if he had, he would have turned them down.
But everyone had a skeleton in their closet, so to speak. And that was why he was back in Connecticut at the Garden of Eden Christmas Tree Farm watching this crappy television instead of burning the midnight oil in his Capitol Hill office.
With a sigh, Xander got up from the couch and walked over to the window. The sun had already disappeared behind the rolling green hills, but it was still light enough to illuminate the farm. For as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but balsam and Fraser fir trees.
It was a startling view after being away for so long. Looking out the window of his office in the Longworth House Building earned him an excellent view of the Capitol Building and the sea of tourists and buses traveling up and down Independence Avenue. Those people traveled thousands of miles for the sights he ignored on a daily basis. He was too busy to appreciate the classic architecture and historic significance surrounding him. Most of the time, he took the underground tunnels to the Capitol Building and missed it entirely.
He might have a plush, professionally decorated town house a few blocks from the office in the Capitol Hill district, but this place—with its old, worn furniture and acres of trees—was home. This was where he’d grown up. Being back here, surrounded by the calming influences of nature and fresh air, Xander felt more at ease than he had since he left home for Georgetown and a fast-track career in politics. There was no traffic gridlock here, no honking cabs, no frantic running through the metro stations. He could finally breathe.
Things wouldn’t stay peaceful here for long, though. The literal skeleton in Xander’s closet belonged to Tommy Wilder and last Christmas it had been unearthed by a construction crew on land that used to be part of the farm. So far there had been no luck in identifying the body, but that would soon change. Brody, his computer-genius foster brother and one of the four “Eden boys,” had emailed them all about a week ago with news that the police had commissioned a facial re-creation sketch, but it hadn’t been released to the public yet. Xander hadn’t asked how Brody knew about it. He was just grateful for the heads-up.
When the sketch hit the news, people would start sniffing around the farm for answers. They’d garnered some attention when the body was first unearthed, but no one really believed it had anything to do with his foster parents, Ken and Molly Eden. The sketch would change that. When Tommy was identified, it would place the dead teenager in their care and people would be forced to consider their involvement. His foster parents weren’t fit to deal with the journalists and police that would knock on their door looking for information. Ken was recovering from a heart attack and Molly would be too distraught by the idea of Tommy’s death to answer questions. They needed someone at the farm to run interference and Xander was the best choice.
From a very early age, he’d had a way with people. He could talk anyone into anything. His mother used to tell everyone he was a born politician. Ladies found him charming. His constituents described him in a poll as “trustworthy, well-spoken and honest.” He would use every tool in his arsenal to fight off the press and protect his family.
Xander had been back in Cornwall for two days and so far nothing but Little League and strawberries. That meant he should really take advantage of the peace to run the errand he’d been considering since he arrived home.
He picked up the hardback book on the coffee table and admired his handiwork. “Fostering Faith by Xander Langston,” he read aloud. It was still a little surreal even after having author copies for a month already. He’d never intended on writing a book, especially a memoir. Xander had never thought his life was particularly exciting, but the publishing house that had approached him about the project felt otherwise. He was a young and successful congressman whose parents had died tragically and young, thrusting him into the foster-care system. Apparently, that was nonfiction gold.
It had taken a year to write between his official duties and volunteer work at the D.C. Fostering Families Center. Knowing a portion of the proceeds would go to his favorite cause had kept him going when he was stuck in the middle of chapter seven. That and the hefty advance he’d have to return if he changed his mind.
The book came out next week. There would be a charity gala and signing in a couple weeks back in D.C. to raise money for the Fostering Families Center. Hopefully, his reason for coming home wouldn’t sink his plans and his sales.
While he was in Cornwall, he wanted to make one special personal delivery. He’d already given copies to his foster parents and his brothers and sister, of course, but he’d brought an extra one on this trip for his high school sweetheart, Rose Pierce. She’d featured heavily in the book as one of the best things to ever happen to him. He wanted her to have an autographed copy and he needed to give it to her in person.
Xander looked down at his watch. It was after seven. His foster brother Wade now lived in Cornwall and had told him that Rose still worked most evenings at Daisy’s Diner, just up the highway. This seemed like the perfect time to go. Tonight was Molly’s night to play Bunco, so he was on his own for dinner anyway.
He could deliver the book and get a good meal. Daisy’s had been a favorite haunt of his teenage years. Rose had worked at the diner back then, too, and he’d wasted many an hour sitting at the counter, sipping milkshakes and talking to her between customers.
Xander climbed into his black Lexus SUV and decided he would get a milkshake tonight for old times’ sake, especially if Rose would make it for him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. It might have been the summer before he left for Georgetown. The August heat and his lovesick heart had lured him to the diner nearly every day for a chocolate shake and a few last moments with Rose.
Once he’d left town, life had started moving so quickly. Years had flown by in what felt like minutes. His trips back to Cornwall had been short and infrequent. Lately, he was more interested in a crisp Chardonnay with his meal than a tall glass of chocolate ice cream. Daisy’s Diner and its milkshakes had become a distant memory from his childhood.
But not Rose.
He still remembered touching her as if it were yesterday. They had been each other’s first loves—that young, passionate, all-consuming and overly dramatic love. You never forgot about that. If it were up to him, he would’ve taken her with him to D.C. He’d asked, damn near begged, but she wouldn’t go. She’d had a terminally ill mother and admission to a nearby college that allowed her to stay close to home and care for her.
He’d understood, but he hadn’t liked it. He’d also attempted to meet her demand that he go on to Georgetown and forget about her. He’d avoided her when he came to town. He’d even skipped their high school reunion, but he’d realized that forgetting about Rose was impossible. He’d always remember those big brown eyes and pouty lips. He’d always wonder what happened to her.
No longer. Tonight he was going to focus on tracking her down and catching up on lost time. Writing the memoir had brought his memories of Rose to the forefront of his mind. Now that he was back in Connecticut, he had to see her and he wouldn’t be distracted from this task, not even by Tommy Wilder’s corpse.
Xander pulled into the gravel parking lot at Daisy’s. It was a Thursday night and not a particularly busy one if the cars in the lot were any indication. Through the front windows he could see a couple old guys drinking coffee at the counter and a family in the corner booth. He didn’t see Rose, but perhaps she was in the kitchen.
He went inside and opted for a booth near the entrance. It was fairly warm in the diner, making him wish he’d chosen a polo shirt and khakis instead of the long-sleeved dress shirt and blazer he had on. He slipped out of his navy Armani jacket and hung it on the coat hook before he sat down on the red leather bench and tossed the book
