Weapons of Mass Seduction (27 page)

At 2:17
A.M
., Valen sat in his dimly lit study, quietly getting drunk. He'd run a gentleman's campaign, one he was proud of, and yet the voters had turned him away. The second-guessers and armchair quarterbacks were already chiding him for being too soft in this crazy world of million-dollar, mudslinging neo-politics, upset that instead of confronting the negative ads and cookie-throwing audiences he'd taken the high road and pressed forward with ideas instead of insults. In the weeks ahead, further analysis would determine if the white flight Ed had feared had actually played a part in his defeat, but Valen had remained true to himself, and with that he was satisfied.

He poured himself another drink. The hardest part of losing was coming home to an empty apartment. He'd left the Hilton Hotel, where hundreds of volunteers were gathered together to commiserate; had sent his staff and son home to be with their families; and here he was, alone in his study, entertaining his regrets. His intoxicated mind wandered back to the last time he'd felt this down and how he'd immediately retreated to the place where he'd felt comforted and understood. He'd sought refuge in Pia's arms, and somehow she'd managed to make everything right. He'd fallen in love with her that night. And then it had all come crashing down at his feet.

Damn, he wished he could step back in time before the lies, the secrets, and the good-byes. He took another swig of scotch and tried to erase the hurt, anger, and disappointment that had crested this evening with his political defeat. With every sip, his head became cloudier while the truth became clearer—it wasn't drink he needed. It was Pia.

Valen saw the message light blinking on his Treo. He sat watching it, hoping that between the alcohol and the light he could hypnotize away this horrid feeling. He had no intention of checking it. He was not ready to sift through the many condolences and next-step messages waiting for him. Valen drained his glass, shut the damn thing off, and took his exhausted, defeated butt to bed.

Chapter Thirty-five

“
H
appy birthday, dear Florence, happy birthday to you,” the waiters finished the traditional song with a flourish and Flo blew out the candles.

“Sorry about the dancin',” Dan apologized when they departed. “I had no idea they'd be all booked up. But we can just finish up here and go on home.”

Florence simply continued to sip her coffee and eye her birthday slice. She'd requested just one thing for her birthday: to go dancing. But after one swing and a miss, Dan had given up, and instead of out shaking her groove thing, here she was, sitting in front of a slice of carrot cake. She hated carrot cake. Apparently he'd forgotten that about her too. Flo tried to push aside thoughts of the time and effort she'd put into planning his red hot birthday surprise, but the resentment welling up inside her wouldn't allow it. She hadn't expected the same level of treatment, but certainly something different from what they'd done to celebrate her birthday every year since the boys had left home—dinner, gifts, home to bed.

“Time for birthday presents,” he said on cue as he pulled a red foil gift bag from under the table. “Happy birthday, Floey.”

Florence looked for a card and, finding none, pulled the first item from the bag—the complete DVD set of season one of her favorite show,
On Call
. She was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps she was being too hard on her husband. It was a thoughtful gift. “Thank you, honey.”

“Now you can catch up on last season,” Dan said, pleased with himself for getting it right. “There's more.”

She reached back into the bag and pulled out a large size bottle of Jean Natè, and this time her expression wasn't so delighted.

“What? You like Jean Natè.”

“No, I simply wore it because
you
like it. But I changed my scent months ago.”

“Really?” His pleasure deflated.

“Yes, really. I don't wear this anymore. I wear Chanel Nineteen. And I've never liked carrot cake.”

“It's like I don't know you anymore.”

“No, you don't, and I'm not sure you ever did. Why don't we go?” Flo suggested, decisively ending the celebration.

Dan paid the check and escorted his wife out of the Strip Steak House. With the cool November air kissing her cheeks, she stood in the parking lot, waiting for Dan to unlock the door. The clouds drifted in the sky, revealing a bright yellow full moon. It was absolutely beautiful. She loved when the moon was full. It made her feel as if she really did live on a planet that was floating in space.

