Redemption's Kiss

by Ann Christopher

  Jillian waited, panting, the cries collecting in her throat.

  “But we’re not taking this slow,” he told her, and lowered his head.

  Chapter 18

  Jillian, Blanche, Barbara Jean and Allegra stood on the front porch and watched the caravan of big black SUVs crawl down the street toward the inn. Behind them stood the rest of the staff here at the B & B, their white polo shirts blinding, their black pants pressed to a razor’s edge.

  Omnipresent Secret Service agents, complete with dark suits and those intimidating sunglasses, swarmed the house and lawn; the advance team had been there for several days already. They all looked dour, and Jillian couldn’t blame them. If she’d been in charge of security on this, the sitting president’s surprise weekend getaway trip for the first lady’s birthday and all the corresponding headaches, she’d look dour, too.

  In preparation for this important visit, the place had been closed to the public and all the employees at the inn had cooked and cleaned to the point of exhaustion.

  All for her brother, John.

  The fathead.

  The SUVs stopped at the curb and the agents swarmed like caffeine-drunk bees as John climbed out and reached behind to help Liza. Jillian had to laugh. They were doing the whole Don’t mind us, we’re just tourists thing, which was as inconspicuous as a flying saucer trying to blend in with rush-hour traffic.

  They’d also told the press that they had no public events scheduled for the weekend, which meant, naturally, that the press was right on their tails. Already, satellite trucks were lining up at the ends of the street, on the other sides of the barricades to block traffic. The neighbors would love her for this.

  Liza came up the path first, looking glamorous and beautiful, as always. She’d cut her hair in a sleek pixie style that highlighted her come-hither dark eyes and cheekbones. Pregnancy had done something to her, some intensification of her looks that made her a walking sex kitten, all lush cleavage, hips and glowing skin. She wore a black sundress that hugged her basketball of a belly, and judging from the wide grin on her face, she’d stopped scowling completely these days.

  “Wow, Mom.” Stepping forward, Jillian caught Liza in a big hug. “You look great. No wonder John can’t keep his hands off you. I almost want to do you myself.”

  Liza laughed and shot her husband a glance over her shoulder. “John’s got a big mouth. I’ll have to cut him off tonight.”

  “No, you won’t,” John murmured behind Liza’s back, waiting for his turn with Jillian.

  “Hi, babies,” Jillian sang. She rubbed Liza’s belly and stooped closer, just to be obnoxious, half expecting Liza to snarl at her. Liza didn’t suffer fools, displays of affection or most people lightly. But to her surprise, Liza just laughed again and submitted to the handling with good grace. “Hi, babies. This is your Aunt Jillian. Start memorizing my voice, okay?”

  Finally, she let Liza go and turned to John, who gave her a stern look. “I didn’t see a marching band when we drove up. Who’s going to play ‘Hail to the Chief’ for me?”

  “No one. And I didn’t have commander-in-chief—” she made quotation marks with her fingers “—embroidered on the bathrobe in your suite, either. Welcome back to the real world, John.”

  “I told you to call me Mr. President.”

  Jillian worked hard to keep her lips pursed. “I still remember when you used to stand in the mirror for hours, grooming your invisible mustache. You’re lucky I don’t call you Mr. Fuzzy.”

  John opened his arms to her. “But you’ll still put a plaque on the door to our suite, right? The president slept here?”

  She smiled sweetly. “There’s already a plaque on the door. President Nixon stayed here in 1970. You’ll be sleeping in his bed.”

  John froze, midhug, and staggered back a step with a hand clapped over his heart. “You really know how to hurt a guy.”

  They erupted with laughter. Jillian was about to swoop in for her bear hug, when John abruptly stopped laughing—it was like a needle being yanked off a record halfway through a song—and stared at her as though she’d just kicked a puppy down a flight of stairs.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said with open horror.

  Uh-oh. Jillian pulled her most bewildered face, but she knew where this was going. “Tell you what?”

