She couldn’t stop the shiver that danced insistently through her even when she pulled the heavy blue flannel robe from out of the closet and then wrapped herself up in it.
Shanna sat down on the chaise lounge. Taking a slow, deep breath, she tried to steady herself as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, waiting for the warmth to return. Waiting for her body to stop shaking. Shanna sat there for a long time, waiting.
Chapter 6
As Jordan began to take full advantage of the machinery that had been made available to him to help ensure the success of his first campaign, Shanna saw her heretofore rather pacific life pitched into the outer rim of a hurricane. It wasn’t as if she was totally unprepared for it. Her father had first run for office when she was six years old and he hadn’t been out of politics once in the ensuing eighteen years. Election fever, in one form or another, was a condition that had always been a part of her life.
But she had never been the wife of a candidate before, never been completely aware of or appreciated the hundred and one things that were required of her in order to be supportive of Jordan’s efforts. As a candidate’s daughter Shanna had been relegated to the sidelines, brought in for photographs and the occasional human-interest story.
Her mother had never entirely gone the route that now stood before Shanna, because that would have pushed her into the background. She would have appeared to be standing in her husband’s shadow and that was something Rheena would have never allowed to happen. She pulled her own strings for Roger from a position she was supremely comfortable in. The center of the court.
Shanna had no connections of her own, no affiliations to draw on in order to help Jordan. Despite that, she made up her mind to be an asset to him, to make every effort count. She would help him, she thought as she stood beside him when he had announced his candidacy to the press, through sheer dedication and hard work. Beginning uncertainly, she decided to throw herself wholeheartedly into assisting him in formulating his campaign strategies. Or tried to.
To her surprise and subsequent disappointment, Shanna realized quickly that behind the scenes, Jordan regarded her as far more of a hindrance than an asset. He didn’t listen when she tried to make suggestions. Rather than having her share as a partner in his plans, Jordan obviously wanted her in the role of the supportive little wife who dressed well, said empty words, and smiled.
She was to attend social events and fund-raisers and, when asked to speak, was to parrot cheerful words that had been prepared for her by someone else. Under no circumstances, Jordan had warned her, was she to elaborate on topics on her own, even if she felt that they shared a common opinion.
She was to be, she saw, a puppet. It was her name, her lineage that counted. Not herself. Hurt, Shanna made the decision to ride it out and hope that eventually she could change things around and have her opinion count for a change.
Jordan had no time for Shanna’s trivial input and her soft, bleeding-heart approach to issues she thought should be given priority. There were congressmen to cajole, mayors to rally to his side, money to find. And people to cull and, he added silently, to gull.
“Why don’t you do something really useful,” Jordan said to her after returning home from a grueling meeting that involved his father-in-law and several other senior members of the party. His patience had worn thin after hours of being affable and agreeing with his mentors. “We’ve got an apartment in Virginia, but I think we’d do better getting a house. It gives us an air of stability. Yes”—he thought it over—“I need a house if I’m to represent the fair state of Virginia’s people adequately.”
He allowed his lips to twist in a cynical grin that vanished quickly, replaced by the innocent expression he showed to his future constituents. “Find us a house.”
At least that much she could do for him, she thought, resigned. “Any place in particular?”
“Virginia.” Couldn’t she get anything straight?
The seventh district was large. “I know that, I meant where in Virginia.”
“Use your head, Shanna. I want some place private, but I don’t want to appear too inaccessible.” He remembered to give her a quick kiss on the cheek before retiring to his den. There was still a speech to rework. He needed better writers than he had, he thought. They were all plodding idiots who had no idea how to appeal to the masses. He was better off writing his own speeches. “Don’t want the voters to know that we’re out of their league now, do we?”
“No,” she murmured, wondering if it had been a slip on his part, or if he really thought of himself as above the people he was seeking to represent. He was becoming a snob, she thought sadly. He was changing.
The next morning, she telephoned her mother’s social secretary Denise to ask if the woman knew the names of any real estate agents that she could get in contact with in Virginia.
“Moving, Shanna?” the woman asked warmly. “We’ll miss you around here.” Denise, a single mother of three, had tenaciously stayed on with Rheena, enduring fire and brimstone and a salty tongue, for ten years.
“Jordan’s going to run for a seat representing the seventh district in Virginia.” Congressman Calhoun. It did have a nice ring to it. “We have an apartment there now, but we’d both rather have a house.”
Denise understood. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised.
Shanna expected a call back that afternoon, or possibly the next morning. The last thing she expected was a visit from her mother the following day. She was already running half an hour behind schedule. She was to take a commuter flight to Virginia and meet Jordan at a rally in a large business center in the heart of the seventh district.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” Shanna whirled around as she saw her mother’s reflection in the mirror. Her mother had a key to the house and used it whenever the whim hit her. Shanna never felt as if the house was completely hers.
Rheena stood in the doorway of her daughter’s bedroom and critically looked over the pale blue suit Shanna had on. She shook her head.
“You don’t like it,” Shanna said needlessly.
“Makes you look too old, too conservative. The reason they picked that husband of yours is because he’s so damn engaging and youthful looking.” She frowned. “Stop dressing like his mother.”
