Cooking with A$$

Cooking With... A$$

Twice-baked lyin' wife

We're running out of places for these wives to scurry off to for prolonged periods of time. Being in the food business, this idea came to me... with a little twist.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

[Copyright 2025, all rights reserved, including section 107 of US and international copyright law. Conversion of this work to audio file is strictly prohibited]

The kids had been extremely loud and talkative over dinner. I just looked around the table, cautious and curious. My wife rarely cooked my favorite on a Tuesday night and, of late, it was rare on any night. Roasted lamb loin with her special rub, lots of tarragon and thyme, a gem lettuce salad, the filet mignon of greens, roasted Parisienne potatoes in duck fat, and blistered garlic green beans.

If this sounds over the top, it is. Amanda, Mandy to friends and family, wasn't just my wife; she was a locally renowned chef.

The kids went off to do homework. Melodie, our daughter, was the troubled one. She was always more creative and had difficulty focusing on her studies. When I say troubled, I mean she was antsy, always on the move. At fifteen, I was starting to look ahead towards college and wondered if Mandy and I could reel her in, even get her GPA to a point where she'd be prepared for it.

Mark, at twelve, was a different story. Like me, he loved math and science. I'm Charles Dickenson, Chuck to my friends and family. I took a lot of heat over my name for my entire life. I thought as an adult it would end, but you'd be surprised by how many people don't know the name of that famous author.

While my wife is well-known around town, I'm an everyday accountant who jumped from a small local firm to a more prestigious one. We call a suburb of Detroit home, although much of Mandy's time is spent in the city. She regularly appears on the local television affiliate morning show, having a food segment whenever there's a holiday upcoming or just for summer barbecue ideas.

While my annual salary still exceeds hers, Mandy is no food service sloth. Her first concept restaurant, 'Motor City Tacos', became an instant hit. Oddly, the next one, called 'Taco Shack Stack', sent the concept straight to the top using clever packaging and marketing. The take-out 'stack' kept the food hot, the shells crispy, and separate from the other side dishes.

With the money we made when Mandy sold it to an investment firm that I had recommended, we bought our first home in a nice neighborhood and put some money aside for the kids' future education.

"Can we talk for a minute, Babe?" Mandy asked, somewhat tentatively. Most men dread those words, but I didn't. Mandy and I were a great couple; we were good together, almost always on the same page, and deeply in love. I made to give my undivided attention.

"I got an interesting call today," she began. "About a culinary... contest." She looked increasingly nervous as I raised an eyebrow.

"They are looking for participants," her voice level dropping. I was becoming worried. "Actually, contestants."

"Just spill it, Mandy," I could no longer take it.

"Sorry, all right," she shifted in her chair. "Chef Ron Silverman is hosting it."

"That knob, who screams at all the chefs on TV?" I asked incredulously. She hated that pompous pretender. Then it hit me.

"Participants?" I asked skeptically. "A contest? You're talking about some TV culinary game show, aren't you? They want contestants. Why are we even talking about this?"

She squirmed some more. "I want to do it," she said like a little mouse. "There's some... rivalry - a lot of local chefs from around the country. I'd be competing against Becca Quaide and Thomas Massey, that guy from Miami. He's no Thomas Keller, but he's up and coming. Also, some hotshot who's setting Chicago ablaze. Even Tyler Phillips will be there."

That last bit made me sit up straighter. "Wait a sec," I said, glaring at her. "You once told me Tyler Phillips was a moron, a crappy chef and a womanizer. Now you want to compete against him on a game show?"

"It's not just him, Chuck," she pointed out. "It's competing against some of the best chefs in the country. Yeah, he's an asshole, but he has restaurant concepts all over Texas. You know he started in Dallas, but he has top eateries in Austin and San Antonio."

We were quiet for a minute. "Why are you being so weird about it?" I had to ask.

"Because." Mandy replied quickly, "There's more to it. The show, well, is on a semi-private island in the Caribbean. They're calling it "Cooking your ass off" or something like that. The chefs will compete in beachwear... and very little of it."

That shocked me, and I knew Mandy could tell because a pained expression formed on her face. I tried to picture the other chefs she'd mentioned. The first was that damned Becca Quaide.

She was something to behold, that one. The hottest chef in the Seattle market, with the deep blue eyes and a camera presence far exceeding my own wife, not that I'd ever say that out loud. The men Mandy mentioned were also quite handsome and in good shape. Probably all that ancient grain they stuffed into their pieholes.

Mandy fit the bill, alright. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why they'd contacted her. My wife was a 5' 7" brunette with perky mid-sized boobs with nipples that pointed straight up at the sun. I always preferred it when they pointed at the moon. She had that super thin waist that curved into 'just slightly too big' hips and thin, attractive legs.

"What do you mean, very little?" I came back to the here and now.

"A bikini, Chuck," she said as if irritated. "We'll be doing a lot of the cooking outdoors. Beach stuff. That's all I know."

"And you didn't think to ask more specifics?" I was pushing her then. I wasn't going to deny her this opportunity, but something about the way she was telling... asking... irked me.

"No," she said in a pissed tone. "I want to do this. The kids are nearly self-sufficient, and I've been in a small rut lately."

She'd get no argument from me there. Life had gotten a little ho-hum over the past year. After many years of trying to build my business clientele and earn their trust, things were finally going well, and I felt settled. Mandy had sold her first taco place and reinvested. In a few years, between the two of us, we'd have plenty of money to start looking at early retirement.

"That's fine," I replied. "Are you sure you want to be a sex object in front of a national audience? I know I don't want that for you. I know how seriously you take your profession, but we've often discussed how many others don't. I only wonder if this will do anything for your professional stature other than to exploit your physical stature."

"I know," she told me, "but I'm hoping to reignite my status a bit. It will be good for our restaurants, me having my face on the national stage."

"And your ass," I reminded her. My smile disarmed her, and she came over and sat on my lap.

"As long as you're one of the people looking and not at that hussy, Quaide." I gave an innocent look to no avail.

"Don't look at me like that, mister," she mock scolded. "I've seen the drool running down your chin whenever she's on Good Morning America."

Mandy and I had a rare mid-weeknight tumble that night. She was extra into it, which drove me to give her my all. As we lay there recovering, she looked at me.

"Thanks for this, Chuck," she said lovingly. "I appreciate you and the leeway you're giving me. I know they'll try to dress up the female chefs in as skimpy bikinis as possible, but that's even okay with me. I'm getting older and not feeling as sexy as I once did. I'm not there to showcase my body, only my culinary skills, but the attention will do wonders for my ego."

"Just as long as your ego is the only thing that gets stroked," I teased. She hit me with her pillow.

"Chuck," she said more seriously. "You know, if I lose a round, then I come home. But if I make it to the final round and/or win, it will be almost four weeks of taping. Will you be okay with just you and the kids for that long? I've already talked to my mom and sister about lending a hand while I'm gone."

"I'm perfectly capable," I told her. "When would you have to leave?"

Mandy told me about the show. She had been given a lot of information for a contestant. The producers wanted the premier episode to coincide with the NCAA Men's Basketball championship game. It would run the month of April, and depending on the island's weather, it could finish as late as May tenth.

Since I hadn't said no, Mandy seemed still in negotiating mode for the next two days. I hoped she had used our lovemaking time to negotiate, but that was not the case. After the kids had gone to bed, I finally pulled her aside and told her to stop.

"I've already thought about it," I admitted. "I don't have a problem with you going. Just ensure you give it your all and beat those other clowns."

Mandy wrapped me in a warm hug, and we ended up having another stellar night of sex. I asked her mockingly what had brought that on.

"I just feel so alive, thinking about doing this," she said, her smile beaming. "I love you so much for being such a sweetheart about it."

Over the following weeks, more details emerged about the show's structure. Sixty popular local chefs from all over the country were competing for a $500,000 prize. I was excited about that and what it would mean for our family, being half a mil richer.

The initial two-hour premiere would showcase twenty of those chefs, and Mandy said she hoped to be one of them, citing what it would do for her career.

The show would air twice weekly, and the other forty would be given their share of airtime that first week, but to a lesser degree. Once the field was cut in half, the remaining chefs would get more airtime, with Ron Silverman delving deeper into their lives outside their careers. I asked Mandy what she would say about us, the kids and me. It was the only time we talked about the show where she appeared nervous. And while she spewed words, they were innocuous platitudes that sounded more like a political message than an expression of her life with me and the kids. She really hadn't said anything.

The time finally came. Mandy and I had worked together on an elaborate schedule for the children, including times when I might have to work late on a last-minute project, etc.

Both sets of parents lived within half an hour of us, so they had a few marching orders, too. I kissed my wife goodbye, and she kissed me back passionately, ignoring the kids and her friend who was taking her to the airport.

"I love you, Chuck." A few tears slid down her cheek. "Thanks for being such a wonderful husband." Her sincerity was apparent. "Remember, I'll only be able to call you on Monday and Wednesday nights, so make sure the kids are home, okay?"

The filming schedule was aggressive because of all the variables. Working outside in a tropical paradise wasn't always fun and games. One day of rain, or even a few hours, the way storms moved across those islands, could set them back a day or more. Many days of rain could cause even bigger problems. That meant there would be some nighttime competition scenes, not just sitting around a fire talking amongst themselves about whose dishes did well or who had had to leave the island.

One week after my wife left our home, the first show aired. Mandy had a prominent five-minute spot in which she detailed her background and passion for all things culinary. No questions were asked about her family, and I'd expected that.

I wasn't expecting what happened on the second show. The remaining chefs were paired up to see which chefs could check their egos and work together to stay alive for the prize money. Mandy was paired with Tyler Phillips. She hadn't told us that in our calls the previous Monday and Wednesday. I wondered if the producer or director had sprung it on them, but when the show's announcer mentioned how and when the chefs had been assigned their teammates, I knew she could have said something the last night we'd spoken.

I also didn't know how much of a reality show was real. The competition was simple: Each team had to prepare an appetizer, main entrée, and dessert. The team would decide which would do the app, and the other would prepare the entrée; then, they would have to work together on the dessert. Mandy and Tyler were at odds from the get-go. They were seen standing at a prep table whispering animatedly to each other as though in a heated, hushed argument.

Finally, she threw her hands up in surrender and gave Tyler a look I knew all too well. I was glad he was the recipient and not I. As they scrambled to gather their ingredients, Mandy could be heard berating him.

"If I lose this because of you, I'll..." She stopped, realizing she was on camera.

"Yeah, I know! I know." He responded sarcastically.

"You better get that lamb in the oven," she warned. "If you plan to braise it in the allotted time. Don't forget, we need to make this dessert. See you back at the table in 30 minutes."

"Aye, Aye, Captain," he saluted her. I thought she might commit murder on live TV.

This event occurred in the central kitchen, and everyone was dressed in chef coats and hats. The first broadcast had shown a few of the chefs, both male and female, in their beachwear. Mandy had only been seen for several seconds, running toward the ocean, her ass cheeks bouncing seductively. This show seemed like all business.

