by R. C. Martin
In a way, I suppose I am. She’s completely endearing.
“He graduated from Harvard Law, which I assume means he’s crazy smart. Also reassuring. Though, I learned just recently that he played baseball during his undergrad, which leaves a hole in his history. I don’t recall reading where he got his undergrad.”
Freeing a smile, I inform her, “Dartmouth.”
She coughs out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Of course. Because he’s crazy smart and would obviously go to two different Ivy League schools.”
I hum a laugh of my own as I tell her, “I’m sure your brain is equally impressive.”
“Right,” she scoffs through a grin. “What gave me away? The fact that I’m wearing a different black shirt than I was the last time you saw me? I know they look a lot alike, but they’re different, I assure you.”
“Hey,” I scold, pointing a finger at her. “Personal hygiene is a very important key to success.” She smirks and rolls her eyes at me again. Chuckling, I smooth my forehead of my playful scowl and mutter softly, “You’re young. Something tells me this is not all you’ll ever be.”
She tugs her lips to one side of her mouth as she self-consciously sweeps a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Nodding, she replies, “You’re right—but we’re not talking about me.”
She waves her hands in front of her as if waving off the topic of her future. A part of me is disappointed that she has no interest in discussing such dreams. I’m curious to know what she keeps hidden—what plans she treasures so much that she holds them close—but I let it go. When she resumes her biography lesson, I listen intently while I sip at my liquor.
“Did you know that our governor is a conservative Christian and a Republican? His dad is the founder of a really big church here in town.”
“Not always conservative,” I correct. “But keep going. I’d like to know more.”
“Well, his mom is from Ecuador, which makes him half Ecuadorean. Verdict is still out on whether or not he’s bilingual.”
Now grinning from ear to ear, I reply, “Lo estás haciendo muy bien. Lo estoy disfrutando.1”
Her eyes widen in excitement, and I watch as another gorgeous smile slowly pulls at the corners of her mouth. Shaking her head at me, she mumbles, “Crazy smart.” Then, leaning toward me, she lowers her voice to a hushed whisper and asks, “What did you just say?”
Leaning toward her—as if what I’m about to translate is some sort of secret—I rest my elbow on the bar and whisper back, “You’re doing very well. I’m enjoying this.”
I notice the light blush that colors the tops of her cheeks as she rights herself behind the bar and offers me a shrug. “I hope it doesn’t disappoint you to find out that’s where my wealth of knowledge ends. I can’t remember anything else. History was never my best subject.”
“Ouch,” I mutter jokingly, lifting my hand to cover my heart. “Was that a dig at my age?”
Laughing, she shakes her head insistently in response. “No! Not at all. But that reminds me—the youngest governor in the United States is thirty-seven.”
I lift the last of my bourbon in a silent toast before downing the rest of it. Setting my empty glass on the bar, I commend her for her research. “You did your homework. I’m impressed.”
“This crazy smart guy told me I should pay more attention. I thought I’d put in a little effort,” she replies with a crooked smile. Pointing at my glass, she asks, “Would you like another?”
“No. Thank you,” I murmur in reply. Remembering that Veronica will be home any minute now, I reach for my wallet. “I guess it’s about time I headed home.”
“Sure. Let me grab your check.”
She doesn’t take long. When she returns, I already have my card ready for her. As she completes my transaction at the register, I thumb through the bills in the center of my wallet. The last time I was here, I dropped her a fifty-dollar tip. Truth be told, I didn’t anticipate coming back again so soon. If I’m not careful, I’ll break the bank on tips alone in this place.
I find two twenties and begin to ease them out, hesitating for only a moment. I remember the brief look on her face when she eluded talk about her future—thinking of whatever it is that she dreams of doing that’ll get her out from behind this bar. It’s been over a decade since I remember feeling that way; like I wasn’t yet equipped with what I needed to progress in my desired career field. Wishing only to encourage her, I don’t think twice about slipping her a forty-dollar tip.