Just once she would have liked to hear something positive, Shanna thought. But that was probably asking for the impossible. She looked around for her purse. “I’m going to be shaking people’s hands on a busy street corner, Mother. I’m not going to a cocktail party.”
Elegant shoulders rose and fell beneath the designer jacket. “Have it your own way. What do I know about being the wife of a successful politician?”
Nerves already brittle, Shanna felt her temper fraying at the ends. “Did you come to look me over or was there another reason for this visit?” Finding her purse on the bureau, she opened it and put her wallet and keys inside. As an afterthought, she threw in a roll of mints.
Rheena eyed her daughter with a superior smirk. “You’ve gotten testy now that you’ve got someone to warm your sheets. And here I am, on a mission of mercy. I came to give you this.” Rheena produced a photograph of a two-story colonial house from her clutch purse and handed it to Shanna.
Dumbfounded, Shanna stared at it. It was happening again. Her mother was making decisions for her. When was it ever going to stop?
“Denise told me you were looking for a suitable house in Virginia. I called Hawley and Holmes, my realtors and they faxed me the particulars on several houses.” A scarlet nail tapped the top of the photograph in Shanna’s hand. “I had someone take this photograph for you after I made my decision. This place will be perfect for you and Jordan. I’ve put in a bid for you.”
Shanna felt her throat constricting. Stop it, Mother. Stop taking over my life. Shanna kept her voice steady. “I haven’t seen it yet, Mother.”
Rheena frowned at the quiet, firm tone her daughter used. She wasn’t used to opposition, least of all
from Shanna. “So?”
This couldn’t continue to go on this way indefinitely. Somewhere along the line, she was going to have to take a stand. It might as well start today. Shanna took a breath. “So I might not like it.”
It hadn’t really occurred to Rheena to consult Shanna or that she might have an opinion. It wasn’t as if the girl had ever displayed good taste, or even good sense for that matter. “I like it.”
Then you live in it. Shanna slowly threaded her purse strap over her shoulder, struggling to keep the irritation that throbbed within her breast from breaking through like a creature trapped beneath thin ice. “Fine, and I probably will, too.”
She turned to face her mother, searching Rheena’s face for a shred of understanding. Didn’t her mother see that she had to be her own person? That she was perfectly capable of making decisions? That she wanted to lead a life that wasn’t tied to the Bradys or the Fitzhughs or any other pseudo-dynasty?
No, her mother didn’t see anything of the kind, Shanna realized. She found only annoyance in her mother’s eyes. “But I just want to see it first, Mother. With Jordan.”
It was obvious that the girl only wanted to argue for argument’s sake. Stupid. “You haven’t got that much time,” Rheena pointed out.
Shanna refused to give in. “I’ve got enough time to see the house I’ll be living in.”
Exasperation raised Rheena’s brows even as her eyes narrowed. Her daughter was a stubborn idiot, just like her father. “The realtor wants an answer before the weekend. There’s another couple who’s interested. You have two fund-raisers and a banquet to attend between then and now. Just how do you propose to manage seeing the house? With Jordan,” Rheena tagged on sweetly as an afterthought.
So she knew her itinerary. Shanna had no idea that her mother was suddenly keeping such close tabs on her life. She thought of all the lonely years she had spent as a child, longing for her mother’s attention. Was that what it would have taken to get it? The potential of spending life in the limelight? She felt the bitter taste of bile in her mouth. “We’ll squeeze in the time. I want to know what the kitchen looks like, Mother, and where the bedrooms are.”
Rheena turned to leave. She’d had enough of Shanna’s obstinacy. Did the silly little twit think she had nothing better to do with her time than find a suitable place for Senator Brady’s daughter to reside in? She placed her hand on the doorknob and looked at her daughter.
“You want a house. What difference does it make what the kitchen looks like?” Rheena’s full mouth curved into a malicious smile. “And I’m sure Jordan will break in the bedrooms one by one soon enough.”
Shanna stiffened at the implication. There was no use trying to make her mother understand anything. “I just want to see it all for myself.”
Rheena shrugged carelessly as she opened the front door. “Have it your way. If you lose the house, you lose the house. I was just trying to help.” Making an exit, she slammed the door in her wake.
The house shook as the sound echoed throughout. “Yes,” Shanna murmured to herself as she stared at the door, “I suppose you were.” But she didn’t want the kind of help her mother had to offer. She didn’t want to be herded like some mindless entity, she wanted to be consulted. As an intelligent equal.
Of course first, she knew, she had to prove that she was Rheena’s equal.
It was going to be a tough, uphill fight.
His forearm hurt from the hands he had had to firmly grip and his face felt as if it had permanently tightened into a smile. And now she was whining about some house her mother was arranging for them to live in.
Jordan couldn’t afford to scowl in public at his wife, but with very little urging, he would have gladly throttled her someplace where no one could see them. He ignored the photograph she had tried show him during a lull in the campaigning and fervently wished he could ignore her as well.
“Look,” he told her softly, taking care not to be overheard, “any place is fine as long as it gives off the right kind of message.”
