her wounds and think through her next step, not somewhere she’d draw constant notice, and Runt River wasn’t the anonymous bastion she’d hoped it would be—she stood out here.
A truck rumbled past them, and the driver gave her a curious once-over. Liam waved absently. That wasn’t the first time she’d been scrutinized since arriving. This town was small enough that a single newcomer could cause a whole lot of double takes. That was nothing like New York. She’d been able to drive a classic Rolls through the city in full bridal regalia and not draw a second look.
“Does anyone know you’re here yet?” Liam asked.
“I told my dad where I was,” she said. “And warned him to give me space.”
“They’d probably be worried sick, otherwise,” he conceded.
“It’s damage control.” She pulled her dark hair out of her eyes. “They need a family story to stand behind for the media, and they’re afraid I’ll leak the secret.”
“Which is?” he asked with a small smile.
“That Calvin is a cheating louse.” She shot him a smile. “That makes him less electable, you see. And they have plans for him.”
“Even after he cheated on you?”
“It isn’t personal,” she quipped, quoting a line she’d heard a hundred times from her father. “It’s politics.”
“Hmm.” He put a hand on the small of her back and nudged her. “Let’s cross here.”
His touch was firm and warm, and she found the gesture oddly comforting. Calvin hadn’t been the demonstrative type in private. When they went out into public, he’d hold her hand, brush her hair out of her eyes, smile down into her eyes—and the photographers got some great shots. But once they were alone, he was distant and wanted his space. “I’m used up,” he’d say. “I just need to unwind.” So Liam’s casual gesture felt more intimate to her than he’d probably intended, especially since no one was watching.
They crossed the road just as they came to Main Street and stepped up onto the first sidewalk she’d seen in this town.
“You say it isn’t personal, it’s just politics. Well, it can be very personal for the people who get tilled under,” Liam said once they were on the other side.
“You know, this is the first time I can identify with that,” she admitted. “But my family expects me to have ‘broader vision,’ as my dad puts it.” She used air quotes. “I might be humiliated, heartbroken, angry, unfairly treated, but I’m supposed to think about what’s best for the family.”
“Namely, your father,” he clarified.
Yes, he was the patriarch, and he called the shots. He held the majority of the family assets. Even her cousin Vince had to make nice to Uncle Milhouse to keep any kind of financial backing. Vince was a placeholder for the family’s political ambition, but Calvin was the future, and his image could not, under any circumstances, be tarnished.
“So what do you want?” Liam asked.
She smiled warily. “Does it matter?”
“Maybe not to your father, but it does to me. If you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?”
She hadn’t actually thought about that. She was a practical woman, and she’d followed her father’s lead. She had a degree in economics and marketing from Harvard, and her father was grooming her to take over their massive fortune. That meant learning the family business—how to keep all the balls in the air—and maintaining a respectable image. Nothing too flashy or undignified. If journalists probed into her past during an election year, which they would if her husband was running for president, they’d need to come up empty. Bernadette was far from free.
And yet, the silver lining to this whole ugly mess was the discovery of a little boy she’d never known existed—Ike. Funny to be bonding with her cousin’s illegitimate son, but she was glad that she’d had the chance to meet him. Now that she knew him, she’d make sure that he didn’t want for anything. He’d need family support, and she felt some responsibility in that respect. Now that she knew about this tiny Morgan’s existence, she couldn’t just turn her back on him.
They approached a small restaurant. The faded sign read Uncle Henry’s Restaurant, and Liam angled his head toward it, then led the way to the front door. He held it open for her, and the smell of sausage and eggs wafted out to greet her. She was hungrier than she’d thought, because her stomach gurgled in response.
The restaurant had a few patrons—mostly men past fifty wearing baseball caps. One waitress was taking an order, her pad of paper perched above a pregnant belly. Liam led the way to a table by the window, and he pulled out her chair for her before sitting in the other.
“You never did answer my question,” he said as they got settled. “What do you want out of this mess?”
Bernie leaned her elbows onto the table and considered for a moment. How much could she say without sounding unbearably rich? “My aunt Ellen Morgan runs a charity just outside the city for single moms in crisis. They provide medical care, groceries, baby supplies... They even have a residence where the girls can stay if they get kicked out of their homes. It’s called Mercy House, and she’s been passionate about it for years. If I could step away from the spotlight and do anything, I’d like to do something like that—an organization that makes a difference.”
Liam looked mildly surprised, and she shot him a rueful smile. Truth was, she didn’t just admire Mercy House—she was a sponsor. But being more personally involved had always appealed to her.
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