  John narrowed his eyes, nailing her right where she was, on her own damn porch. “You haven’t laughed like that in years. Years. You’re back together with him, aren’t you?”

  Oh, man. This was sooo not good.

  Jillian fidgeted, uncomfortably aware of their avid audience and of Liza, bless her heart, hurrying to greet everyone else and steer them into the house so they could have a moment of semiprivacy.

  John, meanwhile, clamped a hand on Jillian’s elbow and frog-marched her a few steps away, around the corner of the porch, where no one but the milling agents could see them.

  Irritated, she yanked her arm free and glowered up at him, wishing he didn’t know her so well. Why couldn’t he pretend he didn’t see whatever he thought he saw in her face? Why did he have to confront her on this within ten seconds of his arrival?

  “Answer my question.” He puffed up and gave her the speechmaking voice that was supposed to strike awe and respect in hearts everywhere. “Are you back with Beau again?”

  “Will you get over yourself? Do I look like one of your flunkies in the West Wing? You’re not going to boss me around in my own inn. I don’t care who you are. You can stay at the Motel 6 down the road, for all I care.”

  This diversionary tactic, naturally, didn’t work.

  “Are you seeing him?”

  Jillian thought about the fourteen glorious nights since their reconciliation, nights when Beau climbed the back steps to the veranda outside her bedroom and let himself into her bed. She thought of the mornings when he snuck home to change and then reappeared half an hour later for breakfast with her and Allegra. She thought of the phone calls and texts during the day, and all the catching up they’d done. She remembered the furniture she’d ordered for his home office, the miscellaneous fix-it projects he’d done around the inn and the massages she’d given his leg when she caught him frowning with the ache. She thought of their walks together, which strengthened both his leg and their relationship, and how, with her encouragement, he was taking medications to manage the discomfort. She thought of how they’d both agreed that this was the best time of their lives, and they’d never been happier together.

  Was she seeing Beau?

  “Sort of,” she told John.

  There was no point lying; John wouldn’t believe her. And why should she lie, anyway? She was a grown woman who didn’t need her brother’s approval. Even though she wished she had it.

  John cursed. Then cursed again, worse. Stalking away, he went to the edge of the porch and stared up the street, squaring his shoulders inside his black polo shirt.

  “That his house?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm.” His jaw tightened, making his moody profile even harsher. “I should arrange to have some Air Force training mission go awry and bomb it. The base at Moody isn’t that far from here.”

  “You’d never do that.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  The light in his eyes was distinctly murderous, so she decided she might want to take this conversation in a different direction.

  “Look, John, this is America—the country you’re in charge of. In America we’re free to make our own decisions. Maybe you’ve heard something about that…?”

  “Forgive me, Jill, but your decisions suck.”

  What? Oh, no, he didn’t.

  She pointed a finger in his face, half an inch from his nose, and resisted the urge to poke him with it. “The only reason I’m not taking your head off for that is because I’m giving you credit for loving me so much that you’re being overprotective.”

  “I don’t want him to break your heart. Again.”

  “You think I do?”


  “I think you’re not a good judge as far as he’s concerned.”

  “I think that A, this is really none of your business, and B, I really wish you’d give Beau and me a little credit for changing and doing the work we need to do to make this thing a success this time around.”

  “I want to, Jill,” he said helplessly. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure that Beau is capable of permanent change.”

  Neither was she. Not entirely sure, even now—not that she’d admit it. Still, she shrugged and put on her game face. “That’s your problem. Not mine.”

  They glared for a minute and then John opened his arms and pulled her into a fierce bear hug that said everything between them. Then he spoke against her hair.

  “He makes you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  He let out a sigh so dejected that she felt his ribs contract against her arms.

  “I was afraid of that.” He paused. “You might as well invite the bastard to dinner.”

  Jillian smiled up at him. “Wow. Thanks for that ringing endorsement.”

  “Best I can do.”