Lamb was Mandy's specialty. If she had submitted to Tyler, letting him cook that entrée, I knew she had to be fuming mad, and that would most certainly affect her appetizer. I watched with the kids as my wife set her mind to her task, drowning everything else in the room.

The team they were going head-to-head with was calm and collected, behaving the opposite of my wife and her teammate. The camera focused on Mandy and Tyler and their cold treatment of one another. Two other struggling teams also got a lot of airtime.

Ultimately, they created a deconstructed baked Alaska, a variation of an old-school dessert. It featured an actual labyrinth around blocks of ice cream and cake where the cherry Kirsch liqueur would light the way to the center.

A commercial break occurred, and I grabbed a beer, nervous that my wife's TV career might be short-lived. Had I known how the last fifteen minutes of the show would play out, I might have turned off the tube and gone to bed.

Mandy and Tyler appeared before the judges, and I was shocked to see that they were applauded for working past their egos. Their three-course meal was well received, and they easily beat the team they were cooking against. Amidst the applause, a new scene appeared on the screen.

Mandy and Tyler were standing outside in what looked like the garbage area of the central kitchen. It was nighttime, and only a single lamp over the door illuminated the pair.

Tyler was smoking, and the two were in an animated conversation again. Like most reality shows, the microphones were powerful, intended to pick up scattered and hushed speech.

"Have you told him yet?" Tyler said, handing Mandy the lit cigarette he'd been puffing on.

Mandy shook her head as she took a drag, sharing it with Tyler. Since when did my wife smoke, and who was the 'him' Tyler had referred to?

He moved behind my wife and began massaging her bare shoulders. Mandy had taken off her chef coat, presumably to avoid being overcome by the damp tropical heat. She was wearing a white wife-beater of sorts. She made no attempt to stop him.

"You better do it soon, Mandy," he threatened. "I'm not playing around, and I'm losing patience."

"How am I supposed to do it?" she implored, turning and handing him the shared cigarette.

Tyler was nonplussed. "That's not my problem. I've already waited a long time, and you're stalling. I'm prepared to disrupt your tidy, little life. Don't make me do that."

Son-of-a-bitch, I thought. This guy is fucking my wife and trying to pressure her to leave me, maybe even our famil...

I looked at the kids sitting there, stunned. Fuck.

In a panic, I grabbed the remote, fumbling with it before finally pressing the power button. "That's all for tonight, kids. Bedtime."

They turned their stunned look to me. Mark was a twelve-year-old. That, combined with being a boy, it was likely he was just confused. Melodie was another matter entirely. She'd be thinking exactly what her Dad had.

Oddly, I got no fight from them.

The kids went upstairs to do whatever kids do on their devices. Melodie came down an hour later and sat close to me. I wasn't in any better shape to talk about it with her.

"Dad," she inquired. "Was that acting for the show? I mean, it didn't look like it to me, and based on your reaction... Daddy, are you divorcing Mom?" The tears started in the middle of her sentence. My fifteen-year-old was nobody's fool and was a chip off the old block.

"I can't answer that, sweetie," I pulled her into a hug. "It looks like your Mom and I have a lot to discuss. Let's take it one step at a time, okay?"

"Who is that man?" she asked, calming down slightly.

"I have no idea, baby, but I will find out," I promised. "Now it's bedtime and I want you to try to put it out of your mind. Everything will work out okay." I lied, of course, but I didn't know what else to do or say. She was hurting and worried, just like me.

The weekend was a quiet affair. I admit to catching up on a ton of yard work, trying to avoid my children's questions. I couldn't avoid it altogether, as Sunday, they hounded me to go out to our favorite pizza restaurant.

"I asked Grandma about that guy," Melodie said as we waited for the pie to be delivered to the table. "She seemed... prepared for my question. Said she didn't notice any familiar or intimate touching."

I knew Mandy's parents well, and we all got along. Her mother, Helen, was sharp as a tack. There would be no way she wouldn't have noticed. Thinking about it, both sets of parents had gone radio silent since the episode aired.

"I don't know what is going on, kids," I told them honestly. "But you can bet I'll find out when she gets home."

That didn't soothe them. I wasn't in the mood to try. I had my own huge problems.

The next morning, I was sitting in my office, generally unproductive. I hadn't spoken to my wife, but she'd call home tonight. I tried to think about how I would address what I'd seen. For all I knew, she didn't know they were filmed or recorded. Maybe she thought they'd been quiet enough. Still, she had to know everyone had seen her smoking and getting a tender massage from her lover.

My computer pinged, alerting me to a new email.

Mr. Dickenson,

I can assure you it's not what you think - it's much worse. I'm sorry to be this bearer of such bad news. I saw the episode the other night, and I can't, in good conscience, remain silent. I'm sending you a package this afternoon, UPS. You'll understand when you receive it. I'm sorry.

An anonymous friend.

What the absolute fuck was going on? My mind raced. Was this legit, or was it some stalker fan or random person watching the show? Could it be an extortionist or some sort of blackmail? First, the intimate chat between them, now this. My mind went into overdrive.

When the package arrived, I decided not to accept it. There was too much looming, and I needed to focus on the main issues. I decided that almost anyone could have found my email through Mandy's name.

The kids and I were just finishing dinner when the house phone rang. There hadn't been a day since I met Amanda that I hadn't looked forward to talking to her, until that day. I was so upset it would take everything in me not to blow up at her in front of the kids.

"Hello, Baby," her sweet voice came over the line like nothing had happened. I couldn't bring myself to answer her then.

"Baby?" she said, less bubbly. "Chuck, are you there?"

"Yeah."

There was an awkward silence. "Chuck, please," she began, nervous and concerned. "It's not what you think. Please, don't do anything rash. I promise I'll explain everything as soon as I get home."

"Sure," I replied somberly. At least now she knew that I knew, and there was definitely something that needed to be explained when she returned. I filed away the "not what you think" comment for further discussion. How would she know what I thought?

"I can't talk about it now," she reiterated. "I'm sorry, but I will. I'll tell you everything."

I didn't answer and thought I heard her sniffle.

"Everything is going to be all right, Chuck, you'll see," she reassured. "Promise me you won't do anything drastic. Please put it out of your mind until I get home."

I said nothing more. I made no promises, instead handing the phone to Melodie. She grilled her mom about smoking cigarettes at length, straining their conversation. Then Mark took the phone, and they talked for another ten minutes. When Mark tried to hand me the phone again, I said loud enough for my wife to hear, "I'm busy now. Just hang up."

Whatever it was, it wasn't good. The way she handled it was worse than I could imagine. Mandy was almost begging, plus she knew the 'one thing' as soon as I didn't respond lovingly to her.

Wednesday night, we got another surprise. The show started around a beach fire pit. Everyone was again dressed like they were lying on the beach trying to get a tan, except Ron Silverman, who wore a short-sleeve chef shirt.

"We have some bad news, everyone," Silverman spoke to the group. "Chef Tyler Phillips has left the island." There was a pause and a commercial, after which the show came back on and Silverman explained.

"Chef Phillips had a personal emergency that I can't divulge. That means we now have an odd number of chef contestants. The two chefs I draw from this coconut shell will have a morning cook-off. It will be head-to-head, and the loser will also leave the island before tonight's seafood barbeque contest."

Mandy's name was the second one drawn, which I found beyond strange. I mean, I know reality TV is anything. However, I wondered if the events captured between Mandy and Tyler were possibly not intended to be seen. My gut was burning, and I suspected that the reason for his departure was directly related.

The cook-off was rushed, and Mandy won. It felt like they wanted the entire episode written off and out of the public mind, which also made me uneasy. I was starting to wonder what had been in that refused package and who it was from.

The rest of the week normalized as life moved forward. I was basically acting like a single parent with a bit of help from the grandparents, so I didn't have a lot of time to focus on the potential problem. That didn't mean I slept well.

Mark and Melodie kept quiet about the looming confrontation. I hadn't spoken about it to Mark because he was younger, but I wasn't naïve enough to think his sister hadn't explained in her limited scope of knowledge.

On a Tuesday a week later, three weeks into the show, I received another email. This time, it was from a legitimate address: Mario Garcia. His name was familiar, but I couldn't place it right away.

Dickenson,

This is no joke or hoax. I've resent the package. Open it, use it, and email me when you are finished. Then I'll answer your questions to the best of my abilities.

Mario Garcia, owner/ operator, Latin Street Eats

I remembered then. Mario was the chef and owner of a restaurant in Warren, Michigan. My wife wasn't a fan because his restaurant was near her first taco place.

She'd made such a big deal about Chef Tyler Phillips coming to Detroit thirteen or so years ago, as Chef Garcia was to be on an episode of "Restaurant Encounters," a show like so many others, where the expert steps in to save the fledgling business.

I was at a loss, but I was also slowly unraveling. I hadn't spoken to my wife for two weeks straight, instead passing the phone to the kids. Things with them were becoming increasingly strained because of that. I had secretly hoped the added stress on Mandy would cause her to lose. I no longer cared because I was going through hell imagining all the possibilities, one more frustrating than the next, between her and Phillips. Instead, she kept winning, or someone she was going against fell apart. Either way, she was still in the competition as one of the remaining eight contestants.

I opened the box with extreme trepidation. In the hours between the email and the arrival of that box, my mind had gone into overdrive, thinking of every possible scenario.

I hadn't thought of that: three simple DNA tests and a return envelope made of durable plastic.

I sat heavily in my chair, the implications obvious. I tried to think back thirteen years ago when Phillips was in town working with Garcia. Mandy had acted weird, constantly going off about Garcia, his food, and the joint's cleanliness. I found her rage off-kilter and bizarre. Looking back, it was more like mock rage. I knew better then, staring at the UPS package. It was a mask.

She'd seen him at some point and met with him. When? Think! It was the night before they appeared on the TV morning show together. She, a few chefs from her restaurant, Phillips, and some of the morning show's producers went out to dinner. She got home very late.

Son-of-a-bitch! I'd need to get these done immediately and mail them off quickly. I had plenty of other things to do if the results came back as I feared. Was Melodie my child? How could this be happening? Could Mandy have someone else's child and pass it off as mine? If the tests came back positive, then, of course, she could. Then what do I do?

That night, I slunk like a coward. I couldn't warn the children. Against all odds, I felt even more protective of them then. Both of their hairbrushes were on the sink in the common bathroom. The look of the place reminded me I'd need to ensure they cleaned the damned thing.

I was only going to attempt a swab of a sleeping Mark, because he was most in question, but something told me to make the test even. Maybe the hair would be enough; I had no idea how genetic testing worked.

Both kids slept deeply, like me. Like me, I thought. My mind was in turmoil. Mark had his mouth open, which made things easier. I hadn't been in Melodie's room while she was sleeping for over five years. It felt... invasive. She lay facing me on her side, with her mouth closed. But there was saliva at the corner of her mouth. The last thing I wanted was for the swap to tickle her. I took a fast and direct approach. She moved slightly, then rolled over.

