Читать книгу The Family They Chose / Private Partners - Gina Wilkins, Nancy Robards Thompson - Страница 8

The chime of the house alarm alerted Olivia Armstrong Mallory that someone had opened the front door, rousing her out of her light sleep. The door squeaked open and then clicked shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous hallway.

As footsteps sounded on the parquet floor, she sat up on the couch, smoothed her brown hair and blinked at the Christmas tree—the sole light illuminating the expansive living room.

She’d only closed her eyes for a moment—or so she thought. However, a quick glance at the mantel clock begged to differ. It was after three in the morning.

Jamison.

Her husband had finally arrived home.

As a United States senator who was being groomed for the presidency, Jamison Mallory wielded a lot of power, but one thing beyond his control was the weather. It wasn’t his fault that ice and snow had grounded all planes coming in and out of Washington, D.C.

It’s a wonder he’s home now, she reminded herself as he appeared, suitcase in hand, in the archway that divided the living room and the foyer hall.

“Liv, you’re still awake?” His deep voice was flat. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.” Even in the low light, she could see that his handsome face looked drawn. His chiseled cheeks looked hollow, despite the day’s growth of blond razor stubble. The dark circles under his pale blue eyes hinted that he suffered the kind of travel-weary exhaustion that comes from long flight delays and blisteringly cold weather.

“Of course, I waited up for you. It’s Christmas Eve, Jamison—well, it was. Merry Christmas.” Olivia stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her red silk dress. She made sure the clasp to the pearl necklace she always wore was in the right place. When her husband didn’t move toward her, she swallowed her pride and crossed the room to him.

One of them had to extend the olive branch. In the spirit of Christmas, and for the sake of their marriage, she’d be the peacemaker tonight.

Two-and-a-half months apart—with only a brief Thanksgiving Day visit—was more than enough time to help her realize that her marriage was that important. In their seven years of matrimony, this trial separation was the longest they’d ever been apart.

She’d missed her husband so much it hurt—a deep, gnawing pain that only grew worse each day they were apart.

Jamison set down his bag and raked a hand through his short, wavy blond hair before opening his arms to her. Olivia slipped inside the circle of her husband’s embrace and tried to find that place where she fit so well. She wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his chest, to lose herself in the feel of him. But his hug felt stiff, almost perfunctory. As she shifted to find her spot, he dropped his arms and pulled away ever so slightly.

She hesitated a moment, processing the conflicting emotions that swam to the surface as she stood face-to-face with this handsome familiar stranger. But, no, she wasn’t going to make an issue of it. So she slammed the door on the irrational thoughts goading her to take his aloofness personally.

Spending Christmas Eve stuck in the airline’s Executive Lounge surely wasn’t his idea of a good time. He must be so tired and—

“You must be starving.” She started toward the kitchen. “I kept dinner warm for you. Sit down and I’ll fix you a drink and a plate.”

She glanced over her shoulder in time to see his frown deepen as he shook his head.

“Olivia, I’m exhausted. I just want to go to bed.”

His brusque tone made her wince. As was often the problem between them, it wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it that cut her to the quick.

Tonight, though, she was willing to overlook it.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I can see that you’re worn-out.”

He picked up his suitcase, walked over and kissed her on the forehead. Then, without another word, he turned and took his bag into the first-floor guest room, closing the door behind him.

Olivia stood alone in the living room. Confused, she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to ward off the numbing chill coursing through her. She could understand that Jamison was bone tired. She could even accept that he didn’t want to eat a meal and go to bed on a full stomach. But choosing the guest room over their bed?

That hurt worse than his gruff tone.

Suddenly, the cold distance between them yawned like a vast canyon, full of all the reasons they’d decided to separate in the first place.

She’d had such high hopes for the evening. But nothing was turning out as she’d hoped.

Wasn’t that par for the course these days?