  They laughed and were just linking hands to head back and catch up with the others, when Allegra poked her head around the corner. The kitten, who was still clutched in her hands and tucked under her chin, emitted a long-suffering and generally disgusted mewl that seemed to go on forever.

  “Uncle President,” Allegra said, “do you want to meet our new cat?”

  Much as she hoped for it, the floor refused to open up and swallow Jillian whole. Which meant that she had to play the gracious hostess and endure a meal so fraught with peril that it made a joint Hatfield-McCoy reunion barbecue seem like a good idea.

  Good thing the Secret Service was hanging around, ensuring everyone’s safety. The best she could hope for was that everyone emerged from dessert…alive.

  Liza, seated to Jillian’s right, kept up a determined and cheerful conversation, thank goodness. “Do you always serve dinner family-style, Jill?” She spooned another helping of collard greens on her plate and added a splash of vinegar. “And how many sides do you cook normally?”

  “Family-style is easier, and it encourages the guests to sit together and talk. We always have four or five sides—we send the leftovers to the homeless shelter every night—but I made a couple extra tonight because I know they’re John’s favorites.”

  She and Liza risked cautious glances down the other end of the table, past the mashed sweet potatoes, black-eyed peas, creamed spinach, lima beans, rolls, biscuits, roast chicken, meat loaf and mashed potatoes, to where John sat, glowering at Beau, his overloaded plate untouched.

  Beau glared back.

  He’d arrived a little while ago, exchanged restrained greetings with John and Liza, then slipped upstairs to tuck Allegra in bed before the adults had their dinner. Now here he was, sitting quietly and politely but with a fire in his eyes to rival the flames in the flickering candles.

  Yeah. The countdown to World War III had begun.

  Was it hot in here? Taking the napkin out of her lap, Jillian used it to dab her forehead, which felt sweaty. Then she exchanged nervous glances with Liza and reached for the wine. Once her glass of zinfandel was refilled way past the traditional four-ounce mark, she felt equipped to resume the conversation.

  “Do they ever let you cook at the White House, Liza?”

  “Every now and then, the colonel and I sneak down and bake some cookies. We try not to make too big a mess and get ourselves in trouble.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  Liza’s smile was wistful. “He’s okay. Good days and bad. But I’m so grateful that he’s able to live with us, and he’s got his nurse—”

  “Pass the sweet potatoes.” John, who was still flashing death rays at Beau and hadn’t eaten the sweet potatoes he already had on his plate, seemed to realize his barking was rude. “Please,” he added grudgingly.

  Beau’s jaw tightened.

  “John,” Liza began, but Jillian was all over this one.

  “Listen, Mr. President,” she began, lifting the heavy china bowl of sweet potatoes and thinking how lovely it would be to flick a heaping spoonful into her brother’s face, “you can take these sweet potatoes and stick them where the sun—”

  “It’s okay, Jill.” Beau’s voice was quiet, but his honeyed skin was pale and his scar looked stark and red, a sure sign of turmoil. “It’s not your job to defend me. And I think the president and I need to have a conversation. It’s overdue.”

  John sneered, baring his teeth in a way that made Jillian want to snatch the butter knife away from his fisted hands. “Don’t call me ‘the president,’ you son-of-a-”

  “John,” Liza cried.

  “I don’t mind, Liza,” Beau said. “I’ve been called worse. And your husband and I have some air to clear.”

  “Gee. You think?” John said. Reaching for his goblet, he drained it, then signaled to Jillian.

  Without a word, she passed the nearly empty wine bottle down to him. It probably wasn’t a good idea to get him drunk, but things weren’t going so hot with him sober, either. At this rate, they’d need another three or four bottles before dessert, and Liza and Beau weren’t even drinking.

  Thus fortified, John faced off with Beau while the women fidgeted in their seats and tried to become invisible.

  “I’ll start,” John said. “My sister is a grown woman. She’s strong and smart and gets to run her own life and make her own decisions. If she wants you back, I support that a hundred percent.”

  Though these were all the right words, Jillian knew better than to relax.

