The Family They Chose

by Nancy Robards Thompson

  Liv wouldn’t take well to the suggestion, but he’d been thinking about asking her to agree to put having children on hold until they could heal their marriage. It was the only thing that made sense.

  But one thing at a time. First, he had to break the news about the change of holiday plans.

  Jamison found the eggs, butter and cheddar cheese and was just turning around with his hands full when Olivia walked into the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

  She shook her head. “I thought you’d sleep in since you got home so late.”

  She didn’t sound like herself, and she looked at him with a wariness that took him aback. But she did look beautiful standing there perfectly made-up and dressed, wearing the pearls that he’d given her as a wedding present, her dark hair twisted up in a way that accentuated her porcelain skin, fine cheekbones and gorgeous dark eyes—deep brown, like the coffee he craved almost as much as he thirsted for her.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was flat. She sounded tired.

  He adjusted the goods in his hands, fidgeting as if he’d been caught trespassing. This was her territory after all. In the seven years they’d been married, he’d barely set foot in the kitchen, much less cooked a meal.

  “I thought I’d fix you some breakfast.” He grinned sheepishly, suddenly feeling out of his league.

  “You don’t have to do that.” She gestured toward the items in his hands. “Just put those things down and I’ll do it. I have a special breakfast planned.”

  Oh. Of course she would, it being Christmas.

  “Well, I just thought—” Their gazes snagged for a brief moment before she looked away. With that, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that something was wrong. Of course something was wrong, but he’d been so bent on moving forward with the next steps they should take to fix things between them that he hadn’t counted on having to delve backward into their problems before they could move on. Suddenly the clarity he’d felt moments before was replaced by a dread that riveted him to the wooden kitchen floor.

  Olivia walked toward him and took the food from his hands. Then she set to work, returning the cheese to the dairy drawer and removing various other items from the refrigerator and pantry. Jamison stood and watched her for a moment, feeling superfluous.

  Since she hadn’t made any moves to start the coffee, he decided it would be a good task and began opening cabinet doors to locate the beans.

  “What are you looking for?” Olivia asked.

  “Coffee,” he replied.

  “It’s in the freezer.” She gestured to the drawer below the refrigerator. “I keep it there so it will stay fresh since I’m not drinking it these days.”

  “Really? So, no coffee for you?”

  She shook her head.

  “How come? You love coffee.”

  She turned and squinted at him, looking plenty annoyed. “Jamison, I haven’t been drinking coffee for the past two years. Don’t you remember the doctor suggested that I cut caffeine from my diet while we were trying to get pregnant?”

  Well, it was an honest mistake since they hadn’t had the opportunity to try during the past couple months. Even so, he thought as he rummaged through the freezer drawer, his not knowing felt like a failure. Funny how he felt perfectly at home on the senate floor, where he knew every nook and cranny of the issues he passionately presented, yet he’d forgotten that the doctor had nixed caffeine from his wife’s diet.

  Bad show, man.

  When he pulled out the unopened bag of whole-bean French roast, Olivia was right there ready to pluck it from his hands.

  This time, he held on tight.

  “I can do it,” he said.

  “Since when do you know how to make coffee?” she asked, tugging every so slightly, but he refused to let go.

  “Since I haven’t had you to make it for me,” he said, looking her square in the eye. For an instant, a look—surprise, hurt, disappointment…maybe a combination of the three—flashed on her face.

  “I’ll make it for you,” she insisted. Once again her expression was flat and there was no warmth in her eyes where mere seconds ago there had been a pileup of emotion.

  The distance between them was killing him. He had to do something.

  He glanced down at their hands still holding on to the bag of coffee. They were so close, yet not touching. He stretched his finger until it touched hers. She flinched and snatched her hand away, leaving him holding the bag of French roast.

  She looked startled for a moment then turned back toward the kitchen counter, busying herself with the breakfast preparation, taking eggs from the carton with shaky hands.

  “Liv,” he said. “We need to talk about this. It’s not just going to go away.”

  She placed the eggs in a bowl and stilled but didn’t respond.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’ve missed you so badly it’s tearing me up.”

  He saw her grip tighten on the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.

  “I’m sorry last night didn’t work out the way we’d hoped. I wish you would’ve gone on to your parents when we realized my flight was delayed.”

  He saw her shoulders rise and fall, and dreaded delivering the news that he had to leave tomorrow.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Jamison. I know that.”

  She turned to face him. “But sleeping in the guest room last night—that was your choice.”

  “What?” As tightly wound as she appeared, he was expecting her to unleash what was bothering her, but he wasn’t expecting this to be part of the problem.

  “You heard me.” She was clutching her hands in front of her, again gripping so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She looked so small, so fine-boned and fragile standing there, it was a wonder her fingers didn’t snap like twigs.

  “Liv, I was exhausted.” He ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t know up from down. I couldn’t even form the words to ask you where you wanted me to sleep.”

  He reached out and touched her hands, hoping the gesture would encourage her to relax. “But it’s a new day and there are a few things we need to talk about before we head up to my mother’s place.”

