Marriage (Red, White &) Blues (Unexpectedly Married #2)

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

O ur guests stayed for Saturday, during which we drove them to Burlington for a day out. Jupiter joined us back at our place that evening, and they were leaving on Sunday. I could hardly believe when on Sunday morning, one of Robert Parker’s attorneys showed at the house with an envelope. Inside the envelope? A check and a contract. My mother and Carl could in no way acknowledge to knowing or being related to me, and thus, my husband for the duration of the campaign. They were never to speak to the press or mention the Parkers to anyone who might leak our relationship to the press.

Pretty much, if they signed the document and took the money, they were agreeing to never speak the name Parker. My name. Not even in passing. Not just the last name, but any version of Gloria and/or Blake Parker. That included our first names. My mother wasn’t allowed to say her daughter’s name to anyone. Exactly what Carl had offered but with more stipulations and in legalese. Leave it to Robert to have to get the last word in.

“I’m not taking that money,” Carl said. “Man thinks he can buy me off?”

“Then don’t take the money,” I said, “but this offers you some protection.”

“It’s says I can’t say my daughter’s name,” my mom said, shaking her head.

“Where’s our safety net?” Carl asked the attorney. “I’ll sign when I see his promise to not come after me, Liz or my family in writing. He’ll have to send it to Michigan, but I’m sure he already has our address.”

“So, you won’t sign. When I get my assurances in writing. Not before.” Then he shoved the papers back at the man who took them and left abruptly.

Honestly, being a Parker became less fun by the day. Not being Blake’s wife. I loved being Blake’s wife. But being a Parker kind of sucked. I wanted this campaign to be over yesterday. I wanted my life back.

The invitation arrived in the mail on Tuesday.

I couldn’t wait.

But the same day, in that same bundle of mail, we received yet another invitation—the directive kind, not one we could decline—to yet another brunch. This one at the country club. With way more people.

On Sunday, the Parkers sent a car because, you know, how dare we drive ourselves? In any other circumstance in which the Parkers weren’t involved, I loved riding in a chauffeured car. But last night I’d dreamed of beating Robert with a horsewhip—and no, not in that way. Gross . I just beat him over and over until Blake walked into the room we were in, pulling the whip from my hand to begin beating his father more. I woke up smiling.

How sadistic was that? I’d dreamed of beating a man bloody and woken up with a smile on my face. I needed help. I wore pink chiffon, pink pumps, and my hair up in a twist. My husband wore brunch navy blue.

We stepped outside into the bright, sun-filled day. It smelled of late summer. The gladiolus, echinacea, and bee balm bloomed in brilliant red, violet, purple, pink, and white. Orange and cream and lavender. I loved the front of the house now. He’d had the property re-landscaped while we’d been out on the campaign trail.

Now that we were home for good, I wanted to spend this glorious day picnicking in the garden he’d created. I thought about picking up a hobby, maybe crafting. Possibly knitting, cross stitch, or embroidery. Maybe I could try my hand at watercolor. Pen was the artist in our family, and yes—family. Made family was just as valid as born family. I’d never had time for creative endeavors growing up, being the scholarship kid at school, I had to work and study my butt off to keep my scholarships and get new ones for college.

“Let’s just skip out today,” I said conspiratorially to my husband. “They won’t miss us. I promise. We’ll just tell them, ‘What do you mean? We were there the whole time.’” And I flipped my hand in the air in that ‘ whatever ’ way rich women flipped their hands.

He laughed as he sighed. “I wish we could. I’m done with all of this.”

“Let’s hop a plane—it doesn’t matter where we go. You pick. Let’s just go. We’ll see the world. We’ll go someplace that no one knows the Parkers. We can just be Blake and Gloria.”

“ Sweetheart ,” he said placatingly.

“What? Why can’t we?”

“Because I want to use today, in public, to tell them we’re done.”

My whole body began to vibrate. “Seriously? Like done , done?” I might’ve sounded a little too excited.

“Serious, babe. We’re getting our life back.”