As I sealed the return package, my thoughts revolved around what needed to be done to protect myself. Even if Mark was my son by blood, it was unlikely that I'd remain married to Mandy. I just wasn't built that way.

I'd need an attorney soon, I'd need to do everything people do in these situations, like the banking changes. Maybe I was jumping the gun, I thought. Shouldn't I at least hear my wife out first? I decided the DNA test would be the catalyst for all further decisions.

>>>>

The phone rang for the fourth time as I waited. Plenty had occurred in a week. Mandy had one again and was now in the quarterfinals with her nemesis, Becca Quaide. I was playing a game on my tablet during the show. I no longer cared about her. I only needed to know if she lost and when to expect her back home.

The saddest part of the week had happened when I anxiously opened that damned envelope. After reading and rereading, it became clear that Mark was not my biological son. Melodie, however, was mine. I had mixed emotions about it. I determined that Mark was my son, despite his sperm donor. I wouldn't let him be taken away in a divorce. I wouldn't lose him. I might have to give up something to keep him, but I loved my children. Mandy was going to pay for her treachery, no matter what.

"Mario, here," he said. "Can I help you?" His tone was convivial enough.

"Yes," I replied, clearing my dry throat. "This is Charles Dickenson."

"Senor Dickenson," he said like we were old pals. "I take it you received and... utilized my package?"

"Yeah," I said with dread. "What do you want to tell me?"

"Oh, señor," he responded. "Por favor, please, let us not do this over the telephone. Can I invite you to lunch at my restaurant? We have things to discuss, things I'm sure you want the answer to, and I prefer to speak the words to your face. Please."

I met him after the lunch rush died down. Mario was just as I'd remembered him from the TV show years before, with a much grayer head of hair. He ushered me to a booth at the back of the restaurant, typically used for larger parties.

"I'm glad you could come, senor," he told me earnestly. "And I'm sorry for what you must be going through. I am sorry to be the messenger pero, if it was me, I would want to know." I didn't want to think about that, so I pushed on.

"Mario, I don't know you," I hesitated. "I don't... particularly trust you, or anyone else right now. Why am I here?"

Si, senor, yo entiendo," he spoke. "I understand. This must be difficult. When I saw that episode of the show with your wife and the loco, I wondered if it could be possible. When I knew it was, I also knew I had to contact you.

"I was at the party that night," he continued, "with him and Amanda, and the others. All of us were drinking margaritas and talking about the show. I was no happy. The loco try to tell me how to fix my place, you know, a lot of flashy stuff. We are a proud people, señor. Perhaps you have heard the saying: there is the right way, the wrong way, and the Mexican way. We wear that like a badge of honor. That stupido gave a lot of bad advice. I don't like him."

"And-" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it, but I had to.

"He spend much time talking with your wife, senor." There was a prevalent look of pity on his face. "I get hotel room because too much tequila. I saw your wife leave. Phillips returned to our table, said good night, and headed toward the elevator off the bar. Ten minutes later, I go to my room and I see your wife get in the elevator and the door close before I get on. I go in other elevator, and on tenth floor, I see her walking ahead of me. I slow down and then stop. She unlocked a door so, I think she have too much drink like me, but then someone met her at the door. I hear a man's voice. I know that voice. Tyler Phillips. She go in and door closes. I'm sorry, señor."

I took a sip of my water. Other people in town knew of her treachery, too. I think he read my face. I could tell his heart went out to me.

"Anything else?" I asked, barely above a whisper.

"One thing," he said. "She call him, how you say, nicky-name."

"Nickname," I told him without thinking.

"Yes," he agreed. "she call him 'dural' or something like that.

"What can I do?" he asked sincerely.

"Nothing right now," I shrugged. "I might need your help later, in the future, if you're willing to speak publicly about what you saw. As bad as this keeps getting, please know that I appreciate your actions. I know it had to be difficult."

"I would do that, señor, and is no dificil." We drank a shot of his expensive tequila, and I headed on my way.

Mandy called that night and told Melodie to put me on the phone. I couldn't talk to her, not with the kids in the room. I just shook my head and Melodie told her mother I wouldn't come to the phone. It looked for a second, like my daughter might try to get into it with Mandy. I didn't want that either. I put my finger to my lips in the universal sign and Melodie stopped what she was about to do.

Thursday night, Mandy won again, beating Becca, but barely. She was going to the championship round, and I didn't give a rat's ass about it. My world was upside down, and I still needed to see the lawyer recommended by a co-worker and probably find somewhere to live.

Monday morning, I sat in front of Thomas Whitmore, my attorney. I went over my findings and told him how they had been discovered. He would get the paperwork started, explaining that Michigan was an at-will, no-fault state. The court's family division would hear all arguments related to the custody of the minor children and decide the dollar amount of support. It could get complicated with Mark, depending on what Phillips admitted to or we could prove.

He told me his best advice for now was to do nothing as there were too many balls in the air. He told me to get Mandy's side of the story without being confrontational. I looked at him like he had two heads. He explained that he uses a service to gather evidence and would employ them on my behalf during her last week on the island.

When I walked in the door late Thursday, carrying Chinese takeout, Melodie hollered at me from upstairs.

"Where have you been, Dad?" she asked, not sounding happy. "Mom will be here any minute! I'm trying to clean up. Mark is at his friend's house."

I panicked momentarily. "Come down here, Mel," I shouted. "What do you mean she'll be here?"

Melodie appeared, surprised that I was surprised. "Did she get kicked off the show or something? Why would she be home?"

"Dad," she said, exhaling heavily. "She probably wanted to tell you, but you wouldn't talk to her. The show airs weekly, but the filming is done ahead. She already knows who won, even though we won't see until next week."

"Where is she now?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"She texted me that Grandma and Grandpa picked her up at the airport. She had something to do with them for an hour or two. She said she'd be home around 6:30. I already texted Mark, so he knows to be home."

It was 6:10. I had maybe twenty minutes to get my head glued on straight.

Mandy walked in at 6:35, looking rushed. She glanced coldly at me and then headed straight for the kids. I was sure she read my expression. After hugs and little trinket gifts picked up in gift shops, a lull finally settled. She got off the couch where the kids had bookended her and came in my direction. The kids were intently watching, too. I quickly observed the train wreck that was about to happen.

To her credit, Mandy seemed to understand as well as I did. She made no effort to embrace me but stopped a few feet in front of where I stood.

"I'm sorry, Chuck." She didn't sound sorry; her words had little, if any, emotion to them.

Her eyes searched mine for a moment as if assessing the damage. "After dinner, we can talk. Both Mark and Melodie have made plans with friends."

Somehow, she had preempted me. I suddenly felt sick... and infuriated. "I'm not hungry," I said in disgust. "You eat my portion and visit with them."

Mandy's eyes fell, but she remained stoic. There was no response.

"I'm going out," I told her. "Call me when they've gone to their friends."

For one of the very few times in our marriage, Mandy made no move to comfort me. I knew she could tell I was hurting. I need to get out and think. Melodie came over as I opened the front door and hugged me tightly. "I love you, Daddy," she said softly.

At the neighborhood bar and grill, I nursed a beer and stared straight ahead, lost in my thoughts. My wife knew she was in trouble, that WE were in trouble. It dawned on me that she didn't know what I knew. I would be wise to listen and say as little as possible; her comments would explain her intent. If she decided to come clean, we might have a very small chance of remaining together. But the more I thought about that, she could confess all she wanted, and I still wouldn't know how long it had been going on with him or if there were others. I mean, 'why not? If she's put all this over on me for all this time, having me raise someone else's son, she'd easily be able to pull off multiple trysts.' Whatever she told me, the parts I wasn't aware of, would no longer be taken at face value. The trust was gone.

After that epiphany, I became sad enough to nearly cry right there. I steadied myself. Our marriage was probably over; it was certainly on life support. I had to be steeled against an enemy on two fronts. Yeah, I'd listen, compare, and then apply that information to what I already knew. I wouldn't let them fuck with my family, no matter what. I finished my beer and headed home without waiting for her call.

Steeled or not, I felt sick as Mandy finally came into the family room and muted the TV. How was I supposed to talk to her - listen to her - if I could no longer stand the sight of her? The best I could do was motion to a chair opposite the sofa I was seated on. Her faint smile turned to indecision at that gesture.

"Chuck," she began with a heavy breath, "I want to start by saying I'm sorry. I know you saw the episode... what happened behind the central kitchen. I'm sorry for that and what I must tell you now. There's much more, I'm afraid."

I didn't say a word per my plan; instead, I tried to stare blankly.

"Tyler Phillips is... an old friend," she continued. I already had an idea of how old and how long they'd been friends but kept quiet. "He came to town almost thirteen years ago to help sort out that Mexican restaurant. I know you remember because people online always compared his food to mine, and it pissed me off."

She took a moment and a few more breaths. It didn't feel like she'd gotten off to a good start.

"Anyway, you might remember the night when our local ABC affiliate invited me to the closing night festivities for the show. Tyler was there, and we had several drinks while catching up. All the reminiscing and drinks triggered something in me. Something stupid and selfish."

I could see how hard it was for her, but I felt no compassion. She could have told me long ago. It may have ended up the same way, but maybe not.

"I called you to tell you I booked a room due to all the alcohol. You wished me a good night. I knew what I was about to do. I rejoined Tyler at the party, and then he left for his room. Shortly afterward, I went to his room. He kissed me at the door. Within minutes, we were in bed together. I spent the night there."

That was the part where I needed to act shocked and hurt. It was important not to show what I knew. Sitting upright, I gawked with an open mouth and said nothing. For just a moment, I considered running to the bathroom and pushing my finger down my throat, but felt it would be a bit too dramatic.

She had the one chance right then, or it would be the end, and not only that, but I'd go hard at her and Phillips. I'd be damned if those two would remain unscathed, while I lost my son in the process.

"Chuck," she started again, softer and sweeter. "I'm sorry to have caused this, and I can see how upset you are. That night was a mistake. What followed was not. That was me being petrified and unsure how to address things. I'm so sorry, my love, but Mark is Tyler's biological son."

My glare had all the vitriol I could muster in a facial expression. That was all I needed for the time being. I stood up and headed for the front door. My overnight bag was already in the trunk and my work clothes hung in the backseat. I couldn't trust myself not to hurt her, so I had to get away.

"Chuck!" she adamantly called after me. "Please don't go, not like this. Please, I'm not finished explaining. There's more. More important things I need your help deciding and they involve you as well. We need to work through this!"

The tears began. Tough shit. "I can't be around you, Amanda," she shivered upon hearing my use of her full name. "We'll talk soon. Besides, I doubt there is a 'we', so I have to start making some unilateral decisions regarding me and my children."

She tried to say more but I was already closing the door behind me. To her credit, she didn't chase me to the car.

