“Have you lost your mind, Kimberly?”
The fury in Rowan’s words struck her harder than a shove.
He paced the off-white carpeted bedroom floor, running his hand across his face as if he could wipe away the absurdity of what he’d heard. He whirled toward her, the ocean blue of his eyes turned dark and ominous. “You need to tell me what the hell is going on.”
Kimberly drew in a breath, tucked her strawberry blond hair behind her diamond studded ears. “I should have told you first before I made the announcement.”
“You think!” he snapped.
Kimberly inwardly flinched. “I’ve been . . . struggling with this decision for weeks.”
Rowan started to speak.
“Please let me finish.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Running for office. Having a higher calling. It all sounds so wonderful. Altruistic.” She forced a half smile. “But it’s not what I want. The life of a politician . . . what that kind of life that would mean for the girls.” She crossed the room and stood right in front of him. She clasped his shoulders. “Our lives would be turned upside down,” she pleaded.
Rowan’s sleek brows drew together, cinching his eyes into stormy slits. “Kim. We talked about this for nearly a year before you announced that you were running for State Senate.” He pulled away from her and threaded his fingers through his sandy brown hair. “What about the staff, the lease on the campaign office, the donors! I put my fucking name on the line to get them to dig in their pockets.” He jabbed his finger in her direction. “For you! What do you plan to tell them? What am I supposed to tell them?” He shook his head and resumed his pacing.
The knot in Kimberly’s throat grew. “I’ll find a way to handle it. I will.”
Rowan peered at her as if seeing her through a veil of fog. “Oh . . . you will. Like how you handled it by sending out a fucking press release instead of talking to me! That’s what you mean by you’ll handle it?” He snorted a laugh of disgust then blew out a breath. He snatched up his jacket from the chaise where he’d tossed it. “I’m going out.”
The bedroom door slammed shut, vibrating through her veins. Her heart thudded. She dropped down to the side of the king-sized bed and lowered her face into her hands. Tears squeezed out from between her fingers. She sucked in air. In all their years of marriage she’d never seen Rowan that angry. He had every right. She should have talked to him first, but she knew that she couldn’t. He would have used every logical and emotional tool in his toolbox to get her to stay in the race. Worse, he may have gotten her to admit the real truth and she was not ready for that. Not yet, maybe never, which is why she had no choice except to pull out.
Slowly she pushed herself to her feet, crossed the room, and stood in front of her dressing table mirror. Same soft pale skin that tanned perfectly in the sun, thick hair that tumbled in waves to her shoulders, dissolving into a riot of strawberry blond curls in damp weather, and gray-green eyes that changed color with the season. What stared back at her was the same reflection she’d seen for her entire thirty-eight years. But she wasn’t the same. All the little quirks about her complexion, her hair, even the slight flare of her nose looked different now. Made sense now.
If Rowan lost his mind over her dropping out of the race, what would he do if she told him the real reason?
She turned away from the damning image.
“Mom?”
Kimberly blinked, turned toward the door.
Her twin daughters, Alexis and Alexandra, stood in the threshold. Their identical doe-brown eyes were wide with concern.
Kimberly forced a smile. Sniffed. “Hey. My girls.”
“I heard you and Daddy yelling,” Alexis said softly.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She crossed the room, bent down and put her arms around her daughters. “Grown people argue. Just like you two do,” she added, looking from one to the other.
“You and Daddy never yell,” Alexandria insisted.
Kimberly tucked her lips in before she spoke. “After you and your sister fuss and fight don’t things always go back to the way they were? You make up. You forgive. Right?”
They nodded, their chestnut ponytails bobbing.
She kissed each one in turn on the cheek. “Everything is fine. You’ll see. Now, who wants pizza?”
“I do!” they chorused in perfect harmony.
“Great.” She rose to her feet. “You ladies go wash up and I’ll put in the order.”
“Extra pepperoni!” Alexis called out as the sisters darted out of the room.