Shanna slowly flexed her fingers. She had only been with him for half the time he had spent here at Hampton Plaza and every joint ached. She knew the kind of message he was talking about. Old money. Respectable. Everything she was supposed to represent. Was that why he had married her? she wondered. Because she sent out the “right” sort of message to voters?
The streets began to fill again as another throng of people approached them. It seemed as if the people moved about this area in spurts. Shanna braced herself for another round of politicking. All around them, the busy plaza was filled with Jordan’s campaign volunteers. They wore bright blue armbands that echoed the color of his eyes. His name was written in white across the azure field, branding the volunteers as they cheerfully passed out flatteringly worded literature about Jordan. Behind them was a background of white placards with startling royal-blue letters that proclaimed: JORDAN FOR CONGRESS.
Jordan, his smile widening as he grasped a distinguished elderly man’s hand and introduced himself, said under his breath, “Your mother has probably picked out just the right place.”
How could she assert herself when everyone seemed to be bent on not letting her? Was she being so unreasonable about wanting to see the house before they moved in? She didn’t know anymore. “But—“
What was the matter with this woman? “Rheena has taste, Shanna, and breeding,” Jordan pointed out, his stern, whispered tone at war with the boyish smile on his face. “We’ll go with the house she’s picked out and that’s the end of it.” He had allied himself with this family to reap the benefits that such an association would harvest. Why was Shanna constantly trying to sabotage that?
Jordan stepped forward to seize another hand and pump hard. With the flat of his other hand against the small of her back, he gave Shanna a slight push toward the tall stranger.
“Hello, I’m Jordan Calhoun and this is my wife, Shanna.” For just one beat, he looked at Shanna, smile never drooping, then shifted his eyes to the man whose hand he still held. “I’d like to be your representative in Congress because I think I can best understand your needs.”
Shanna shook hands with the thirtyish man and smiled as warmly as she could. She had always disliked crowds. There was something overwhelming about a sea of bodies, surging, vying for position. But this was for Jordan, she kept telling herself over and over again, so she tried her best.
And as she stood beside him, exchanging pleasantries with men and women she would never see again, all commemorated on video cameras from the local news stations for the evening report, she surrendered another tiny bit of herself. After this was over, she would return home and call her mother to tell her that Jordan wanted the house.
As always, her mother, not she, prevailed. She felt herself slipping farther into the shadows.
No.
The word formed rebelliously in her mind. No, she’d give her mother Jordan’s message after she went to see the house for herself. The house they occupied in Georgetown had been given to them by her father. She didn’t want this house to be purchased completely on Rheena’s say-so. She had a right to her own choices, her own opinions. She had to make a mark before she was completely swallowed up by the world around her.
“I’ll tell her,” she said to Jordan as another hand clutched hers fleetingly.
To get herself through the ordeal, Shanna made a conscious effort to step back mentally and become a spectator at the goings-on taking place before her. The sea of faces eventually merged into one huge blur as she shook hands, smiled empty smiles, and shyly murmured, “Hello.”
By gradual degrees, she became aware of the man. At first, he was just a grayish blur in the distance. As she focused on him he appeared almost stark against the vivid background of well-dressed business people and tall, angular, chrome-and-glass office buildings. He was out of place here, sitting beside the rectangular marble fountain. In tattered, baggy worn clothes and a ripped coat, he would have been out of plac
e anywhere. His complexion was yellowed and partially hidden by white grizzly stubble.
Shanna tried to guess his age and couldn’t pinpoint a year, or even a decade. He was anywhere between thirty and fifty. It was hard to tell just where, hidden as he was beneath the despair and the defeat that stained him far more cruelly than the grime that was on his clothes and face.
Jordan signaled to one of his men, and within moments, the black limousine his father-in-law had provided for his use was being brought around. They had another busy plaza to stand in, another crowd to win over. But as the chauffeur opened the door for Jordan, Shanna turned away. Jordan caught her arm as she began to cross the street toward the homeless man.
“Where are you going?” Jordan demanded in a low voice as he returned a wave to a woman in the distance. “Hi, how’re you doing?” He tightened his grip on Shanna’s arm, waiting for an answer.
“I want to give him some money.” She nodded toward the man across the street.
“Why? He can’t vote.” He couldn’t look annoyed in public, he told himself. “Your job is to stay here with me, remember?”
Her heart ached when she looked at the man’s hopeless face. “But he’s hungry, Jordan.”
Jordan scarcely glanced in the man’s direction. “He’s a deadbeat.” Jordan knew his tone was harsh and he tried to temper it. He wasn’t through using Shanna by a long shot and she was more easily managed with kindness than with harshness.
“Look, I know you’re softhearted, but what are you going to do? Give everyone of these shiftless drifters five dollars?” He couldn’t help the condescending laugh that came. “Even your father doesn’t have that much money. Besides, there’re jobs out there.” He motioned her toward the limousine. Shanna climbed into the backseat reluctantly. Jordan used the persuasive tone he had used with voters. “They just don’t want them. They don’t want to work, they want to drop out of society and be taken care of.”
Choices (A Woman's Life) Page 6