I checked into my hotel room ahead of another appointment to see my attorney the following day. I knew sleep would not come easily that night, so I took a pill. It was time to begin the sorting of my life and our marriage. I'd been emotional many nights while she was off winning her damned cooking show, and whatever else she was cooking with - cooking with ass, more than likely. I'd moved on to the next stage, unsure what that was.

Things with the attorney went much as I suspected, with one caveat. If I stayed with Mandy, in a united front, we had a better chance in a custody battle with Daryl Smith. That was Tyler Phillips' real name. He went to the same high school as Mandy, providing the connection. The longer that dragged on, the more information and dirt my lawyer could attempt to dig up on him. So we decided on a defensive strategy rather than an offensive one. Let the clock run out on its own. If nothing more, a judge would be more inclined to favor us if we were still a couple and family unit, despite the circumstances.

Thomas also told me that while his team had not captured any evidence of her infidelity, there was a short video circulating the internet, posted by a random person, of both of them holding each other close as they entered a bungalow.

I began separating our finances. That was another part of the plan, even if I might have to live with Mandy for a while. I was surprised and elated that the prize money from the show, minus taxes, had already been deposited. Even though I had plenty of money in savings, and in two other accounts I'd set up strictly for family vacations and time away for just Mandy and me, the additional 'half' of Mandy's winnings would be handy when I made my move on Daryl Smith.

I texted Mandy from work the following morning, telling her I would be home for dinner. Her reply was a simple 'okay'. As I came around the corner, I saw what looked like a party in the making. I hoped it was a neighbor, but I saw my parents' car, what I thought was Mandy's father's new Mustang, and my brother's vehicle. Because I'd been so busy lately, I hadn't even spoken to my brother or his wife in months.

It was nice of them not to block my spot in the drive. Sitting in the car for a few minutes, I wondered what kind of intervention or trap I was walking into. I did not want to get into it with the families.

My mother, not my wife, met me at the door and welcomed me home with a hug. When I pulled back, my eyes asked the nonverbal question that hers wouldn't answer. It wasn't going to be a good night.

Grabbing a beer first, I headed into the fray. Mandy did make eye contact, but I saw a great deal of skepticism there.

"Hello, everyone," I greeted them with mock enthusiasm. "Whatever this is, let's get on with it."

Mom scowled. Mandy's mother, Helen, gave her daughter a pitiful look as though understanding what she'd gotten herself and her husband into. My brother sat in a single chair, strategically poised in case someone lost their temper. He had the good genes, being 4" and a good fifty pounds my better.

It appeared that my mother had been chosen as the spokesperson. "Chuck, please," she implored, "let's try to have a civil conversation. Sit down, please. This affects all of us; that's why we're here."

"Nice start, Mom," I told her. "Let's do a quick roll call, though." I looked around the room, asking each if they felt the same way... they all did.

"Okay," I continued. "So, does everyone know the details of her treachery? The exact details?"

Helen came to Mandy's defense. "I wouldn't call it that; it was a mistake."

"Sure," I responded. "A thirteen-year mistake to you is treacherous to me. Let's not split hairs."

Helen looked away. Surprisingly, Mandy was looking at my face, but probably just to gauge the depth of trouble she was in.

"Son," Dad tried, "We know what happened. We're here to talk about what comes next. There are things you probably aren't aware of. We know this has come as a big shock, we know you're hurting, but..."

"I know everything, Pops," I said dryly. "Every damned little detail."

"This... man," my mother interjected, unable to control herself. "He wants parental rights concerning Mark. There is plenty to consider besides the state of your marriage..."

"So," I interrupted, "you were planning to spoon-feed me information, is that it?"

Helen's expression remained consistently neutral. "Of course," she replied immediately. "We all love you, and this is far more than any man, any person should have to endure all at once."

"I've had four weeks of discovery and planning," I told Helen. Then, looking at Mandy, "Let me save you all the trouble. Other people saw that episode, too. People who don't care much for you or Smith, because they don't even know me. They reached out. I've met with Mr. Garcia." All the color drained from Mandy's face as the others looked perplexed.

"He saw everything that night," I continued. "The seductive dance of love began long before you were drunk. In fact, you weren't drunk at all. Garcia was staying on the same floor as your lover." Helen had turned her gaze to her daughter then, and watched like I did, as her face went from white to deep red.

"He told me you had a nickname for your lover," I carried on. "That struck me as odd if you didn't know the guy. It was the one thing." Both of Mandy's parents had resigned looks then. They knew what I'd discovered. They knew me well enough to know Mandy and I had almost zero chance of staying together.

"I looked through that box you have on the top shelf in our bedroom closet, Mandy. There wasn't anything from your college days, no trinkets, no letters, nothing. I probably wouldn't have made the connection had I stopped there."

My wife's face was in her hands, and she knew how bad it was. My parents and brother were on the edge of their seats, anticipating the final segment of some trashy TV crime show. Mandy's father, David, tried to speed along or past the tragic ending, his embarrassment visible.

"Okay," he said, looking at me stoically. "You know, now we need to talk about how to deal with it." I wouldn't allow him to gloss over his daughters' indiscretions.

"Mom, Dad," I looked at my parents. "This 'man' is Amanda's high school sweetheart. His real name is Daryl Smith. They broke up because Daryl decided to intern at a culinary school in France. He stayed for three years past his internship, eventually working under some of the top chefs there. It should be obvious that if he hadn't left, they never would have parted, and this marriage... if you can call it that... would never have occurred."

The shock and sadness on my folks' faces made me emotional. I knew they felt a pain similar to mine. But then, my mother surprised me.

"You need some time and space, Charles," Mother said, "So you can process all of this and begin to heal."

"Are you out of your mind?" I couldn't stop staring at her as if she were a stranger. "There's no amount of space, time, or healing that can bring us back from this. I can understand you worrying about a divorce, this fucking Daryl's custody squeeze, and losing your grandkids. Don't use your selfishness to side with her. I promise you'll still see the kids. By the way, is any one of you inclined to see this from my viewpoint or is this a 'forgive, forget, and move on deal?'"

Crickets... all of them looking elsewhere around the room, including my mother. I looked at Mandy. "Who's Melodie's father?" I asked with force.

"You are!" she wailed. "I would nev..." She stopped dead in her verbal tracks. "She's yours, Chuck; you have to believe me."

"Why?" I rubbed it in. "Why would any man in this situation believe anything coming from the mouth of the woman who has deceived him for years, had him raise her boyfriend's son even as she was off under some pretense, practically fucking him on television? I don't believe you. You killed that. I had the kids tested while you were on your sweet little adventure that was conveniently disguised as some TV reality show. How many times have you tried to get pregnant by him these past four weeks? Hmm? Melodie is mine, but it's not like you saying it would make a difference."

I looked around the room at all of them. They had looks ranging from pity to hopefulness to... I don't know what. They were all involved in this, this... twisted intervention.

"Son," Dad started. "It was a horrible mistake Mandy made. We understand, all of us do, that it will take time for you. Everything is still fresh. We're not asking you to get ahead of your feelings and emotions, just not to do anything drastic. We know you love your son, and he loves you."

My father, wise as he had always been, was playing that card a bit early, which sort of surprised me. I knew the emotion he was trying to trigger.

Taking pause, I looked at each person in the room individually, trying to gauge, all except Mandy, at whom I could not look. It occurred to me then that everyone else was bent on making a case, but she was saying nothing. I didn't know what that meant, but it seemed that if she was committed to a repair, she would start with a confession, an attempt at a decent explanation in front of the family. I became unsettled at her silence.

"We can make sure Mark is taken to these visits," he said, changing direction. "You won't have to see or interact with him at all. We'll be here to support Mandy while things are toughest for you two. We... both sets of parents can help Melodie understand what's happening and be there to answer her questions."

"Just a damned minute!" I shouted. "You're presuming an awful lot and sticking your nose into our... my business. First, I never said I would comply with this prick chef or his demands. Second, you're saying you'll all be around to "help" everyone but me. Who's supposed to be there for me?"

My father took a business card out of his shirt pocket and leaned forward, offering it to me. "This is a good therapist, who comes highly recommended by a close friend of your mother and me."

We were about six feet apart, and I made no effort to oblige him. After a dramatic sigh, he put the card back in his pocket.

Mandy's mother, Helen, decided to join the fray. "It was a mistake..."

"It was not!" I cut her off. "Maybe that first night - maybe - but not all the calculated years afterward. She made me raise some other fucker's kid and never told him either. She'd still be keeping her secret intact if Smith hadn't accidentally stumbled across the evidence."

"Exactly," Helen almost screamed in frustration. "Of course she did! She loved you then, and she still loves you, and the children as well. Can't you see that? Don't her actions afford a little grace?"

John gently reached out and took Helen's arm to quiet her. He looked at me.

"Like I said," he responded with conviction, "this is all new to you. Take some time and live apart in the same house if it helps you, but remember, everyone in this room loves you, including Mandy. We only want to help you get through to the other side."

I looked around the room at my former family members. Even in my disgust for them, I understood what they were trying to do. I also knew something they didn't. And I knew I would never forgive Mandy for that thing.

"Well, this has been lovely," I told them all. "I'm sure you know how to let yourselves out. That's not a request."

I stood up, walking toward the kitchen and out the patio door, and headed down to the shed to work on... nothing at all. I needed time to digest the complete and utter betrayal.

Half an hour later, I walked back into an empty house. The kids were home, and they sensed my discomfort. Mel made an under-her-breath comment about us still being at war. Mandy shrank from it because she was even closer to our daughter just then.

"I need to shower and unpack," I informed my wife. "Move your stuff into the spare room."

Her expression didn't change, as she knew the score. "I already moved some things in there. The master's yours."

Later, as I put my clothes away or in the hamper, Mandy came in. "Chuck, we haven't really talked. I... I haven't had the chance to apologize for my actions properly. I wish I could..."

Her hollow words meant little. I didn't want to hear them. "Mandy, we haven't talked because I'm not ready. I'm trying to process everything. I'm so mad at you, I could almost strangle you where you stand. My life is ruined. My son's life might be ruined, unless I can outsmart your fucking lover. My daughter's life is most certainly going to be impacted as well. A part of me would love to simply give up, divorce you, and move across the country so I can start over before I'm too old. I'm probably already too old, but if I let that thought fester, I probably will strangle you. Another thing, this would have a much better effect if you were talking to me... in front of all them... instead of hiding behind our parents. That tells me a lot."

"Well," she said, sadly, "you're already talking about the family as if I don't exist or have any say. I thought hearing from them, especially your parents, would give you perspective. You may not be ready to talk or listen to what I have to say, but you need to know, before making a bunch of unilateral decisions, this is my problem, my issue, too. I plan to protect my family like you. This isn't your fight alone. You're going to need me, just like I will need you. And it will not help our case if we go into court against him with a petition for divorce having been filed. That will play right into his parental rights."

"That sounds great," I told her definitively. "But I don't trust you right now, probably never will again. You damned well better make sure you run whatever you're planning by me first. I have a lot of balls in motion already."

