They were supposed to spend Christmas week together, but he’d said something about an unexpected diplomatic visit. She’d always prided herself on being supportive of her husband’s demanding career. But lately it seemed the more she gave, the more onesided their life became. And balance didn’t seem to be a part of Jamison’s New Year’s resolutions.
She tried to persuade him that this was the perfect example of how there was no perfect time to have children. It was simply another excuse to wait. Even worse, she didn’t understand why he felt compelled to wait. She got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t telling her the real reason behind his hesitation. But no matter how many times she told him having children was exactly what they needed to mend things, he’d come back around to “We need to fix us first.”
So, what was she supposed to do?
Passively give in?
Just give up?
No way would she do that. Not when their future depended on it.
So they’d reached a standoff, except for agreeing to not saying anything to the family about their separation until they’d had a chance to talk more. That seemed code for “Let’s continue this vicious cycle of pretending.” She had a sinking feeling that they were set on a collision course with disaster.
As Jamison steered the car under the porte cochere, anxiousness threatened to pin Olivia to her seat. She really wasn’t in a mood to put on a happy face for her mother-in-law and extended family. After the disastrous discussion with Jamison, this masquerade felt beyond her. But the alternative of announcing their marital problems to the bunch was worse. With one last wistful glance at the kids, she steeled herself to enter the lion’s den.
The only consolation was that Jamison was a true gentleman. No matter how bad things had gotten between Jamison and her, he still stood up for her when his mother started in with her power plays—such as her insensitive queries about why Olivia wasn’t pregnant yet and her attempts to pressure them into selling the house in Boston.
For the past year—since it had become clear that Jamison had garnered enough support to be considered a viable candidate for his party’s nomination for a future presidential race—Helen Mallory had been turning up the pressure for Jamison to claim his birthright and move up to the family home in the Berkshires. Olivia knew it was a posturing on Helen’s part, away of positioning herself as close to her influential son’s inner circle as possible. If the future president of the United States lived with her, in her house—because if she and Jamison moved in it didn’t mean Helen would move out—then she would have an even better chance at having his ear and an even stronger chance at asserting her considerable influence, much in the same way she’d done with her late husband.
Stanhope Manor had been in the Mallory family for seven generations. It had always been passed down to the oldest son. At thirty-nine, Jamison was still young, and would have plenty of time to enjoy the place with his own family, just as he and his five younger brothers had when they were growing up.
Despite how much Olivia wanted to uphold the Mallory legacy, she wasn’t in a hurry to move out of the city into the rambling, eleven-bedroom, twenty-two-thousand-square-foot mansion until she could give her husband a son—or a daughter—who would carry on the tradition. What was the point without a family to fill the rambling house?
At least in Boston Olivia had her family and her volunteer work. One thing she did not need was further isolation.
Nor did she need—or want—to live with her mother-in-law. Especially with Jamison spending so much time in Washington. That living arrangement would surely prove to be a ticking time bomb ready to explode.
Residing in Boston meant Helen was a safe two hours away in the Berkshires. Long distance, it was more difficult for her to remind Olivia that she and Jamison had yet to gift the family with children. Except for the occasional obligatory phone call, Helen mostly ignored Olivia, saving the pregnancy barbs for personal delivery. For times such as this.
Olivia braced herself at the thought.
It hurt that she and Jamison had confided in her about their fertility struggles, yet Helen publicly persecuted them as if their childlessness were a choice. Sometimes Olivia had to summon every ounce of strength to keep from tossing Helen’s barbs and patronizing tone right back at her. But out of respect for her husband, Olivia bit her tongue.
To Jamison’s credit, he fully understood how painful it would be to live with his mother. Despite how he longed to move into the house in which he’d grown up, he always sided with Olivia, refusing to let Helen bully them into moving and demanding she lay off when her pregnancy digs got out of hand.
The valet opened Olivia’s door and helped her step out of the Jaguar. Jamison walked around the car and took her hand, expecting her to play along. To put on a happy face and pretend they were the perfect couple with the perfect marriage.
“Are you okay?” he asked as they climbed the steps to the porch.
“Truthfully?” She slanted him a look. “No, I’m not.”
His face fell, as if her words had knocked the wind out of him, but before he could say anything, the elaborately carved wooden front doors swung open and a uniformed doorman greeted them.
“Merry Christmas, sir, madam.”
Ever the politician, Jamison flashed his famous smile. “Merry Christmas.”
Olivia managed a polite nod. She didn’t recognize the man at the door. He wasn’t part of the small band of live-in staff employed by Jamison’s mother. He was obviously among the extra help she’d hired for the holidays. Like a steadfast queen clinging to her castle, she’d remained in the house after Jamison’s father died and all six boys had moved out to begin their own lives.
“Mrs. Mallory is in the great room. Follow me, please.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” said Jamison. “I grew up in this house. I know the way.”
The doorman stood back and motioned Jamison and Olivia onward. “Very well, sir. Happy holidays.”
Their footsteps sounded on the marble floor. The place had a museumlike air that inspired silence. As they made their way down the long, arched hallway toward the great room at the back of the house, neither said a word.
Instead, Olivia let her gaze stray over the elaborate paintings lining the walls. Generations of Mallorys dating as far back as the Revolutionary War hung in grand, gilded frames. Their eyes seemed to follow Olivia and Jamison as they passed. Though she’d experienced this sensation many times, today it was eerie and a little unnerving. She shifted her gaze straight ahead, focusing on the crown molding at the end of the passageway.
In the great room, a harpist strummed Christmas carols from her post in the corner. Her angelic music was barely audible above the crowd that was at least seventy-five strong. A giant Christmas tree stood in front of the large picture windows on the west wall that looked out over the snow-covered back lawn with its beautifully frozen pond. In the distance, the mountains painted a breathtaking picture. A roaring fire blazed in the oversize fireplace. The room was a little stuffy with all the people milling about talking, laughing and filling plates with fancy hors d’oeuvres that had been laid out on an antique trestle table that stretched nearly the entire length of the wall opposite the windows.
In the center of the crowded room, Helen Mallory was holding court, talking to her loyal subjects who were dutifully gathered around her. Her platinum hair, as white