“Darlings, there you are,” she said. Her drink sloshed as she raised her glass toward them. “I was beginning to think you’d never arrive.” It was barely noon and judging by the glass Helen held like a scepter, she’d bypassed the traditional Christmas Day pomegranate mimosas and had dived headfirst into the martinis. Depending on how many she’d had, they could be in for a bumpy ride.
Jamison bent down and kissed Helen’s cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Mother. You’re looking… well. We would’ve been here sooner, but last night my flight in from D.C. was delayed, and I didn’t get home until after three.”
Helen held out a diamond-laden hand to her daughter-in-law.
“Merry Christmas, dear.” She looked Olivia up and down with disapproving eyes. “You’re looking beautiful, as always. But awfully thin. I was so hoping you would’ve plumped up by now.”
Helen pulled her hand from Olivia’s and patted her daughter-in-law’s flat stomach.
Trying to ignore the uncomfortable stares from the others gathered around them, Olivia took special care to keep her smile firmly in place. Especially since she had a feeling of what was coming next—right in front of everyone.
Olivia did a mental countdown. Three, two, one—
“When on earth are you going to give me a grandchild?”
Right on schedule.
“You do know that Payton is pregnant again, don’t you?” Helen slurred the words.
Olivia fought back a sudden rush of emotions that brought with them the stinging threat of tears.
Payton. The wife of Jamison’s younger brother, Grant. The perfect, fertile daughter-in-law. One only need talk about pregnancy in the vicinity of Payton and she got knocked up.
“Mother, don’t start.” Jamison’s voice was flat.
Helen sighed and dismissed him with a curt wave of martini, diamonds and bloodred nails. The gesture sent a wave of gin sloshing over the side of her glass, leaving a wet spot on her white suit. She seemed not to notice.
“I’m not starting anything,” she slurred. “I’m simply finding it terribly ironic that Olivia’s father is one of the nation’s leading fertility experts—Gerald Armstrong, of the Armstrong Institute—yet they’re still not pregnant. I just don’t understand.” Helen directed her words to the others, spouting off as if this weren’t a deeply private issue, acting as if Olivia and Jamison weren’t standing right there.
Every fiber in Olivia’s body went numb and she had to inhale sharply and bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from defending herself. Because what was the point?
Helen was drunk. Again. Come to think of it, Helen always said what was on her mind and seemed to get more brazenly outspoken with each passing year. Her drinking was also out of control, and the family seemed to be in complete denial about it.
It wasn’t Olivia’s place to say anything about her mother-in-law’s imbibing, but these barbs … they were inexcusable. Talking as if Olivia’s father were a banker refusing to lend money rather than seeing it for the intensely painful, sensitive—and private—issue that it was.
“Mother, stop it,” Jamison insisted.
Normally, when Helen started with her polite bullying, Olivia didn’t let the woman’s barbs get to her—but today Olivia felt vulnerable. Fragile, almost.
So, when Jamison put an arm around her and locked gazes with his mother, Olivia sank into him. Against her will, her body responded to her husband’s offer of solidarity and protection.
Despite what had transpired earlier, she was glad that at least he was taking her side, as he always did.
At least that hadn’t changed.
Before Helen could say anything else, the uncomfortable standoff was interrupted by a ringing voice.
“Merry Christmas, all!” Payton waddled over to them, her freckled cheeks rosy and her baby bump looking much more pronounced in the holly-green velvet maternity dress than it should for a woman five months’ pregnant. Of course, it was her fourth pregnancy.
Fourth baby in four-and-a-half years. Olivia swallowed the lump of sad envy that had burned in her throat until it slid down, settling like a hot coal in the pit of her barren belly.
“Payton, darling.” Helen stood and pulled her favorite daughter-in-law into a gentle embrace. “How are you feeling, love?”
Payton pushed an auburn curl off her forehead, then beamed and rested her hands on her swollen belly. “I’ve never felt better.”
Helen held her at arm’s length, taking in her entire being. “It shows. You are positively radiant.”
Payton preened. “I always feel my best when I’m pregnant.”
Of course she did.
Lucky for her since she was always pregnant. Resentment flared inside Olivia. It seemed like Payton and Grant produced a child to commemorate each wedding anniversary.
“Here, sit, sit. Next to me. Get off your feet.” Helen returned to her seat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her.
“Well, Mom, we have been in the car all morning.” She braced her right hand on the small of her back, which made her stomach stick out all the more. “But I guess I could sit a while longer while we catch up.”
“You know, if you keep giving me grandchildren at this rate, I’m going to have to move you up here to Stanhope Manor so that there’s a place big enough to house all of you under one roof. Jamison doesn’t seem to have any interest in the place.”
Helen shot a pointed look at her son as Payton planted herself next to her mother-in-law.
“It would be wonderful to live with you up here. If you keep talking like that, we just might take you up on it.”
Olivia glanced at Jamison, who was wearing an over-my-dead-body look on his face. She had a hunch that his sour expression wasn’t simply a remnant of his mother’s earlier indelicate blurting, but had more to do with the threat of his younger brother’s status-hungry wife bumping him out of his birthright with her pregnant belly.
Maybe, for once, Payton’s selfish antics could actually help Olivia by making Jamison change his mind about holding off on having children. Even so, it seemed unlikely that an army of children could keep Helen at bay if they moved in with her.
Payton must have sensed Olivia staring because she smiled up at Jamison and Olivia and said, “It’s been a long time. How are the two of you?”
They made small talk for a few moments until Grant entered with an infant seat in one hand, a toddler on the opposite hip and their oldest boy trailing behind him. Grant flashed his trademark toothy, white Mallory smile, greeting everyone as he walked over to kiss his mother’s cheek.
Grant had been a latecomer to politics, winning a New Hampshire congressional seat just last year. He and Jamison had always been competitive, but when it came to politics, there was an unwritten agreement that Jamison was the one who would make a bid for the White House. After he’d had his go, then, if Grant was game, it was all his.
Olivia wondered if the same accord applied to Stanhope Manor or if Helen would seriously offer the home to Grant and Payton—even as a strategic move to force Jamison and Olivia’s hand. On top of everything else, the thought was more than Olivia could deal with. So she pushed it out of her mind, vowing only to worry about it if and when the crisis came up.
“Merry Christmas, son,” Helen said to Grant. “And where’s your nanny? Surely you didn’t give her this week off? Now more than ever your wife needs the extra hands to help her.”
Grant and Payton had imported a woman