Deserve (5 page)

Sean’s jaw tightens at hearing this.

“
Cael
panicked and ran to get help
from our neighbor, old Mrs.
Bukowski
. She called 911
and I was rushed to the hospital. It was one of the scariest moments of my
life.” I blink back the tears as I recall my brother’s terrified face when the
paramedics placed me onto the gurney. Even though he was already physically
bigger than most grown men at that age,
Cael
was a
kid underneath it all.

“When I got to the hospital, they rushed me into the
emergency room. I was screaming for my mommy hysterically, refusing to let the
hospital staff touch me. They wouldn’t let
Cael
into
the OR. Finally, a doctor came into the room and talked to me soothingly,
reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. She was a pediatrician who
happened to be on rotation.”

Taking a deep breath, I continue, “I don’t know if it was
because she looked a little like my mom or if it was the kindness in her eyes,
but I calmed down. When I woke up from the surgery, my mom and
Cael
were there. Mom was crying and
Cael
looked bone-white, but I was going to be okay. The pediatrician dropped by to
check on me even though she was off duty. I didn’t decide to become a doctor at
that moment, but the memory has always stayed with me.”

I still remember the doctor’s name: Dr. Elisabeth Morrow.
When I decided to become a doctor, I had tried to contact her, but she was no
longer at the same hospital. Wherever she was, I hoped she knew the positive
impact her kindness had on her patients.

He nods slowly. “That must have been a terrifying
experience. I understand why you would want to help other kids.”

“Yes. If it weren’t for Dr. Morrow, I’m sure they could have
given me a shot to calm me down, but her kindness was the best medicine in the
end.”

I never resented my mom for not being there for me, but the
terror was very real. If I could spare a child from the stultifying fear I
felt, I would have made a difference.

“That’s a beautiful and noble motive for choosing your
profession,
Mags
. You’re going to be a fantastic
doctor.” Admiration and pride shine in his eyes.

Feeling shy all of a sudden, I mutter, “Thanks,” and stand
up to take our trash to the garbage bin.

Sean gets up and asks, “Want to walk around?”

I nod enthusiastically and for the next two hours, we wander
all over Midtown. As a native New Yorker, Sean has a lot of stories to tell
about the city, but I can tell he’s forgotten the joy of living here when he
looks at me in amazement when I ooh and ah over the small pleasures of being in
New York.

As we head back to his car, he asks, “Are you free next
Saturday?”

My stupid heart jumps again, but I force my voice to be
steady, “Sure. School doesn’t start until the following Monday and other than
an orientation, I’m free most of the week.” I cringe as the words come out of
my mouth. Do I sound like I’m begging for attention?

“Great! Why don’t I meet you at your dorm at ten and we’ll
go spend a day in Central Park? Then we’ll have real pizza instead of that crap
you serve in Chicago.”

I stop and put my fists on my hips in mock anger, but I’m
smiling on the inside. “Hey! Deep dish is the best.”

“
Pfft
!” He waves his hand. “You
can only find real pizza in New York.”

“And maybe in Italy,” I say dryly.

His blue eyes twinkle and I feel my belly flip. “Brat!”

Fuck
. I should
have made an excuse to get out of tonight’s “family” dinner.

What a fucking joke.

We haven’t been a family for a long time. I have vague
memories of laughter and warmth when I was very young, but for most of my life,
being the son of a United States Senator was a miserable existence.

I had neither privacy nor freedom. Everything was about
appearances. If there was a chance the public and the press didn’t perceive my actions
in a positive light, I couldn’t do it. If something didn’t serve the purpose of
advancing my father’s political career, then it wasn’t worth doing.

It was no wonder my mom was so unhappy. I wondered why she
stayed—

I shut down my train of thought. The tracks lead to
Nowhereville
, USA.

I steer my thoughts toward the redhead who so easily brings
a smile to my face. After spending yesterday with Maggie, my mood has been
riding high. Even now my lips curve at the memory of her startled face after
she took that first bite of spicy chicken. Maggie does everything with such
undisguised delight that I can’t help but be sucked in by her exuberance.

Seeing New York through her eyes was like seeing the city
for the first time. She noticed all the little things that made the city
special. I had forgotten how fun and undemanding it was to hang out with her.
She had always been an irrepressible bundle of energy and enthusiasm.

When
Cael
and I used to take her
to baseball or football games,
she would be so excited
,
she couldn’t sit still
. She chattered nonstop from the
time we left the house until we left the stadium. It didn’t faze her that
Cael
and I were sports fanatics and were incredibly vocal
at the venues. She was so damn happy about everything that you just wanted to
keep making her happier.

I still remembered when I bought her a keychain from a trip
I took to Paris. The kid cradled the kitschy replica of the Eifel Tower in her
hands like it was a priceless pearl and her worshipful eyes made me squirm with
shame. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I picked it up as an afterthought at
Charles de Gaulle airport. After that, I always made it a point to bring her
something back from my trips, but I made damn sure I bought her something she
would love. No more cheesy souvenirs.

