dana rolled her eyes, but she'd never be able to compete with me. I was king of that move. “Grandmother is hard to take. She cares more about what things look like than what's under the surface, you know what I mean?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Different generations, I suppose. They expect all the skeletons in our closets to stay hidden. I heard she's not been feeling too well lately.” I wasn't convinced anyone had been trying to kill Gwendolyn, but it wouldn't hurt to poke around.

  “She is kind of old. Ever since Grandfather passed away, she's gotten worse. Grandmother keeps reminding everyone she's paying for this whole show.” Dana seemed like a typical college girl with a large chip on her shoulder. Kids her age thought anyone over forty was old. Wait until she started to see the world without rose-colored glasses.

  “Are you worried about something happening to her?” I asked.

  “She's a tough old bird, but yesterday she could barely get through brunch. Everything tires her out quickly in the last few weeks,” Dana said while adjusting the straps on her blouse and checking her reflection in a compact mirror. “Looks like they're done on stage.”

  As Dana marched up the stairs, Myriam waved me over. “Don't just stand around making me wait. Do you have the course outlines?”

  After handing them to her, I said, “How's the show going?” Tomorrow's dress rehearsal would only be open to family and select faculty. Students were on Spring Break this week, but if they were involved in the theater, they had to stay on campus.

  “Like a root canal without any pain relief. I never should have hired Arthur Terry, but like other people around here, he was forced upon me.” Myriam slid her tortoise-shell glasses an inch down her nose, pointedly stared at me, then sighed. Even the ruffles on her royal-blue blouse seemed to fluster.

  “Is Arthur a bad director? We went to high school together, you know,” I said ignoring her dig about how I'd gotten my job at Braxton. She took every opportunity to belittle me or my family.

  “He's new to the role. Actors often think they can easily transition from in front of the camera to behind the camera. His Broadway experience is lackluster.” Myriam walked away from me and descended the stairs. “Don't dally, follow me.”

  I had a gnawing urge to mock her as I trailed behind but decided to set a good example in case anyone was watching. As Myri
am sat in the front row, I noticed Dana cornering Arthur on the opposite side of the venue. She'd placed her hand on his right arm and soon began to rub his shoulder. The girl was on a mission, but Arthur didn't appear highly responsive or remotely interested.

  “If you didn't hire Arthur, who did?” I asked.

  “Gwendolyn Paddington insisted I offer him the opportunity. Some people don't understand the value of hard work and earning their positions.” Myriam pulled a red marker from her briefcase and crossed out items on the outlines I'd given to her. “No, no. This won't do. You need to be more creative.” As the ink bled on the paper like a murder scene, her forehead wrinkled in spades.

  “Gwendolyn's always been active in the arts like her father-in-law from what I understand. She assumed responsibility as the patron of Paddington's Play House when he died.” She'd also been a savagely brutal and vocal art and theater critic before retiring several years earlier.

  “She's one to put her nose where it doesn't belong.” Myriam stared at me waiting for a response. When I didn't share one, she said, “We're done. Expect feedback on Tuesday. You may leave.”

  I had little energy to argue with the monster and chose to say my goodbye. As I walked down the center aisle, a pale and disheveled Arthur joined me. “Ugh, those Paddingtons are truly going to drive me insane. I can't win with any of them. One day they'll be begging me to do something for them instead of the other way around.” He pulled at his hair and sneered as we entered the lobby.

  “It sounds like things aren't going so well with the show. I'm sorry to hear it,” I said to Arthur hoping empathy might calm him down.

  “If it's not Dana playing her little games or Gwendolyn thinking she can control me, it's the confusion with that other one. And on top of it all, I can't find any way to win with that witch, Myriam. I should never have come back home,” Arthur grunted.

  I couldn't agree with him more about returning to Braxton if I'd tried to. Which other Paddington was causing him trouble? “Myriam mentioned Gwendolyn insisted you take this job. I would've thought you were on good terms.”

  Arthur laughed wildly as he opened the door to step outside. “Maybe a long time ago, but not after what she did to me. I'm gonna take a cigarette break before I do something I regret. Is it a bad thing that all I dream about is squeezing my hands around Gwendolyn Paddington's neck until her every breath has expired?”

  Chapter 3

  After my trip to Paddington's Play House, Emma and I ate dinner and settled in for a movie. Emma convinced my mother to give up reading Aunt Deirdre's latest romance novel about Casanova and his voluptuous lover, Torrentia, who was dying of consumption, and instead watch an animated film about dogs ruling the world. An hour later, I lost count of how many times Emma inquired if we could get a puppy. We only convinced her to stop asking us once my mother agreed to make ice cream sundaes. Emma wasn't a big dessert connoisseur like me, but she loved butterscotch crunch. After I tucked my best girl into bed, I fell asleep dreaming about giant dogs headlining an astoundingly different production of King Lear. Even Myriam was present in the strange oddity, barking and all, as a wrinkled Shar-Pei playing the Fool advising Gwendolyn's Dalmatian version of Lear.

  On Sunday morning, while my mother took Emma with her to church, I went for a run at Grey Sports Complex, Braxton College's sprawling athletic facility. As I ran the third loop around the indoor track, I remembered that I'd forgotten to re-schedule dinner with Maggie Roarke, my ex-girlfriend from college days. We'd recently met up again and were supposed to get together last Tuesday, but once Francesca showed up, I'd canceled citing the need for a couple more days to get Emma settled. Maggie asked me to call her this weekend to pick a new date. I hadn't done it yet, but I also no longer knew what I should do since Francesca was alive. Again, I stress a need for a handbook on dating protocols when you have a dead-not-so-dead spouse.