Kimberly sighed heavily, turned around, and crossed to her nightstand and picked up the phone. She opened the drawer and took out the small collection of menus, found the one for their local pizzeria, called and placed her order. Forty minutes. Maybe Rowan would be back by then. She tossed he phone aside.
This was all Zoie Crawford’s fault. Every damned bit of it! She’d made a name for herself for her investigative series following the World Trade Center attack a year earlier. Now she’d set her sights on digging through her life with the same tenacity.
When she’d been approached with a phone call from Zoie months earlier to do an feature piece on her run for senate, she’d been very hesitant. But Zoie had insisted that it would highlight her career as an attorney, while also being the wife of one of New York’s biggest tech giants, and a mother to twin girls. A story of a young girl from the south, growing up to become a New York powerhouse. Women everywhere would love an empowerment story like hers, she’d said. Ironically, it was Rowan who ultimately convinced her to agree to the profile, insisting that it would be great publicity.
Kimberly had looked up Zoie’s writing credits to discover that she’d done an extensive series on the World Trade Center disaster. The writing was vivid, insightful, and compassionate, but a stark reminder of a day, the remnants of which were still visible and visceral a year later. So, she’d finally agreed, thinking at the time “little paper, little coverage,” but every negative thing that she’d ever heard about journalists, Zoie proved to be true.
It was no wonder that those in politics had such an adversarial relationship with the press. Zoie Crawford epitomized all that was reviled in journalists; the unshakeable tenacity to shovel up every ugliness, misstep, secret, and pain, without regard for their prey or the upheaval that it may cause in their lives.
Perhaps Zoie felt that she was being magnanimous by sending her an early copy of the story that she’d intended to send to her newspaper publisher.
She still experienced the visceral shock that accelerated her heart and swirled her thoughts, the morning the draft of the article popped up on her computer screen. The words were knifelike, stabbed her with precision, and opened wounds she didn’t know she had. All those months of “friendly” phone calls and follow-up visits, even showing up at her campaign gala, was all part of Zoie’s ruse to seep into her life and infect every aspect of it.
What choice did she have? She did the only thing she could to protect her marriage and her family. Family! She didn’t even know what that meant anymore. Whatever she’d believed family to be had been shattered. Her parents weren’t her parents. Her father was not her father. And her real mother had been the housekeeper’s daughter. She couldn’t wrap her own mind around it. How could she ever tell that to Rowan? Rowan Graham was the poster child for nouveau money and east coast elitism, who quietly embraced the ideologies of white privilege, from which she’d passively benefited. Until now.
The printing of Zoie’s proposed story “The Rise of Kimberly Maitland-Graham—The Other Side of Politics,” would have exposed innocent people to the Maitland family secret that had remained hidden for decades, and the inevitable fallout that would come with its unearthing. She couldn’t let that happen, especially to her children.
That last phone call between her and Zoie, she’d practically begged Zoie not to go through with submitting the exposé. “I need you to understand that no matter what threats you make to expose my family, no matter how I feel, or what I want or believe, I can’t tell my family. It would destroy my marriage, ruin my children. My children!”
“Don’t you even want to know your real mother, our mother—me? Don’t your children deserve to know their grandmother, their roots?”
“I can’t. Please . . . if you have any compassion, you won’t do this. They can’t find out this way.” She paused. “At least let me do it my way in my own time. Do you have children, Zoie?”
“No.”
“Then you can never understand that a mother will do anything, anything to protect her children.”
The very idea that she and Zoie Crawford were related by blood sickened her to her stomach.
It was after midnight when she heard the front door open and close. Her body stiffened beneath the soft, pale peach sheets. She heard her own heartbeat thump against the pillow that she gripped against her body. Minutes passed, but Rowan didn’t come into the bedroom. She strained her ears for any sounds coming from the front of the penthouse apartment.
Tossing the covers aside, she got out of bed, grabbed her robe, and slipped it on. When she opened the bedroom door, she was taken aback to see the entire front of the apartment was settled in darkness. Goosebumps rose along her arms. Was she going to be like one of those women from television that walks into the dark room while the audience screams for her not to go in there?
