The Family They Chose / Private Partners. Nancy Robards Thompson

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      Despite the pause in conversation, Jamison didn’t elaborate.

      “The one-size-fits-all excuse. That’s the one your father used to use all the time. ‘I have a meeting.’ And how was I supposed to know differently?”

      “Mom, don’t.”

      He hadn’t realized how badly she was slurring her words. He really didn’t want his mother to string together all of his father’s flaws and illuminate them like tawdry lights on a tainted family tree.

      “The wife never knows until it’s too late. When she finds out, all she can do to save face is go on pretending she’s none the wiser. It’s a miserable life, Jamison. Don’t put Olivia through that. I hardly think she’s strong enough to cope.”

      Was she implying that he was having an affair? It rankled him. Even so, he wasn’t going to defend himself against something he had no intention of doing. Besides, she was drunk and probably wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning.

      “This is your house, Jamison. I know Olivia doesn’t want to live here, but she needs to understand that Mallory men … well, affairs just seem to be away of life. If you move in here, I can help her cope. I can help her understand that it’s just something Mallory men do.”

      He held up his hand. “Mother, stop. I am not having an affair. I have no intention of having an affair. I love my wife.”

      Helen threw back her head and guffawed a most unladylike sound. “Oh, Jamison, you can level with me. I’m not going to tell her.”

      She was talking utter nonsense. It was definitely time to go.

      He stood and walked toward the door.

      Helen’s body swiveled as she followed him with her gaze.

      “Where are you going?” she demanded.

      “Home, Mother. It’s late, but I thank you for a wonderful evening. Merry Christmas.”

      “Jamison, don’t walk away from me. I need to ask you a question.”

      He stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

      “Seven generations of Mallorys have lived here, son. How much longer are you planning on allowing that woman to deny you what’s yours? You need to set your wife straight. Tell her it’s time.”

      “It’s not time, and it won’t be until and unless Olivia is ready.”

      Helen made a clucking sound and stood up, wobbling as she did.

      “You’re just like your father, Jamison, always letting a pretty face cloud your judgment and sway your decision. Stand up and be a man, son.”

      Jamison shook his head. “Oh, Mother, what you don’t understand is that the main difference between Dad and me is that I am being a man. The pretty face that influences me is my wife. I’m sorry he never showed you the same courtesy.”

       Chapter Three

       Where do you go when you can’t go home?

      Back to the purgatory of Washington, D.C., Jamison thought. Even though it was the last place he wanted to be.

      But duty called. Olivia should understand that.

      Jamison stood in the dining room of his house, pouring himself a stiff glass of scotch.

      It was nearly nine o’clock. The tense ride home from his mother’s had mirrored the mostly silent drive up. Olivia was upset, and he understood why—on so many levels. The only problem was there was nothing he could do about it.

      He carried his drink back into the living room where Olivia waited for him, perched on the edge of the white living room sofa, anxiously fidgeting with the too-big cocktail ring he’d given her for Christmas, twisting it around and around on her index finger.

      He’d been so bogged down with work he’d hadn’t had time to shop. His mom had offered to pick out something nice for Olivia, something tasteful, yet lavish. Why hadn’t Helen opted for a bracelet or a necklace? No. Not a necklace because that would’ve paled in comparison to the diamond necklace Grant had had designed for Payton—one obscenely large diamond representing each child they’d had together. Payton, of course, had been very quick to notice and point out that the design provided plenty of room for endless additions. A sudden rush of guilt washed over Jamison as he remembered Olivia opening her gift that was noticeably too large and, really, more his mother’s style than her own.

      So maybe his wife was partially right. Maybe they needed to reevaluate, reprioritize. In fact, that’s exactly what they would do right after this diplomatic visit was over. Then after they’d worked on themselves, they could revisit babies and parenthood.

      “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked as he walked over to the fireplace. He set his glass on the mantel and picked up the poker to stir the fire he’d lit when they arrived.

      “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m fine.”

      But she wasn’t fine. She was looked anything but fine, and he almost couldn’t stand it. He plugged in the Christmas tree lights and dimmed the rheostat, hoping to gain a more romantic atmosphere that would lift her mood and turn the tide in their favor for once.

      “I’m sorry the ring is too big. The jeweler can resize it.”

      “I guess your mother didn’t know my size?” The corners of her mouth turned up, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

      “You know I didn’t plan on having to go back to Washington so soon,” Jamison said. “No more than I planned on spending Christmas Eve at the mercy of the weather.”

      Inhaling a weary breath, she said, “I thought that story was strictly reserved for the family’s benefit.” The words weren’t sharp or nasty. More disappointed … or, worse yet, defeated.

      For a moment, neither of them said a word.

      “I’m just tired of begging for your time, Jamison,” she said as if answering his thoughts.

      “Honey, you knew when you married me that sometimes my job would preempt pleasure.”

      Even the pleasure of making love to his wife. What a pity that they were arguing rather than doing exactly that in the small amount of time they had together.

      She simply shook her head.

      “I don’t want to fight, Jamison. Not tonight. It’s just too exhausting.” She stood.

      “Where are you going?”

      “I’m going to take a bath, and then I’m going to bed. What time is your flight tomorrow?”

      “Nine o’clock. The ambassador arrives at one.”

      She nodded. “I’m sure the weather will cooperate for you.”

      As she brushed past him, he was enveloped СКАЧАТЬ