It made sense. Avery had run to her father when Jonathan spurned her advances. The Judge had thrown down the gauntlet to ensure that the man whom his daughter imagined had scorned her advances did not go unpunished.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Then there are . . . pictures.”
Yvette’s eyes shot from examining champagne bubbles to Sarah’s face. “Not of you,” Sarah said.
“I know about those. Mark has them now. But they’re not of him, right?” Christiana asked. “She just got them from his house?”
Sarah nodded coolly, eyebrows knit together in thought. “We have to assume Avery likely copied them.”
Of course she did. Avery may be a bitch, but she wasn’t stupid. Christiana sent her eyes back and forth between Sarah and Yvette, wishing she had some intelligence to add. These women had a treasure trove of experiences and wisdom to access. She had nothing to offer, except how to balance six dinner plates in two hands and which routes in the city had police set-ups for drunk drivers. Too bad all those years of jogging after Avery and her father at events didn’t lead to greater connections she could tap into today.
Wait.
Christiana stood. “I can help.” Sarah and Yvette’s heads snapped up. “My dad revered the Churchills for years, pushed me to be friends with Avery. He might know what’s going on—or at least find out more.”
“Well, anything you can—” Yvette began.
“No,” Sarah said. “Jonathan would want you out of this. I just wanted you to be informed that we’re on it. But I won’t have you tainted in this mess.”
“But my dad—”
“Is a reporter who will sniff out a best-selling story before Twitter has a chance to blast it.”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s my father. He’s not about to drag his daughter through the mud. Not after what I have.”
Yvette cocked her head. “Have what?”
Christiana steadied herself. “I mean, he won’t. I’ll guarantee it.” She wasn’t about to mention her mother and what she’d discovered. To save Jonathan, she wouldn’t be above blackmailing someone else herself, even if it meant making her father feel guilty about all his secrets, their secrets.
“Are you sure?” Sarah asked.
“I’ve never been so sure in my life.”
“I knew you had a spine.” Yvette stood and wrapped her arm around Christiana’s shoulder.
“Okay, then. Time to steel yourself, Christiana Snow. You’re about to experience the real Washington.” Sarah lifted herself from the couch.
Christiana flushed as Sarah spun on her heel and marched to the suite door. “I’ll continue to press Mark. Let’s talk tonight and piece together what we’ve learned.” The snick of the suite door echoed across the marble floor.
“I work ‘til closing.”
“Don’t worry,” Yvette said with a seductive purr. “I’ll handle Brian Bishop.”
Yvette’s word rang true. Brian didn’t protest when Christiana simply gathered her things and headed to the parking garage.
In one afternoon, Christiana’s understanding of power had shifted. She couldn’t quite nail the definition yet. But somehow she knew she was about to encounter real influence.
33
Christiana drummed her sticky palms on her knees. Her butt had imprinted the couch with a large dip from rising and sitting over and over, impatiently, at every car sound out the front window. Her father’s plane had landed ninety minutes ago. He should have been home by now.
Fragments of disparate information zipped through her brain, refusing to lock themselves into a pattern. Someone shot Jonathan. He then wanted to break things off with her because she was at risk, not him. Why? Judge Churchill hated Jonathan. Just because he lost an election to his father? He had to have something on Jonathan more than a handful of pictures stolen by his vain daughter. They couldn’t be enough.
Her mind returned to the last puzzle piece that floated above all others. Letters. A stack of envelopes bound with a faded blue ribbon. After charging back to her father’s safe, she couldn’t believe the gold mine she’d unearthed. After reading every word of the dozen letters, she had more than a few choice words for her dad.
Her father’s key clicked in the front door.
“Dad, where have you been? I’ve been trying you for ages.” Her father dropped his bags inside the door, his face etched in surprise. Christiana normally didn’t accost him at the door.
“It took a while to extricate myself, get back home. My damn office wants me on the Brond shooting right away.”
“That’s good. Because I need to know what you know.”
“Whoa, slow down. Why?”
“Dad, there’s no time. I need to talk to you about Jonathan. He’s my boyfriend.” His already-stricken faced paled. While she’d been fashioning a butt print in the couch, she’d decided shock value would be the best approach to getting him to focus. She was glad to see it worked.
“I have lots to tell you, Dad. Sit down. I need your help with something. But I’m going to go first. So you know what’s at stake.”
Christiana didn’t know how to start, but once the words started, she found she couldn’t stop. She had to give her father credit for listening to the whole truth of her relationship with Jonathan. How she had gone away many weekends and kept it secret from him and Avery. Naturally, she left out the sex—and the power dynamic. He blushed anyway.
He hadn’t moved a muscle once she got him to the couch. “So, how disappointed are you?”
“I’m a little in shock, that’s all. Right now all I can think of is that ten-year old, with her pigtails flying, sliding down the hallway in stocking feet.”
“I’m not that little girl anymore.”
“Clearly. But a congressman? And Jonathan Brond? With his reputation? I need a drink.”
Christiana stopped his rise from the couch. “He’s not like that.”
“He’s too old for you.”
