by L. A. Long
“I like to cook for anyone who enjoys my food, so I suppose the answer is yes.”
He beamed at her.
“Let’s go; I’ll make lunch.”
****
The kitchen was bright with the early afternoon sun and made Lenore feel better. Not so chilled to the bone. MP seated himself at the counter and watched her move about the kitchen.
“Any foods you’re allergic to or absolutely despise?”
“Calves’ liver, hate it.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust to make the point.
“Me too, so you’re safe on that account. How about some Parmesan-encrusted tilapia and wild mushroom risotto?”
“I think I’m in love.”
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“I don’t think we’re quite that simple,” he mused. “I know it’s early, but do you have some wine?”
“It’s after twelve; wine would be good. There’s a wine cooler behind the bar in the lower level; choose whatever you like. One side has white and the other has red.”
“Any preference?”
“None.”
What was happening to her? Lenore silently questioned herself. She was letting this man, a man she didn’t know well get close to her. Closer than anyone had ever been, except maybe Byron Maxwell. Was she ready to do that? Was that why she wanted to write a contemporary romance? Was she ready to move into this century, on to this continent, with live people, maybe even herself?
“How about a Chardonnay?” he asked, bounding up the stairs.
Momentarily startled, she regrouped. “Sounds great.”
Oven going with the fish, pots and pans simmering with risotto ingredients, she took her glass of wine and sat on the counter stool next to him.
“Cheers.” She tapped her glass to his.
He leaned in and kissed her lightly.
Her eyes shimmered as she looked at the man facing her. She would tell him. Tell him what she’d told no one, not even her parents. Maybe it was time and, hopefully, she could trust him. Trust, risk, passion, lust, hope… love, wasn’t that what she filled her books with? The road to get there was never easy in fiction or reality, but maybe it was time to give her heart another try.
He cocked his head to get her attention.
A slow grin crossed her lips. “Sorry, wool-gathering, I guess.”
“Back in the Victorian Era, are you?”
“People still use the term today. I’ve heard them.”
“Yes, people in your circle who write VR like you.”
“You’re right. I never thought of that.”
“It’s okay; I like it.”
She took his hand and laced her fingers through his. MP’s hand was warm, strong, and confident; it made her feel the same when he squeezed hers.
“Byron Maxwell…” she started.
“Ahh, he does have a last name. I thought he was one of those famous people that only used one name.”
“Like Prince,” she laughed as a visual image of Byron singing “Little Red Corvette” flashed through her mind. “No, he’s a legend in his own mind.”
He nodded.
“Maxwell is a four-term senator from Virginia. He was beginning his first reelection campaign when I met him. I was an intern in his Washington, D.C. office. Young, idealistic, with stars in my eyes, ripe for infatuation, hero worship, and lies.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“I’m not, Michael Patrick. People, even his closest staff members, tried to warn me about him, but I knew better or thought I did.”
He ran his thumb over top of her knuckles. “If this is painful for you to recall, please don’t put yourself though it on my account.”
“It’s okay, the classic story of the older male and younger female. Byron is a conservative, prolife, anti-gay politician. But he is the biggest hypocrite who ever walked. Do you know what the first thing he said to me was when he found out I was pregnant?” She didn’t wait for his response. “He told me to get rid of it. He didn’t want it. He’d pay for the abortion, even have his senior staffer, Gerald Morris, drive me. On the campaign trail, he still preaches prolife. Prolife as long as an unwanted pregnancy doesn’t affect his life.”
She got up to stir the risotto and check on the fish.
“I’m sorry, Lenore.”
“Please don’t be sorry; it was my own fault and my own vanity that did me in. I wanted to think I was different, that I mattered. I knew the consequences of unprotected sex; I’m lucky I only got pregnant and not some sexually transmitted disease. I was smart enough to know how not to get myself into the predicament to begin with, so it is my fault.”
He looked at her across the counter top. Her face was set in a hard grimace. “You should cut yourself some slack for your youthful behavior. As far as I’m concerned, Maxwell took advantage of you and should be shot.”
“I let him take advantage of me.”
A sigh escaped his lips. “I’ll set the table if you like.”
“That’s nice, thanks.”
They agreed, at MP’s suggestion, to suspend talk of her son’s father until after lunch.
“No need to cause acid reflux.”
Chapter Eleven
After lunch, Lenore and MP adjourned to her sunroom with the remainder of the wine.
Lenore stretched like a cat before sitting down on the couch. Her companion watched, wanting to run his hands over the slim band of creamy skin that appeared when she lifted her arms and her shirt rose above her waist. However, he decided to keep his hands to himself for the moment.
Had it not been for Maxwell showing up, he was hoping to make love with her or at least get off first base. But that would have to wait. He wanted making love to be about them, himself and herself, not Mr. Gray or Byron Maxwell. Although he’d been prepared to overlook John Irving, Maxwell could not be overlooked. He’d played too important a part in her life, in how she formed relationships with men. MP wanted to be the only man on her mind when they made love. He didn’t want to share with memories of Maxwell. She’d obviously thought she loved him at one point.
