.
like his old man, aside from carrying on his father’s political legacy. In fact, Jamison had consciously tried to stay clear of the womanizing and scandal that not only plagued the Mallory name, but had driven his mother to the bottle and kept his family life in constant upheaval. If he’d gleaned nothing else from observing his parents’ destructive relationship, it was that he knew children could not fix a rocky marriage.
Children simply got caught in the cross fire.
Behind him, the library door creaked open. A slant of light yawned across the wall then disappeared as the door shut. Jamison turned around, hoping Olivia had decided to join him. Instead, his mother stood there, tall and proud and expressionless. Her angular features were rendered even sharper by the dim amber glow of the fire. She glided across the room and slid into the chair next to him.
He could feel her gaze on him, as palpable as the heat of the fire at his feet.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “Anytime you had something on your mind, you’d always hide in here.”
“I’m not hiding, Mother. Simply enjoying the solitude.”
“Don’t try to fool me.” She shifted in her seat, angling her knees toward him, crossing her legs at the ankles, folding her hands in her lap. “You of all people wouldn’t leave a party unless you had something weighing on your mind.”
Jamison took a slow sip of wine, buying time. Interesting that his mother had been drinking most of the day and she still had the uncanny ability to read him. Of course, his retreating into solitude had probably been a big tip-off. Rather than slipping off, he probably should’ve rallied Olivia and simply headed for home. But he’d wanted to think, wanted to find common ground on which they could meet as they drove home.
“I’m exhausted,” he said. “Thanks to work and the weather, it hasn’t exactly been a jolly holiday.”
He set his wine on the end table next to his seat, got up and stoked the fire. It flared, spit and crackled as he turned the log.
“I can see that you’re exhausted,” she said to his back. “You haven’t been yourself all day. I do wish you would stay the night and get a fresh start tomorrow. Grant, Payton and the kids are staying.”
He returned the poker to its brass stand. “Thank you, but we can’t stay. I have an early flight tomorrow. We really should head for home.”
A chain of silent seconds stretched between them.
“You always did love this room,” she said. “It’s too bad you can’t enjoy it more often.”
He shrugged and glanced at her. “I don’t even get to enjoy my own home as often as I’d like.”
A flash as hot as the glint of a flame lit her eyes. “Why are you going back to Washington so soon?”
He disengaged her gaze and turned his attention back to the dancing fire. “An unexpected meeting came up.”
“A meeting. During Christmas week.” There was a goading, knowing tone to her voice, as if she’d caught him in a lie, but was willing to keep his secret.
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