“Amazing,” he finally got out. “I’ll have to remember this place. Jack would love it.” When she seemed to focus more intently than necessary on her meal, he leaned forward. “I meant what I said the other night. About wanting you to help him. If you can.”
“I know,” she said, sitting back. “Although, frankly, I’m still a little surprised.”
“About what?”
Her lips tilted. “Considering you made it pretty clear that morning in Howard Johnson’s that I’d already said more than I should have? Why the sudden change of heart?”
Those deep blue eyes, even darker in the dim light, spoke volumes. “Maybe not so sudden,” Wes said, and her brows lifted. He took a sip of his iced tea, frowning slightly at the glass when he set it back on the table. “In any case...” He met her eyes again. “You’re the first person with the guts to not tiptoe around, afraid to say something that might upset me.” One side of his mouth hiked up. “So my guess is you’re more concerned about making sure my kid’s okay than ruffling my feathers. And while in some ways that pisses me off no end, it’s also admirable as hell.”
Another tiny smile flicked across her mouth. “Not that either was my goal, but I suppose it’s good to know somebody appreciates my...forthrightness.”
“You don’t have much of a filter, do you?”
She laughed. “Sure I do. Even if it leaks at inopportune times.” Then she sobered. “But you’re right. I do care about Jack. Same as I care about all kids.”
At that, something in her voice, her eyes, told him she was still playing her cards close to her chest, even though it had been her suggestion that they meet tonight.
“And yet, you don’t think you’re mother material?”
“With my luck, I’d get a kid exactly like me. And that, my friend, is a very frightening thought.” Before he could push for details, however, she said, “So I’m curious—why didn’t you bring Jack here to live with you? After you got elected, I mean?”
“Actually, that had been the plan. Originally. We—Kym and I—had discussed finding someplace to sublet, maybe out in the ’burbs. Putting Jack in school here. But after...the accident, I realized I would have had to hire a full-time housekeeper, since my dad’s business in St. Mary’s wouldn’t allow my parents to relocate. So between the extra expense and saddling my son with a stranger, letting him stay in St. Mary’s seemed like the lesser of two evils. If I’d brought him here, he still wouldn’t have had me. Not very much, in any case. And he wouldn’t have had anything else he knew, either.”
She eyed him for a long moment, then gave a short nod. “So where do you live when you’re here?”
“Actually...I have a cot in my office.”
Her brows shot up. “Your office? You mean, in the Capitol? Get out!”
“I’m not the only one. It was that or share space with some of my colleagues in the equivalent of a frat house for grown-ups. Did that in college, have no desire to relive the experience.”
“I don’t suppose you considered, uh, backing out of the race?”
“Actually I did. Briefly. Except the election was only three weeks after the accident, for one thing. And for another, I knew that’s not what Kym would have wanted. Even though...”
“What?”
“Not a single poll gave me a lead. An independent running against an incumbent? It was insane, frankly, to even think I could win. That I did...well, I have to wonder if at least some of those votes weren’t out of pity.”
Blythe frowned. “You really believe that?”
“I don’t not believe it. In any case, how could I not see it through? Try to keep the promises I made to all those people who, for whatever reason, voted for me? And I guess, because I needed to believe this, too, that Jack would want...” He felt his throat get tight. “That he’d want what his mother wanted. That he’d jump on the bandwagon right along with me. It was never my intention to let ambition alienate me from my son, Blythe. I swear.” The table edge bit into his forearms when he pressed against it. “I can’t simply walk away from this, as I’m sure you understand. But that doesn’t mean my son doesn’t come first. And always will.”
* * *
Blythe had long suspected that when she finally shucked this mortal coil, the listed cause of death would be “Brain explosion from thinking too hard.” Although, since she was still here after the sleepless night from hell, clearly her skull was made of Kevlar. Or Tyvek, maybe.
Because between Wes’s request the day before, and Quinn’s revelation, and Mel’s near flip-out, and Wes’s now looking at her like she was some freaking holy woman with the answer to the riddle of life, and—to add to the merriment—several decidedly unholy thoughts elbowing through the crowd...
Damn. It was like Mardi Gras in there. All she needed was beads.
Gianni cleared their empty dinner plates, handed them dessert menus, shuffled off. Dessert she could handle. Especially since that, at least, required no thought. Or emotional investment. As opposed to a certain congressman’s impassioned defense of what some might see as an untenable situation.
“I know he does, Wes,” she said evenly, laying down her menu. “Which is why...”
His head still lowered to the menu, Wes raised his eyes. “Why, what?”
“Choose your dessert first.”
He gave her a weird look, but looked at the menu again. “O-kaay...how’s the tiramisu?”
“I’ve heard good things. But I’m a cannoli gal.”
Wes signaled to Gianni, who reappeared, took their dessert orders and the menus, and disappeared again. Then Wes leaned back in the booth, his arm slung across the back. “Desserts chosen. Well?”