It hadn’t always been that way, though. Once upon a time, not so long ago, their love seemed invincible. There was nothing like it from the moment they’d set eyes on each other. She’d never forget the first time she saw him. In person, that is, because every red-blooded woman in America knew of Jamison Mallory, Panorama Magazine’s “Sexiest Bachelor in the Universe” for several years running. With his tall, bronzed, quarterback body and his All-American blond, blue-eyed good looks, the man simply needed to flash his lightning-strike smile and women fell under his spell.

As a Harvard Law graduate and the youngest elected U.S. senator, Jamison had come back to his alma mater to deliver a commencement address. They’d bumped into each other—literally—as Olivia rounded a corner, rushing from one of her classes to a rehearsal for a Harvard Ballet Company performance of Sleeping Beauty. She’d dropped her dance bag and books and he had helped her retrieve her ballet slippers from underneath a shrub. Somewhere between, “Excuse me,” and “It was so nice to meet you, Olivia,” he’d asked where she was going and she’d nervously rattled off information about the ballet performance, which was the next night. She had never dreamed he’d be in the audience—front and center.

Because he was Jamison Mallory. She was simply a shy, college freshman who’d barely had any experience with men. After all, up until meeting Jamison, her one true love had been dance.

Later, they’d both sworn it had been love at first sight.

He’d often said that from the moment he’d looked into her eyes as he handed her those slippers, he’d known he’d met the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.

“It was cosmic.” He used to flash his devastating smile when he’d tell that to reporters. “The feeling was so much bigger than anything I’d ever felt before, I knew it was right.”

Now it was the small things that stood between them and what was really important. The minutiae blurred the perspective so that they couldn’t keep the big picture in focus anymore. If they couldn’t get past the small stuff, how in the world were they going to reach the real issue that was keeping them apart?

Feeling as if she were dragging a heavy weight, she made her way into the kitchen to put away the uneaten dinner. She and Jamison had always spent Christmas Eve with her family and Christmas Day with the large Mallory clan at his mother’s palatial compound in the Berkshires. This year, she’d opted out of Christmas Eve with her mother, father and three siblings—all of whom were married to their careers at the Armstrong Fertility Institute. Well, except for her brother Paul who, though he was still the consummate workaholic, had recently met his love match in Ramona Tate, at the institute. Olivia wanted to spend their first night back together alone. Just the two of them. Little had she known how alone she’d actually be.

Staying home had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, especially since none of the family knew about her and Jamison’s current living arrangement—that Jamison hadn’t come home on weekends during the congressional session. Or that he’d stayed in Washington after the session had adjourned. They’d told everyone he was busy with a particularly demanding committee, that he needed to focus so that he could wrap up work in time for Christmas. They’d played their roles so well that no one had a clue that their marriage was actually deeply in trouble.

Olivia hoped to God she’d find a Christmas miracle in her stocking, because it seemed as if nothing less than a miracle would save them now.

Jamison awoke to a slant of sunlight streaming in through the white plantation shutters, hitting him square in the face. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, and then it all flooded back to him. He was … home.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table: seven-thirty. Although he could’ve told the time without the clock, thanks to his internal alarm. No matter how little sleep he’d gotten the night before—in this case only about four hours—his system awakened him at seven-thirty every morning. It was fail-safe, and there was no sense fighting it. He might as well get up, because he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. Plus, he and Olivia needed to get on the road by noon to make the two-hour trek to his mother’s for the Christmas Day festivities.

He stretched, and his arms slid over the cold, empty side of the queen-size feather bed. He wished he was waking up in his own bed, with Olivia in his arms, rather than realizing another morning alone— especially Christmas morning in the guest room of his very own house.

He’d been so exhausted by the time he’d arrived home last night, he’d barely been able to string together a coherent sentence, much less have a discussion with her about sleeping arrangements. After being separated from Olivia for two-and-a-half months, he wanted to be fair to her. Even though sleeping apart from her wasn’t what he wanted, he didn’t want to seem presumptuous on their first night back together—and even more, he didn’t want to fight.

He’d been beyond exhausted and, yes, a little cranky. He knew himself well enough to know that combination was a recipe for disaster. But now, in the bright light of morning, his head felt clearer, his purpose stronger. Eager to talk to his wife about their next step in their relationship before they joined his family for the annual Christmas Day festivities, he showered, shaved and dressed before making his way toward the kitchen in search of a good, strong cup of coffee … and Olivia.