“Oh my God, Dan, look. Isn't it amazin'?”

“It's the moon, Flo. Ya miss it tonight, it will be back tomorrow. Now let's get in the car and get home.”

Flo stood looking into the sky and realized that living in the moment alone wasn't nearly as gratifying or delicious as sharing any moment with someone as interested in life as you were, who loved you and you loved in return. And right now, bathed in the light of her birthday moon, Florence could not say definitively if Dan Jeb Chase was that someone.

It was eleven-thirty when Florence left Dan snoring in the bed and hauled the large wicker basket from upstairs down to the basement. She was in a reflective mood, not surprising, considering her earlier thoughts. She normally did the laundry during daylight hours, but spending the last minutes of her birthday alone, washing clothes, was Flo's attempt to abate her frustration.

Walking across the laundry room, Flo placed the basket on the folding table with an exasperated sigh. She robotically sorted the clothes, poured the detergent into the water, and began placing Dan's whites into the suds. Instead of immediately closing the top and moving on to the next task as she would usually do, Florence stood mesmerized by the agitation cycle rotating back and forth, pulling the dry clothes under water, drowning them in a sea of foam.

With no provocation, she slammed the top shut, her stomach churning up her own buried agitations. Something besides disappointing birthday plans was gnawing away at her sense of contentment. Perhaps it was that her fifty-fourth birthday celebration coincided with the end date of the agreement they'd made six months ago to sit down and reevaluate their relationship and future together.

Leaving the rhythmic swish of the machine in the background, Florence trudged back upstairs to make a cup of tea. Sitting at the table, stirring honey into her cup of chamomile, Flo realized that despite Dan's declarations of domestic happiness, she was no longer sure of her own.

Dan had left her for six months because he was bored and had returned because he'd discovered he was too old to be a bachelor. Apparently in his time away he'd determined that comfort trumped monotony and had come home, happily settling back into his same routine. His meals were cooked, his underwear washed, and his minimal sexual needs met. Sometimes she thought it would have been better if he had left her for another woman. At least that would be proof that Dan still felt alive and energetic.

Florence had her husband back, and now she was the discontented spouse, but her dissatisfaction went so much deeper than simple monotony. When had she ceased being comfortable in her own life? The need to explore the world and her place in it left Florence feeling as if she were about to burst through her skin.

Florence felt out of place everywhere she stood. From the outside looking in, things looked pretty damn perfect, but inside she felt as if she'd been running on automatic pilot, doing what she'd always done for years out of habit, not happiness. Despite their recent troubles, Dan had given her a good life, and lately she'd felt guilty for wanting more, but she was dying a slow death. The suffocation of her passion and zest for love and living was proving fatal to her marriage and her soul.

When Dan had left, Flo had been panicked and afraid. Marriage to Dan had been her way of life for twenty-six years, and the thought of existing without him had unnerved her. In desperation she'd allowed Miriam to pack her off to the Weapons workshop in search of ways to put a spark back into Dan's eye and make him want to come home and stay married.

But something had happened in San Francisco. Florence had become more interesting to herself. She now wanted more of something different. She wanted joy and wonder and love in her life. Now, months after the WMS workshop, Flo could no longer ignore the growing realization that she had outgrown her husband, her marriage, and her life as it had been.

As Florence refilled her teacup, she decided exactly what she wanted for her birthday. Leaving the cup on the counter, she went to the kitchen desk and turned on the computer. In the time it took to boot up, Florence allowed herself to imagine the taste of freedom dipped in curiosity and rolled in adventure. Once online, a hungry Flo went to the AOL travel page. Ten minutes later she'd performed the most spontaneous act she had in years and booked a seven-day, six-night vacation in Barcelona, Spain, deciding her destination based on Clay Bickford's enthusiastic recommendation. She would leave the day after Thanksgiving and would fly through New York on her way home to keep her reunion with Pia and Becca.

