by Claire Vale
“My father has never indulged me,” I said quietly. “He loves me, of that I have no doubt, but he has always been very firm and strict when it comes to the law and my place in society.”
Although I’d never given him any cause to be overly harsh or enforce discipline. Outwardly, I’d always been a model citizen, a dutiful daughter and wife-in-the-making. It was only last night that something in me had snapped. The ties that bind me. Years of defiance, resentment and infuriation, had spilled out and try as I might, I couldn’t seem to scrape it all safely and neatly inside again.
Roman looked at me a long, scrutinizing moment, as if he believed me but knew the full truth lay in all the words I hadn’t spoken.
Shifting uneasily, I started toward the house. “My father should be home by now and Mom will be putting the food on the table. They’re eager to get to know you better. So, um…” I glanced at him. “Thanks, I guess, for agreeing to stay for dinner.”
Roman shrugged, unfolding his arms as he walked behind me. “Just doing my part for the Capra Slogan.”
My mouth twitched, although I was pretty sure he was being dead serious. Capra didn’t have a slogan that I’d heard of, but if they did, family values would be right there near the top of the list in bold block letters.
Dinner was an odd affair.
Mom prodded and poked incessantly about life as a warden, living in Parklands, adjusting to town and marriage now that he’d decided to settle down. Roman remained charming and considerate throughout the three courses. Oh, he never cracked a smile or anything like that, but he didn’t growl and instead of blatantly stonewalling, he offered vague responses and polite re-directs such as: Parklands is a nice area but you must really love it here by the lake and, Now that I’m based at Head Quarters, it’s really just a desk job pushing paper and, turning to my father, You’re the Director for Utilities Infrastructure, isn’t that correct, sir? That must be a monumental task, keeping the Eastern Coalition up and running.
“Please, it’s John, not sir,” Mom said, having already insisted he call her Lily.
My father, usually quick to opinionate, advise, encourage or disapprove, finished chewing on a mouthful and merely mentioned, “You appear to have done your homework.”
“Naturally, I take a keen interest in my wife and her family,” Roman said politely.
I ate and observed, feeling like I was sitting in a theatre hall, watching a play where everyone had forgotten their characters. In a normal world, my father would be the inquisitor. Mom would be absorbing and distilling. Roman would be stony-eyed and intolerant of nosy questions. And me, I would be daydreaming of a blue-eyed boy and all sorts of super-heroish missions that would fast-track the Sisters of Capra to victory—to change, to a complete overhaul of the system, to whatever shape or form that victory looked like when I was finally allowed a glimpse.
It was only when we were getting ready leave, the truck packed with my belongings including a large box of groceries and my bicycle, that my father drew me outside with his usual assertiveness. Ostensibly to say goodbye properly to his little girl. I could sense a lecture coming on, however, as we walked to the end of the deck.
“You don’t like him much,” I said, gazing out over the waters of the lake. “You disapprove of my choice.”
“It’s not that simple.”
I felt his eyes on me and turned to look at him. Maybe it was just the moonlight, bathing his hair in silver and casting shadows, but suddenly he looked terribly old, as if the years had caught up to him in the span of a heartbeat.
“Roman is an ambitious young man and a warden,” my father said. “That’s a dangerous combination. Promise me you will take care, Georga, never give him a reason to judge you harshly. Wardens are ruthless and power-hungry and to be promoted to Head Quarters, you have to be more ruthless and power-hungry than all the rest.”
I tried, but really couldn’t see the resemblance between Roman and the man my father was describing. He was difficult, sure, stubborn and closed, but he’d also gently attended to my ankle. He’d postponed our wedding night until we were more comfortable with each other. When I’d challenged him, he’d issued reassurances instead of threats. He’d never beat me, he’d never send me to rehab.
I couldn’t say any of this, however, and I wouldn’t anyway. I’d spent my entire life not only accepting my father’s opinions without argument, but trusting in them. So I could never tell my father he was mistaken, that his worries were unwarranted, but I thought it. For another fifteen or so minutes, anyway. That’s about how long it took for Roman to prove me wrong and my father right.