That worried her, and I could tell it also enraged her to a degree. She wasn't used to being told what to do or not getting her way, but all of that had changed forever in just a short time.

"I know him," she admonished. "You don't even know what he wants. Not exactly. Please don't do anything else until we can compare notes. If you don't want to hear about him and me, that's fine. I think that's a good idea for now. When it comes to Mark, do not go rogue, damn it!"

The next morning, I walked into our real estate division at the office and spoke to a good friend. "I need your help pointing me to our commercial property advisor, or someone who can dig into a few properties for me." He asked for specifics, so I gave him about half of what I wanted.

"Carlson Tucker is your man," he told me. "He does all the research for the firm, and he's been impeccable. Here's his number."

Carlson turned out to be just what I hoped for. Of course, I asked him to research all of Tyler Phillips' restaurant properties in his off-time and offered a handsome fee. The food business is a low-margin affair, even for a pro, and I was counting on the fact that he might have to dig deep to hire a shark lawyer to fight his custody battle.

If he was going after my son or family, I would go straight to his celebrity. Taking that away would hurt him most.

The following week, I got some of the great news I'd been hoping for. It was a good thing, too, because our home life was deteriorating quickly. Where Melodie was old enough to understand the more profound implications and the coldness that had descended upon our once-happy home, Mark was just beginning to sense it.

Carlson found a little crack in Mr. Popular's operations. Smith, AKA Phillips, had dabbled in Becca Quaide's backyard when he first returned to the States, setting up several tribal casino menus. His base of operations after becoming the 'restaurant fixer' was the greater Houston area.

The downtown restaurants were blowing the doors off, two years running, and still setting sales records. The trouble was the suburbs and a few more rural areas weren't so hot on his brand and style. The Woodlands area was up and coming, growing like a weed with younger couples, but there were still plenty of old-school residents. Phillips was upside down there.

Likewise, Galveston was on the Gulf of America. Phillips' pseudo-Cajun food didn't fly there. Diners probably wanted authentic.

I spoke to our commercial division. Brent was the guy I'd worked with a few times and known the longest.

"You can't involve the firm in this," he warned. "Even if you went to a private commercial realtor, there might be some insider conflicts."

"Then how would you handle it?" I asked him.

I don't think he wanted to take me down that rabbit hole. After some stalling and consideration, he said, "I might try approaching someone local. The Woodlands sounds like the best bet, but who knows? That area is growing at a phenomenal rate, so a shark. You'll need ten percent down in both instances. The realtor may be able to find someone else to float you or a potential buyer who wants the space for retail or something. If not, you'll be on the hook for it temporarily, so you'll need liquidity.

I understood what he was saying. That was how all the big boys played in that game. I sat in my office that night, trying to determine where the money would come from. I didn't want to pull the money from my 401 K.

Then I thought about my son and different times in his young life. The first time he caught a baseball and the pride he displayed when he punched one into the outfield with the bases loaded. The love he showed on our first fishing trip together as I helped him get his rig set, and he caught his first lake perch.

Smith was a self-centered asshole. It didn't matter that Mandy was once his girlfriend. He shouldn't have gone after her as a married woman. Everything he ever did, in my opinion, was for himself, including giving shitty advice to the food operators he pretended to help with their businesses. I couldn't let him influence Mark, even if it broke or killed me financially.

I made the transfer.

Ironically, that same night, Mandy pinned me down to talk about our situation. "Have you had enough time so we can have a civil conversation about this?" She looked hopeful but also a bit ragged.

"I suppose," was all I gave her. I sat back and waited for her. The hopefulness disappeared.

"Alright then," she started. "Have you come to any decisions about how and when to tell Mark?"

"Not yet," I admitted. "I'm working on a few things, first. I know we will have to ruin his world soon, but I need a few more days."

"What things?" she asked. "I thought we agreed to solve this together."

"No," I reminded her, "you said that's how you wanted it. I did not agree. I'm in defense mode, protecting my kids and myself."

She spat words tinged with venom. "Don't you think we have enough problems for you to turn this into some macho competition? You and I haven't even discussed the core issue yet. We're living apart in the same house, and now you're playing some secret... I don't know what. We need to face the reality that he is suing us, even though we don't have the paperwork yet. Have you already hired a lawyer?"

"Yes," I left it there.

"That's it?" she asked incredulously, her volume elevated. "Were you going to share what you're planning? I want to know right now!" Mandy was in total bitch mode then, desperate to take control.

"You are not going to 'handle' this alone," she said definitively. "This is our problem, to work through one step at a time. If you plan to divorce me, then file the papers. The first thing is Tyler and his custody suit. We can't let that happen. Then, we can work on 'us,' unless there is no 'us.' If that happens, we'll have to do that together, too. But that's at the end, after the rest. Now, what have you done so far, without me?"

"Mandy," I stood up. "I'll tell you about working a problem one step at a time. First, you go and spend some time working on a decent apology since I haven't heard anything resembling one. Since you returned, you've been all bluster, demanding this, demanding that, as if you were driving decisions. I have hired an attorney for the lawsuit, which is unrelated to our issue, at least not yet. You need to write down everything he told you during your time together on the show because there may be comments there that will jeopardize his position. I don't care if it was behind the kitchen, while getting your nicotine fixes or frolicking in the ocean with your tiny swimsuits, or not, or even your pillow talk. I need to know everything he told you."

"Fuck off, you sanctimonious bastard," she spat, her raggedness finally unraveling. "I made a fucking mistake. I've admitted it and said sorry almost every day for over a week. I've never loved you any less for eighteen years..."

"Twelve," I cut her off.

"Fuck you!" she screamed. Realizing the kids were upstairs, she forced herself to calm down. "I've loved you since before we married. I loved him before you. I know exactly what I did wrong. Several things, including not using protection, and I take responsibility for all of them. You aren't my enemy, and there was no pillow talk. Don't do that, please. We need a united front for Mark."

"And Melodie," I reminded her. "She factors in, too. There's a lot to consider, Mandy. I'm not sure you're up to the task. When I'm ready, I'll let you in."

I walked away, and she didn't attempt to engage further. As I tried to find some peace, some calm before sleep, it occurred to me that what Mandy said was spot on. I'm fighting two battles here; not only is the divorce gut-wrenching enough, but fighting that prick over Mark and the collateral damage to Melodie could be disastrous if we made just one misstep. I'd have to rethink priorities here. Boy, she was pissed, too. Sleep came very late.

The next morning, my cell phone rang. It was a number I didn't recognize, so I took a chance and answered.

"Don't hang up," a male voice said. "This is Tyler Phillips. I need to talk to you."

"I wondered when you'd make the call, Smitty." I'd spent, or wasted - I wasn't sure, a lot of time thinking about how I would handle him. I wanted to think of it more like a time investment.

"I understand how you feel," he tried to show compassion. "I'm not calling about Amanda, that ship had sailed. I'm calling to talk to you about our son."

That phrase almost broke me and my entire plan. 'Our son,' he'd invoked. He wasn't wrong, but it provided a clue about what kind of man I was dealing with and how much of an adversary he would be.

"I'm listening," I told him.

"I want to spend time with my son, to get to know him. I've been swindled out of a lifetime of memories. Your wife kept those from me."

"You fucked my wife, asshole! It's your fucking fault we are here. If you wouldn't have gone after her, you wouldn't be in this predicament, so don't think you've been swindled out of anything. Now you're trying to cause problems. I don't know you, and I don't know your true intentions regarding Mark. I don't trust you." It had to begin there if I were going to unnerve him, without revealing all I had planned.

"Put yourself in my place," he ignored the obvious, changing things up. "You've raised him, think about how you'd feel."

"Don't try to put me in your shoes, you fuck," I scolded with all the antipathy I had. "I would never fuck someone else's wife. We are not on the same team. Never will be. You think you've been wronged, well, guess what, you fool? I've been just as wronged, except that Mark and I never did anything to cause that. That's on you and the slut."

"All right then," he said, calmer. "I'm going ahead with the lawsuit. I don't think asking to get to know my son is too much. Our son. I'm not taking no for an answer here. I don't want to play dirty..."

"You mother fucker," I cut him off. "Go ahead and fuck with me and you'll pay."

"I'll pay, huh?" he returned the favor of interrupting. "Listen good, I'm way ahead of you. I've been watching from the wings for long enough now. What are you going to do, Mr. Accountant? Are your friends going to stab me in a dark alley with their pencils? Beat me senseless with pocket protectors? If you try to delay this or fuck with me in any way, I'll use my celebrity to destroy you. The sympathy will all be on my side, and I have the scripts written out and long ago practiced. You'll look like a fool and your wife like a damned whore.

"I don't want to do that," he continued. "It won't be good for anyone, but I'm desperate. I want to get to know Mark. You keep this civil, and I promise the ground under your feet won't be scorched and won't affect your relationship with Mark or... your daughter. I promise I'll never badmouth you to him."

"And I'm supposed to take that prom..." Before I could finish, he disconnected the call. I think he realized he had lost some of his bravado. I was glad he hung up because I could have easily given away that it was precisely his celebrity I would destroy. I was counting on it being more important to him than Mark.

On the home front, Mandy followed the cheater's script. Cook a nice dinner, ask me indiscriminately if I needed anything, rinse, repeat. I was civil to her because I needed to be. I also knew and dreaded that we would soon have to tell the kids the dirty family secret.

Two weeks in, though, and only half the time she'd spent on her cooking island in her bikini, her exterior cracked. She wasn't stupid, which is why she tried to keep her sordid life a secret. She knew that as long as I wasn't returning to her emotionally, she had very little chance at keeping the family intact, and I still hadn't told her the thing she wanted to know most - what I was up to.

Sure, both sets of parents were calling me almost nonstop, asking how I was doing, blah, blah, until they got to the point of the call. What was I planning to do about Daryl? Did I have a plan? Did we hire a lawyer?

"We need to talk," she announced. It wasn't a request. "I need to know what you're up to regarding Tyler. I know you were served at work. So was I. Keeping me in the dark only divides us and prevents us from a good plan to fight that asshole. Please let me in for Mark's sake."

I didn't answer immediately; she seemed to have plenty to say, so she plowed ahead. "Okay, let's try something else. Who's your attorney? I want to set up a meeting with them and us, so I can find out what your strategy is. I won't be left in the dark."

The timing felt appropriate right then. "I understand," I said. "You're trying to be noble--something you are not. You're used to running things, your career, the kids, the house, and getting our parents involved. But I don't trust you anymore, not even to pick up your cigarette butts on the side of the house. That's another thing that pisses me off, so that you know. This is all your fault.

"What year?" I asked.

"What?" she looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"When our parents found out," I stated, rage begging to bubble over. "What fucking year?"

Her astonishment was only temporary. "Right before Mark started kindergarten," she said quietly, with at least some shame. "Both of our mothers had talked about Mark's looks, so they ambushed me one afternoon here at the house. Melodie was at school, and Mark was napping when they hit me with their suspicions."