“Thanks for stopping in tonight, Michael. I hope you enjoyed your meal.”
“The steak was exceptional,” I admit, signing my receipt. “And the company just as enjoyable as the last time.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I tuck her tip into the check holder and fold it closed before standing to my feet. Shrugging my jacket back over my shoulders, I dip my chin farewell. “You take care, Blaine.”
“Foster,” she blurts out, hugging the check holder against her chest. I furrow my brow in confusion, and she goes on to say, “I don’t have a Wikipedia link or anything. Really, it’s mostly just useless information—but my last name is Foster. Now we’re even.”
My lips curl into a lopsided grin, thinking back over our conversation and all that she knows about me. It’s a hell of a lot more than my last name, but her admission isn’t as useless as she realizes. In fact, it actually sounds like an invitation of some kind—an invitation that leaves me intrigued.
“Not even,” I reply, backing my way toward the door. “But getting there.”
I offer her a friendly wink, and her face lights up just the way I like. When she lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers in a delicate wave, I make a mental note to drop by the bank in the next couple of weeks. I’ll need the cash when I come back.
* * *
1 You’re doing very well. I’m enjoying this.
Michael
THE MANSION IS quiet when Clay and I enter through the garage. That’s what I call it. That’s what I’ve always called it, much to my family’s chagrin. My mother insists that it’s a home I’ve worked hard for—a home I’ve earned. She thinks to title it the mansion makes it seem like a cold, unwelcoming place. My sister just thinks I sound like a pompous ass when I call it as such, but I can’t help it. The truth is, it’s my house, but it’s not home. While I endeavor to remain in the good graces of the people of Colorado long enough to serve them as governor for a full eight years, I doubt this place will ever feel like home. Home doesn’t come with an expiration date. Not to mention, a good part of the mansion is open to tourists. There’s even a team of curators who work hard to ensure that the history of the place stays intact.
No—this isn’t home. However, I have earned it, and I respect what that means, regardless.
The absence of Veronica’s town car means that she and Noah are still out, most likely back at the church finishing up her clothing drive. I make my way up to the bedroom, kicking my shoes off before propping myself up against the pillows at the top of the bed. I then turn on the television mounted on the wall across from me.
It’s not often that I find myself alone in front of the television. If it’s not work keeping me busy, it’s Veronica. Every once in a while, I can convince her to sit down and watch a movie with me, but I know her. I know she’d rather be flitting about, making sure everything is just right. The older we get, the harder it is for her to relax. I always thought it was supposed to be the other way around, but she’s tenacious in her resolve to be everything she promised me she would be on our wedding day—and more. Sometimes, I swear, my election was also her election; as if the position of First Lady is just another opportunity for her to step up and show me that while she can’t give me everything, that doesn’t mean she can’t give me more.
I wish she knew that she didn’t have to work so hard to keep away my resentment.
I’ve never resented her. Not ever.
I must doze off unknowingly, because when I feel Veronica’s
lips pressed against mine, I’m startled out of sleep. I open my eyes and draw in a deep breath, catching sight of her smiling face before I look around the room to get my bearings. When I notice that the light pouring in through the windows is dimmer than it was before, I wonder how long I was out.
Veronica snatches back my attention again when she kisses me once more before she tells me, “It’s a quarter to five, Mike. We need to leave in a half hour if we’re going to be on time.”
“Quarter to five?” I grumble, scrunching my brow at her. “Are you just now getting home?”
“No,” she answers simply, shaking her head as she reaches up to run her fingers through my hair. “I got home around two. I didn’t want to wake you. I know you’ve had a long week.”
“Mmm,” I grunt in agreement, sitting up straight. “I better get a quick shower.”
“Okay.”