We’d just said our goodbyes and climbed into the truck.
Roman turned the engine, pulling away from the curb as he announced, “We’ve been invited to the Edgar’s for a barbeque tomorrow afternoon.”
What?
“Daniel invited you?” I said tightly.
“Julian invited us but, yeah, it’s to celebrate Daniel’s marriage.”
“No, sorry.” I wasn’t ready for Daniel or Brenda. “I’m afraid I have to decline.”
Roman shot me a look. “You don’t decline an invitation from Councilman Julian Edgar.”
“You have to go, of course, you’re Daniel’s friend. But I…” I rubbed a hand over my brow, stared at the halo of electric light diffusing into the black sky from the town square up ahead. “Tell them I’m indisposed…my ankle, tell them I hurt my ankle and need to rest it.”
“I’m not going to do that, Georga.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” As good as.
“And how do you think that’ll look,” he drawled. “My brand new wife’s laid up in bed and I’m off partying?”
“Well, you don’t have to have fun,” I grumbled. “Put on a tragic face if you must. Besides, who cares what it looks like? Daniel will understand, trust me.”
“Daniel is not the one I need to impress.” Roman sighed. “These events are never just social occasions, Georga.”
“So it’s business?”
“Always.”
My father’s words rushed back to me. Ruthless. Power hungry. “Are you even Daniel’s friend?” I muttered. “Or is he just a door to Julian Edgar?”
“It’s the other way round, actually,” Roman said. “I got to know Daniel through my official dealings with Julian and, no, it’s not always possible to separate the two. I’d like to attend for Daniel, but’s it’s an opportunity to further my prospects as well. And to be taken seriously, I need to be seen as upholding the values of this society and that means having my wife at my side.”
He wasn’t asking anymore. If he ever was.
“You have your sights on another promotion, don’t you?” I said, sliding my gaze to him. “That’s the only reason you got married.”
Of course it was, but I wanted to hear him say it. It occurred to me that I’d been stuck in far too many one-way conversations with myself, making assumptions and deductions, filling in his blanks. And I had married him, and I knew how things worked in this town, and I couldn’t in all good conscience throw his career under the bus. But if I had to make the sacrifice, I’d at least get something for my effort—like a bit of open dialogue.
“Isn’t it?” I prodded. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll go with you tomorrow.”
He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other pushing through his hair. He didn’t answer right away but he wasn’t necessarily stalling, we were approaching the barrier into Parklands.
Once the guard had lifted the barrier and we were driving through, Roman looked at me, so long I was afraid we’d run off the road.
“I’m up for a promotion,” he said, thankfully turning his eyes forward again. “That’s why I offered for you. My intentions would have been honorable, my commitment unquestionable, and no one would have thought worse of me for being turned down in favor of Daniel Edgar. It seemed like a good plan at the time.”
Oh, my God. There’s ruthless, and then there�
��s Roman West. I’d sort of suspected something of the sort last night, but this was even more calculated and deceptive than I could have imagined.
“And to be clear,” Roman went on, “I’m telling you this because I feel you deserve to know how we landed up here. I don’t respond to blackmail.”
My brow hitched. “Blackmail? That was a deal, fair and square, where we each get what we want.”
“I don’t need to make deals,” he replied, too casual, too nonchalant—it fizzed the hairs on the back of my neck. “Never forget, Georga, you are subject to my authority. An instruction from me to the guardhouse, and you will not be allowed to receive visitors or leave Parklands.”
Blind heat choked my throat, blurred my vision. I wondered if he knew exactly what he was doing, how a string of words could act like a hammer on the damned. How his seamless threat carried the embodiment of what was really choking me—his absolute power over me, and how carelessly he wielded it.
I’d thought so much better of him. Silly me.
“You’d turn my home into a prison?” I said quietly.
“You’d hold my ambitions hostage to your childish whims?” he returned, his voice betraying not a trickle of remorse. “I’d prefer to be amiable, but if you turn this marriage into a battlefield, you will lose.”