The chauffeur stood by the back seat of the car with the door open. Blake glanced over to him and then back at me, smiling. “Ready to get your life back, Mrs. Parker?”

“I couldn’t be more ready.” I slid in first, with my husband following. The chauffeur closed the door while we buckled our seatbelts.

I slouched back against the seat, imagining our lives once we no longer had the specter of this horrible campaign hanging over us.

“Careful,” he said and I narrowed my eyes on him. “You don’t want to mess your hair.” Oh—right. My hair. Adair and Emily would have a field day running me down if I showed up with a hair out of place. I pushed into a more rigid seating position, dropping my hands onto my lap.

As we rolled up into the parking lot, I thought about how beautifully old world the main building looked. For a moment, I was transported back in time to the nineteenth century, where the stately three-story, white mansion with the attached solarium welcomed us in a very grandfatherly fashion.

Then my thoughts moved to all the wealth that strode through these doors on a daily basis. The yearly membership fee cost more than most Americans made in a year. Lastly, I started to get pissed thinking about how much good all these wealthy Vermonters could provide if they’d put their minds to do so. Damn Vermonters.

The chauffeur, I didn’t even get his name, why didn’t I get his name? He opened the door for us. Blake slid out first, holding his hand out to help me out next. I straightened my dress, nodded once, and then smiled up at Blake.

“Ready to make this brunch my bitch,” I whispered, and both Blake and the chauffeur chuckled. As I’d forgotten that he stood close enough to hear me, my cheeks turned pink.

“Wish it was you running,” the chauffeur said and as Blake opened his mouth to answer, I pointed my finger at his chest.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Jeremy.”

“Well, Jeremy, it’s nice to meet you but no ,” I said.

“No?” he asked.

“We don’t even joke about that,” I replied.

“I love my wife,” Blake answered the man. “To keep her happy—no campaigns in my future.”

He nodded, in commiseration saying, “I get that.”

“You have a spouse?” I asked.

“No.” He shook his head, smiling.

The man’s eyes twinkled with mischief and I had the feeling he was playing with us. “We have to go. I flicked a pointed finger his way that looked kind of like a gun. “Have fun not having a spouse.”

“I’ll be here when you’re ready to go,” he replied, then finished, “and I plan to.”

When we walked far enough away, I bent in to whisper to Blake, “There’s a rumor going around that you have a huge cock and love to get creative.”

He stopped walking to stare at me, popping his laugh. “There’s a rumor?”

“I started it, and I’m the only one I’ve told, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Well then, if we’re being honest, me, myself and I love to talk about that sweet pu?—”

I threw my hand over his mouth when an older woman passed way too close and he cracked up. His hot breath hit my hand causing my vagina to spasm in anticipation of our near-future bedroom frolic.

Last night he ordered me to the hot tub. Then he took me on the dining room table. Over the back of the sofa… I sighed remembering wistfully.

My husband laughed, leaning in. “You want the back of the sofa, your wish is my command.”

Oh, my god . How did he know? I reached up to touch my heated face, just knowing that my X-rated thoughts were written all over it.

“Don’t worry, you’re good.”

A doorman opened the door for us. Blake dropped his hand to the small of my back to move us in the direction of the back lawn. French doors that filled the innermost rooms with warm, yellowy light from the copious amounts of windows opened up to a large, cement patio with three steps that ran the length of the of the patio.

“And so it begins,” I muttered right before plastering an uber-fake smile on my face and taking my first step down onto the lawn. We entered a sea of chiffon dresses in varying shades of pastels and very expensive navy-blue suits. Some women wore hats. The others, like me, wore their hair in elegant updos.

Most of the attendees treated me as if I were a valued member of the Parker family. Apparently, our acting skills could’ve gotten our family nominated for a daytime Emmy award. Nevertheless, I smiled pleasantly and laughed when appropriate, allowing Blake to inform each new face that work beckoned and so we were stepping away from the campaign.

Bliss. Sheer bliss.

