Maybe, if Jamison wasn’t willing to cooperate, it was time to take maters into her own hands—even if it meant getting pregnant without her husband’s blessing.
After all, once she was carrying his child, he’d come around.
Wouldn’t he?
Jamison retreated into the library with his glass of wine. As a kid, he’d always enjoyed the solitude of the room—the built-in mahogany bookcases and never-ending stacks of books felt like comfortable old friends. When life overwhelmed him or he had a problem that needed sorting out, he’d come here, grab a book and sit in the window seat. Sometimes he’d lose himself in a classic. More often than not, he’d lose himself in his thoughts as he gazed at the panoramic view of the mountains that stretched like a grand painting framed by the horizon of the backyard.
Tonight, the moonless sky hid the mountains as if nature had drawn a black velvet curtain. So he bypassed the window seat, placed another log on the dying fire and settled into one of the leather club chairs in front of the hearth.
It was late. He and Olivia really should head home soon, but he needed a few minutes alone to gather his thoughts before they climbed into the car and endured another long, silent journey.
He didn’t blame her for being mad at him. It seemed that since he’d been home he’d committed one seemingly thoughtless blunder after another. He’d even managed to blow it with Olivia this evening after the friends had gone and the party shifted into a mode of opening Christmas presents and snapping family photos. Oh, she hadn’t said it straight out—in fact she’d barely said more than, “Thank you,” but the flash of confusion in her eyes had been unmistakable when she’d opened her gift from him and had seen the gaudy cocktail ring that was not in the least bit her style—and several sizes too big to boot.
Crunched for time, he’d asked his mother to pick up a gift for Olivia from him—jewelry, something nice, of course. “You know Olivia. Pick out something she’d like.”
When his tiny, pearl-wearing wife had opened the jewelers box and pulled out the multi-colored boulder of a cocktail ring, he’d wanted to snatch it back and claim that there had been a mistake. On her delicate hand, it looked like a wild, golf-ball-size piece of stained glass; certainly nothing he would’ve ever picked out for her. And that had been obvious. He hadn’t shopped for his wife. She’d been well aware of that since the ring had his mother’s signature written all over it.
For someone who prided himself on intelligence, he felt pretty dumb for entrusting his mother, of all people, to shop for Olivia. That blunder, on top of the fact that it probably hadn’t been the best time to tell Olivia he wanted to hold off on getting pregnant. Not on the heels of disappointing her with the change of plans for Christmas week. But thoughtlessly, he’d done it. It had slipped out as they’d talked earlier that morning. They’d digressed back into the dubious tug of war over commitment and priorities, which went from bad to worse when he’d broken the news that he had to leave because he had to play host to the visiting ambassador. She hadn’t taken it well. No matter that a lot was riding on this meeting, and if he pulled it off it would be a major coup, a feather in his political cap.
The flames crackled in the fireplace.
The ridiculous ring felt like a third strike in a game he was already losing. He was between a rock and a hard place. Olivia knew their life would be this way and if he did make that run for the White House in 2016, not only did they need to find solidarity in their marriage, they had to be a solid twosome before they could add to their family.
Still, it didn’t mean he loved her any less. As a matter of fact, he was standing firm on his position to hold off starting a family because he loved her. Children added a whole different dynamic to a marriage, and he wasn’t so naive to believe that a child would fix something that was broken. He’d seen plenty of evidence to support that fact as he’d watched his parents’ marriage come apart under the pressure of public office and the weight of lies and deception. The only reason his mother and father hadn’t divorced was because of his father’s untimely death.
Well-shrouded secrets and, of course, the soft focus of layers of decades had allowed his mother the privilege of playing the well-respected, grieving widow of a political hero—a senator who would’ve been president had his life not been tragically snuffed out. But as the oldest of six boys, Jamison had gotten a first-hand look at the real life behind the gossamer curtain that cloaked political power couple, Judson and Helen Mallory.
Jamison sipped his cabernet. He was nothing like his old man, aside from carrying on his father’s political legacy. In fact, Jamison had consciously tried to stay clear of the womanizing and scandal that not only plagued the Mallory name, but had driven his mother to the bottle and kept his family life in constant upheaval. If he’d gleaned nothing else from observing his parents’ destructive relationship, it was that he knew children could not fix a rocky marriage.
Children simply got caught in the cross fire.
Behind him, the library door creaked open. A slant of light yawned across the wall then disappeared as the door shut. Jamison turned around, hoping Olivia had decided to join him. Instead, his mother stood there, tall and proud and expressionless. Her angular features were rendered even sharper by the dim amber glow of the fire. She glided across the room and slid into the chair next to him.
He could feel her gaze on him, as palpable as the heat of the fire at his feet.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “Anytime you had something on your mind, you’d always hide in here.”
“I’m not hiding, Mother. Simply enjoying the solitude.”
“Don’t try to fool me.” She shifted in her seat, angling her knees toward him, crossing her legs at the ankles, folding her hands in her lap. “You of all people wouldn’t leave a party unless you had something weighing on your mind.”
Jamison took a slow sip of wine, buying time. Interesting that his mother had been drinking most of the day and she still had the uncanny ability to read him. Of course, his retreating into solitude had probably been a big tip-off. Rather than slipping off, he probably should’ve rallied Olivia and simply headed for home. But he’d wanted to think, wanted to find common ground on which they could meet as they drove home.
“I’m exhausted,” he said. “Thanks to work and the weather, it hasn’t exactly been a jolly holiday.”
He set his wine on the end table next to his seat, got up and stoked the fire. It flared, spit and crackled as he turned the log.
“I can see that you’re exhausted,” she said to his back. “You haven’t been yourself all day. I do wish you would stay the night and get a fresh start tomorrow. Grant, Payton and the kids are staying.”
He returned the poker to its brass stand. “Thank you, but we can’t stay. I have an early flight tomorrow. We really should head for home.”
A chain of silent seconds stretched between them.
“You always did love this room,” she said. “It’s too bad you can’t enjoy it more often.”
He shrugged and glanced at her. “I don’t even get to enjoy my own home as often as I’d like.”
A flash as hot as the glint of a flame lit her eyes. “Why are you going back to Washington so soon?”
He disengaged her gaze and turned his attention back to the dancing fire. “An unexpected