She eased out into the hallway that led to the living room. She was certain she’d heard Rowan come in. With a flick of the switch, the room was bathed in soft light. She was alone.
“I am not going crazy,” she muttered. “Rowan,” she called out, barely above a whisper. She walked in the opposite direction toward the formal dining room that led to their respective home offices.
A sliver of light peeked out from under Rowan’s office door. The thudding of her heart slowed. She walked toward the office, knocked once and opened the door.
Rowan’s back was to her. He stood facing the window that looked out onto the Manhattan skyline. His silhouette cut an impressive sight against the dark sky and twinkling lights. That was Rowan—impressive. So much about who he was as a person was tied to creating impressions. She remembered how awestruck she’d been by him that very first time they’d met.
It was a fundraising event for the rehabilitation of the famed James Theater. She couldn’t remember why she was even there. Those kinds of events she generally steered clear of. She’d been groomed and nurtured on fundraisers, attended more than she could count. As an adult, she avoided them as often as she could. As an attorney whose client roster resembled the who’s who of the marginalized, her work didn’t lend itself to fancy galas. But she’d gone to that one. She was seated at the table with one of her colleagues from the legal clinic where she worked. Something drew her attention to the door, and there he was—standing there, framed in the archway. She remembered that she couldn’t breathe. Her throat had grown dry and her heart raced as if she’d been chased. She watched him cross the room and the waves of well-heeled guests parted like the Red Sea then closed in around him.
“Who is that?” she’d whispered to her friend Gwynne.
“Rowan Graham. Big tech guy. Has his money in all the right places from what I hear,” she said over the top of her champagne flute.
Kimberly couldn’t look away.
“I can introduce you,” she said after a while with a knowing grin.
Kimberly felt her cheeks heat. She shook her head in an unconvincing no.
Gwynne got up. Pushed her seat back and grabbed Kimberly’s wrist. “Come on.”
“Gwynne,” she weakly protested, yet the flow of excitement propelled her across the room.
Gwynne, always the outgoing one, smiled and made quick small talk as she guided Kimberly around the mingling guests until they reached the bar where Rowan was getting a drink.
“Rowan Graham,” Gwynne said as if she’d run into an old friend.
Rowan slowly turned around and the sea blue of his eyes settled somewhere down in her soul and she hadn’t looked away since that night.
Now, Kimberly steeled herself against the anger she feared she would find in those eyes.
“I thought you would be asleep,” Rowan said without turning around.
Hesitantly she walked over and stood beside him. “I couldn’t sleep. Waiting for you.” She glanced toward him only getting his profile.
Rowan brought the tumbler of bourbon to his lips. “I think I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
Her stomach knotted. She wouldn’t cry. She swallowed over the dryness in her throat, started to speak but changed her mind. She knew her husband. When Rowan was in that mental space, he didn’t allow room for anything other than his own feelings and opinions until he’d worked through whatever the issue was. Then he would talk. He always did. They’d work through it. She drew in a breath and slowly exhaled.
“Good night,” she whispered, then walked out, closing the door softly behind her. It was only then that she let the tears fall.
It had been over two weeks since she’d withdrawn from the race. Just as long since Rowan had slept in their bed. In front of their girls they played the role of loving parents. But when they were alone, between the time the girls left for school and they left for work, utter and complete silence or one-word answers were all that passed between them.
Once again, Rowan left for the office without a backward glance at her. This was going on longer than usual. By now, they would have been talking, laughing, making love, making plans.
The morning copy of The New York Times was on the counter next to her cup of coffee. It had been opened, folded back to the politics page that featured a short article about how she suddenly pulled out of the New York State Senate race and the fallout as a result. She rolled her eyes in frustration. This was clearly another dig by Rowan, leaving the paper for her to see. However, it was good news for her competitor for the primary that she was no longer in line for. The words blurred in front of her.
She picked up her purse and briefcase from the kitchen counter, tossed the paper in the trash, checked for her keys, and walked out. There were clients to see, an office to run. Kimberly Maitland-Graham, Esq. At least she still had her practice and the girls to keep her mind occupied. She checked the time. Her taxi should be there in about five minutes.