Mule-headed contractors, prima donna clients, unexpected structural issues...those, she could handle with one arm tied behind her back. But now, looking into Wes’s eyes—the eyes of a man who only wanted to do his best, both by his son and by the people he served—she felt a knot swell at the base of her throat. A knot that signaled something really, really bad.
“Well...” She picked up her dessert fork, twiddled it in her fingers. “If you hadn’t called me, I would have called you.” When he frowned, she said, “Since Quinn asked me to run interference.”
“About what?”
“Apparently Jack’s been acting weird at school. And to her.”
“What do you mean, weird?”
“Losing it over virtually nothing. Being moody. Snapping at her, and other kids, out of the blue.”
He held her gaze for several seconds, his pulse ticking in his right temple. “Are you sure?”
“Obviously, I only know what she’s told me. But I don’t see any reason for her to make it up.” Blythe felt her mouth pull sideways. “She might attract attention, but she doesn’t seek it.”
“No,” Wes said, dropping his arm from the booth’s back and curling forward, his hands fisted in front of his mouth. “She doesn’t.”
“And as it was,” Blythe added, “she told me because she didn’t want to tell her own mother, because she was afraid Mel wouldn’t let her see Jack anymore. Although she did. Tell Mel, I mean. Don’t worry,” she said to Wes’s darkened expression, “I talked Mel down. For now, anyway.”
Gianni brought their desserts. Wes stared at his for several seconds before picking up his spoon. “If that’s true, why hasn’t the school said anything?”
“I assume because things haven’t gotten out of hand.”
His worried gaze lanced hers. “Yet.”
“Yeah. In fact...hate to say it, but truth be told my initial reaction wasn’t much better than Mel’s. I love Quinn like my own. If Jack hurts a single hair on her head...”
“There will be hell to pay.”
She pointed her fork at him, then said, “So you believe me?”
“Did
you think I wouldn’t?”
“It’s not something a parent wants to hear. Especially someone—”
“In my position. Got it.”
Blythe sighed, aching for him. “For what it’s worth, Quinn didn’t want to tell me, either, because she didn’t want to get Jack in trouble, and she knows he already has issues. Except she was scared he’d get in trouble, anyway, and then she wouldn’t be able to help him. But the minute he actually gets physical with one of the kids—”
Wes held up a hand to stop her, then pushed out a sigh as it crashed back to the table. And Blythe wrapped her fingers around his, only half registering that he returned her clasp. “Quinn made me promise to tell you.”
His gaze bored into hers. “Before she gets hurt, you mean.”
“Before anyone gets hurt.” Reluctantly, Blythe removed her hand. “Including you. You’ve got plenty to deal with,” she said, getting a tight little smile in response. “But as I said the other night, I know firsthand how these scenarios can play out. And it’s not pretty.”
His spoon set down, Wes pushed away his tiramisu. And watched her, waiting, the frustration hardening his features, cracking her heart a little more. Reminding her why she was here.
She blew out a long breath. “As I started to say last night, my situation wasn’t the same as Jack’s. What you and Jack have gone through...” She swallowed. “But at least he has one parent who cares. And a support system, which I didn’t. Not for a long time. And no,” she said, biting off the end of her cannoli, “my cousins don’t know. Or rather, they only know what I chose to tell them. But the point is, I know what it feels like when your world implodes, when you feel abandoned, whether or not you actually are. And it makes you do some pretty stupid stuff.”
He gave her another one of those long, assessing looks. “How stupid?”
She pushed his tiramisu back toward him. “This might take a while, so you might as well fortify yourself....”
Chapter Five
The rain had stopped by the time they’d finally finished dinner—or rather, Blythe had finished her story—leaving the air cool and sweet-smelling, the streets still glistening. They’d walked to the Metro station, side by side but not close, Wes’s umbrella tapping the wet sidewalk as Blythe gave him space to process what she’d told him. About her mother’s marrying her father to spite her grandmother, who’d owned the large waterfront house not far from his own in St. Mary’s, and because Blythe’s mother had been pregnant with her. That, as far as she could tell, her parents had never really loved each other. Or her, for that matter, she’d said with a shrug that belied the pain she still obviously felt. A pain he couldn’t imagine, frankly, making Wes more grateful than ever for his parents, even as crazy as they’d made him at times through the years.
“Took my parents twelve years to admit their mistake,” Blythe had said, “by which time I’d pretty much learned to rely on myself.”
Even so, the damage had been done, so that by the time her father left for good—she’d said she never heard from him again—she found herself acting out more and more in an apparently vain bid to get her mother’s attention. She’d spoken dispassionately enough about the cutting and shoplifting, the dabbling in drugs and early sexual exploration, but with both regret for those lost years as well an almost contradictory determination to keep them lost.
And then along comes some stranger’s kid who brings the whole sordid mess right back to the surface.
Upon reaching the entrance to the station, they both stopped, oblivious to the other passengers coming and going, the traffic hissing through the leftover wetness on the street. Wes was bone-weary, God knew, and faced a busy next few days before spring recess. But Blythe’s reliving of her past that night had clearly cost her at least some of her hard-won peace. And since that loss was in some measure due to her concern for his son, Wes didn’t feel right about leaving her. Not yet.
