A House Divided

by Donna Hill

  The line went dead.

  Jackson gripped the phone in his hand and pressed his lips tightly together. He had a bad feeling about all this—a really bad feeling.

  “Everything okay?”

  He turned in surprise. Zoie was standing in the doorway.

  “Yeah.” He grinned and shoved his phone into his back pocket. “I need to get rolling. Look, I’m sure you have stuff to do around here. I can call one of my guys to come and pick me up.”

  She shrugged. “Up to you, Jax. It’s not a problem, but you do what you think is best.”

  Why did her words seem to have a double meaning? “Cool.”

  They stared at each other for a moment before Zoie turned and walked away. Jackson shut his eyes. “Damnit,” he muttered. He took out his phone again and called Lennox. Although he wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation or for any of his buddy’s unwanted words of advice, Lennox was his go-to guy.

  * * *

  “On my way over here, I kept tellin’ myself, don’t say shit. Be cool,” Lennox said as they drove along the watery roads. “Just pick your boy up and take him to see about his ride.” He snatched a look at Jackson. “But the hell with that. What were you doing at Zoie’s house, of all places? And what went down?”

  As much as he tried to convince himself that he didn’t want to hear what Lennox had to say about the whole scenario, underneath he did want to talk about it, and maybe try to sort out the conflicting emotions that plagued him. If nothing else, Lennox never pulled any punches with him, and his friend made him hear what he needed to hear, whether he wanted to or not. He braced himself for the cold truths and laid out the events that led up to him arriving on Zoie’s doorstep and everything that followed.

  It was longer than he expected before Lennox said a word.

  “Man, I’ma be honest with you,” he finally said. “There were at least a half dozen other places you could have gone last night, but you went to her. Gotta be a reason, and it sure as hell wasn’t proximity. You went ’cause you wanted to. That whole thing coulda gone sideways.” He pushed out a breath. “But, hey, I get it. I do. You never got over her. We both know that. But I’ve never known you to play games with women. Me, that’s another story,” he joked. “You have a good woman. You don’t know how long Zoie is going to stay, and even if she does, then what? Toss Lena to the curb? Has Zoie changed that much that you would risk a good thing for a maybe?”

  “Same questions I’ve been asking myself, man. It ain’t cut and dry, ya know.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to make a decision one way or the other.”

  They pulled up to where Jackson’s car had gone into the ditch. Lennox put the car in park. He turned to his friend. “At least you had sense enough to keep it in your pants.” He chuckled.

  “Very funny.”

  They got out of the car and walked around to look down into the ditch.

  “Damn,” they said in unison.

  * * *

  Finally, back home after waiting for nearly an hour and a half for a tow truck, Jackson changed clothes and called his foreman, Mitch to check on the status of the project. Thankfully, according to Mitch, there wasn’t too much damage, at least nothing that couldn’t be taken care of without setting back the timeline or effecting costs.

  With that bit of business out of the way, his next call was to a car rental agency. They’d have a car for him by mid-afternoon and even offered to have someone bring it to him.

  His next call was to Lena. The call went straight to voice mail. He debated about leaving a message but finally did. To his surprise, she called back moments later.

  “Sorry, was finishing up with a class,” she said. “Did you get your car?”

  “Lennox drove me over. Got it towed. But with it sitting in all that water and dirt . . .”

  “I’m sorry, baby. Hopefully, it won’t be too bad.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, enough about that. What about us? How does me fixing us dinner at my place tonight sound?”

  “You sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Hmm, whatever you want.”

  “You.”

  His stomach knotted. “That can be arranged.”

  “Seven?”

  “Sure. Seven is fine. See you then.”

  “Need me to bring anything?”

  “Nope. I have everything we’ll need.”

  “Ahh, nothing like a confident man,” she said, and he was relieved to hear lightness in her voice.

  “See you tonight. Plan to stay.”

  “I do. See you later.”

  Jackson rested the phone on his desk. He’d hoped to feel some sense of relief that he and Lena were on track. But he knew he was fooling himself.

  * * *

  “Mark, I promise you, everything is under control. I’ve already spoken with Ms. Graham, and I plan to interview her family this week to get the ball rolling,” Zoie said into the phone as she paced her bedroom floor. “Yes, things were a bit touch and go with the storm, but we’re in good shape down here. Thanks for asking. Yes, I will keep you posted. I got this, Mark. Stop worrying. Fine. We’ll touch base at the end of the week. Thanks. Take care.”

  She blew out a breath. That was one obstacle down. At least Mark was placated for the time being. She checked the time. It was nearly noon. She wondered if the library was open. She still needed to do some background research on the Maitland family before she contacted Lou Ellen Maitland. Maybe some of the old news clippings would shed some light on her grandmother’s cryptic notes and letters, and hopefully they would allay her simmering belief that Kimberly Maitland-Graham wasn’t who she thought she was. Now that was a story. Her pulse quickened. If any of the crazy assumptions were true, her articles would be a game changer. At its least, her investigation would put her suspicions to rest.