  “Great.” Beau’s jaw tightened with grim satisfaction.

  “That said,” John continued, “I still want to rip your balls out through your throat for what you did to her, and I retain the right to do that in the future if you break her heart again. Just so we’re clear.”

  “Great,” Beau said again. “I’m all for clarity, so here goes. I don’t blame you. I’d’ve kicked my ass at the front door if I were you. I have it coming. That and more.”

  John gaped at him, utter disbelief etched in every line of his face. “You always know how to say the right thing, don’t you, Beau? Always know how to play the game—”

  “Do I look like I’m playing?” Beau roared.

  More glaring ensued. John’s mouth hung open and he seemed startled into silence, but maybe he was only storing up energy for a final climactic assault.

  Right. Time for distraction.

  “Do you two, ah, have any idea yet about the twins’ sex?”

  “One of each,” Liza said.

  What a fantastic blessing. “Oh, that’s won—”

  But Beau and John weren’t finished with their conversation.

  “See that you don’t hurt her again,” John said, his powers of speech returned at last.

  Beau glanced at Jillian and gave her one of those private, unsmiling looks so full of meaning that the intensity of it sizzled up and down her spine. She dimpled with encouragement, and he turned back to John.

  “I know I’ll never change your mind about me,” Beau told him with utter sadness but no self-pity. “I wish I could, but I know I can’t.”

  Staring down at his plate, Beau picked up his fork and started to take a bite of something. “This looks great, Jill—”

  Without warning, John lashed out, snatched the plate away and plunked it down on the other side of the table, well out of Beau’s reach. A sound dangerously like a warning growl vibrated from Beau as he dropped his fork and faced John again, shoulders bunched with tension.

  John planted his elbows on the table and jabbed two fingers in Beau’s face. “The thing you don’t understand, Beau, is that you didn’t just betray Jillian. I loved you, man. You were my brother. Are you feeling me? For years, you were my brother, and if anyone had warned me that you were going to do what you did, I’d’ve laughed in their face and called them a liar. But you made a liar out of me, didn’t you? You c
ouldn’t keep your shit in your pants and you blew all that to kingdom come, didn’t you?”

  This conversation was killing Jillian—just ripping her open down the middle and pulling her guts out. She could hardly stand to look at either man and see all that harsh animosity, which was compounded to the nth degree by the raw hoarseness in their voices. Ducking her head, she used her napkin to swipe at her unexpected tears, but Beau sat tall, ready to take all this and more, if need be.

  “How many times can I tell you I’m sorry?” he asked.

  “No idea.” There was no mercy in John’s flashing eyes, and no signs of it coming anytime soon. “Why don’t you keep saying it, and I’ll let you know.”

  Wincing, Beau tossed his napkin on the table and turned his head away, staring out the window at nothing. Jillian and Liza exchanged silent glances of commiseration, but no one said anything. Jillian wasn’t sure what, if anything, to say. Beau had made himself this bed with John; maybe he needed to lie in it for a while. That was between him and John, wasn’t it?

  The stalemate might have continued forever, but a quiet new voice entered the fray. “I’m wondering,” Liza said to her husband, “if you should be throwing these particular stones.”

  Whoa. If anyone had thought the tension at the table couldn’t get any thicker, they’d been wrong. Absolutely wrong. Dead wrong.

  John’s nostrils flared; Liza, looking placid, folded her hands in her lap and stared him down; Jillian wished she had two fingers of scotch, neat.

  “What the hell,” John asked, his voice low and gravelly, as though someone had fed his vocal cords through a paper shredder, “is that supposed to mean?”

  Liza shrugged, displaying the calm levelheadedness that had served her so well as a news correspondent. “This was all before my time, Mr. President, so you’ll have to correct me if I’ve got my history wrong. But it seems to me that, number one, you cheated on your first wife during a rough patch in your marriage.” She held up one finger, and then another. “Number two, you changed and asked for forgiveness, number three, she forgave you, and, number four, you were a wonderful and loving husband after that.”