"So, seven long fucking years," I said, exacerbated. "Why the big deal intervention?"

"I doubt your father knew, or mine for that matter," she eluded. "The moms wanted to protect our family as badly as I did. Are you planning to destroy them, too, for doing the right thing?"

"I think you have a lot to learn about 'the right thing,' my dear wife." She was so far off the rails, had lied to herself for so long, lie piled upon lie, that her entire morality was distorted. "You keep telling yourself you love me and the kids. If you're honest, you'll tell yourself that all you really want is full custody of Mark, away from Smith, whether I'm involved or not. You are so transparent, it amazes me. You are the least virtuous person I know, sad to say, and a mediocre cook to boot."

Unphased, she continued, "Okay, let's try this. Where the fuck is all of our money? This mediocre cook won a major competition, and YOU stole my prize money. I want it all back tonight. It doesn't belong to you. As for the rest of it, that money is only half yours, so that also needs to be put back into our joint account."

Her demanding bitchiness was now in full bloom. I guess all the extra niceties were over. I'd probably be on my own for dinner from then on out, too.

"So much for the loving wife theory," I said with mocking rebuke. "Your demands are incredulous, even for a self-centered bitch like you, and thus are meaningless to me. You're almost out of time in getting your head out of your ass, so if I were you, I'd spend some time considering that, instead of what I'm doing with the money or my lawyer."

"Damn it! I don't know any other way to say, 'I'm sorry!' I am and have been trying to show you, but you push me away. I know I have blown your trust in me and it will likely never return. I'm sorry for that, too. If I could go back thirteen years and change it, I would. Mark is the only good thing about that night, and even you will agree. He's every bit your son... the unabridged affection, the togetherness... he's your son, our son... and no one, no judge can ever take that away. I just wish you would join me in fighting for him where Smith is concerned. Please."

That was as close to sincerity as she'd demonstrated since her return, but I still had strong doubts. Rather than respond, I left the room before she could make a big spectacle of herself. The timetable for my plans had moved up considerably.

After dropping the kids at school the next morning, I told my boss about most of what was happening. He gave me the week and some advice about the moves I was making, so I could come out the other side still employed and possibly more respected. I went to a coffee shop and adjusted my plan, then called the realtor and set up a video conference with the capital ventures guy and the developer.

I called and made another appointment with my attorney. From then on, it would be mostly in his hands.

"We can go with the conspiracy angle," he stated. "It's shaky and you know you can't stay down there with the kids, right?"

"I do," I let him know. "We just need four or five days so I can conclude the rest of the business. The kids' summer break starts next week, and once I have all the final paperwork, we can head down there. Can you hold off her lawyer for, say, five more days?"

"Of course," he said with a smile. "Are you sure about this, Charles? I mean, there's a lot of moving parts and some legalities that might end up biting you in the ass. You have to play this exactly right, or else."

"I think I've got it," I assured him. "I have some good people, like you, working with me. I'll have to work my ass off for the next several years so I don't have to retire a pauper, but it's well worth it, for Mark's and Melodie's sake."

The next afternoon, I picked up both kids from school. Melodie looked frantic since I rarely did that. I took them to a Dairy Queen and proceeded to tell both children the horrible truth I'd been avoiding. They both took it a lot better than anticipated. I was shocked, in a good way. Mark asked plenty of questions, some of which I admitted couldn't be answered yet.

"I don't want to spend any time with him, Dad. You're my dad and he's just the guy who took my mom. I can't like it or him, so I don't want to go." Mark said, as if demanding it. My face must have been beaming with pride as he declared his intentions.

I had to explain that certain things might be up to a judge, but I had some ideas regarding Daryl. I asked both of them to be patient. They both started bad-mouthing their mother, and I cut that off, although it tickled me inside. I asked them not to confront their mom because this was the last week of the school year, and we were going on a short vacation the following week. Their mother didn't know about it. Melodie was smart and old enough to realize I didn't want her finding out, so she helped me force her brother into secrecy.

Mel spotted some friends at another booth and touched my arm. I knew what she intended, so I nodded and spent several significant minutes alone with my son.

"Mark," I began, "I love you. You are my son, and that will never change. At the same time, we can never change the fact that he's your father by blood. I know it's hard for you to understand at your age, but that has nothing to do with you. We were both lied to. That should be the first lesson here, because what have I always told you about lying?"

"That lies hurt people, even when we didn't mean to."

"Yes," I continued. "You can feel it, the hurt, right?" He nodded. Then another thought crossed his young mind.

"Why would Mom want to do that? To hurt us?" His question broke my heart.

"Only she can answer that, son," I said with conviction. "Maybe she felt too ashamed to tell the truth, like when you broke Mrs. Porter's window, or maybe she thought she could protect us by lying, or better said, not telling the whole truth. Regardless of her intent, she's your mother and she loves. Don't disrespect her, son. That's not right. Still, that doesn't mean it was the right thing to do."

Mark reflected on what I'd told him. I hoped it would stick. I had no intention of turning him against his mother. There were other plans for her.

On Wednesday, I reviewed some complicated documents and discussed the final signing over a Zoom call. My Houston attorney also advised me of the various pitfalls. I took it all in stride because I'd already come too far to back out. Everything would be ready to sign the following Tuesday. I bid them all good day and called Mario Garcia to give him the good news.

The house no longer held any of the love or happiness it once had. I knew Mandy felt it, too. She didn't even try to engage me, which also told me she was probably mirroring the same ending I was. The finality of it, considering what I thought we had as a family, saddened me.

On Friday night, we all sat together in the school auditorium as Mark graduated from elementary school. It would be the last time we would do so as a family. I felt her eyes on me a few times, but she looked away quickly when I didn't return her gaze.

I had mixed feelings watching Mark, except for the pride that he had achieved the right to move on to the next level. Knowing what was to come the following week and what I planned to do, we were all moving on, in one way or another.

That weekend, thankfully, was uneventful. Mandy was buried in her computer, preparing for a Monday morning show where she was scheduled to use her top chef fame to bring some ratings to the local channel, as she created five or six summer snack ideas for the kiddies.

When I wasn't doing outdoor chores (I needed to keep the house looking good due to its possible sale, if Mandy decided to get nasty), I was finalizing my plans. The hard stuff was done, but I needed to fine-tune the speech for the coming press conference.

Before I went to bed Sunday night, I found Mandy in the family room. I sat next to her, which oddly made her uncomfortable. Leaning in, I gave my wife a goodnight kiss, which, although she had no clue yet, was actually a goodbye kiss. I wished her luck on her TV gig in the morning, which earned me a wan, if not suspicious, smile.

The minute Mandy left the house the next morning, I began helping the kids finish packing for our little vacation. They were always so excited, and I had to ensure they didn't forget anything. My bags were already packed. As we pulled out of our subdivision around 10:00, my phone chirped, showing my lawyer on the screen.

"Charles," he said grimly, "your wife just attempted to serve you with dissolution papers at work." Just then, I saw a text from my boss.

"Yeah, my boss just now informed me."

"Please tell me you're on your way to the airport," he asked. I told him I was, and he said he'd move up our service one day, so it happened now. I told him where she was, but I doubted she'd be there much longer and asked that she be served at home around lunchtime.

"Well, her attorney knows now that we were planning to serve her," he stated. "He tried to claim first right, but I told him good luck with that in court since the process server never completed the service on you.

"Since we know where her head is at now," he warned, "are you sure about the restraining order? I want this to go nice and clean. It cannot turn into a war, Charles."

"Yes," I told him. "Once the realization of her fame crumbling is plain, she will back off and play nice. This Smith character, I have no idea, but I'm counting on the same."

"Make damn sure that paperwork is in order." He ordered me.

We landed at 3:00. The kids were anxious, and if I read them right, they were also feeling nervous. We got to our hotel, and I showed them the pool, giving them permission to play for a bit before we went to dinner. I needed to make the calls and check my voicemail. I thought Mandy would have left many for me, and I was not wrong.

The few I listened to made her out to be a fire-breathing dragon. Screaming all sorts of obscenities and asking where I'd taken "her" children. I deleted the rest and sent her a text.

"I don't know what's wrong with you. I sent you an email yesterday explaining everything. I'm saving your ranting voicemails for court because you sound like you've gone utterly mad."

I had sent her an email the previous day at just past four in the afternoon, letting her know I was taking the kids away for a few days so that she could calm down after being served the paperwork for our divorce. She'd know I had something more sinister up my sleeve, as would our parents, if it ever came out, but I only needed to cover my bases.

Dinner was great, as the kids met Mario Garcia for the first time. We'd taken them to his restaurant many times over the years, and Mark couldn't stop asking how he made this and that. I pegged my kids, primarily how they handled the bad news of Mark's father, as being more analytical like me, but during dinner, I saw a lot of their mother in them.

After the kids were set up in the hotel room with Netflix, Mario and I went to the lounge to discuss the next day's signing and the two crazy days to follow. After we said goodnight, I stayed in the lobby to listen and respond to Mandy.

In her final voicemail, she was crying, sobbing, more like. I decided to call her as it might look better for me later.

"Why?" she started with, obviously knowing it was me. "Where are you? When are you coming home?" It baffled me that I could have been so blind, so gullible for so many years. She wasn't at all who I imagined. I guess love is truly blind.

"As to your first question," I admonished, "I'm aware you tried to serve me today, just picked the wrong place. Thank goodness for small miracles."

"I was only doing it in order to get your head out of your ass," she interrupted. "We're facing a lawsuit for custody, in case you've forgotten, but you served me for a different reason, right?"

"No, I haven't," I ignored her question. "Have you read my order and dissolution request?"

"Yeah," was all I got.

"Then you know mine are as real as it gets," I had to be frank about it.

"You better not be doing what I think you're doing, and you better not be in Texas. He'll win custody if you go after him, and you'll end up in prison. He's a celebrity Chuck, with lawyers coming out the wazoo. Anything you try to do to him, he'll be all over you. You'll never see Mark, and he'll have w..."

"I'm not going after him," I reassured. "At least not how you think. I'm conducting some business, and I wanted to spend some time with the children before we begin the grudging task of sorting out a long and wasted marriage."

"It doesn't have to be like this," she implored. "Please, just give us, give me a chance. I know I have fucked this up royally but to just slam it shut without talking through ideas to resolve it doesn't sound like you. At least not like the man I married."

"Of course it does," I corrected. "For once, Amanda, think about someone other than you! How in any world would you think I wouldn't react this way? You pulled the floor from under me, from under the kids..." I almost gave away my trump card by saying, '... for a fuck for old times' sake.'

"You knew it from the start - from the minute you walked into his hotel room, you knew exactly how I'd react. The pregnancy only gave you fuel to keep lying about it. Getting pregnant gave new life to your deranged thinking. You'd been putting off telling me the truth, assuaging your guilt, and then you had an excuse. You probably even thought the child in your belly could belong to either your first or second love. No point or need to spill the beans then, right? You could take the secret to your grave. Both secrets, more accurately."