  My mother-in-law and I had planned for Francesca to arrive this morning at ten o'clock. Since my mother would be at church and a subsequent banquet celebrating Lent, and my father wasn't coming home from his trip until late afternoon, it'd give us the entire house to ourselves to discuss the situation. I finished the run, showered, and arrived home as their limo pulled up. Cecilia and Francesca slipped through the back door and met me in the living room. Francesca lagged behind a bit.

  When Francesca and I had met in California, she had long, flowing jet-black hair and wore makeup in muted, natural colors. With her new appearance, she'd cut her hair into a short bob, dyed it an interesting platinum blonde, and wore brash pinks and reds on her face. Even her clothing was different. She truly was a whole new woman, but not one I found as attractive. I didn't mean strictly in terms of beauty and sex appeal. Francesca's attitude seemed colder, more distant.

  “How was New York?” I asked reaching for her hand as we sat on the couch.

  “It was fun. I didn't get out much, but it felt good to see another city again.” Francesca turned to her mother and said nervously, “Can you give us a little time alone?”

  Cecilia agreed. “We only have forty-five minutes before we need to leave for the airport. I'll make a cup of tea in the kitchen.” As she left the room, her overly sweet perfume lingered in the air. I'd always hoped she'd explore something other than Chanel Number Five, but Cecilia Castigliano was a creature of habit worthy of Mario Puzo's Vito Corleone.

  When Francesca smiled, memories of our past flooded back. “Did you miss me?” she asked.

  What kind of a question was that? I'd missed her for two years, three months, and fourteen days. Did she mean since I'd found out she was alive earlier that week? Since the day I saw what I thought was her dead body? Since I cradled our daughter and wiped away her tears every night for a month upon learning her mother had been killed?

  “I don't know how to answer that question. Of course, I do, but where do we go from here?” I held myself back from saying too much too quickly. Staring at her nostalgic and hopeful face only made it hurt worse.

  “I've apologized many times, Kellan. I had little choice in what my father did. If I try to resume my previous identity, they'll be too much damage. Not only will the Vargas family kill me, but they'll go after you and Emma, my parents, and anyone I know as part of their revenge.” Several tears cascaded down her withdrawn cheeks in painfully slow motion. As I stared into the new blue color of her weary eyes, I sighed. She asked, “Do you still love me?”

  I had given so much thought to how I felt since her return, but as awful as it sounded, would it be better to continue pretending for Emma's sake that her mother had truly died? Francesca inched closer to me and tickled my forearm the way she'd do every night before bed to relax me. There was still an intense connection, but it was enveloped by fear and apprehension. Would I always need to look over my shoulder to protect myself from what the Castiglianos had done? “I will never stop loving you. But how do we make this work?”

  After we discussed various options and talked about how much Emma had grown, Francesca said, “I have to fly back to LA today. I want you to come with me… we can figure out a solution… maybe run away together. Or we can live together in secret in my parents' house… when Emma's old enough, we can tell her the truth. My father has to find a way to end this war so I can come out of hiding.”

  I started to respond, but Cecilia stepped back into the room. “You know that will never be an option, bella. There are still many members of the Vargas family who are alive and angry they couldn't exact revenge against us the way they wanted to. A few don't believe you were accidentally killed by their driver. They don't see your death as a proper balance to everything.”

  I stood from the couch and reflected on the six years I had with Francesca before our happy world ceased to exist. All the parties we'd attended with my Hollywood colleagues. The quiet nights at home watching Emma sleep in her crib. The romantic, moonlit walks to the beach. Then I recalled the sleepless nights after Francesca died. The dark night I spent trying to understand h
ow a drunk could get behind the wheel of a car and kill another human being. Or the tears I kissed on Emma's face the first day of school when the teacher asked why her mommy wasn't dropping her off anymore.

  “Francesca, I can't do this to Emma. She can't be forced to keep secrets and live a life in hiding.” Emma was undoubtedly my priority in all this chaos.

  “I can't give up ever seeing her again, Kellan. We have a perfect solution back in LA. I can watch her grow up, and maybe one day in the future, I'll be able to actually talk to her.” When Francesca began to sob, it was Cecilia who comforted her. I wanted to hold my wife, but I held back.

  “We should go. Let's give Kellan time to come to the right decision. He'll return to LA, I'm certain of it. He's in shock, bella.” Cecilia patted her daughter's back and offered me a cold, angry stare.

  “I promise to give this some thought. How can I reach you, Francesca?” I asked knowing I could never abandon my family. As much as they frustrated me, I couldn't say goodbye to Nana D, my parents, Eleanor, or other siblings even if it meant I could be with Francesca again.

  “You can't,” Cecilia said sharply before ushering my wife toward the back door. “I expect you to return to LA soon, Kellan. You have two weeks to figure this out before I make the decision for you.”

  Before I could object, they snuck out the garage door and into the waiting limo. I could've stopped them, but I was too distressed thinking about all the pressure and the veiled threat of a decision being made for me. I paced the floor for at least ten minutes searching for a compromise, but nothing seemed plausible. In a moment of sheer frustration, I grabbed the door handle ready to pull the entire door off its hinges, but Emma's voice stopped me.

  “We're home, Daddy. I brought you a red velvet cupcake,” she said while running up to hug me. I basked in her innocence and love before she bounded up the steps to her room raving about a new cartoon someone had discovered at the church banquet.