I didn’t doubt him. Roman had the high ground and an arsenal of law, power, gender and position at his disposal.
All I had were rainbow colored dreams.
Bastard.
10
I didn’t think it was possible, considering where we’d started, but my marriage was actually deteriorating with every passing hour. Not long after we’d gotten home last night, I’d found Roman messing around in the spare room. He’d moved the boxes out and was setting up a Futon bed. He’d officially moved out of our marriage bed. I went to bed alone and woke up alone, no ruffled covers on his side of the bed to keep up the pretension.
Roman spent the morning behind closed doors in his study and I was too moody with him to even try and worm my way inside his precious little sanctuary for a spot of snooping. The only good thing about this day was my ankle—it appeared to be shaping up, almost back to normal. So I hopped on my bike and cycled into town, drawing up a mental shopping list as I went. Thanks to my mom’s charity, the list was short but essential. Today being Saturday, the shops would close at noon and not open again until Monday morning.
My first solo shopping trip should have been momentous; an exhilarating experience of filling up my basket with the means to pay for my own purchases instead of relying on Mom’s swipe. Between Roman’s autocratic threat and this afternoon’s barbeque, however, I was too tangled in emotion and nerves to enjoy it.
I dumped salad greens into my basket to compliment the steaks I’d seen in the fridge, a bottle of fresh milk and a packet of oatmeal for breakfasts, a scoop of sesame seeds for my favorite bread recipe and a quarter pound of soft butter, and a small slab of white chocolate just for me.
The importance of working out a household budget with our husbands (and sticking to it) had been impressed on us in Domestic Science. Mismanaged finances cause untoward stress on a marriage. Roman and I hadn’t had the talk yet, and I was pretty sure we weren’t exactly flush considering our accommodations, but I didn’t let that stop me. If I zeroed out his credits, it might just motivate him to darn well initiate a conversation with me for once. Imagine that!
For all my blasé dismissal, there was a moment of humiliation terror at the checkout. What if he seriously didn’t have the credits to cover it? But then I scanned my Ringed finger and the light beeped blue and I could breathe again.
Maybe we should have that budget talk before my next shop.
Yeah, good luck with that. We’d exchanged a grand total of about three words this morning and that number didn’t change until much later in the afternoon, when it was time to leave for the dreaded barbeque.
Roman stepped out of his study, the door securely latching behind him. “Ready?”
I so badly wanted to back out, but for some ridiculous reason I felt honor-bound to a deal he hadn’t really honored at all. He’d only answered me because he’d already decided I deserved to know. A nice sentiment, if he hadn’t followed it through with threats to imprison me in Parklands.
“I guess so,” I said, unfurling from the sofa. I’d already changed out of my jeans into a sundress and sandals. I’d also spent far too long at the mirror, scrutinizing my flaws and making critical adjustments to my appearance. “It’s informal, I presume?”
“It’s a barbeque,” he said, barely glancing at me as he strode toward the bedroom. “Give me a minute.”
Just as well I hadn’t been looking for any compliments. All the effort I’d put into my appearance was for Daniel and Brenda—or for myself, I supposed, a coat of personal armor.
Roman had gone into the bedroom wearing his warden uniform, the black cargo pants and black top. He came out wearing faded denim and a short-sleeved white tee that hugged his ripped chest. The guy was all lean, ropy muscle and he wasn’t afraid to show it. My stomach hollowed and my mouth went a little dry.
He shoved a hand through his hair and slanted a questioning look at me.
Because I was staring.
“What?” I snapped.
He shrugged and pulled the key fob from his back pocket. “Come on.”
“We should talk about our household budget,” I said as I followed him out to the truck.
“Right now?”
“Why not?” I climbed into the truck and waited for him to get in around the other side. “It’s not like we have a whole lot else to talk about.”
Roman turned the engine, let it idle for a moment. “Are you mad at me about something?”
“Why on earth would I be mad at you?” I said, dripping sarcasm like sickly sweet tree gum.