"You're so fucking full of yourself," she spat. "So ego-driven. Whatever your damned master plan is, I hope you fail miserably. My attorney told me he'll have your stupid restraining order lifted before you and the kids return."

The true Amanda exploded back, even with all the pleading she had just spoken. I disconnected the call. We could take it up again at Mel or Mark's wedding.

After breakfast, I reminded the kids that I had business to attend and not to leave the hotel. I purposefully found a family-friendly spot with a pool and an arcade off the main lobby.

The conference room was packed. Gunther, the venture capitalist, was there, with a team of lawyers, mine among them. He also had members of his marketing team who would drive the information out to the public, ensuring we had a good turnout of local reporters at our presser the next day.

Mr. Garcia was there, and the realtor and lawyer for Tyler Phillips rounded out the room. All the papers were distributed, and an escrow officer and notary reviewed each document individually. My fingers hurt from signing by the time we finished. I had more than a feeling that at least one of Phillips' representatives recognized me. That suspicion was confirmed later in the evening. Walking out, I smiled broadly at Mario and asked if he was ready for the 'chingon' show the next day. The true derivative of the word meant something impressive or excellent, but the slang strictly meant 'badass.' Mario was Mr. Excellent and I would be the badass if everything went as planned.

At 9:30 local time, I received a text from my soon-to-be ex-wife. "WTF have you done?!?" Of course, I didn't answer. She'd find out soon enough. I guessed she now knew where we were.

The next morning, at ten, we stood on the restaurant's thick, well-kept lawn. Reporters from all the local channels were waiting. I'd worried that few or none would show up. Considering so many restaurants fail, Smith's foodie persona had drawn just the right amount of interest.

Gunther, Mario, and I spoke briefly before getting started. We each had a lawyer present in case the Q&A went off the rails. I began.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," I was never a great public speaker, but I was in the zone that morning, having rehearsed the speech for weeks.

"Today, we are announcing the purchase of two Tyler Phillips locations in the greater Houston market by Gunther Prague, Mario Garcia, and me as a minority owner. Mr. Garcia has developed an incredible reputation for fine Latin cuisine in Detroit for over a decade and is proud to expand into your area.

"Mr. Garcia may also be more infamously known for his appearance thirteen years ago on Tyler's silly restaurant repair TV show. Mr. Garcia would be better suited as a high-paid restaurant consultant, so I'm putting my money where my mouth is. These two locations, the other in The Woodlands, will begin a long line of restaurants across the country. We are open for questions."

"What was your relationship with Mr. Phillips after 'Restaurant Encounters?'" Good, someone had done their homework or just Googled it. I turned the mic over to Mario.

"Senor Phillips make many problems for me," he started. "He fix inside the place, but you know, he tell me to do things, well, very crazy things to make money." Mario paused right on cue as we'd practiced. The truth was, Mario was a damned good spokesman without my help. "For me, I don't think Senor Phillips understand the Mexican culture or the food. I always appreciate the way he remodel my place, pero I change almost everything about the food back to before he came. Now, I know much more. What can work or no. I want to provide great food and service to as many parts of America as possible."

The press seemed ready to poke a few holes in his prepared speech. I knew Tyler had found out exactly who had bought his restaurants out from under him after the previous day's meeting. He'd probably waited until just before ten to release a statement.

"And you, Mr. Dickenson," another jumped into the fray. "You're married to Chef Amanda Dickenson, aren't you? Tell me sir, does your involvement stem from the upcoming divorce between you and your wife?"

Bravo, reporter lady, I thought. I stepped back up to the mic.

"In a way it does, but probably not what you're suggesting." I took that long, deep breath. Here it was, everything hinged on what came next.

"My youngest son was conceived as a result of Mrs. Dickenson's time with Tyler Phillips." Some of the reporters gasped, which went over well.

"Unfortunately, my wife and Phillips hooked up after the reveal party for Mr. Garcia's restaurant, those thirteen odd years ago. My wife kept that fact, and the subsequent pregnancy, from both of us." More gasps were heard, even louder.

"Mr. Phillips found out by accident," I continued, "after doing a genealogy search online. He pushed Amanda to come clean. He wanted a relationship with his estranged son. I also found out quite by accident while watching one of the episodes of "Cooking Your Gas Off." I feel like Mr. Phillips orchestrated an elaborate conspiracy to blackmail me and Amanda. For her part, she rolled over easily enough, giving in to Phillips' seduction while on the TV show. I believe, and we'll find out in court, that Phillips' reason for leaving the show prematurely was because of that relationship and its physical nature. I believe he worried that his fling with Amanda on the show would be discovered, diminishing his chances of gaining custody in court later."

"Are you trying to retaliate against Mr. Phillips, who's clearly the victim in all this?" another silly reporter said, probably under Phillips' influence, walking right into my trap.

"The victim, you say?" I stepped closer to the mic with an admonishing tone. "If he's the victim, who am I? How much of a victim is my son? Yes, Phillips is the 'donor', but my son is my son, and nothing will ever change that. Mr. Phillips, AKA, Daryl Smith, who was also my wife's high school boyfriend, needed money to cover his legal fees, which he told me in a recorded phone conversation he would use to bury me and ruin my relationship with my son if I didn't acquiesce to his demands. He put the restaurants up for sale because they weren't doing well. It seems to me that Phillips isn't just a conniving, cheating bastard when it comes to married women, but he also isn't quite who he pretends to be in his public life either. I'll let all of you decide that. You have far more resources in finding the truth than I do."

They were shouting over each other, then screaming like wild banshees. My attorney was whispering with the other two and then leaned into me.

"That will be all for today. Please help me welcome Mr. Garcia's "Latin Street Eats" to South Texas." We all rushed off the lawn and into the restaurant.

Later that afternoon, my phone rang while I played with the kids by the pool. I had saved that number the first time it found me.

"Charles the Great speaking," I said, all business.

"Yeah," he sneered. "I'll bet that felt good. Legally, you fucked up. I'm going to enjoy dismantling everything you said today in the courtroom. Oh, and it will also be in the court of public opinion."

"You want to meet your son?" I switched it up so fast he wasn't sure he heard correctly.

"What did you say?"

"Do you want to meet Mark?" I repeated. "If you do, we can arrange something for my attorney's conference room tomorrow. We return to Detroit the following day. I doubt that court will go how you're pretending it will, so this might be your only chance, at least for a while."

The way I hit him with it, I expected a long pause. I was right, it took him three seconds to respond. "Yes... I would," he said. I told him when and where.

I took the kids to a baseball game that night and felt more... at ease, I suppose, was the best way to describe it, than I had since the whole sordid mess began.

I kept the kids busy the following day so they couldn't see the TV or social media. A package had been delivered to the TMZ studios from somewhere in Georgia, showing a video of Amanda and Daryl on their cooking island, both with their hands around the other's waist. He was in a simple pair of swimming trunks, and Amanda was in the tiniest bikini I'd ever seen her wear. They were disappearing into a bungalow at night, and just as Amanda crossed the threshold, she turned and looked first over her right and then over her left shoulder. The look told the world she didn't want anyone to see her enter that room.

I'd told Melodie she should absolutely answer her phone if her Mother called. I'd been surprised it hadn't happened sooner, but I guessed that Mandy wanted to shield the kids from whatever mayhem I would cause. They were her children, too, after all.

Melodie had it on speaker phone from her bedroom. I leaned in and motioned for her to take the call in private. Mandy was already sobbing only one minute into the conversation. I sat in the common area with Mark, realizing the toll the next few months would have on us all. All the pain, just because Mandy couldn't keep her legs closed for her former boyfriend.

I knew Mandy was too pissed at me to attempt any communication. It might have been her worst day ever. Everyone she knew would have seen or talked amongst themselves about the video. It had probably been shared thousands of times. Her parents may have even seen it. I heard later that TMZ kept running the end of it, zooming in on her face as she looked back. That was now her fame.

Also in the frame, although a bit blurry because the focus was on Mandy, Daryl stood with a shit-eating grin, like a guy taking something that didn't belong to him. But Smith was arrogant. He probably saw it as a medal of honor - a symbol of his manhood. I was hoping that public opinion had changed before our morning meeting.

As far as our parents were concerned, I was sure that Mandy had spoken to our mothers by then, letting them know that I knew their dreadful secret.

I broke the news to Mark and Mel at the hotel breakfast. Mark adamantly argued that he didn't want to go. Melodie knew I had made up my mind, but she was also trying her best to avoid the shitshow.

"Mark," I said, "we need to get this over with. I'll be right there with you and so will Mel. You only need to be polite and say hello. Let him do all the talking if that's what you want to do. He may ask you some questions, try to get you talking to him. Stay quiet if that's how you feel."

My kids pulled a mini-mutiny on the ride over to the attorney's office. It wasn't anything I hadn't seen from them before, but it made me wonder if I was pushing too hard. I didn't want the kids to hate their mother; I just wanted to break her, and I'd accomplished that. Now it was Daryl's turn, and he'd had a tough week, by his standards. The question was would he be the cocky tower of testosterone, or would the events of the week, including the video have him on edge?

I got the kids situated in the conference room. My attorney pulled me into the hallway to caution me. I told him I was calm and collected, but I wouldn't tolerate any shenanigans from Smith, since I'd offered him the opportunity to meet Mark.

Just then, Smith arrived, exiting the elevator with a woman whom he later introduced as his media manager, or publicist, or something.

As we all began to walk into the conference room, he leaned in and quietly said, "How'd it feel being humiliated to the whole world?"

"Maybe you haven't been paying attention to the media today. Pretty sure you and the slut are in the hole. I'm just an accountant, remember? Oh yeah, you're welcome."

The leering mask faded, as his comment didn't faze me. We walked in and I went over to sit with my children. My attorney allowed Smith to sit on the other side of Mark.

"Hello, Mark," he began, his celebrity voice shining through. I almost puked. "My name is Tyler Phillips. It's nice to meet you." He reached out his hand to shake with my son.

"I'm sorry to stop you there, Mr. Smith," my attorney said. "We'd prefer you use your real name, so as not to confuse the boy."

Smith seemed shaken by that. I got the distinct impression that he might really view himself as two different people.

"I don't go by that name anymore," he told the lawyer sarcastically. "My legal name is Tyler Phillips, so I will use that name." He returned his gaze to Mark, who just sat there.

"Tell me about yourself, Mark," he tried as he exited the chair and knelt before my son.

"What do you want to know?" Mark replied.

"What are your favorite things to do?" Smith looked uncomfortable. "Do you have a sport?"

"I play baseball," Mark admitted with pride. "Dad coaches my team." He was giving the bare minimum and Smith could feel it - we all could. There was an awkward silence.

"Why did you ruin my family? Why did you make Mommy cry?"

"I didn't mean to do that, son." Smith tried to smooth things over.

"Don't call me that!" he jumped up and hugged my waist. "I don't want to be your son!"

My attorney stepped into the mix, saying, "I think that's enough for now." His words were kind, but they were definitive.