He topped off their wine glasses and joined her on the couch.
Lenore spoke first. “I can’t work up the energy to finish the sordid story of my relationship with Byron Maxwell at the moment. I haven’t seen him in two decades, and the way he scared the shit out of us just walking in, I think I’m coming down from the adrenalin rush. All righteous anger has gone for the moment. Now I’m worried about my son and how all this may affect him.”
“Are you going to tell Nate about his father then?”
“I don’t know. If Maxwell pursues the subject, he has the right to know. While we didn’t get that far in the conversation, I could tell Byron expected me to talk Nate into getting tested.”
“The man is despicable, Lenore.”
“Yes, he is.”
Despite his deciding not to touch her, he took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
She looked down at their joined hands.
“Michael Patrick,” she said disengaging her hand from his.
“What is it, mo chuisle?” he asked gently, lifting her chin so that they looked into one another’s eyes, sapphires to opals.
Her face was sad and cloudy as she replied, “I can’t start something with you now, MP—”
He cut her off, “We started something the moment we met. You can’t go back now.”
She shook her head. “I can’t, MP. This, whatever this is, will be ugly.”
“All the more reason not to face it alone.”
“I can’t—”
“You can and you will. I’m not faint of heart.”
She gave him a weak smile and ran a hand down the side of his face. “But I am.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the center. “You’ve never had the right man in your life before.”
“You’re that man, Michael Patrick?”
“I think I am, lass. Give me a chance. Give us a chance,” he said, a simple plea in his voice. He looked into her brimming eyes.
“See what you get? You came here today hoping to seduce me, Mr. Finnegan, and instead you walked into a soap opera.”
“No, mo chuisle. I walked into your life. Life is messy. I know that as well as anyone, better than some.”
“I suppose you do. But if this gets ugly—”
“I’ll still be there. This isn’t your doing, Lenore. It’s Maxwell’s.”
“I don’t care about Maxwell or myself for that matter. I care about my son.”
“All the more reason for me to stick around and make sure you’re safe. You see, I care about you.”
“I feel something for you, too, MP but the timing is all wrong.”
“You can always make excuses.”
“I wasn’t going to. I was going to give you—us—my best shot. Maxwell isn’t an excuse; he’s a problem.”
“If two people can outmaneuver a problem in a love affair, it’s us. Remember the formula, lass: hero, heroine, plot, obstacle, happily ever after.”
“You forgot marriage, babies, extended family. But seriously, this isn’t a book plot.”
“Can be.”
“It’s bad reality TV in the making.”
“Ye of little faith.” He leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m not backing away; plus, we have work to do, a book to write. I’ll be in your face day in and day out. Why not enjoy my face?”
Chapter Twelve
“Maxwell, you’re a flaming asshole,” Gerald Morris spat at his boss and longtime friend.
They were in Morris’s home office. Maxwell didn’t want to discuss the matter at hand in his office on The Hill and couldn’t discuss it in his own home, because he was convinced Mrs. Maxwell had his office bugged.
“I know I handled it poorly.” Maxwell had spilled the scene at Lenore Held’s house to his senior staffer.
“Poorly is an understatement. You fucked the woman over, literally, years ago, but she’s kept her mouth shut and never caused a moment’s grief, and you go to her house and verbally attack her?”
Maxwell sat in the wingback chair that flanked the fireplace, staring into his scotch.
Morris continued. “She wasn’t like all the others or all the others after. She was a decent girl. A GD virgin that you bragged about deflowering. Then you tell her to get an abortion—you prolife hypocrite. She could have sunk you, your political career, and your equally political marriage if she had chosen to, but she didn’t.”
“I know.”
“By your own admission, you let yourself into her house, find her with a man, and as much as call her a whore. You are a piece of work.”
“I saw her with that guy, and I snapped. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Jealousy, lust, want—take your pick. You’re a pig.”
Morris could get away with saying these things to his boss, because he didn’t need to work. He came from a very prosperous, well-to-do family who had closets, trunks, and attics full of skeletons. He could never run for office himself but was able to impact many things by working behind the scenes and manipulating Maxwell. Maxwell was too stupid to know he was being manipulated.
They had been fraternity brothers in college. Morris had helped get Maxwell elected as frat president on a platform of better beer at parties and a condom dispenser in the common area restroom. Things were so simple back then.
“I should have left Corrine for Lenore all those years ago.”
“While you might have had the balls to fuck her, Byron, you never had the balls or the backbone to leave her. But that’s neither here nor there. Why did you go to Lenore’s house? She could have called the cops. Her companion could identify you. She could tell him her tale of the former intern done wrong, and he could go to the press. You’re a dumb fuck.”
“He’s a foreigner. I don’t think he knows who I am. Only introduced myself as Byron. His name is Michael Patrick Finnegan.”
“Foreigner?”
“British, Scottish, Irish, Australian—something with that kind of accent.”
“Are you as stupid as you appear to be?”
“Look, Morris, are you going to help me or not? I know I fucked up. Seems to be my life’s work. But Jack needs that bone marrow transplant, damn it! While I don’t even like the kid, he’s my kid and I won’t let him die.”