  She bent down to fold up the blanket she and Jackson had used for their faux picnic. As she held it against her chest, she closed her eyes, and vivid images of Jackson bloomed behind her lids. Even right at this moment, she struggled with what it was that she wanted from him. Had she really wanted to have sex with Jackson? For what purpose? To see if she still turned him on, or to prove to herself that it was really over—or not? In the light of day, she was no longer sure. At the time, everything seemed so clear. The desire was there, the feelings were there. She knew that. She saw it in his eyes and felt it in the way he held her and the way she responded.

  It was purely physical, she reasoned. She’d certainly been on a serious dry spell for months, and maybe the idea of Jackson, someone familiar and still so incredibly sexy, was the attraction and nothing more.

  If that were true, then why did it bother her so much when she thought he was speaking to another woman?

  CHAPTER 12

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” Kimberly said to her mother. “Are you alright? Is everything okay? How’s Dad?”

  “I’m right as rain, and your father is the same.” Lou Ellen said. “I’ve been through more of these Louisiana storms than you have age on you. No need for your concern.”

  “I can come home−”

  “Child, please. I don’t need you here.”

  The innocuous words stung. Kimberly cleared her throat. “Well, I simply wanted to make sure you and Dad were okay, Mother, and to say that I can come down if you need me.”

  “I just told you I don’t need you. Everything is fine.”

  Kimberly steeled herself. Her mother’s dainty, ladylike qualities and that soothing southern twang belied the fierce, calculating woman that she was; her simple declarations were generally laced with arsenic.

  “Mother, I was contacted by a reporter. Her name is Zoie Crawford. She will be with me during my campaign.”

  “Please get to the point, Kimberly.”

  Kimberly gripped the edge of her desk and shut her eyes for a moment. “She will be calling you.”

  “Me! What in he
aven’s sake for?”

  “Her paper is doing an ongoing series on my campaign, and she wants some background about my life at home.”

  The stretch of silence was so long that Kimberly thought they’d been cut off.

  “Mother . . .”

  Lou Ellen cleared her throat. “I don’t have time to deal with reporters. I fail to see what I can add. I would think that your PR person would have everything that this reporter will need.”

  “Mother, she wants more than pieces of papers. She wants to personalize the story.” She heard the pleading in her voice. She knew how much her mother disliked weakness, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Well, I’m sorry. I don’t have time.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  “I said you’re not sorry. You would have done it for Kyle.” She heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath.

  “That was an evil, hurtful thing to say to me! I have given you everything. You went to the best schools and had the nicest clothes; you belonged to the best clubs; you traveled the world. Your life has been one silver spoon after another. You chose your life in New York and still you act as if I owe you.”

  Kimberly fought back tears by sheer will. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispered. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Lou Ellen sniffed with indignation. “Well, that’s the way it sounded.”

  “Will you at least think about it?”

  “I rarely change my mind.” She paused. “How are my grandchildren?”

  “The girls are great.”

  “Shame that I only get to see them once a year.”

  Kimberly took the sarcastic comment in stride. “I’ll have them call you this evening.”

  “Fine. Is there anything else?”

  “No, Mother, nothing else.”

  “Alright then, good-bye.”

  Kimberly’s hand shook as she put down the phone on her desk. Her mother possessed the singular ability to carve a person to shreds with her rapier tongue, which delivered her assaults with milk, honey, and a smile.

  Over the years, Kimberly had managed to erect temporary façades to ward off her mother’s verbal attacks. Most times, she was well protected, but there were other times, like now, when she already felt weak and vulnerable that the façade would collapse. Her father, for most of her life, had been so involved with building his fortune that he’d paid little attention to the dynamics between her and her mother. Then he became ill.

  “Kim! What’s wrong?”

  Kimberly sniffed and tried to stop the tears with her fingers but failed.

  “Is your family alright?” Gail hurried around the desk and knelt beside Kimberly. She covered her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Kimberly managed. She reached in her desk drawer for a tissue and wiped her face. “This is so unprofessional. The office isn’t the place . . .”

  Gail got up, closed the office door, and returned to Kimberly’s side.

  “Kim, whatever it is, let me help.”

  Kimberly lowered her head and slowly shook it from side to side. “Thank you, really. I’ll be fine. Momentary meltdown.” She offered a shaky smile and dabbed at her eyes. She patted Gail’s hand as if it was she who needed consoling.

  Gail got to her feet. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  “No. It’s fine.” She looked across at Gail and blinked rapidly to clear the mist from her eyes. “What’s up?”

  Gail laid the folder that Kimberly hadn’t noticed on her desk. “It’s the agenda for your sit-down tomorrow with the fund-raising committee.”

  Kimberly pulled the folder toward her and flipped it open. “Do you get along with your mother?” Kimberly asked, catching Gail off guard.

  “Um, yes,” she sputtered a laugh. “Why do you ask?”

  The weight of Kimberly’s sigh spoke volumes. She leaned back against the thick leather of her high-back chair, a gift from Rowan when she first opened her office. “I’ve always wondered what that was like,” she said in faraway voice. Her gaze roamed the room as if searching for an answer in the stack of law books that lined the bookshelves or the plaques and degrees that adorned the off-white walls. She returned her focus to Gail.