  Olivia’s face shuttered, but he saw her throat work as she swallowed.

  “Such as?” she asked.

  “Such as whether or not we should tell the family we’re separated. Despite how much I love you, I can’t go on pretending. What are we going to do, Liv? What are we going to tell them?”

  Chapter Two

  The moment they turned onto Stanhope Manor’s long, cobblestone driveway, Olivia could see that the Mallory mansion was bursting at the seams with family and festivity.

  Lights, decorations and a blanket of new-fallen snow transformed the stately home into a winter wonderland. An army of children ran and played on the rolling lawn. Some made snow angels; others joined forces in a collaborative snowman building effort. The bittersweet sight of all those children brought tears to Olivia’s eyes.

  She wanted to believe that someday her kids would play on that lawn, but she and Jamison seemed further away than ever from having a family of their own. That morning, the double whammy of a Christmas present he’d dropped into her lap was not only that he was returning to Washington early, but also that he wanted to put their baby plans on the back burner. It was the last thing she’d expected. The last thing she wanted. Because of that, the two-hour ride up to the Berkshires was mostly silent. What more was there to say? They were officially at a standoff. Jamison insisted they shouldn’t have children until they were happy as a couple; Olivia couldn’t see how they’d be happy until they had a baby. Or at least she couldn’t be happy. Not with Jamison spending more and more time away from her.

  They were supposed to spend Christmas week together, but he’d said something about an unexpected diplomatic visit. She’d always prided herself on being supportive of her husband’s demanding caree
r. But lately it seemed the more she gave, the more one-sided their life became. And balance didn’t seem to be a part of Jamison’s New Year’s resolutions.

  She tried to persuade him that this was the perfect example of how there was no perfect time to have children. It was simply another excuse to wait. Even worse, she didn’t understand why he felt compelled to wait. She got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t telling her the real reason behind his hesitation. But no matter how many times she told him having children was exactly what they needed to mend things, he’d come back around to “We need to fix us first.”

  So, what was she supposed to do?

  Passively give in?

  Just give up?

  No way would she do that. Not when their future depended on it.

  So they’d reached a standoff, except for agreeing to not saying anything to the family about their separation until they’d had a chance to talk more. That seemed code for “Let’s continue this vicious cycle of pretending.” She had a sinking feeling that they were set on a collision course with disaster.

  As Jamison steered the car under the porte cochere, anxiousness threatened to pin Olivia to her seat. She really wasn’t in a mood to put on a happy face for her mother-in-law and extended family. After the disastrous discussion with Jamison, this masquerade felt beyond her. But the alternative of announcing their marital problems to the bunch was worse. With one last wistful glance at the kids, she steeled herself to enter the lion’s den.

  The only consolation was that Jamison was a true gentleman. No matter how bad things had gotten between Jamison and her, he still stood up for her when his mother started in with her power plays—such as her insensitive queries about why Olivia wasn’t pregnant yet and her attempts to pressure them into selling the house in Boston.

  For the past year—since it had become clear that Jamison had garnered enough support to be considered a viable candidate for his party’s nomination for a future presidential race—Helen Mallory had been turning up the pressure for Jamison to claim his birthright and move up to the family home in the Berkshires. Olivia knew it was a posturing on Helen’s part, a way of positioning herself as close to her influential son’s inner circle as possible. If the future president of the United States lived with her, in her house—because if she and Jamison moved in it didn’t mean Helen would move out—then she would have an even better chance at having his ear and an even stronger chance at asserting her considerable influence, much in the same way she’d done with her late husband.

  Stanhope Manor had been in the Mallory family for seven generations. It had always been passed down to the oldest son. At thirty-nine, Jamison was still young, and would have plenty of time to enjoy the place with his own family, just as he and his five younger brothers had when they were growing up.

  Despite how much Olivia wanted to uphold the Mallory legacy, she wasn’t in a hurry to move out of the city into the rambling, eleven-bedroom, twenty-two-thousand-square-foot mansion until she could give her husband a son—or a daughter—who would carry on the tradition. What was the point without a family to fill the rambling house?

  At least in Boston Olivia had her family and her volunteer work. One thing she did not need was further isolation.

  Nor did she need—or want—to live with her mother-in-law. Especially with Jamison spending so much time in Washington. That living arrangement would surely prove to be a ticking time bomb ready to explode.

  Residing in Boston meant Helen was a safe two hours away in the Berkshires. Long distance, it was more difficult for her to remind Olivia that she and Jamison had yet to gift the family with children. Except for the occasional obligatory phone call, Helen mostly ignored Olivia, saving the pregnancy barbs for personal delivery. For times such as this.

  Olivia braced herself at the thought.

  It hurt that she and Jamison had confided in her about their fertility struggles, yet Helen publicly persecuted them as if their childlessness were a choice. Sometimes Olivia had to summon every ounce of strength to keep from tossing Helen’s barbs and patronizing tone right back at her. But out of respect for her husband, Olivia bit her tongue.