The house was dark and quiet. Even before he flicked on the kitchen light, he could see that the room was pristine—everything in its place. The only evidence of the dinner Olivia had offered him last night was the ghost-aroma of something delicious mingling with the faint scent of dish soap and the slightly smoky traces of the fire that must have blazed in the fireplace.

He breathed in deeply, relishing the familiar, comforting scents of home. But as he did, guilt tugged at him. He knew his wife had not only prepared a delectable Christmas Eve feast that neither of them was able to enjoy, but she’d probably stayed up long after he went to bed putting everything away and cleaning up the mess of a dinner that never happened.

The least he could do was let her sleep a little while longer and then make her some coffee.

No, he’d go one better and surprise her with breakfast in bed.

Before their separation, the kitchen had been foreign territory to him. One thing he’d learned in the time they’d been apart was how to cook up a mean batch of scrambled eggs—the trick was to use low heat so that they cooked slowly and the outside didn’t scorch. Hmm … the low-heat approach would also benefit their marriage. Because the other thing he’d learned during this time apart was that he loved his wife desperately. He missed her … he missed them. It was time to put all the ridiculous fighting and blaming behind them and move on.

Time to use the low-heat approach.

And to think the root of their problems started over something that meant so much to both of them, the common ground on which they’d always met: family. Or, more specifically, the lack of a family of their own.

Cold, twisted confusion wrapped around him when he thought about it. He was so torn. On one hand, Olivia would make such a wonderful mother. On the other, how could they even bring children into the world when their marriage was so shaky?

When they weren’t even living together?

They had to talk about their relationship. They had to get back on track. But before they could get into that, he had to break another bit of news to her—the news that he had to return to Washington earlier than expected. Earlier as in tomorrow morning, rather than January third as they’d planned.

That would go over about as well as telling her that the holidays had been canceled this year. With the way their plans had been preempted, that wasn’t so far from the truth.

Jamison made his way toward the stainless steel refrigerator and tugged opened the double doors. The precise arrangement of the cartons, jars and stacked glass and plastic containers echoed the kitchen’s tidiness.

One of the many things he admired about his wife was the pride she took in their home. He’d encouraged her to hire a cook and a full-time housekeeper so that she’d have more time for herself and time for the Children’s Home, a non-profit orphanage where she sat on the board of directors. But she’d refused, because she loved cooking—and was darn good at it. She’s said while it was just the two of them she could get by with someone coming in and doing the deep cleaning a couple of times a month. She claimed she enjoyed keeping their house, making a home for them. When it came to home and family, there was no one more dedicated than Olivia. That’s why their fertility issues had been such a struggle. They desperately wanted children and had jumped through many hoops to get pregnant—all to no avail. Too much testing and too many treatments had set them on an emotional roller coaster and taken a serious toll on their marriage. How ironic, when marriage had to be the bedrock on which the family was built.

Liv wouldn’t take well to the suggestion, but he’d been thinking about asking her to agree to put having children on hold until they could heal their marriage. It was the only thing that made sense.

But one thing at a time. First, he had to break the news about the change of holiday plans.

Jamison found the eggs, butter and cheddar cheese and was just turning around with his hands full when Olivia walked into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

She shook her head. “I thought you’d sleep in since you got home so late.”

She didn’t sound like herself, and she looked at him with a wariness that took him aback. But she did look beautiful standing there perfectly made-up and dressed, wearing the pearls that he’d given her as a wedding present, her dark hair twisted up in a way that accentuated her porcelain skin, fine cheekbones and gorgeous dark eyes—deep brown, like the coffee he craved almost as much as he thirsted for her.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was flat. She sounded tired.

He adjusted the goods in his hands, fidgeting as if he’d been caught trespassing. This was her territory after all. In the seven years they’d been married, he’d barely set foot in the kitchen, much less cooked a meal.

“I thought I’d fix you some breakfast.” He grinned sheepishly, suddenly feeling out of his league.