  “Every family is different, and some are better than others,” Gail said.

  “It’s what I tell myself, what Rowan tells me. I guess a part of me always wanted a TV mom.” She laughed. “Silly.”

  Gail pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Kimberly’s desk. “I’m not going to pretend to know the ins and outs of your relationship with your mom, but what I do know is the great mother that you are to your girls, the take-no-prisoners attorney you have been for your clients, the rock-steady wife you are to Rowan, and the amazing state senator you’ll become. Not for nothing, as the kids would say, but all that heart and grit come from somewhere.”

  Kimberly’s cheeks flushed crimson. “I’d like to think so. Hard to imagine sometimes.”

  “Imagine it, because it’s all true.” She tapped her hand on the desktop, then stood. “Look over the agenda, and let me know if you want to change anything.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “And Kim . . .”

  Kimberly glanced up. “Yes?”

  “I meant what I said.”

  * * *

  Zoie was escorted by a librarian to the archive room and set up at one of the computers. She began her search using the keyword Maitland. Several dozen news clips were listed. Most of them were only mentions of the Maitland family at various social functions. She finally ran across the articles about Kyle Maitland’s rise in the political arena at such a young age, his death and funeral, and the court case that followed. There was a grainy photograph of the family at the service and a picture of a little girl tossing a rose on the casket at the gravesite. It had to be Kimberly. She printed that one out and continued her search, but stopped cold when she landed on a headline touting the Maitland family as one of the main benefactors of the Horizon Housing Complex, via the Kyle Maitland Foundation.

  She poured over every word, especially the quote from Jackson that spoke about how the project would not have been possible without the support of the Maitland family.

  Zoie flopped back in her seat. Jackson hadn’t said a word about his connection to the Maitlands, even after all the things she’d told him. Why? She printed out that article as well.

  For the next hour, she continued to see what other tidbits she could uncover, specifically anything relating to her grandmother. But as with most wealthy and powerful families, whatever the Maitlands didn’t want in print didn’t get into print. From what she was able to find, the Maitland family was above reproach. She found that hard to believe but could find nothing to the contrary.

  Not much of what she’d hoped for was found in the clips that she’d located, and then she ran across a photograph nearly forty years old. MAITLANDS WELCOME BABY GIRL. It was only a photo with a caption: “Franklin and Lou Ellen Maitland welcome baby Kimberly.” Zoie searched for at least another hour, but that one photo was the only reference to the arrival of Kimberly Maitland.

  Zoie pressed her fingertips to her burning eyes and rocked her neck from side to side. She arched her back to relieve the stiffness, then gathered her sparse notes and the printouts of the articles, stuck them in her tote, and headed out, with more questions than answers.

  * * *

  When Zoie returned home, her mother was sitting in the rocker on the front porch, snapping green beans. Zoie climbed the two steps and took a seat.

  “Have a good day in town?” her mother asked.

  “I went to the library.”

  “Oh?” She dropped a handful of snapped beans into the aluminum bowl at her feet.

  “I was trying to find some background information on the Maitland family.”

  Rose’s long, nimble fingers stopped their work. “For your story?”

  “Yes.”

  Rose nodded slowly.

&n
bsp; Zoie drew in a breath of resolve. “Mama, please tell me what you know about Nana and the Maitlands.”

  Rose folded her hands on her lap. “I don’t have much to tell you, really. She worked for them for years, the early part of my life. She’d take me over there sometimes. I filled in for her a few times when she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Is that how you got involved with Kyle Maitland?”

  Rose’s eyes flashed at her daughter. She pushed up from her seat and turned her back to her Zoie. “It was nothing more than a girlhood crush. Kyle was . . . he was charming and handsome and much older than me.” She shrugged, then turned to face Zoie. “That’s it.” She pressed her lips tightly together.

  “Did you ever meet Kimberly?”

  “No. I was away in school in New York.” Rose leaned her hip against the railing. “Why?”

  Zoie switched topics. “Why did you go away to school instead of staying here?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Does it?”

  Zoie watched the nerve beneath her mother’s eye flutter.

  “Why are you doing this? What does my going to school in New York have to do with your article?”

  “Nothing,” she said on a sigh. “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “I guess you forgot that you left and went to school in New York,” she said with a lift of her brows. Then suddenly she smiled. “You were always curious. From the moment you could put words together, you asked questions. Most babies, the first word they say is ma-ma or da-da, or no.” She shook her head at the memory. “Not you. Your very first word was ‘why.’ ” Rose laughed.

  Zoie lowered her head and chuckled. “I always thought that was a story everyone made up about me.”

  “Nope. You were about eighteen months old. We were sitting out back. It was Hyacinth’s birthday. I had you all dressed up in a frilly yellow dress.” She smiled. “Couldn’t do much with that hair of yours. It was all wild curls even then.”

  Zoie reflexively patted her mane of auburn curls.

  “We sang ‘Happy Birthday.’ You were sitting on your father’s lap.” Her voice hitched for a moment. “When we were done and Hy had blown out the candles, you said as clear as water, ‘Why?’”