by C. C. Snow
“Yes. If it weren’t for Dr. Morrow, I’m sure they could have given me a shot to calm me down, but her kindness was the best medicine in the end.”
I never resented my mom for not being there for me, but the terror was very real. If I could spare a child from the stultifying fear I felt, I would have made a difference.
“That’s a beautiful and noble motive for choosing your profession, Mags. You’re going to be a fantastic doctor.” Admiration and pride shine in his eyes.
Feeling shy all of a sudden, I mutter, “Thanks,” and stand up to take our trash to the garbage bin.
Sean gets up and asks, “Want to walk around?”
I nod enthusiastically and for the next two hours, we wander all over Midtown. As a native New Yorker, Sean has a lot of stories to tell about the city, but I can tell he’s forgotten the joy of living here when he looks at me in amazement when I ooh and ah over the small pleasures of being in New York.
As we head back to his car, he asks, “Are you free next Saturday?”
My stupid heart jumps again, but I force my voice to be steady, “Sure. School doesn’t start until the following Monday and other than an orientation, I’m free most of the week.” I cringe as the words come out of my mouth. Do I sound like I’m begging for attention?
“Great! Why don’t I meet you at your dorm at ten and we’ll go spend a day in Central Park? Then we’ll have real pizza instead of that crap you serve in Chicago.”
I stop and put my fists on my hips in mock anger, but I’m smiling on the inside. “Hey! Deep dish is the best.”
“Pfft!” He waves his hand. “You can only find real pizza in New York.”
“And maybe in Italy,” I say dryly.
His blue eyes twinkle and I feel my belly flip. “Brat!”
Chapter Five
Sean
Fuck. I should have made an excuse to get out of tonight’s “family” dinner.
What a fucking joke.
We haven’t been a family for a long time. I have vague memories of laughter and warmth when I was very young, but for most of my life, being the son of a United States Senator was a miserable existence.
I had neither privacy nor freedom. Everything was about appearances. If there was a chance the public and the press didn’t perceive my actions in a positive light, I couldn’t do it. If something didn’t serve the purpose of advancing my father’s political career, then it wasn’t worth doing.
It was no wonder my mom was so unhappy. I wondered why she stayed—
I shut down my train of thought. The tracks lead to Nowhereville, USA.
I steer my thoughts toward the redhead who so easily brings a smile to my face. After spending yesterday with Maggie, my mood has been riding high. Even now my lips curve at the memory of her startled face after she took that first bite of spicy chicken. Maggie does everything with such undisguised delight that I can’t help but be sucked in by her exuberance.
Seeing New York through her eyes was like seeing the city for the first time. She noticed all the little things that made the city special. I had forgotten how fun and undemanding it was to hang out with her. She had always been an irrepressible bundle of energy and enthusiasm.
When Cael and I used to take her to baseball or football games, she would be so excited, she couldn’t sit still. She chattered nonstop from the time we left the house until we left the stadium. It didn’t faze her that Cael and I were sports fanatics and were incredibly vocal at the venues. She was so damn happy about everything that you just wanted to keep making her happier.
I still remembered when I bought her a keychain from a trip I took to Paris. The kid cradled the kitschy replica of the Eifel Tower in her hands like it was a priceless pearl and her worshipful eyes made me squirm with shame. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I picked it up as an afterthought at Charles de Gaulle airport. After that, I always made it a point to bring her something back from my trips, but I made damn sure I bought her something she would love. No more cheesy souvenirs.
But it didn’t matter what I bought her. A five-dollar paperback would elicit just as big a smile as a thousand-dollar African mask. The monetary value of the object had no bearing on her happiness.
For Maggie, a cheap meal from a street vendor would bring her as much pleasure as a ten-course meal at a three Michelin star restaurant. My smile grows wider. Most women would have wanted a sit-down meal at a linen-covered table, but Maggie was perfectly happy to eat out of a take-out box, sitting on a hard bench in the middle of Manhattan.
Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I felt young and unburdened by life’s bullshit. My heart already feels lighter thinking about spending another day with her.
Now if I could only ignore the errant surges of lust.
God, she had looked so pretty when she spoke about becoming a pediatrician, her entire being lit up by enthusiasm and optimism.
All traces of my smile disappear as I see the security gates appear on the horizon. Someone must have been on the lookout for me because the gates swing open as soon as I pull up. The moment I am on my father’s grounds, my mood takes a sharp nosedive. I drive past well-manicured lawns and hedges to arrive at the grand entrance of the house.
By anyone else’s standards, it should be called a mansion, but that label would not sit well with voters. Therefore it has been dubbed a country home by the Senator’s PR team. There are twenty bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a study, a recreation room, an indoor gym, a swimming pool, a dining room large enough to seat up to fifty people, a huge modern kitchen, an extensive wine cellar, staff quarters, etcetera, etcetera.
It’s a fucking mansion.
I spent a large portion of my childhood in this place, but I hate it here. As an only child, the vast emptiness only emphasized my loneliness and I could never think of it as home. My home was my mother and when she died, I felt adrift. Then I met the Jacksons and they anchored me.