Forget dinner and dancing in Dallas. Flo wanted to take her celebration outside the confines of Texas. She wanted to take in the Catalan architecture, strut down La Rambla, dance all night, and then take a sunrise dip in the Mediterranean Sea.

But this was so much bigger than simply taking the party abroad. Florence was experiencing an amazing bout of wanderlust. She needed to bust out of this suburban way of life and expand her world beyond this all American cowboy existence. Not just see the world, but be a part of it. And she wanted to do it alone.

Florence had no idea how Dan would react to her desire to spend time by herself in Barcelona. Frankly, she didn't care. He had taken his sabbatical from their marriage, and now it was her turn. The decision to return or not would be pondered while sipping Spanish red wine and eating spicy tapas and getting better acquainted with the exciting new woman within.

Chapter Thirty-six

V
alen rocked back and forth in the hospital glider with his sleeping granddaughter, Isobella, in his arms. The pain of this month's earlier defeat seemed far away as he stared down at this tiny new branch of their family tree. She was a perfect reason to celebrate Thanksgiving. Ten fingers, ten toes, the sweetest pouty mouth, and though he had yet to see for himself, he'd been told that Isobella had inherited his light gray eyes.

For the second time this year, Valen Bellamy fell in love.

“You look like a natural, Dad,” Robbie said reentering the hospital room after escorting his wife, Stacey, on a prescribed walk around the floor.

“It's been a long time,” Valen said, trying but failing to remember his own son being this new.

If Valen was to be honest, he'd sleepwalked through his son's upbringing. Always too busy becoming and then being a success, he had let slip by so many important moments of Robbie's life, which he either did not attend or barely noticed. Truth be told, he'd fathered a child but had never truly been a hands-on dad.

“It will all come back to you. I've already got you down on the babysitting rotation.”

“Robbie, you know Dad's too busy for that,” Stacey said.

“No, Stacey. If it's okay with you two, I plan on being a regular visitor in this lovely lady's life. As fate has dictated, I'm going to have a little bit more time on my hands.”

And nobody to fill it with,
he thought as Isobella began to whimper and squirm.

“Sounds like somebody's hungry,” Stacey declared, which was Robbie's cue to deliver his daughter to her mother's breast.

Valen stood and beamed proudly as his son lovingly placed Isobella in Stacey's hands and huddled around his girls. He was proud of his son and grateful to his ex-wife. She deserved the majority of the credit for raising such a strong, compassionate, and loving black man. But the sight of Robbie with his family also underlined the pain and loneliness he'd been experiencing since the night he'd lost the election.

With kisses all around, he bid his good-byes, promising to visit again soon, and headed down the hall. Passing the nursery window, Valen stopped a moment to gaze upon the new souls that had recently graced the world. His mind immediately went to Pia. She should have given birth to her own little bundle by now. He scanned the tiny faces lined up in their bassinets, looking for one that somehow resembled Pia. He knew it was a silly act of desperation, but in an odd way it made him feel closer to her.

Why are you torturing yourself like this?

Pia and her baby's father were probably at this very moment making plans for a future together. Or maybe the guy had dishonorably ditched her and his paternal responsibilities. Valen had no idea, because he had been too quick and too pigheaded to allow Pia to explain the details of her situation. He'd made a huge mistake by simply letting her go with no further discussion. He'd been so worried about his public image, he'd given up on the one woman who had given him a taste of true love. So perhaps it would be best for all if he just gave up and moved on with the remnants of his life.

Valen pushed the confusion to the back of his mind and left the hospital, headed back to his apartment. It was time to regroup, get back to business, and face the fact that his professional life may very well be all he had left.

With the
Monday Night Football
game playing in the background, he sat on the couch, sifting through hundreds of unread postelection e-mails still taking up memory in his Treo. Some could be answered by his staff, but others—like those from the governor and head of the RNC—needed his attention. Valen worked diligently answering and/or eliminating at least eighty e-mails before reaching the one that caused a sharp intake of breath.