Then, we were invited to sit down to enjoy my favorite part of the afternoon, the food. The club employed some top-notch chefs. Even a James Beard Award winner and two nominees.

I’d just taken my first bite of lobster covered in hollandaise when his mother approached our table. “Blake, dear ,” his mother said and her eyes glowed with something I could only describe as brightly muted mischief. And what was with this ‘ dear ’ nonsense? She never used endearments for her children. “I need to introduce you to someone.”

She wrapped both her arms around his left, tugging him up from his chair.

“Glory—” he started.

“No. She doesn’t need to come. It will only take a second.” Then the woman started pulling my husband across the lawn. I watched as they drew closer to a woman in a fitted, sleeveless, scoop-neck dress that stopped just above her knees. She wore her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. She looked stunning. Why was my mother-in-law leading my husband over to this stunning woman? My eyes stayed glued to them, although they stood too far away for me to hear what they talked about. Though my husband threw his head back laughing three times .

Watching them made me lose my appetite. Not even lobster in hollandaise enticed me enough to eat. They stayed talking for a good twenty-five minutes. Now, he had every right to talk to and laugh with a woman. I didn’t own the man. Plus, you know, I trusted him. So, talk away—I mentally flipped my hand in the air—what did I care? Except I didn’t like how she placed her hand on his arm three different times by his elbow before leaving it there . She left her hand on my husband’s arm above the elbow. I knew that move—everyone knew that move. That damn woman was flirting with my husband.

Never having been in this position before, I didn’t know what to do. I could hardly storm over to them and demand she remove her hand. That might—no, it would —cause a scene. I couldn’t cause a scene at a campaign function. That didn’t mean I had to sit here and watch the unbelievable display. Smiling at the rest of my table-mates, I placed my linen napkin on the table and excused myself and I walked calmly over to their little party. Adair tried to shift to keep Blake from seeing me but he turned his head and held his hand out to me.

“This is my wife, Gloria,” he introduced me.

I didn’t even pretend with this little situation, not waiting for him to give me her name. “Blake, my head is throbbing. I’m heading out.”

“Well, feel better,” Adair said. “We’ll get Blake home safely.”

He stared at her. “Mother, I’m not staying.”

“Stay,” I told him. “You seem to be having a good time.”

Then I left him standing in their little circle, stopping one of the employees, I asked them to ring for the car.

Was I being ridiculous? Probably, yes. But that beautiful woman flirty-touched my husband and I had no recourse. If that didn’t cause a headache, I didn’t know what would.

“Leaving so soon?” Jeremy asked as he opened the door for me, straining his neck to search for Blake, I was sure.

“Bad headache.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He shut the door. But my husband opened it, skidding onto the seat before Jeremy drove me home.

“Stay? I’m having fun? What the hell, Glory?”

“You looked very comfortable. I didn’t want to take you way. Who am I to do that?”

“My wife. You’re my wife. What’s going on here? Why are we arguing?”

How did I navigate this? The laughing? Her flirty touches? It made me sound like a jealous loser.

His mother who hated me brought him over to talk with a beautiful, flirtatious woman and the Harvard educated man couldn’t figure this out. I sat for the entire ride home with my arms over my chest, staring out the window— not answering.

Jeremy dropped us off in front of the door. I walked inside, undressed, took a shower, and changed into my comfies. I ordered Chinese takeout and damn me, I ordered enough for two.

When the doorbell rang, I walked past him to answer the door, tipped the driver a ridiculously good tip and carried the bag back to the coffee table. I plopped back down on the sofa that just yesterday he’d had me bent over.

Blake walked into the kitchen to grab us plates, spoons, chopsticks, a cider for me and a beer for him. He sat down next to me and set his haul down to start opening containers. “We going to talk about it?”

“I need a job,” I said in a slick avoidance technique. He jerked his head back, clearly not expecting my retort.

“Why do you need a job?” he asked.

“We’re done with the campaign. I need something to pass my time. Oh—and I’m done with brunches. All of them. With the country club. With your parents. You can go but I won’t be joining you.”

