The Marriage Campaign. Karen Templeton

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СКАЧАТЬ poked around downstairs for a few minutes, even as she realized the house was larger than it appeared. Not ostentatiously so, but definitely not a shack, the formal living room leading into a lovely, large sunroom facing the water. And off to one side, a doublepaneled door stood half open to what she assumed was an office or library.

      Office, she realized, peeking into the very manly room, all dark wood and striking mid-century art against burgundy walls, a massive wooden desk adjacent to the bay window, a twin to the one in the living room. An add-on, she thought, destroying the colonial’s original symmetry but well enough done, from what she could tell. She pushed the door farther open to smile at the ubiquitous leather furniture … her smile fading when she realized Wes was slouched in a corner of the tufted sofa, watching her, amusement dancing in his tired eyes.

      “Oops, didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, stepping back, exactly as he’d expected her to. Even though Wes sensed that her reticence had more to do with her being caught off guard than having breached his privacy.

      “You’re not,” he assured her, even though he definitely felt intruded upon. Had, from the moment he’d seen her sitting at his table. Yes, despite his having initiated the intrusion to begin with by asking her to do Jack’s room. Logic had nothing to do with whatever was going on in his brain.

      Jack’s brush-off after dinner, however, did.

      Despite his exhaustion, Wes forced himself to sit forward. To stifle what had to have been his hundredth yawn since he’d arrived home. Not to mention some strange, unsettling impulse to use Blythe’s obvious discomfiture to his advantage. Play the power card, in other words.

      As if he had clue one how to do that. No, change that: he was as well-versed in charm and manipulation as the next politician. He could even be cunning, if push came to shove. But that wasn’t what he was about. Never had been. And if that made him a wuss, too bad.

      “I thought you’d gone.”

      “Can’t leave until Quinn and Jack have saved the universe,” she said, and Wes chuckled.

      “You’re returning to D.C. tonight?”

      “Actually, since it’s so late I might crash at Mel’s. Haven’t decided yet. And you look like a man who can’t believe he’s still awake.” When he gave her a thumbs-up, she smiled. “So why don’t you go to bed?”

      “Before my son? That would be beyond pathetic. And why are you standing in the doorway?” He waved her inside. “Come keep me company.” The yawn finally escaped. “Or at least awake.”

      “I—”

      “You got anything better to do?”

      “Here? No.”

      “Well then?”

      Sighing, she entered the library-slash-office to dump her bag and computer on a side table before wriggling out of her sweater, plopping it on top of everything else. “Impressive,” she said, taking in the room before bestowing a careful smile in his direction. “You should be nursing a lowball. In cut glass.”

      “Don’t drink,” Wes said on a tired smile. “Never did much, but after Jack was born …” He shrugged, then felt one side of his mouth lift. “Makes me hugely unpopular at social events. Although it is reassuring to know the kid isn’t going to get into my liquor cabinet while I’m gone. And you’re not sitting.”

      Finally she did, in a wing chair across from him, leaning back with her hands draped loosely over the arms, her legs crossed. But the set to her jaw gave the lie to her relaxed pose. Not that she felt trapped, he didn’t think. But she looked obligated to play along when she didn’t want to. Part of him wanted to release her from the obligation. Or at least give lip service to it, since he didn’t doubt for a moment that if she wanted to leave, she would. And yet, perversely, he wanted her to stay. Just to have someone to talk to who didn’t have an agenda.

      Then again, maybe she did.

      “I take it Jack has some ideas for his room?”

      Her lips stretched. Slightly. “We’re getting there. At first he didn’t want to change anything. Which is understandable,” she said gently. “Given the circumstances. Then he said he might want to paint all four walls different colors, but he has no idea what those colors might be. It was a bit like nailing Jell-O to a tree.”

      “Sounds about right.”

      “So you’re okay with four different wall colors?”

      “If that’s what he wants, go for it.”

      “Has he always been this quixotic?”

      Wes shook his head, thinking of his son’s reaction to him that night. The rejection stung, no doubt about it. “I don’t think so. I mean …” He leaned back, his eyes closed, realizing she was once more sucking him into a conversation he wasn’t sure he should be having with a virtual stranger. And yet, wanted to.

      He opened his eyes, faced Blythe’s. Wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Did know, however, that it was weird, seeing her sitting where Kym always had, at the end of a long day, her legs tucked up under her as she laughed, regaling him with stories about their son’s antics. There’d always be a cup of tea in her hands, her slender fingers curved around the ceramic, her long, dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, exactly the way it had when she’d been a teenager. As though she’d been caught in time, like a beautiful, delicate insect in amber. As the memory was now, in his head.

      “I don’t remember Jack’s being so moody before. When he was younger, I mean. But then, Kym was around him more than I was. She was the go-to parent. I was …” he sighed “… the auxiliary. I didn’t mean it to work out that way,” he said to Blythe’s slight frown. “It just did.”

      After a pause, she said, “He wants you to help him with his room, you know.”

      “Me? I don’t know a damn thing about design.”

      “That’s not the point.”

      No, it wasn’t. And he knew it. Knew, too, that whatever problems he and Jack were having were his fault, not the kid’s. That, being the grown-up, he was supposed to be able to fix this. That he couldn’t—

      Frustration trumping exhaustion, Wes heaved himself off the couch, almost wishing he did have that drink. Instead he crossed to the French doors leading to the side yard, shoving them open to let in the damp breeze, soothing against his heated face. “This parenthood gig ain’t for wusses,” he said, his back to her.

      “Precisely why I don’t think I’d make a very good mother.”

      Frowning, Wes turned. “Really?”

      “Really. I’ve finally reached the point where I’m happy with my life. I love what I do. Who I’ve finally become. What can I say?” She smiled. “Autonomy is the bomb.”

      “And yet you get along so well with Quinn. Jack, too, for that matter.”

      Something dimmed in her eyes. The truth, Wes suspected. Especially when she said, “Relating to kids doesn’t automatically translate into wanting my own. For one thing, I’m not sure I have the courage to be a parent. And for another, shoehorning СКАЧАТЬ