"But," Smith whined, "we've barely started." He looked at Mark, a mix of determination and hopelessness. It only made sense if the man's true intentions were to hurt me. He had no idea how to deal with Mark, right then or in the future. The woman he'd come with gently took his arm and began to lead him out.

"Mel," I instructed, "stay with your brother for a moment." I followed Smith out of the room.

Before the door even closed, he turned and verbally attacked me. "You son of a bitch! You set it up like this! I can see what you're trying to do and it won't work."

"That's your whole life, Smith," I got in his face. "I'm his father, no matter how hard you try to be. He wants nothing to do with you; you heard him. You fucked up his whole world. He won't forget that. He's twelve, not five."

"This changes nothing, and you aren't going to stop me," he threatened. My lawyer was now standing close by.

"Smith," I told him, calmer than before. "Everything you've done is now in the public eye. A guy you made fun of and another you tried to humiliate just bought two of your restaurants. I'm a ten percent owner as well. We're going to keep after you. Garcia will go national in a year, I guarantee. Whatever you're trying to win isn't working, and I've only pulled a few tricks out of my bag. Your problem is that you didn't think this through, you were only thinking with your dick."

The woman must have known him well. She grabbed his arm before he could move toward me, which provoked the lawyer to intervene. The two of them walked Smith to the elevator.

I spent that night and all of the next day playing with my kids. It was cathartic for me, leaving all our troubles behind, but just out of view.

When the kids went to bed, I pulled my tablet out to see what buzz had been going around.

My wife's followers had decimated Mandy. Some of the blogs, like Joe Rogan, had shamed Smith. I doubted it bothered him yet. Fame is hard to let go of, even when it suddenly turns negative. Oddly, the culinary community remained silent about both of them.

The next day, we left for home. The kids badgered me about what would happen next. I told them I'd either stay or divorce their mom, depending on what Smith did.

From the time we arrived home and for several months after, it was dark and difficult times for me and for the kids. I would include Mandy in that, which would be correct, but I didn't really care about her then. She barely spoke to me from the minute we walked in the front door. I just gave her a sideways smile every time our eyes met.

Two weeks later, one day apart, I received good news-bad news. Smith dropped the custody suit on a Wednesday. My attorney called me back the following day to tell me Mandy was counter-suing for custody.

I could understand even if I didn't like it. Her local celebrity status had gone to shit, and I was pretty sure that upon reflection, she considered that the kids were about all she had left. Women always get the 'slut' label, while their paramours elevate their 'stud' standing.

Neither of us would move out, and Mandy spent most of her time with the kids at her parents' house. Neither her mom nor mine reached out to me, and I had nothing to say to them. It took a few months, but first my father, and then hers, called me to apologize. In the end, they testified on my behalf in the divorce proceedings.

Both mothers sat on Mandy's side of the courtroom. Both fathers testified for my side, as my lawyer asked them how they felt about the betrayal, not just on Mandy's part, but from their own wives. The number I did on Mandy and, to a larger degree, on Smith, had long-lasting effects on our entire family. The thing was, I had only reacted in defense of what Mandy did, so I did not feel at all guilty. Aside from the divorce, I only took the offensive against Smith and not directly against Mandy.

Ultimately, I determined that my ex-wife was never really who I believed her to be. I can say I did not have, nor would I have any idea, what 'love' meant to her. My definition was totally different from hers and since she lied to me for thirteen years, I had no desire to find out.

>>>>

I've tried to put those eight months out of my mind for several reasons.

The bad press concerning "the kissing cooks" as Mandy and Daryl were dubbed, continued to devolve, and even the television production from which came many more little excerpts and videos, became known as "Cooking with A$$" on the internet.

Daryl had to sell two more restaurants, and the commercial realtor called me only a month after Daryl met Mark in Houston. Smith made it clear that he would not sell to any entity in which I was a major or minor holder. That meant Mario Garcia ended up with one of them, and on my advice, he passed on the other due to its poor location.

I did offer my services in building, or basically emulating, the operations manuals and procedures we'd used for the first two. That time, I did it as my old firm's acquisitions and mergers lead accountant, where they gladly brought me back with a substantial raise. In hindsight, I should have prepared partnership documents with Mario. He went on to own twenty-four locations in four states.

Mandy was awarded custody of our children in the final decree. Additionally, the judge was not happy that I'd looted our finances and taken a good chunk of the prize money Mandy had won. I was ordered to make restitution in an amount I did not have. A remortgage of the home was the only way I could pay her in a lump sum, and even that put me in a position where I had to pinch pennies. Being a minor partner in the restaurants did not even provide one quarter of my annual salary from the firm.

Two weeks after the divorce was final, my attorney called saying Mandy and her lawyer wanted a meeting with just the four of us. I figured they found a new way to hurt me financially.

We sat in the conference room, and her lawyer got right down to business. "Amanda would like to amend the custody agreement." I let out an audible sigh.

"And I still want my money back," Mandy emphasized. Her attorney gave her a look and then kept talking.

"Ms. Allbright (her maiden name) is unable to find meaningful employment in the local area," he stated. "She will be moving to the Seattle area within the next month."

"Over my dead body," I shouted, "will you take my kids out of state!" It was then my lawyer's turn to glare as he grabbed my forearm.

"Ms. Allbright," he continued, "would like to alter the agreement in your favor, giving you primary custody, with liberal visitation, half holidays, and eight weeks total in the summer. She understands the good faith effort based on the final judgment for you to reimburse the monetary alterations. She would prefer that you cohabitate the family home with the children so they can continue living in the means they were accustomed to before the divorce."

I was astounded by that. I'd seen a few videos showing her out on the town with Daryl so I figured they were going to shack up and give it another go. I looked at her questioningly.

"I know what you're thinking," she addressed me. "He and I... we are not a thing. I need to reestablish myself, and when I thought hard about it, Seattle seems like a great place for me to start over." She made no apologies, but then, I hadn't expected any. She was throwing me a financial bone regardless of her address change.

"I figure," she went on, "if you and the kids live in the house until they are old enough, you won't have to pay a mortgage and rent for your apartment. The kids won't have to eat SpaghettiOs or get their sports equipment at the thrift store. In return, I expect you to up your repayment to me in a good-faith effort whenever you have additional money. You always were a decent accountant, and before all this, a decent man, so I'm taking a leap of faith."

Things improved from there. Four months after Mandy moved, I called and asked if I could put the kids in therapy so they could deal with their anger issues. She again agreed. There were conversations like that since we'd both calmed down, and the worst was in the past, when I expected at least some small token apology. It never came. I was convinced that she saw herself as in the right, making her little mistake, getting pregnant, and being the big savior by trying to protect her family by keeping a lie.

Mel was in her second year of college. She and her brother had just returned from their summer visit with Mandy, although it was no longer a mandatory part of any custody arrangement. The second night she was home, she pulled me aside.

"Dad," she began, "there is something I need to tell you, before you find out from someone else. They told me they were opening a restaurant together near Pike Place Market, to compete against some bimbo bell bitches. She seems so enthralled with Becca, I'm worried they might be sweet on one another.

I had to laugh at that, the innocence of children, even at her age. Melodie gave me a funny look.

"I think your mom is referring to "Biscuit Bitch" in Belltown."

I waited two months to make the call because I couldn't think of any way to ask without being awkward. Besides, it was none of my business. But it was November, and we needed to discuss Christmas logistics. After the normal chit chat, we both got quiet.

"Chuck, no way!" she said more seriously, "Surely you have to know me better than that!" In the silence between us, I'm positive she realized that I didn't. Not anymore.

There it was. I wished her well, and we planned our holiday with the kids.

Epilogue:

Life changes, but it goes on. In the short term, I'd won, but in reality, no one had.

Like many men, I wallowed in self-pity for a time after such life-changing events. But it didn't take long for me to realize I was only hurting myself. I stayed single and busy for a number of years, working toward an early retirement. With Melodie in college and Mark busy doing what seventeen-year-olds do, I had plenty of time for a social life, and I was in no hurry to find a woman to shack up with.

Did I feel lonely, or reflective on my past with Mandy? Of course. That mainly occurred at night, just before going to sleep, when you're supposed to be drifting into sleep but in my case, my mind would continuously replay these horrible events. After all, I'd spent many years sleeping in the same bed with a partner I always thought would be there for life. Every time that happened, though, I reminded myself that I'd done right by Mark and by Mel, even as they could not escape the damage their mother had wrought. That perspective always gave me a warm feeling.

Then one day, two weeks before my fifty-sixth birthday, I got a call from an old friend, asking to come by to see me.

"Mario!" I embraced the man as I opened the front door. I welcomed him inside, and we sat in the living room.

"I wanted you to hear this from me personally," he started. I must have looked worried, because his lips formed a big smile.

"I sold the restaurants," he continued. "The offer was too good to pass up."

"That's... wonderful, Mario," I congratulated. "I'm very happy for you. Can I ask who you sold to?"

"Wendy's. I'm sure you know they are invested in several concepts besides burgers." He was beaming. "I came to thank you for all you've done for me. You changed my life!"

I shook my head slightly. "And you, Mario Garcia, saved mine. As I recall, you reached out to me and alerted me to what she was doing. I owe you a lot, my friend. I was very happy to help you build your dream and crush that arrogant asshole."

Mario only nodded as he reached into his vest pocket. Yes, he'd purchased himself a new, upgraded suit. "This is for you, mi amigo."

I took the check and almost had a heart attack. "No, this is too much," I admonished, "I'm only a ten percent partner, not even considering how many locations you've opened since."

"None of it would have been possible without you," he admitted. "I confess, when I first saw Phillips and your wife..." He looked up at me. "Sorry, ex-wife, I told myself many things that would keep me from telling you the truth. The thing was, I could never escape my own conscience. I think we were given the gift of 'each other'."

I held the check for $1.7 million, trying to decide whether to accept it. He could see my indecision.

"Please, Charles," he implored. "Take it and be happy. I assure you, I have more than enough money." His English had improved by two hundred percent.

The money was helpful for the kids' college. I was rich and old, but not finished. The extra money allowed me to travel, follow many dreams, and check off bucket list items. When it came to 40- and 50-ish divorcees, I had my pick of the litter.

I never expected to get rich in the restaurant business. In a roundabout way, I had Mandy and Smith to thank for that. The last I'd heard of Daryl Smith, he was living in London, trying to resurrect his food career. Mandy and Becca's business didn't work out. Mandy still makes guest appearances on the local Seattle morning show there but is mostly retired.

Mel recently told her about a fourteen-day singles cruise I was going on, and out of nowhere, Mandy called me, asking politely if we could go together. After a long silence, she clarified (she changed her tune completely and on purpose) that she wanted to know if she could go with me, not as a couple, but maybe share a stateroom. She used the bucket list excuse, which made me wonder why she didn't just book her own cruise. She then reminded me that 'our' grandchildren will soon be coming.

I'm thinking about it... NOT!