As if reading his mind, she gave him a small smile, her eyes—in the darkness, the same deep blue as the night sky—heavy with what her confession had cost her. “I’m sure in the long run, Wes, he’ll be fine.”
A breeze toyed with one of her long earrings; Wes had to stop himself from letting his fingers follow its path along her cheek. From giving her the comfort she was clearly trying to give him. From giving in to something he didn’t think she’d appreciate, in the long run.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he is getting the attention I sure as hell never got. And eventually he’s going to realize it. That age—it’s rough even when things are copacetic. Hormones suck.”
Didn’t they just? Wes thought, leaning against the railing bordering the Metro entrance. Bad enough he was über-protective by nature, but combined with being close to a woman with so much to give and—in her head, anyway—no one to give back to her...
“I take it you got over the self-destructive behavior?”
After a moment, she nodded, then leaned against the wet railing as well, her hands fisted in the pockets of her long, lightweight sweater. In her heels she was nearly as tall as he was. Kym had been short. Sturdy. Like a bright little sparrow—
“But I had help,” Blythe said. “In the eleventh grade, art was the only elective available. Which I did not want to take because my mother was—is—an artist. So, you know, I’d hang myself rather than follow in her footsteps. But I took my sullen ass to class, anyway, and the teacher—Miss Morehouse—had my number by the end of that first week.” She smiled. “Man, it was like the woman could see into my soul. Not only did she suspect I had talent—and refused to let me get away with producing crap when she knew I could do better—but she suckered me into helping her after school. Giving me something to focus on besides myself.”
“She paid attention to you, in other words.”
“Yeah. Just because I existed. Imagine that.” Her laugh was soft. Husky. “In any case, eventually I figured out she was actually on my side, so little by little I opened up to her. And at some point she suggested I check out this website for kids who were looking for someplace to anonymously talk about whatever was bugging them. Of course, my initial reaction was, Why would I want to join the losers? But eventually my curiosity got the better of me. And guess what I discovered? That I wasn’t the only teenager in the world with problems!” Another laugh. “Although, naturally, I didn’t want to admit I was ‘like that.’ But I kept going back, anyway. Because it was helping.”
Wes fought the urge to take her hand. “Your father really dropped out of your life?”
“He really did. I don’t even know where he is.”
“I suppose you could find him if you wanted to.”
“Then, again, he could find me, too.”
This said with the fortitude of a woman refusing to let the abandonment derail her, even as the child’s pain still threaded through her words. “And your mother?”
“She is who she is,” Blythe said with another shrug. “We do talk, occasionally, and I know she cares about me, in her own way. But I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that we’ll never be close.”
“I’m sorry,” Wes said on an exhale.
“Yeah. Me, too.” She shifted, folding her arms over her ribs. “In any case, at Miss M’s urging, I started talking to my counselor, who put me in touch with a school therapist. And I began to realize that ultimately I was responsible for my own happiness, that blaming other people was counterproductive. And that there were people who cared. Like them. And my cousins. Those summers in St. Mary’s—nobody knows what a lifeline those were. Yeah, my grandmother was crazy, but Mel and April...” This time, the smile bloomed full-out. “I love those guys. Always will. Heck, if it hadn’t been for them...I don’t even want to think about what I might have done.”
Wes turned, ostensibly looking out at the street, thinking his request the night bef
ore hadn’t come from out of left field nearly as much as it might have seemed. Even if it had seemed so at the time. “And the website?”
“That was pretty much after Mel and April and I stopped coming to St. Mary’s. Again, a lifeline that saved my butt. Once I got over myself enough to accept it, anyway. But it’s true—knowing you’re not the only person going through hell goes a long way toward helping you find your way out of it. And corny as it sounds, I found myself through my art. Started to, anyway. And once I did, the destructive behaviors pretty much stopped on their own. Except for...”
When she looked away, Wes prompted, “Except for?”
She sighed, then gave him a warning look at odds with her smile. “Relationships. Despite a boatload of psych courses in college, I kept looking to guys to ‘complete’ me. Or make me feel worthy. Something. Kept up the pattern right up to and including my marriage. Wasn’t until that fell apart that I finally got it through my head that no one else is going to make me whole. And I made a promise to myself never again to fall into old, pointless patterns.”
“So you haven’t been in a relationship since your marriage ended?”
“Honey, I haven’t even been on a date.”
“Wow.”
She tilted her head. “Have you?”
“Well, no. But that’s different.”
A tiny, sucked-in breath preceded a long sigh. “Of course it is,” she said softly, apology cradling her words. “Although, in either case—” another sigh “—to hop back into another relationship before you’re healed...”
Another ping went off inside him. Although, to be honest, probably more from empathy than attraction. Because she was right—he wasn’t healed. Not by a long shot. Not when he’d still occasionally wake up in the middle of the night, his gut clenching when he realized he’d reached for someone who wasn’t there. When he’d look into his son’s eyes and see his own grief and anger mirrored there.
The Marriage Campaign Page 7