But it didn’t matter what I bought her. A five-dollar
paperback would elicit just as big a smile as a thousand-dollar African mask. The
monetary value of the object had no bearing on her happiness.

For Maggie, a cheap meal from a street vendor would bring
her as much pleasure as a ten-course meal at a three Michelin star restaurant.
My smile grows wider. Most women would have wanted a sit-down meal at a
linen-covered table, but Maggie was perfectly happy to eat out of a take-out
box, sitting on a hard bench in the middle of Manhattan.

Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I felt young
and unburdened by life’s bullshit. My heart already feels lighter thinking
about spending another day with her.

Now if I could only ignore the errant surges of lust.

God, she had looked so pretty when she spoke about becoming
a pediatrician, her entire being lit up by enthusiasm and optimism.

All traces of my smile disappear as I see the security gates
appear on the horizon. Someone must have been on the lookout for me because the
gates swing open as soon as I pull up. The moment I am on my father’s grounds,
my mood takes a sharp nosedive. I drive past well-manicured lawns and hedges to
arrive at the grand entrance of the house.

By anyone else’s standards, it should be called a mansion,
but that label would not sit well with voters. Therefore it has been dubbed a
country home by the Senator’s PR team. There are twenty bedrooms, each with its
own bathroom, a study, a recreation room, an indoor gym, a swimming pool, a
dining room large enough to seat up to fifty people, a huge modern kitchen, an
extensive wine cellar, staff quarters, etcetera, etcetera.

It’s a fucking mansion.

I spent a large portion of my childhood in this place, but I
hate it here. As an only child, the vast emptiness only emphasized my
loneliness and I could never think of it as home. My home was my mother and
when she died, I felt adrift. Then I met the Jacksons and they anchored me.

Shaking off my unpleasant thoughts, I get out of my car. The
house door is already open and
Bleeker
, the Senator’s
perfectly proper butler, is standing stiffly at attention.

Paul Kenner, the butler my dad employed while I was growing
up, moved to Arizona years ago. As a child, Kenner was always something of a
fascination for a bored and curious child. I trailed after him as he performed
his duties and I always waited for him to shoo me away like all adults did, but
he never seemed to mind me being underfoot. I always felt he had a soft spot
for me. Maybe it was out of pity for the poor little rich boy, but it didn’t
matter. He made things a bit more bearable.

Since Kenner left, the Senator has hired a few other butlers
and
Bleeker
has been with him for a year. His
unfamiliar face only underscores how much I don’t belong here.

“Good evening, Mr. Rowan.”

“Hello,
Bleeker
.”

“Senator Rowan and Mrs. Rowan are waiting in the drawing
room.” There is an implied reproach in his statement.

I timed my arrival as close to dinnertime as possible. In
the Senator’s world, a civilized guest would arrive early enough to share a
cocktail before the main meal.

Like I give a flying
fuck.

“Thanks. I’ll find my own way,” I tell him and walk through
the foyer, which has been designed to give the viewer the impression of
tasteful opulence. Nothing is garish, but everything is expensive.

I walk through the double doors of the large drawing room.
My father is sitting in a leather chair, a glass of his customary bourbon in
one hand, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest.

Cael
jokes that my father’s face
should be in the dictionary under the word “politician.” I have to agree.
George Rowan has just the right amount of grey in his hair to appear wise, but
not old. He is fit and healthy. His face projects warmth and integrity. Little
do his constituents know that underneath the façade is a ruthless man who would
do whatever it takes to retain his power.

My eyes move to the other figure in the room and immediately
my gut tightens in disgust.

Gail stands at the window, dressed in a silky black dress,
holding a glass of white wine in her hand. No doubt she chose the dramatic dark
gown to set off her blonde hair and pale skin. A daughter of a governor and the
granddaughter of a mayor, Gail is born and bred for the role of a political
wife. Beautiful on the outside, with refined features and a toned body, she
looks manicured and polished from the top of her perfectly styled hair to the
tips of her red painted toenails. But there’s a flintiness around her eyes that
gives her away. On the inside, she’s hollow. The only thing she cares about is
wealth and influence. In that regard, she is the perfect complement to my
father in both looks and ambition.

I loathe everything about her.

My father was cheating on my mom with Gail. That he married
her a year after my mom’s death was the final insult. Initially, dear
stepmama
made some overtures to get to know me, but I
rebuffed every attempt with revulsion. I was relieved when she gave up and we
settled into treating each other with chilly indifference.

“Son! You’re here.” My father stands up and for a moment he
looks happy to see me. He moves toward me as if to embrace me, but stops short
when he reads my body language: don’t touch.

I tolerate his hugs when we are in public, but I won’t
pretend in private. My father and I never had the best relationship growing up,
but it’s devolved into barely veiled hostility on my part since my mom’s death.

“Senator.”

My father’s face remains stoic at the use of his title.

I nod at Gail courteously. “Good evening, Gail.”