“Glory, what happened between this afternoon and now that I’m not getting?”

It was right on the tip of my tongue to say, “Why don’t you go ask Miss Flirty Pants?” but I held back— go restraint! Instead, I said, “How long do you think you were gone?”

He stared at me with confusion written all over his gorgeous face.

“How long, Blake?”

“I don’t know, maybe ten minutes.”

“Twenty-five!”

“You’re mad because I was gone too long?” For some reason, his tone really hurt.

And I ended up shouting, “She touched your arm. Three times . Then she left it there and you let her !”

“Gloria, listen to yourself. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If you can’t see what your mother…” I bit back the sniffle. “I’m going for a walk. I need to figure some things out.”

“Figure things out? What things?”

“Just things. Enjoy the food.”

“ Enjo y the food ? Give me a sec to change. I’ll come with.”

“No need. I think I’d rather go alone.”

“Glory, please…”

“No, Blake. I want to go alone.”

When he dropped his head, I knew he was giving in before he spoke. “Okay, sweetheart. Go for your walk.”

“Thank you.” I walked over to the closet to find my sneakers.

After tying them on, as I slipped out the door, he said, “I love you.”

Okay, I hated this feeling. But he expected me to believe that he had no idea his mom was trying to set him up?

The sad part was I didn’t even end up going on that walk—unless you counted walking to the bench in the back garden and plopping down on the seat. A seat where I stayed planted with my feet up, knees bent for use as a chin prop, for a good hour or more.

I had no job in Vermont.

I had no friends in Vermont.

I did have a husband, but part of me wondered for how long.

With my eyes closed, I listened to the hum from the insects and just thought about everything until the chill from the breeze that drifted down from the mountains dropped the temperature a bit too low for my liking.

Blake sat inside the living room on the sofa. No TV. Just him with his head hanging, looking ten kinds of forlorn. “Hey,” I said and he whipped his head up.

“Hey,” he said back.

“Listen, I?—”

“I messed up,” he said then, cutting me off. “Morgan wanted to catch up and sometimes we fall back into old habits.”

“Morgan is an old habit?” I asked.

“She’s a Richards. Old money. Another powerful family. We dated before I went off to Harvard. It wasn’t serious and she broke up with me for some CEO Last I’d heard they got married.” He sighed.

“ She’s married?”

“Not anymore. I’m sorry, babe.”

The defeat in his words broke my heart. I loved this man. I romance novel loved the man and couldn’t let this go on. I walked over to the sofa and sat down next to him, dropping my head on his shoulder.

The longer we sat not speaking—God, this sucked. Gah ! “My life started the day I met you,” I admitted, something I’d said before but definitely deserved repeating.

“But?” he asked.

“No but.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m losing you?”

A small grimace of pain flitted across my face. “I’m here. I’m right here next to you.”

“Are you?”

I tore my shirt up over my head, as a response, tossing it on the floor by our feet. Blake looked at my discarded garment and then back at me. Purposely missing my eyes this time because the peachy-pink lacey bra I wore gave excellent cleavage.

“Is there a reason you tossed a perfectly good blouse on the floor?”

“I got hot,” I replied.

“Are you still hot?”

“I am.” I unclasped the bra, letting the straps fall down my arms. I tossed it onto the blouse.

“Now I’m hot,” Blake muttered.

I laughed. “You’ve always been.”

A wry smile twisted up the corner of his mouth, dimple and all. “So have you, sweetheart.” Not waiting for a better opening than that, I moved his hand to my pants and he raised an eyebrow.

“Have you forgotten who’s in charge here?”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

Without a hint of hesitation he said, “Hold on. You’re about to find out.” He gave me everything he had in every position in his repertoire over every surface in the living room—no lie. Breathing? Who needed to breathe? Walking? Psh … overrated. So, I might have to become a mermaid and spend the rest of my life in a tub, soaking in Epsom salt. Who cared? Who didn’t love mermaids?

We were going to get through this. We had to.