Bedroom Diplomacy. Michelle Celmer
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gedda big bed?”
She sighed and tousled his curly red mop of hair. “Yes, sweetie, you’ll get a big-boy bed very soon.”
She felt guilty for depriving him of something he wanted so badly, but she just wasn’t ready to take the chance. In his crib she knew he was safe. In a regular bed, if he had a seizure or even just rolled too far to one side, he could fall out and hurt himself.
Accepting her empty promise with a hopeful smile, the way he always did, and with his favorite toy race car clutched in his hand, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He was so tiny for his age. So small and defenseless. She wasn’t ready for him to grow up.
She leaned down, kissed him one last time and whispered, “I love you.”
“Wuboo, too,” he said sleepily.
She switched off his light, checked that the baby monitor was on, then slipped out of the room. As much as she needed a break by the end of the day, and a little time to herself, she hated leaving him alone. Until a year ago she’d kept him in bed with her, until the pediatrician warned that coddling him might only inhibit his progress. But it was so hard to let go, to relinquish control.
Rowena changed into her swimsuit, but she still had twenty minutes before Betty would be there to babysit, so she switched on the television. It was tuned to the American News Service—the cable network that had broken the presidential paternity scandal—and the anchor, Angelica Pierce, was reporting, as was often the case lately, on recent developments in the story. And Angelica seemed to take a sick sort of satisfaction in relaying the details.
Having been the target of rumors and speculation a time or two herself, Rowena could relate. Although in her case, the rumors usually were true. But she was never outed in front of hundreds of people.
Angelica Pierce was saying something about paternity and blood tests, and how both Ariella, the president’s alleged illegitimate daughter, and Eleanor, his high school sweetheart, were unavailable for comment. The devilish gleam in Angelica’s eyes said she was out for blood and thoroughly enjoying the scandal.
Rowena was about to switch the channel when she was struck by a sense of familiarity so intense it actually gave her goose bumps. Something about Angelica had always annoyed Rowena, but she had always attributed it to ANS’s sleazy reporting. She’d also thought that the woman looked vaguely familiar, and suddenly she realized why.
She reached for the phone and dialed her boarding school buddy Caroline Crenshaw. Until recently a public relations expert at the White House, Cara kept Rowena up to date on all the juicy D.C. gossip—confirming time after time that Rowena had made the right decision leaving Washington permanently. Only when Max, Cara’s fiancé, answered did Rowena remember the time difference and realize that it was nearly eleven-thirty there. “Sorry to be calling so late,” she said. “Is Cara still awake?”
“She’s right here,” Max said. There was a brief pause, and then Cara’s voice came on the line. Sounding worried, she asked, “Hey, Row, is everything okay?”
After receiving countless, random drunken midnight phone calls from Rowena, of course Cara would think the worst. “Everything is fine. I had a quick question for you and I completely forgot about the time difference.”
“That’s a relief. I thought maybe something had happened to Dylan.”
Or did she think that Rowena had backslidden and gotten herself in trouble again? And could Rowena blame her if she had? “Dylan is tucked away safe and sound in bed. Do you by any chance have the television on?”
“Actually, we do. We’re in bed watching the news.”
“NCN?”
“Of course.”
She’d assumed as much, since Max had made a name for himself as a hotshot political anchor and talk show host at National Cable News. “Can you switch on ANS for a minute?”
“Sure, why?”
“You’ve seen Angelica Pierce?”
“Sure. I’ve actually met her a couple of times. Now there’s a woman who knows what she wants and will do anything to get it. I pity the person who tries to stand in her way.”
“Does she look like anyone else to you?”
“I don’t know. There’s always been something about her that bugs me, but I think that has a lot to do with her working for ANS and their sleazy smear campaign against the president.”
“Take a really good look at her, and think back to boarding school.”
“Boarding school?”
“Think Madeline Burch.”
“Oh, my gosh, I forgot all about her. What a loon!”
Madeline had been an unstable, mousy plain Jane who insisted that she had a secret wealthy father and that her mother had been paid big hush-hush money not to talk about him. Which only led the students to believe that she was nuttier than a fruitcake, a label that seemed to push Madeline even further over the edge, until her behavior became so erratic and unpredictable she was eventually expelled. “So, look at Angelica, and think of Madeline.”
“Wow, you’re right. She does sort of look like her, but a hell of a lot prettier and more glamorous.”
“Do you think it could be her?”
“She would have had to change her looks and her name. Why would she do that?”
“That’s the real question, I guess. News anchors are supposed to be objective, but she takes an awful lot of satisfaction in smearing President Morrow. You know she wants to take him down.”
“Maybe she’s just a bitch,” Cara suggested.
“And if she is Madeline Burch?”
“I’m still not sure why she would go through all that trouble, but it couldn’t hurt to look into it. I’ll see what I can dig up from my old contacts.”
“I’ll try the internet.”
“Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you.”
After they hung up, Rowena logged on to Google to see what she could find about Madeline, but there was virtually no information about her after the incident at Woodlawn Academy, when she had attacked a student who called her a liar and a freak. When Rowena did a similar search on Angelica Pierce, the woman didn’t seem to exist before her college days.
When Betty knocked on the door at nine, Rowena still hadn’t found anything useful.
She shot a quick email to Cara explaining what she had—or more specifically hadn’t—found, then headed down to the pool. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the faint outline of someone sitting in a chaise—Colin’s chaise. It was unlikely that anyone but him would be out there, and even more unlikely that someone else would pick that exact same chair to sit in. And despite his chilly greeting that morning, it would be rude not to go over and say hello.
As she drew closer, she could see that his head had lolled slightly to one side and his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep. Cupped in his hands and resting in his lap was a large mug of what looked like brewed tea. Not the smartest place to hold a hot drink. Suppose when she dove in, the splash startled him and it spilled? He could do some serious damage.
“Colin?” she said softly so she wouldn’t alarm him, but he didn’t budge. He looked so peaceful. Maybe she didn’t have to wake him; maybe if she just took the cup and set it on the table…
She reached down, never imagining that she would have her hands quite this close to his crotch tonight. Or any night.
Very gently, using the tips of her fingers, she clutched the cup by the rim and began to gingerly lift it from his lap. She’d lifted about six inches when she glanced up to his face. His eyes were open and looking at her.