“My years of life experience make up for my age.” She steeled her voice.
He slumped back against the couch as she’d thrown a weighted ball onto his chest. He took a deep breath. “Yes, they do. But, you know, it wasn’t until the fashion show that I really saw how grown up you were. Which, by the way, young lady, we have not talked about yet. That dress?”
His fatherly turn stunned her. She hadn’t heard that voice in years.
“What in God’s name was that outfit? I nearly decked a guy to my right who wouldn’t stop whistling. I spilled my wine all over his tux, I’ll have you know.”
“Jonathan wasn’t pleased about that night, either.”
“Good. His stock just went up with me. Because if he put you up to that—”
“No, Dad, it was Avery.”
“No surprise there. The Churchills always did like moving their little chess pieces around.”
“It’s time they stopped. Which is why I want you to tell me about these.” She picked up the stack of letters she’d tucked under a magazine.
“What were you doing in my safe?” her father asked.
“Looking for answers. Why didn’t you tell me my mother killed herself, and why the hell was Marcus Churchill writing love letters to her?”
He grabbed the stack and threw them across the room to hit the TV. The ribbon loosened, sending them scattering in all directions.
Christiana sat in stunned silence for long moments.
Her father sighed, his face staring at the floor. “Jesus, you’re so much like your mother, do you know that?”
“You’re not going to tell me I’m mentally ill.”
“No, that’s where you differ.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “You’re strong. So damned strong. But that’s what I wanted for you. Why I wanted you to be friends with Avery. She seemed similar.”
“We’re nothing alike.”
“I didn’t want you to be like her, just more confident than you seemed to be, becaus
e I knew you had it in you.”
“Jonathan brought it out.”
Christiana studied her father’s face, misery etched in lines she hadn’t noticed. Crinkles ran deep across his forehead and gray hairs lined his temples. Now, with the past raised, he appeared older, more worn out than even a few days earlier. Her mother’s death must have been an awful blow. Her mother didn’t just leave her. She had left them both.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.” He stood and paused. “Man, your mom was gorgeous. How she ended up with me I’ll never know.”
“You undersell yourself, Dad.”
“No, I don’t. Which is why Marcus Churchill was able to do what he did.”
Christiana held her breath.
He rubbed his chin. “We were at the Kennedy Center for an opera or some God-awful play. She tripped coming up the stairs. Her dress tore, and you’d think it was the end of the world. Hell, it looked to me like a larger slit than what was running up the side already. The Honorable Marcus—only he wasn’t so honorable back then, being a clerk for some Supreme Court justice—stepped in and offered to help. He kept saying things, charming little nothings, the whole time. And there I was, trailing like some legislative aide waiting for the order to get some water.”
He shook his head as if the night replayed in his head. “I didn’t find the letters until much later. I don’t think they had an affair, no evidence of it. But she kept the letters, maybe as a reminder of what she could have had.” His voice cracked. “They were with her belongings at the hospital.”
“So why encourage me to be friends with Avery?”
“You needed to be better prepared than your mother to deal with those types. I thought if you could learn from the source, you’d be stronger, more capable of handling those people.”
“Dad. Now that you say that out loud, you do know that’s crazy, right?”
“Well, now that I have to articulate it, I can see how it sounds.”
“And you’re the writer. Jeez. But, that can’t be all of it. How’d she get into—”
“After she was diagnosed with manic depression, it got worse, like she’d been given permission to misbehave. There were days I’d be afraid to leave the house and leave you alone with her. I never knew what she’d do.”
She remembered her mother being the most fun person ever. Except when she wasn’t. They’d sled down hills on large dinner trays and went on sudden jaunts to get ice cream only to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home. But then, her mom also spent long days in bed, bedroom curtains sealed against daylight. Her father made pancakes at night while her mother lay in the darkened room.
Christiana thought she was lucky to have such unorthodox parents, except none of the other kids were allowed over to play. She’d grown used to being alone. Then Avery singled her out. No wonder Christiana latched on to the little bitch so fast.
“You put her in an institution when she almost drowned me, didn’t you?” Christiana almost darted off the couch at the choked cry that erupted from her father’s throat. She’d never seen her father cry.
“I had to. None of the medication worked, and finally I just had to.” Reddened eyes peered up at her. “I tried to get her out. But couldn’t.”
“What do you mean, couldn’t?”
“The court had deemed her dangerous to a minor in the household and a danger to herself. I think that’s how they put it. You see, she was accused of—.”
“Almost drowning me.” The words didn’t scare her anymore. She’d learned to be scared of larger things, like losing Jonathan forever.
“While I worked the bureaucracy, she gave up.”
“Killed herself.”
“Yes, not easy to do in a lockdown situation. But she hoarded the medication she pretended to take.”
“Not in a car accident.”
“No.”
She looked at the letters. “Dad, did you ever read these?”
“Not after the first one. I couldn’t.”
“But you kept them.”
“As a reminder of what I had to do . . . to protect you.”