Shaking off my unpleasant thoughts, I get out of my car. The house door is already open and Bleeker, the Senator’s perfectly proper butler, is standing stiffly at attention.
Paul Kenner, the butler my dad employed while I was growing up, moved to Arizona years ago. As a child, Kenner was always something of a fascination for a bored and curious child. I trailed after him as he performed his duties and I always waited for him to shoo me away like all adults did, but he never seemed to mind me being underfoot. I always felt he had a soft spot for me. Maybe it was out of pity for the poor little rich boy, but it didn’t matter. He made things a bit more bearable.
Since Kenner left, the Senator has hired a few other butlers and Bleeker has been with him for a year. His unfamiliar face only underscores how much I don’t belong here.
“Good evening, Mr. Rowan.”
“Hello, Bleeker.”
“Senator Rowan and Mrs. Rowan are waiting in the drawing room.” There is an implied reproach in his statement.
I timed my arrival as close to dinnertime as possible. In the Senator’s world, a civilized guest would arrive early enough to share a cocktail before the main meal.
Like I give a flying fuck.
“Thanks. I’ll find my own way,” I tell him and walk through the foyer, which has been designed to give the viewer the impression of tasteful opulence. Nothing is garish, but everything is expensive.
I walk through the double doors of the large drawing room. My father is sitting in a leather chair, a glass of his customary bourbon in one hand, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest.
Cael jokes that my father’s face should be in the dictionary under the word “politician.” I have to agree. George Rowan has just the right amount of grey in his hair to appear wise, but not old. He is fit and healthy. His face projects warmth and integrity. Little do his constituents know that underneath the façade is a ruthless man who would do whatever it takes to retain his power.
My eyes move to the other figure in the room and immediately my gut tightens in disgust.
<
br /> Gail stands at the window, dressed in a silky black dress, holding a glass of white wine in her hand. No doubt she chose the dramatic dark gown to set off her blonde hair and pale skin. A daughter of a governor and the granddaughter of a mayor, Gail is born and bred for the role of a political wife. Beautiful on the outside, with refined features and a toned body, she looks manicured and polished from the top of her perfectly styled hair to the tips of her red painted toenails. But there’s a flintiness around her eyes that gives her away. On the inside, she’s hollow. The only thing she cares about is wealth and influence. In that regard, she is the perfect complement to my father in both looks and ambition.
I loathe everything about her.
My father was cheating on my mom with Gail. That he married her a year after my mom’s death was the final insult. Initially, dear stepmama made some overtures to get to know me, but I rebuffed every attempt with revulsion. I was relieved when she gave up and we settled into treating each other with chilly indifference.
“Son! You’re here.” My father stands up and for a moment he looks happy to see me. He moves toward me as if to embrace me, but stops short when he reads my body language: don’t touch.
I tolerate his hugs when we are in public, but I won’t pretend in private. My father and I never had the best relationship growing up, but it’s devolved into barely veiled hostility on my part since my mom’s death.
“Senator.”
My father’s face remains stoic at the use of his title.
I nod at Gail courteously. “Good evening, Gail.”
“Hello Sean,” she responds languidly, looking bored.
“I’m glad you could come,” he says, taking a sip of his whiskey.
“I’d hate for the voters to think there’s a rift in the family. I wouldn’t want to bring down the poll numbers.”
My father winces, but I take no joy in the direct hit. I seem to be unable to restrain myself from lashing out at him at every opportunity. My childish compulsion to hurt him is counterproductive. My father’s priorities are very clear and I’m at the bottom of his list, presuming I’m even on it. And I frankly don’t care any more.
Gail gasps in outrage. “Sean! That’s uncalled for. Your father—”
My father raises his hand to stop Gail’s incipient diatribe and she falls silent. He responds evenly, “Well, it’s good to see you. Why don’t we head in to dinner?”
I shrug and walk out of the room toward the dining room. The table set for three people looks tiny in the huge space.
As soon as we sit down, a discreet server places a beautifully plated salad in front of each of us and pours our wine. The private chef my father hired would be appalled by the way I treat his food. I shovel it into my mouth as quickly as possible, trying to get this monthly ritual over with. The simple plate of rice and meat from this afternoon tasted like ambrosia compared to this. Of course that had everything to do with the company.
The server whisks my plate away as soon as I put down my fork. My father is savoring his food and Gail picks out the pieces of blue cheese, probably afraid a little fat would ruin her figure. I compare her to the slender woman who attacked her food with gusto and barely restrain a sneer.
“So, how’s everything with work?”
“Everything is fine.” I answer as succinctly as possible, knowing he has no interest in my job. My decision to join NYPD was a disappointment to him. Even when I made detective, he still found the job beneath his notice.
“That’s good. Have you given any thought to attending graduate school? Just name which university you’d like to attend and I can make some calls.”
This is an old argument and I have no tolerance for it today. “Just drop it! For the last time, I told you I’m perfectly happy working for the NYPD. I don’t want to go to law school or business school. If you’re ashamed to have a lowly cop as a son, then pretend you don’t have one.”