I love you too.

The roar of the crowd filled the room as the New York Giants scored their second touchdown of the game. The timing was exquisite, and Valen burst out laughing. Pia Jamison loved him. That was definitely something to cheer about.

Ed had been damn near clairvoyant. If he wanted Pia, now was the time to move on it. The election was over and he could clearly see opportunity in his loss. His life was his own again. There was no constituency to kowtow to, no press following his every move. He had four years to get his private life in order before he ran again. Four years to love Pia back. Four years before the public scrutiny started up again. But by then, they'd be a solid family.

A family of three. Do you really want to dive headfirst back into fatherhood?

Truthfully? No. But a few more years of child rearing was a small price to pay for a lifetime of contentment. And maybe through Pia and her child, he'd actually learn to enjoy his life, not just work his way through it. Valen once again tossed aside his Treo. Work could wait until after the holidays. Right now he had other, more pressing and definitely more lovely things to concentrate on.

Twenty minutes into their walk, the snow began to fall. Pia felt the icy flakes hit her face, a chilly reminder that winter as well as the holiday season had officially arrived.

“I'm coming back to work next week,” she informed Darlene.

“I thought you were waiting until after the New Year.”

“I was, but it's time to get myself together and start being productive again. I'm going crazy just lying around mourning my baby.”

“Losing a child is not something you get over easily,
chica
. You can't brush it aside and pretend it didn't happen. You have to take all the time you need to heal.”

“I know. I'm not brushing it aside, but I need other things to think about. Plus, working will help keep my mind off the holidays. I'm not really feeling the Christmas spirit.”

“I'm feeling right Grinchy myself,” Dee said. “I miss Hector. He called from Iraq this morning and sounded so lonely. It's always so much tougher to be apart during the holidays. That's why I didn't want to go home for Thanksgiving.”

“Mom and I are glad you're spending it with us, even though we're kind of pathetic—like a lonely chicks club or something.”

“I know there are probably a hundred things I should be grateful, for, but somehow being around all my family just makes me feel worse. You know, like I have to be strong and happy even though I feel like shit.”

“I hear you. I know that I have plenty to be thankful for, but right now all I feel is that it's been a year full of pain and drama with nothing to show for it.”

“I can't believe Valen never answered the e-mail.” Dee blurted out the words she'd been wanting to say for weeks. “
Chica,
I'm sorry I interfered. I was just trying to help. I really thought it would turn out differently.”

“Yeah, well, somewhere deep inside I thought so too, but I guess Valen had other ideas. We'd better get back and finish dinner. Besides, I'm freezing.”

“Me too. I wish Hector were here to warm me up,” Dee said, putting her arm through Pia's as they walked through the accumulating snow.

“I know. But maybe hot chocolate will suffice.”

“Maybe hot chocolate with a little Frangelico tossed in,” Dee insisted.

“Now you're talking.”

By four o'clock the lonely chicks club was sitting around Pia's dining room table, feasting on Maizelle's traditional meal of turkey, cornbread stuffing, corn pudding, string beans, and homemade rolls. Following dinner were all of Pia's favorite desserts, homemade apple pie a la mode, red velvet cake, and fresh fruit. With no thought to diet or dress size, the women dug in and thoroughly indulged. Between bites, the discussion consisted of every possible topic except the two taboos—men and babies.

“I'd like to propose a toast,” Pia announced, raising her glass. After several glasses of wine, Pia found she was actually enjoying herself. “It occurs to me that I do have something to be thankful for—the two of you. Thank you for your love and support and for helping me get through this really hard time. Dee, for holding down the fort and being my friend. And Mom, for accepting me as I am and loving me in spite of myself. And I am very grateful for your slammin' red velvet cake. Thank you,” she said, blowing kisses across the table.

“And I want to thank God that Hector is alive and halfway through his tour. And for you,
chica,
for being such a great boss and friend and for having such an amazing
mami
who can cook like this.”