  To Jamison’s credit, he fully understood how painful it would be to live with his mother. Despite how he longed to move into the house in which he’d grown up, he always sided with Olivia, refusing to let Helen bully them into moving and demanding she lay off when her pregnancy digs got out of hand.

  The valet opened Olivia’s door and helped her step out of the Jaguar. Jamison walked around the car and took her hand, expecting her to play along. To put on a happy face and pretend they were the perfect couple with the perfect marriage.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as they climbed the steps to the porch.

  “Truthfully?” She slanted him a look. “No, I’m not.”

  His face fell, as if her words had knocked the wind out of him, but before he could say anything, the elaborately carved wooden front doors swung open and a uniformed doorman greeted them.

  “Merry Christmas, sir, madam.”

  Ever the politician, Jamison flashed his famous smile. “Merry Christmas.”

  Olivia managed a polite nod. She didn’t recognize the man at the door. He wasn’t part of the small band of live-in staff employed by Jamison’s mother. He was obviously among the extra help she’d hired for the holidays. Like a steadfast queen clinging to her castle, she’d remained in the house after Jamison’s father died and all six boys had moved out to begin their own lives.

  “Mrs. Mallory is in the great room. Follow me, please.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” said Jamison. “I grew up in this house. I know the way.”

  The doorman stood back and motioned Jamison and Olivia onward. “Very well, sir. Happy holidays.”

  Their footsteps sounded on the marble floor. The place had a museumlike air that inspired silence. As they made their way down the long, arched hallway toward the great room at the back of the house, neither said a word.

  Instead, Olivia let her gaze stray over the elaborate paintings lining the walls. Generations of Mallorys dating as far back as the Revolutionary War hung in grand, gilded frames. Their eyes seemed to follow Olivia and Jamison as they passed. Though she’d experienced this sensation many times, today it was eerie and a little unnerving. She shifted her gaze straight ahead, focusing on the crown molding at the end of the passageway.

  In the great room, a harpist strummed Christmas carols from her post in the corner. Her angelic music was barely audible above the crowd that was at least seventy-five strong. A giant Christmas tree stood in front of the large picture windows on the west wall that looked out over the snow-covered back lawn with its beautifully frozen pond. In the distance, the mountains painted a breathtaking picture. A roaring fire blazed in the oversize fireplace. The room was a little stuffy with all the people milling about talking, laughing and filling plates with fancy hors d’oeuvres that had been laid out on an antique trestle table that stretched nearly the entire length of the wall opposite the windows.

  In the center of the crowded room, Helen Mallory was holding court, talking to her loyal subjects who were dutifully gathered around her. Her platinum hair, as white as new-fallen snow, was teased into a meringuelike coiffure. Her white cashmere suit and plethora of diamonds brought to mind the term “Ice Queen.” As if sensing their presence, she looked up as Jamison and Olivia approached.

  “Darlings, there you are,” she said. Her drink sloshed as she raised her glass toward them. “I was beginning to think you’d never arrive.” It was barely noon and judging by the glass Helen held like a scepter, she’d bypassed the traditional Christmas Day pomegranate mimosas and had dived headfirst into the martinis. Depending on how many she’d had, they could be in for a bumpy ride.

  Jamison bent down and kissed Helen’s cheek.

  “Merry Christmas, Mother. You’re looking…well. We would’ve been here sooner, but last night my flight in from D.C. was delayed, and I didn
’t get home until after three.”

  Helen held out a diamond-laden hand to her daughter-in-law.

  “Merry Christmas, dear.” She looked Olivia up and down with disapproving eyes. “You’re looking beautiful, as always. But awfully thin. I was so hoping you would’ve plumped up by now.”

  Helen pulled her hand from Olivia’s and patted her daughter-in-law’s flat stomach.

  Trying to ignore the uncomfortable stares from the others gathered around them, Olivia took special care to keep her smile firmly in place. Especially since she had a feeling of what was coming next—right in front of everyone.

  Olivia did a mental countdown. Three, two, one—

  “When on earth are you going to give me a grandchild?”

  Right on schedule.

  “You do know that Payton is pregnant again, don’t you?” Helen slurred the words.

  Olivia fought back a sudden rush of emotions that brought with them the stinging threat of tears.

  Payton. The wife of Jamison’s younger brother, Grant. The perfect, fertile daughter-in-law. One only need talk about pregnancy in the vicinity of Payton and she got knocked up.

  “Mother, don’t start.” Jamison’s voice was flat.

  Helen sighed and dismissed him with a curt wave of martini, diamonds and bloodred nails. The gesture sent a wave of gin sloshing over the side of her glass, leaving a wet spot on her white suit. She seemed not to notice.

  “I’m not starting anything,” she slurred. “I’m simply finding it terribly ironic that Olivia’s father is one of the nation’s leading fertility experts—Gerald Armstrong, of the Armstrong Institute—yet they’re still not pregnant. I just don’t understand.” Helen directed her words to the others, spouting off as if this weren’t a deeply private issue, acting as if Olivia and Jamison weren’t standing right there.

  Every fiber in Olivia’s body went numb and she had to inhale sharply and bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from defending herself. Because what was the point?