It isn’t until she stands that I notice what she’s wearing. It’s a long-sleeved dress made of some kind of light-weight material that moves whenever she does. The front dips down low, showing off a bit of her cleavage, and the two sides of the dress appear to be clasped somehow at her waist on her left side. The material is navy blue with white, lavender, and peach flowers printed all over it. There’s also a generous slit that opens up around her left leg when she steps the right way. It’s not a dress she’d wear while making a public appearance at my side, but tonight is about family. Tonight, she’s wearing this dress for me, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.
Climbing off the bed, I catch her around the waist and pull her against my chest. She melts into me immediately, her full breasts even more obvious now that they’re smashed against me. My pants grow a little tight when she smooths her hands over my back, holding onto me as she gives me her deep brown eyes.
“Hi,” I murmur, my gaze dancing around her face.
“Hi,” she whispers through a grin. “Did you enjoy your game of golf this morning?”
I think back to my morning with Lawrence, followed by our discussion over brunch at the club. It was a productive meeting, one I’ve been anxious to have. Lawrence has always been able to provide insight on the climate of the business world and the banking industry. He’s a very wealthy man with connections in high places, his hand dipped in more than a few pots. He was a major contributor during my campaign, and I’ll always be grateful for the introduction to him when I was working as the DA.
But with my dick at half-mast, Lawrence and golf are the last things I want to discuss right now.
Running my fingers through Veronica’s thick, black hair, I inform her, “Not exactly what I want to talk about right this second.”
Chuckling, she presses against me tighter and tells me, “I can feel that—but we don’t have time, sweetie. Half an hour, remember?”
“I like this dress,” I mutter, ignoring her reminder. I slide the hand that’s not in her hair down and around her ass, giving her a squeeze.
“It’s new,” she says on a sigh. “I thought a wrap-dress would be fitting for the party. I mean, I know we’re not getting into the pool, but—”
I cut her off with a kiss, bringing both of my hands to her waist before I ask, “Wrap-dress? Does that mean I can unwrap you right now?”
“Mike,” she laughs into my mouth as my hands feel around her middle, trying to figure out how to get this thing off. Just when I think I’ve figured it out, she pushes her way out of my arms and holds up a finger. “We can’t be late.”
I look down at my crotch, my dick now fully erect and pressing against the zipper of my pants. Glancing at her with a knowing smirk, I ask, “And what are we to do about this?”
Stepping toward me, she reaches down and grips me through my pants, causing a groan to spill from my mouth.
“I promise I’ll take care of it later.” Her grip tightens as she tilts her head back and presses her lips against the underside of my jaw. “Right now, I think a cold shower might be in order.” She kisses me again before she lets me go completely. “And a shave.”
I free a disappointed sigh as I watch her exit the room.
“Twenty-five minutes, Mike!” she calls from the hallway.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I start for the shower.
MY PARENTS BECAME empty-nesters almost fifteen years ago. It wasn’t until Abigail graduated from college that they decided to move out of our childhood home. Only, instead of downsizing like we all expected, they invested in something bigger. At the time, when Gabriel and I were seriously questioning whether or not our dad was indulging mom during a mid-life crisis, my mother insisted that she needed five rooms and six bathrooms with a pool and big backyard so that she could accommodate all the grandchildren she intended on having.
Nine and a half years and five grandchildren later, no one can deny that there was a method to her madness.
Dad met mom while he was spending the summer in Ecuador on a mission’s trip. It was the summer after his freshman year in college. He was nineteen, she was seventeen, and when she graduated from high school, he brought her to the States and married her. Twelve months after that, Gabriel was born, and I followed two years later. They waited a while before they tried for Abigail. It was during those five years that dad started his ministry at Mercy Hill Church. How they managed to stay together, start a church, and have three children within the first ten years of marriage is still a mystery to me—a miraculous, grace-filled mystery. There’s no doubt in my mind that God has his hand on their union, which is why we’re all gathering tonight.