That he thinks I can’t get into a reputable graduate program without his help illustrates how little confidence he has in me. That he thinks I would let him buy my way into a program shows how little he knows me.
“Sean, I never said that!” His lips flatten in irritation. “I just want you to have more options in life.” He puts down his fork and the plate is magically taken away. He spreads his palms on the table.
“Why can’t you accept that I’m happy with the choices I’ve made?” My hands curl into fists.
“Fine! We’ll discuss this when you’re in a better frame of mind.”
I want to bang my head against the table. My father has a knack for making me feel like a rebellious teenager.
“How are Cael and Maggie?”
I welcome the topic change. “They’re both fine. Maggie is in the city now. She’s attending medical school.” Whatever I may think about my father, I can’t fault his genuine affection for the Jackson siblings.
His face brightens. “Oh! You must invite her to dinner next time!”
I try to hide my distaste for bringing Maggie into this toxic environment. “I’ll check, but she may be too busy with school.”
“Nonsense. It’s just for one evening. I’m throwing a small party next month at the apartment in the city. Bring her.”
“I’ll check,” I repeat shortly. A server places the main course, a filet mignon, in front of me and I cut viciously into the meat.
“Fine. Fine.” He leans forward. “How are things on the personal front? Are you dating anyone right now?”
My brows pull down in annoyance and confusion. My father has never shown an interest in my love life unless it’s to disapprove of whomever he deems unworthy. “No one at the moment. Why the sudden interest?” I ask suspiciously.
“Why shouldn’t I have an interest in my son’s life?” He cuts into his steak as if he were a surgeon.
The nonchalant tone of his voice makes me wary. After years of watching the way he operates, I know he’s angling for something. Instead of asking directly, he always plays these games. His time in Washington has destroyed his ability to be straightforward, even with his own flesh and blood.
“Just tell me what this is about,” I say bluntly, not interested in spending twenty minutes dancing around the issue.
He sighs in frustration, as if he considers my candor to be uncouth. “Michael Samuelson’s daughter is back in the city. She was just offered a partnership at a top law firm.”
“Alicia has always been smart and ambitious. I’m glad to hear about her success, but what does that have to do with me?” I dated Alicia briefly after I moved back to New York after college. She was beautiful and vivacious, but the chemistry was lacking and she was a bit too self-involved. If I remembered correctly, we stopped seeing each other after a few dates. My father expressed his disappointment about the breakup, but I suspected he was more concerned about losing ties with a wealthy and influential donor than with my wellbeing.
“Since you’re not dating anyone seriously, maybe you could escort her to the benefit in a couple of weeks?”
I swallow the curse on the tip of my tongue. “I wasn’t planning on bringing anyone.” Seldom do I bring a date to my father’s high-profile events. It allows me to duck out as soon as I’ve fulfilled my duties. It also starves the ever-hungry tabloids of gossip fodder.
“I thought you’d like to reconnect with an old friend. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”
I grit my teeth. I already know where this conversation is going. Daddy Samuelson had made a sizeable donation and the Senator is pimping me out to his daughter. To my father, everyone and everything is a commodity, including his own son.
I’ll be damned if I make this easy for him. “No. Alicia and I don’t anything in common. If we wanted to remain friends, we would have done so over the years.”
His tone becomes curt and impatient. “Fine. Consider it as a favor, then. Can you bring her as your date to the benefit dinner?”
I’m tempted to tell him no, but he adds, “By the way,
it’s a benefit for the NYPD.”
I can feel the smugness oozing out of his pores. Feeling cornered, I agree begrudgingly. I resent his manipulation, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world to reconnect with an old acquaintance. And the department desperately needs the infusion of funds for new equipment.
The rest of dinner passes without further incident and I stand up with a sigh of relief. “I’m going to head out now.”
“Before you leave, I have something for you.” My father pushes away from the dinner table, his face somber. “It’s in the study.”
“Darling, I’m going to watch some TV in the den.” Gail air kisses his cheek and then nods coldly at me.
I return her nod with just as much ice. Mystified by what he wants to give me, I follow my father down the hall.
The study has remained unchanged since my childhood. The large room is paneled with dark oak and the furnishings are heavy and sturdy. The air reeks of musty books and smoky cigars. I’ve never liked the room, its atmosphere dark and unwelcoming. As a child, I always found it strange that my father would want to spend most of his time in this dank room instead of running outside in the sunshine.
He heads toward his desk, unlocks his drawer, and takes out a small blue velvet jewelry box. He places it in my palm. “When I went through the safe, this was in the back.”
Snapping open the top, I inhale sharply and murmur, “Mom’s ring.” It is a small flawless sapphire set among a circle of brilliant diamonds. In terms of pure monetary value, the stones are probably not worth a lot, but the ring itself is priceless. It is rumored to have belonged to a French royal and has been passed on for generations through my mom’s side. The Duquesne family is an old and respected line, with a long history tracing back to the fifteenth century.
“Mom loved this piece. She only wore it on special occasions.” When I was little, I told her that her eyes were brighter than the sapphire. She had laughed and told me I had kissed the Blarney Stone. I remember laughing along with her even though I had no idea what the Blarney Stone was at the time.