“Good morning, Mrs. Graham,” Howard the doorman greeted. He pulled open the glass and chrome-plated door.
“’Morning, Howard.” She crossed the threshold. “Oh no, rain,” she bemoaned. “I left my umbrella upstairs.”
“Wait right here.” He went behind the desk, took out an umbrella, and handed it to Kimberly. “Don’t want you to get wet.”
Kimberly smiled. “Thanks. And I promise to bring it back.” She stepped out beneath the building’s awning just as her taxicab pulled up in front.
Settled in the back seat she mindlessly peered out at the pale gray morning, the cityscape obscured by the rain. If only she could pull a pale gray veil around her current situation, shield her spirit from it. She was exhausted, and not because she’d worked endless hours and stayed up overnight to prepare for a case. She was exhausted trying to walk the tightrope that her marriage had suddenly become, fielding and dodging phone calls from friends, frenemies, her campaign staff, and the press. Rowan insisted that he would deal with the donors, but he acted as if it was the gauntlet to hell and the attitude of it wafted around him like cheap cologne.
The rain beat and slapped the windows, splashed pedestrians and limited visibility. From her spot in the back seat, the Big Apple resembled the moors of London. By the time she arrived at her downtown office, the heavens had fully opened, complete with thunder and lightning, and as she made a mad dash from the cab to the office building, she was immensely grateful to Howard for the umbrella.
She pushed through the revolving door and shook her hair as she walked toward the security check in.
“Good morning, Lenny,” she said to the security officer. She inserted her ID card into the scanner.
“Real mess out there today, Mrs. Graham,” he said as he verified her information on the computer screen that projected a picture of her face. “Sorry to hear you pulled out of the race,” he said in a conciliatory voice.
The card scanner beeped and she extracted her card. “Thanks,” she murmured, took the card, and put it back in her purse. “Have a good day, Lenny,” she said over a tight smile.
She strutted toward the elevators and wished that she could hide behind her tumble of hair and avoid the questioning glances, or bold ‘why did you do it’ questions. Then of course there were those who gave her sympathetic puppy dog looks and sad smiles. She entered the elevator, happy to be the sole occupant, stepped to the back, and wished all the floors between the lobby and tenth, where her office was, would speed by nonstop. At least that wish came true and she didn’t have to be subjected to being enclosed with the curious.
The doors slid soundlessly open and she crossed the short hall to her office door. Seeing her name on the door, emblazoned on the gold plate, slightly lifted her spirit. This was something that all the news stories in the world couldn’t take away from her. She’d worked her ass off to get to where she was. Maybe she wasn’t the high-priced Wall Street corporate lawyer that her husband and his associates thought she should be, but what she did mattered to her, and to all the people that didn’t matter to anyone else.
She drew in a deep breath of resolve, prepared to be greeted by her assistant with her handful of messages from news outlets that wanted to interview her, and clients worried that her personal life had affected their cases. She mentally checked her taut expression and fixed a smile on her face.
“Good morning, Gail.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Graham. How was the weekend?”
“Too short,” she quipped.
Gail’s freckled face tightened in concentration. “You look tired. I hope you’re not letting all the political noise get to you.”
“It can be a bit much. But I’m getting through it day by day.”
“It will ease up as soon as they find something more interesting. I put coffee on.”
“Thanks.”
“Messages are on your desk.”
“Hmm.”
Kimberly walked into her office and closed the door behind her. When she lowered herself into the chair she felt as if someone had stuck a pin in her, deflating her of any motivation or energy. She hadn’t done a thing but was already exhausted by the day ahead of her.
Mindlessly she flipped through the half dozen or so messages. Most were, as she’d expected, calls from reporters that wanted to talk with her. The rest were from two of her clients. But the last message stopped her cold. The paper in her hand rattled. The message was from Zoie Crawford.
Her breath heaved in and out. How dare she? Zoie Crawford was at the center of the nightmare that. . .
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