Their fortieth wedding anniversary was last year, but dad was out of town—preaching at a conference in India. He travels quite a bit every year. It’s been that way for at least three decades, and we’re all used to it—mom more than any of us. She told him she didn’t mind, that she knew the reality of being a preacher’s wife all too well, and that she had no intention of holding it against him. Of course, that didn’t stop dad from telling her she could go all out and plan a party for their forty-first anniversary.
As we walk up my parents’ long driveway, I balance the container full of cheesecake bites in one hand while Veronica holds my other. “I think I’ll bring a plate out for Clay after we start eating,” she tells me, glancing back over her shoulder to the town car we just exited.
“He’s stubborn as a mule, that one,” I tease.
“He’s professional,” she insists with a grin, patting my chest with her free hand. “Can’t fault him for that.”
“Won’t argue with you there.”
I let go of her hand, after we step onto the front porch, not bothering to ring the bell before I open the door and allow Veronica to precede me inside of the house. I follow after her, the sound of music and chatter immediately filling my ears. We make our way toward the voices, which leads us straight to the kitchen. Standing around the island, my mother is busy putting together some sort of platter, while my sister-in-law, Tamara, attempts to help. Abigail is with them, too, but her hands are full—her two-year-old, Isabella, perched on her hip.
“Unka Mike!” she cries at the sight of me, throwing her hands up in the air.
“Oh, god, trade me,” Abigail insists, practically launching her toddler at me. “She’s so freaking clingy today.”
I happily exchange the cheesecake bites for my niece, whose little arms circle around my neck before she smacks a kiss against my cheek. “Hola, niña hermosa1,” I murmur, holding her against me snuggly.
“Hola!”
When she makes no sign of wanting to let me go, I return my attention to the other women in the room. Abigail, having already discarded Veronica’s treats into the refrigerator, leans around mom, who is currently still saying hello to Vee, and tries to eat off the platter mom was fussing with. I shake my head, muffling my laughter in Isabella’s hair, already knowing what’s about to happen.
My mother has eyes in the back of her head. That’s fact.
“Abigail,” she starts to say, turning just as my little sister shov
es half a llapingacho in her mouth. “Tú, mi pequeñita, fuera!2” she demands, pointing for Abbie to leave the kitchen in order to join the others.
“Pero tengo hambre, mamá,3” she replies, complaining of her hunger even as she stuffs the rest of the appetizer into her mouth.
“Oy,” mom sighs in defeat. Turning her back on my sister, her face softens, a smile lighting up her eyes when she sees me. “Mi gobernador.”
I chuckle, shaking my head at her as she closes the distance between us. She calls me her governor every chance she gets. I never tire of it. Not because of my pride, but because of hers.
She reaches up, taking hold of my face, and I lean down so that she can kiss my cheek. “Are you hungry? Your sister has already decided to help herself to the appetizers. There’s more food outside.”
“I’ll make the rounds and say hello first,” I reply as she frees me from her hold.
“It’s you that should be making the rounds and eating, mom,” pipes in Tamara. “It’s your party, after all.”
“Yes. Go, get out of here,” Veronica insists, placing a hand on my mother’s back, as well as my own. “Take her, Mike. We’ve got this.”
“Ok, Ok, está bien.4” She throws her hands up in surrender, shedding the apron from around her waist. Tamara is quick to take it, and I drape my arm across my mother’s shoulders as I lead the way out into the backyard. “Oh, empanadas are in the oven keeping warm. Bring those too, mis hijas.5”
Smirking down at her, I ask, “You made my favorite?”
“I made everybody’s favorite,” she informs me matter-of-factly.
My smirk softens into a small smile, and I gaze down at the wonderful woman at my side. It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that she spent all day slaving in the kitchen to ensure that each of her children could have their favorite dish at her party. That’s who she is. That’s who she’s always been. That’s why, when we step out onto the deck at the back of the house, we’re greeted by at least fifty more guests, all of whom are here to celebrate the loving couple I get to call my parents.