Christiana would have cried at his statement if they hadn’t been running out of time. Christiana knew if the tide didn’t turn soon, Jonathan wouldn’t go back on his decision. He’d stay locked in his congressional post and make damned sure she never got near him, all out of a sense of misguided protection when really he needed the protection more than anyone.
“Well, I read them. And I think Judge Churchill had everything to do with Mom’s fate,” she said. And blackmailing Jonathan. She’d keep that last thought to herself. No use giving her father a story that might not be true.
Christiana pulled out the two most important letters she’d found and handed them to her father. As his eyes skimmed over the pages, color returned to his face. By the time he finished the second letter, rage replaced the tears in his eyes. Good, he was now ready to help.
“Dad, what’s the worst thing that can happen to a federal judge?”
He held out his hand to help her from the couch. “There’s a Swedish proverb your mother loved. Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow. I think I understand it now.”
Christiana called Mark as soon as she and her father cooked up their plan.
Mark had been stopping by her house and The Oak every day since Christiana visited Jonathan in the hospital. During each visit, his words had been the same, Jonathan will call soon. I promise. Seeing Mark during Jonathan’s silence made her feel better somehow, like all hope wasn’t lost if Mark remained in touch. Now she needed Mark to do more than just check on her well-being.
Because Jonathan didn’t call. She felt his presence slipping, the unseen tether she’d felt before fraying. She felt adrift. She wouldn’t let any more distance grow.
Mark answered on the first ring. In a gush of words, Christiana told Mark about Judge Churchill’s involvement in her mother’s death. As soon as she said it out loud, she realized how much she sounded like a third grader on a playground asking a friend to stop pushing another friend off the swing set because, well, it just wasn’t nice. Before she could dig herself into a larger hole, Mark filled the silence.
“That could buy him some time,” he said slowly.
A rush of relief wiped away her embarrassment. “Judge Churchill has something on Jonathan, doesn’t he? I mean, could he have copies of the pictures?” She amazed herself by not blushing.
Mark didn’t answer. She sighed into the phone after a full minute ticked by.
“Your letters likely wouldn’t hold up in court,” he said. “But it’s worth trying to unnerve the Judge.”
More silence. “Jonathan has an appointment tomorrow. I can’t tell you with whom. But, if you guess—”
“Judge Churchill.”
“Yes.” He phrased it like a question.
“At his house.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that. But if you enter the GW parkway via the Spout Run exit at three p.m., you might notice a familiar SUV. If Jonathan notices, well, I can’t very well outrun you. I’m sworn to obey the speed limit.”
“Mark. I promise never to want to punch you again.”
Christiana swore she felt a smile come through the phone.
Christiana fiddled with her pearls, pooled in her lap. She glanced over at her father who gripped the steering wheel. He looped a finger through a pearl strand and held her fingers still. She suddenly felt selfish for having been so cavalier with her mother’s prized necklace over the years. His heart must have cracked a little more every time she sashayed by, the pearls’ long strands clicking together, like a little girl playing dress up—only with a priceless set of opera-length sea pearls passed down from generation to generation.
They entered the GW parkway at precisely three o’clock. The Potomac glistened under the summer sun to her right, and Christiana watched the boats cut through the silver-blue water. A longing to stretch out in her bathing suit on the deck of Jonathan’s sailboat warmed her m
ore than the sunlight streaming across her lap.
Her father’s voice broke her daydreaming. “Right on time.” A black SUV had pulled in front of them.
“I wonder if Jonathan even notices we’re behind him,” Yvette said.
Sarah and Yvette sat in the back. They both seemed unaware of the boxes of papers at their feet and between them. Sarah used one as an armrest. Christiana hadn’t expected the two women to tag along. But who was she to say no?
“Did Arniss find anything?” Sarah asked.
Christiana’s eyes flew to Yvette’s face. “Yes, dear, I asked for his help,” Yvette said. “We may be getting divorced, but he’s the best criminal attorney in town. He advised us to stay home, and let the law do its job. Coward.”
“No matter. We still have Christiana’s trump card,” Sarah said. “And she should deliver the news. It’ll have more punch. He won’t expect it.”
Her father released her hand and grasped the steering wheel tighter. “Fat chance. I’m not putting Chris in front of that bastard. I want to punch the asshole in the gut with what I know.” Yvette sat forward and touched his shoulder. “Okay, but if he gets rough, I’m stepping in.” Her father’s shoulder relaxed, and his eyes re-focused on the road ahead.
Christiana had never seen anyone steer her father away from an agenda. She hoped Yvette’s presence would have the same effect on the Judge and whatever scheme he’d designed.
34
Her Dad pulled in behind Jonathan’s SUV in front of the Churchill mansion. They both stopped at the front entrance, blocking anyone from continuing down the circular limestone drive. A surge of pride filled Christiana at the alpha male move, even if they did it unconsciously.
Christiana stepped out of the car as Mark opened Jonathan’s door. He stepped from the backseat. “What are you doing? Christiana, no. You are not going in there.”
A wash of longing ran through Christiana when she saw his arm in a sling. His stride toward her was stopped by Sarah. She slipped in between them and laid her hand on his chest. He stilled.
Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1) Page 30