There’s no way he could’ve missed it, and he didn’t, he simply bypassed it.
“Household budget…” He reversed into a turn and took us onto the rutted lane. “What about it?”
“We need one.”
“Then make one.” He shot me a look. “That’s your department.”
“Okay, but how much do I have to spend?”
“How much do you need?”
“That would depend on how much we have available,” I said with exaggerated patience. How difficult could this be?
“We seem to be going in circles,” Roman said, genius that he was. He hooked a right onto the main avenue. “Why don’t you just spend whatever you need and let’s see how it goes?”
“So long as I’m not left red-faced at the checkout when I don’t have enough credits to pay.”
“Unless you’re buying diamond-studded slippers…” A dry laugh escaped his lips, obviously not taking this conversation seriously “…we should be fine.”
“This is exactly your problem.” I slumped in the seat, shifting my gaze outside the window. “My father says a man who doesn’t know how to keep a tight control on his finances will never have any finances worthy controlling.”
“Your father sounds like a wise man,” Roman drawled. “And we’ve already established I’m nothing like him.”
I scowled into the shadows and ivy-tangled brush of the forest pushing up against the winding road. “It doesn’t really bother you, does it? Flashy credit balances and grand houses and fancy living.”
“On the contrary, that would bother me very much.”
It took me a minute to figure out what he’d actually said, and by then we’d arrived at the grandest home I’d ever seen. A stone mansion built in the shape of a horseshoe around a layered courtyard—paved driveway circling manicured lawn circling a central flower bed splashed with summer colors. A curved line of cars were parked along the wide driveway, but Roman steered clear of the courtyard and pulled up beneath the shade of an ancient oak with the ease of someone who’d done this many times before.
At the front entrance, the butler’s greeting confirme
d Roman as a regular visitor. The man was tall, middle-aged with salty hair, everything about him neat and trimmed and stiff except the crinkling around his eyes as he said, “Good to see you, Mr. West.”
“Does that mean you won’t kick me out this time?” Roman drawled.
“As I recall, I drove you safely to your doorstep.”
“Did I say thank you?”
“Unnecessarily,” the butler said. “I quite enjoyed the midnight stroll back home.”
“Now you’re just trying to make me feel bad.” Roman gestured toward me, introducing us. “McKinnon, this is my wife.”
McKinnon inclined his head at me. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. West.”
“Please, it’s Georga,” I said with a smile.
“You’re wasting your breath,” Roman said. “McKinnon is allergic to first names.” He guided me inside, into a double-volume entrance hall with an elaborate stairway that split toward each of the wings. “No need to announce us, McKinnon, we’ll see ourselves in.”
“What was that about, kicking you out?” I asked as we passed through to a living room that was larger than the entire floorplan of Roman’s cabin and superbly elegant—polished stone with thick rugs, graceful arrangements of pale cream sofas and armchairs and solid dark woods.
“The last time I was here, McKinnon believed I’d over-imbibed and drove me home.”
“You were drunk?” I said, thinking about my own little experience with a silver flask and over-imbibing.
“Emphasis on believed,” Roman said. “I don’t get drunk.”
Must be nice to be so darn perfect. “You could have corrected McKinnon and saved him the long walk home.”
“I could have,” was all Roman said and then we stepped out through the French doors onto a patio with wide steps flowing down to lush gardens.
Another snippet of insight into what made my husband, if I ever found the master key to crack his code.
Off to one side, a spit turned over glowing coals, slowly roasting an entire lamb. There were about two dozen guests dotted about, mingling by the refreshment tables beneath the gazebo, seated at picnic tables beneath the shade of trees, strolling in and around the garden features. Councilman Edgar, naturally. Daniel and Brenda and Lisa playing lawn bowls with two guys who looked about our age. Lisa’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bickens. Brenda’s parents and the youngest of her brothers, James. Councilmen Thorpe and Chesterfield and their elegantly groomed wives. Those I didn’t know personally but recognized all belonged on Capra’s Who’s Who list. Those I didn’t recognize were no doubt also on that list.