“You don’t have to do that.” She gestured toward the items in his hands. “Just put those things down and I’ll do it. I have a special breakfast planned.”

Oh. Of course she would, it being Christmas.

“Well, I just thought—” Their gazes snagged for a brief moment before she looked away. With that, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that something was wrong. Of course something was wrong, but he’d been so bent on moving forward with the next steps they should take to fix things between them that he hadn’t counted on having to delve backward into their problems before they could move on. Suddenly the clarity he’d felt moments before was replaced by a dread that riveted him to the wooden kitchen floor.

Olivia walked toward him and took the food from his hands. Then she set to work, returning the cheese to the dairy drawer and removing various other items from the refrigerator and pantry. Jamison stood and watched her for a moment, feeling superfluous.

Since she hadn’t made any moves to start the coffee, he decided it would be a good task and began opening cabinet doors to locate the beans.

“What are you looking for?” Olivia asked.

“Coffee,” he replied.

“It’s in the freezer.” She gestured to the drawer below the refrigerator. “I keep it there so it will stay fresh since I’m not drinking it these days.”

“Really? So, no coffee for you?”

She shook her head.

“How come? You love coffee.”

She turned and squinted at him, looking plenty annoyed. “Jamison, I haven’t been drinking coffee for the past two years. Don’t you remember the doctor suggested that I cut caffeine from my diet while we were trying to get pregnant?”

Well, it was an honest mistake since they hadn’t had the opportunity to try during the past couple months. Even so, he thought as he rummaged through the freezer drawer, his not knowing felt like a failure. Funny how he felt perfectly at home on the senate floor, where he knew every nook and cranny of the issues he passionately presented, yet he’d forgotten that the doctor had nixed caffeine from his wife’s diet.

Bad show, man.

When he pulled out the unopened bag of whole-bean French roast, Olivia was right there ready to pluck it from his hands.

This time, he held on tight.

“I can do it,” he said.

“Since when do you know how to make coffee?” she asked, tugging every so slightly, but he refused to let go.

“Since I haven’t had you to make it for me,” he said, looking her square in the eye. For an instant, a look—surprise, hurt, disappointment. maybe a combination of the three—flashed on her face.

“I’ll make it for you,” she insisted. Once again her expression was flat and there was no warmth in her eyes where mere seconds ago there had been a pileup of emotion.

The distance between them was killing him. He had to do something.

He glanced down at their hands still holding on to the bag of coffee. They were so close, yet not touching. He stretched his finger until it touched hers. She flinched and snatched her hand away, leaving him holding the bag of French roast.

She looked startled for a moment then turned back toward the kitchen counter, busying herself with the breakfast preparation, taking eggs from the carton with shaky hands.

“Liv,” he said. “We need to talk about this. It’s not just going to go away.”

She placed the eggs in a bowl and stilled but didn’t respond.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’ve missed you so badly it’s tearing me up.”

He saw her grip tighten on the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.

“I’m sorry last night didn’t work out the way we’d hoped. I wish you would’ve gone on to your parents when we realized my flight was delayed.”

He saw her shoulders rise and fall, and dreaded delivering the news that he had to leave tomorrow.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jamison. I know that.”

She turned to face him. “But sleeping in the guest room last night—that was your choice.”

“What?” As tightly wound as she appeared, he was expecting her to unleash what was bothering her, but he wasn’t expecting this to be part of the problem.

“You heard me.” She was clutching her hands in front of her, again gripping so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She looked so small, so fine-boned and fragile standing there, it was a wonder her fingers didn’t snap like twigs.

“Liv, I was exhausted.” He ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t know up from down. I couldn’t even form the words to ask you where you wanted me to sleep.”

He reached out and touched her hands, hoping the gesture would encourage her to relax. “But it’s a new day and there are a few things we need to talk about before we head up to my mother’s place.”

Olivia’s face shuttered, but he saw her throat work as she swallowed.

“Such as?” she asked.

“Such as whether or not we should tell the family we’re separated. Despite how much I love you, I can’t go on pretending. What are we going to do, Liv? What are we going to tell them?”