Morris didn’t point out that he’d be a sympathetic figure on the upcoming campaign trail if he were the father of two dead sons. In fact, he tried to soften his approach. “Okay. Do you want Corrine and Jack to know of the donor’s origin, if indeed Nathan Held is even a match?”
“God no! I wanted Lenore to convince him to get tested.”
“You are ignorant. While Cater and Jack were/are wastrels, Nathan Held is, by all appearances, a brilliant, decent young man. He takes after his mother.”
“That’s why I thought Lenore could convince him.” Byron commented, oblivious to the disgust in Morris’s voice.
“You’re the bastard, not your unacknowledged son.”
Maxwell gave a wary laugh. “That’s exactly what Lenore said before she threw me out.”
“Imagine that,” Gerald offered with scathing sarcasm. “The point is you’re attempting to prey on his goodness as you did on Lenore’s all those years ago.”
“She’s been paid well to keep her silence.”
“If she’d gone public, written a book, she’d have made millions, and it would have launched her own writing career into the stratosphere a lot sooner. But no, she was honorable, worked and established her own success, raised a decent son, and you’re looking to suck blood, or should I say bone marrow, from them?”
“Enough insults and bad clichés. I need help.” Maxwell ran a hand over his face.
“You’re the epitome of a bad cliché, any number of them,” his friend taunted.
“You seem to be her champion here, Gerald. Are you sure you weren’t doing her, too? Maybe I should have demanded a paternity test all those years ago.”
“Poor kid looks exactly like you and, unlike you, Lenore didn’t hop from bed to bed, but yeah, I liked her. If things had been different, I might have made a move on her myself, but unlike you, I wasn’t married with a child.”
Maxwell looked at Morris for a moment but said nothing.
Finally, Morris said, “I’m sure the kid will ask questions and I’m sure that Lenore will tell him about it being his half brother needing a bone marrow transplant. I bet he’s had plenty of questions over the years about who his father is.”
“Lenore said as much. She told him she didn’t know. He didn’t believe her.”
“Like I said, smart kid. Knows the measure of his mother and, short of rape, she wouldn’t have sex with a man she didn’t know.”
Maxwell winced at the comment.
“A little too close to home for you, Byron?” A sardonic laugh resonated from deep in Gerald’s chest.
“You son of a bitch. You know I cared for Lenore.”
“Not enough to do the right thing by her all those years ago.”
“I would have ruined her life—the media circus, the loss of my career. Like you said, I didn’t have the balls to leave Corrine and even if I had, there would have been nothing left. I would have been a bleached carcass on the side of the road.”
“I hate to admit it, but you’re right. You would have ruined her life. I for one am thankful that she didn’t let that happen.”
Both men were quiet for a while.
“Are you going to help out here?”
“You shouldn’t have gone to her house in the first place.”
“We’ve established the fact that I’m a stupid, pussy-whipped, fucking prick bastard, but my kid still needs a bone marrow transplant. I’ve already lost one son—”
“You lost Carter before he died, Byron.”
Morris knew that while the words stung his boss, they were tr
ue. Carter Maxwell had been strung out on drugs and alcohol when he smashed head-on into the tree. No one knew if it was an accident or a suicide, but there was never a note found, so the death was ruled an accident.
Morris shamelessly orchestrated Carter’s death into Maxwell’s public appearances, garnering him sympathy and votes. Carter’s legacy was to be a warning to others that there are consequences to one’s irresponsible behavior. He’d even gotten Maxwell to do public service announcements about the tragic effect Carter’s death had on his family.
The truth was Morris was secretly glad Carter Maxwell was dead. His addictions and conduct were an embarrassment to the senator. Morris thought that’s why Maxwell’s kid did the outrageous things he did, to embarrass and damage his father’s reputation. Well, it came back to haunt the little SOB. And, oh yes, Carter Maxwell was a son of a bitch, Jack, too, for that matter.
Byron refilled his empty glass with a trembling hand.
“I’m not sure why I keep you around, Gerald.”
“Sure you are,” he said. Fact was Maxwell couldn’t form a comprehensive thought without Morris.
“I should have him kidnapped,” Maxwell said, tossing back his scotch and going back for more.
“Jesus, have you lost your mind? I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Morris said and took the bottle of scotch from Maxwell’s hand before he could refill his glass.
Maxwell looked up, surprised.
“I’ll take care of it. Are you willing to meet with Nathan Held? I don’t think you’ll have much choice.”
“I don’t want to, no. But if that’s the only way, I will. It all needs to be under wraps.”
Morris raised an eyebrow. “That goes without saying. I’ll give her a few days and contact her again. But you are to stay away from her and her son.”
“He’s my son, too.”
“No, he’s not. Genetic material does not a father make. Plus, your name isn’t on the birth certificate; it’s blank.”
“Come on, he even looks like me, except for the eyes; he has his mother’s eyes. Lenore’s eyes.”
“How do you know that?”
“There were several pictures of him online for the things he did in high school and college.”