“Hello Sean,” she responds languidly, looking bored.

“I’m glad you could come,” he says, taking a sip of his
whiskey.

“I’d hate for the voters to think there’s a rift in the
family. I wouldn’t want to bring down the poll numbers.”

My father winces, but I take no joy in the direct hit. I
seem to be unable to restrain myself from lashing out at him at every opportunity.
My childish compulsion to hurt him is counterproductive. My father’s priorities
are very clear and I’m at the bottom of his list, presuming I’m even on it. And
I frankly don’t care any more.

Gail gasps in outrage. “Sean! That’s uncalled for. Your
father—”

My father raises his hand to stop Gail’s incipient diatribe
and she falls silent. He responds evenly, “Well, it’s good to see you. Why
don’t we head in to dinner?”

I shrug and walk out of the room toward the dining room. The
table set for three people looks tiny in the huge space.

As soon as we sit down, a discreet server places a
beautifully plated salad in front of each of us and pours our wine. The private
chef my father hired would be appalled by the way I treat his food. I shovel it
into my mouth as quickly as possible, trying to get this monthly ritual over
with. The simple plate of rice and meat from this afternoon tasted like
ambrosia compared to this. Of course that had everything to do with the
company.

The server whisks my plate away as soon as I put down my
fork. My father is savoring his food and Gail picks out the pieces of blue
cheese, probably afraid a little fat would ruin her figure. I compare her to
the slender woman who attacked her food with gusto and barely restrain a sneer.

“So, how’s everything with work?”

“Everything is fine.” I answer as succinctly as possible,
knowing he has no interest in my job. My decision to join NYPD was a disappointment
to him. Even when I made detective, he still found the job beneath his notice.

“That’s good. Have you given any thought to attending
graduate school? Just name which university you’d like to attend and I can make
some calls.”

This is an old argument and I have no tolerance for it
today. “Just drop it! For the last time, I told you I’m perfectly happy working
for the NYPD. I don’t want to go to law school or business school. If you’re
ashamed to have a lowly cop as a son, then pretend you don’t have one.”

That he thinks I can’t get into a reputable graduate program
without his help illustrates how little confidence he has in me. That he thinks
I would let him buy my way into a program shows how little he knows me.

“Sean, I never said that!” His lips flatten in irritation.
“I just want you to have more options in life.” He puts down his fork and the
plate is magically taken away. He spreads his palms on the table.

“Why can’t you accept that I’m happy with the choices I’ve
made?” My hands curl into fists.

“Fine! We’ll discuss this when you’re in a better frame of
mind.”

I want to bang my head against the table. My father has a
knack for making me feel like a rebellious teenager.

“How are
Cael
and Maggie?”

I welcome the topic change. “They’re both fine. Maggie is in
the city now. She’s attending medical school.” Whatever I may think about my
father, I can’t fault his genuine affection for the Jackson siblings.

His face brightens. “Oh! You must invite her to dinner next
time!”

I try to hide my distaste for bringing Maggie into this
toxic environment. “I’ll check, but she may be too busy with school.”

“Nonsense. It’s just for one evening. I’m throwing a small
party next month at the apartment in the city. Bring her.”

“I’ll check,” I repeat shortly. A server places the main
course, a filet mignon, in front of me and I cut viciously into the meat.

“Fine. Fine.” He leans forward. “How are things on the
personal front? Are you dating anyone right now?”

My brows pull down in annoyance and confusion. My father has
never shown an interest in my love life unless it’s to disapprove of whomever
he deems unworthy. “No one at the moment. Why the sudden interest?” I ask
suspiciously.

“Why shouldn’t I have an interest in my son’s life?” He cuts
into his steak as if he were a surgeon.

The nonchalant tone of his voice makes me wary. After years
of watching the way he operates, I know he’s angling for something. Instead of
asking directly, he always plays these games. His time in Washington has
destroyed his ability to be straightforward, even with his own flesh and blood.

“Just tell me what this is about,” I say bluntly, not
interested in spending twenty minutes dancing around the issue.

He sighs in frustration, as if he considers my candor to be uncouth.
“Michael Samuelson’s daughter is back in the city. She was just offered a
partnership at a top law firm.”

“Alicia has always been smart and ambitious. I’m glad to
hear about her success, but what does that have to do with me?” I dated Alicia
briefly after I moved back to New York after college. She was beautiful and
vivacious, but the chemistry was lacking and she was a bit too self-involved.
If I remembered correctly, we stopped seeing each other after a few dates. My
father expressed his disappointment about the breakup, but I suspected he was
more concerned about losing ties with a wealthy and influential donor than with
my wellbeing.

“Since you’re not dating anyone seriously, maybe you could
escort her to the benefit in a couple of weeks?”

I swallow the curse on the tip of my tongue. “I wasn’t
planning on bringing anyone.” Seldom do I bring a date to my father’s
high-profile events. It allows me to duck out as soon as I’ve fulfilled my
duties. It also starves the ever-hungry tabloids of gossip fodder.