“I guess it's my turn,” Mai said. “I want to thank Dee for all the love and kindness you have shown my daughter. She's never had a sister, and you are the closest thing she has. And Pia, I am so grateful to have such a strong and wonderful daughter. You are my light. I love you. God has blessed all of us.”

The women touched glasses in a grateful toast, genuinely happy to be sharing this moment together. Through good food, good drink, and good friends, the irritations and disappointments that lately had clouded their daily existences were momentarily forgotten.

The ringing phone cut short their merriment. Strangely, when Pia picked up, there was nobody on the other line. “Must have been a wrong number,” she said, returning to the table.

“Pia, Pastor Saxton has been asking after you. I thought maybe we should invite him over for dinner during the holidays,” Maizelle said as they all cleared the table.

“So much for never meddling in my life again,” Pia said. Amused by Maizelle's never-say-die attitude, she burst into laughter, followed first by Darlene and then her mother as they finished cleaning the kitchen. Their laughter was interrupted by the buzz from downstairs.

“Mom, you didn't ask Pastor Saxton over here, did you?” Pia asked on her way to answer the intercom.

“No, dear, not yet.”

“Who?” Pia asked into the receiver. “Okay, tell him to wait five minutes and then send him up. Thanks, Paolo.”

Pia took a moment to listen to and enjoy the song her heart was singing. And just as quickly, the music stopped. Valen had come to her, but was it by his own volition?

“Okay, which one of you is responsible for this? 'Fess up now, you traitors.”

“
Chica,
what are you talking about?”

“Valen Bellamy is down in the lobby. Now which one of you invited him here?”

“Not me,” Dee said, looking at Maizelle.

“Not me,” Maizelle said, looking at Pia.

“Well, don't look at me. What does he want?”

“I don't know, but you might want to brush your teeth and spruce up that coif before you find out,” Dee suggested.

“And put on something decent,” her mother added.

Pia shook her finger at both of them and mouthed “Beeyotch” to Dee behind her mother's back before scurrying into the back to freshen up. As soon as she left the room, Dee and Maizelle, both with huge smiles on their faces, grabbed their coats and handbags and quickly departed.

“Did you?” Dee asked again in the hallway.

“Really, I didn't,” Mai replied before the two exchanged high fives and stepped onto the elevator.

Pia walked back into the living room with freshly brushed teeth and hair, looking casually chic in a cream-colored velour hoodie and pants. She was nervous and quickly found another thing to be grateful for this Thanksgiving day—wine. She poured half a glass and gulped it down. Only then did she realize that the house was quiet.

“Mom? Dee?” Receiving no reply, Pia added one more item to her gratitude list.

Valen's knock was soft and tentative. Knowing that he was on the other side of the door caused Pia to freeze with temporary paralysis. Why was he here? To give her his heart or break what was left of hers into a gazillion minuscule bits?

“Only one way to find out,” she said to the face in the mirror as she checked her makeup and steeled herself for whatever was coming.

He knocked again, this time louder and with more determination. Pia opened the door and took in a greedy eyeful. Valen looked good but tired, and his shy smile let her know that he was feeling as tentative as she was. She wanted to give him a big hug and tell him how sorry she was about the election results, but she simply stood leaning on the door, contemplating Valen and the small gift bag and a burgundy bunch of mini calla lilies in his hands.

Valen scanned Pia as well. She was more voluptuous than when he'd seen her last, and it was clear from her body shape that she'd given birth. Her face also bore the revealing signs of sleep deprivation. Still, Pia looked lovely, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to leap across the threshold and kiss those soft, full lips he'd spent the past months missing so much.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, swallowing his desire. “Uh, these are for you,” he said, handing her the calla lilies, their stems tied with a burgundy satin ribbon.

“Thank you.” Pia accepted the bouquet, and with her ivory clothing, Valen couldn't help thinking she looked like a bride. The look became her.