Contents
Title
Copyright
Quote
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgements
Songbird
A Bellator Saga Novel
by Cecilia London
© 2020 Cecilia London/Principatum Publishing
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher, with the exception of excerpts for reviews and blog postings.
The songbirds keep singing like they know the score.
Christine McVie
Dedication
This book is for my mother, who told me there was entirely too much graphic sexual content in The Bellator Saga. You might want to avoid the hand job in Chapter 11. I promise I’ll write a cozy mystery… someday.
Chapter 1
There is a distinct segment of the DNA in my family that has yet to be completely sequenced but allows its human host to behave in a suitably passive-aggressive way whenever the situation requires it. I hadn’t realized until now that bath towels could be shoved into a person’s arms in such a manner.
My daughter and I had traded barbs. Ignored our fair share of issues that remained unresolved and undiscussed. Behaved spitefully at times. But Susannah had never demonstrated her frustration with me via violently delivered household goods. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
“See you in the morning,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door of the guest bedroom.
Purposeful obfuscation. Brilliant. “Merry Christmas,” I replied, since a few hours of the holiday remained. A comment meant to up the ante but hey, she started it.
Which was not the most mature thing for a fifty-seven-year-old woman—who also happened to be the leader of the free world—to say to her eldest child.
Perhaps I should explain. During the previous summer I, Christine Spencer Sullivan, of sound mind and relatively sound body, had been drafted into a position I neither sought nor desired after President Lorenzo Santos effectively devolved the United States of America into a state of pseudo-fascism.
He was summarily removed from office a short time later. With a bullet. Or thirty. I couldn’t recall the specific number from the autopsy report.
With a presumably equally deceased Vice President and a Cabinet and legislative branch in shambles, the order of succession was…shaky at best. A former GOP member of Congress turned Senator turned unofficial leader of exiled American ex-pats, I was an altogether respectable, safe candidate to get the nation back on track. As I had never been one to decline a request on behalf of my country, I accepted a temporary appointment to the presidency in order to guide the United States through the shaky period of Post-WTF Just Happened through Hey, How About Some Free and Fair Elections?
The questionable constitutionality of that appointment had been debated and deliberated at tiresome length. The discussion would undoubtedly continue once I vacated the White House. I had every intention of returning to Pennsylvania immediately, to a home in Bryn Mawr, disconnected from Washington by more than miles. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with pundits and legal analysts ever again. The ship was righted, the republic had set sail, and I looked forward to cheerfully relinquishing my role as head of state when my successor, the democratically and properly elected Senator Roger Bailey of Minnesota, took the reins in less than a month.
Now here I was, a woman who’d been about as long in office as William Henry Harrison (give or take a few humdrum, non-pneumonia-ridden months) and about as accomplished. People could argue that I’d preserved the union, facilitated the safe transition of power, perhaps improved upon some of the White House’s interior decorating, yadda yadda, but I’d been a placeholder and nothing more.
I’d taken each day as it had come, counting them off one by one from July through election night, until finally January 20 was just around the corner. I had to hold on for only a few more weeks until I was free to live a life of peace and serenity and lucrative speechmaking, spending time with family and friends at my leisure.
Except half my family was gone.
I could count the family I had on one hand. With a couple fingers left over. I had Susannah. My best friend Caroline, whom I’d once thought dead but had ended up leading the revolution that ended the Santos regime. Her husband, Jack, who shared equally in said leadership and had the literal battle scars to prove it. And Caroline’s children, Marguerite and Sophie, who spent two traumatic years with me in Ottawa as we staggered through each day believing almost everyone we loved to be dead.
Yes, Caroline and Jack were living happily ever after, reunited with their kids and steadily achieving a sense of normalcy after two years of anguish. One might even say the country got its optimistic ending as well, albeit a work in progress.
My happiness proved more elusive. I didn’t have my husband, Tom. Or my youngest daughter, Jessica. They were… departed. No longer of this world. They had sacrificed themselves so Marguerite, Sophie, and I could cross the Canadian border to safety, in whatever form we thought it would take. The events of that wintry night cut deep, deep enough that I’d locked them away in the farthest recesses of my soul. I hated talking or even thinking about what had happened, though the memories managed to creep up in the nightmares that weren’t quite willing to let me go.
One day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time, modified when necessary. I’d not so shamelessly stolen that philosophy from Caroline, who’d had to apply the same piecemeal tactic in equally trying circumstances.
Unfortunately, that approach required me to get through the winter holidays first. I’d never been all that jolly, but I thought Susannah and I did all right over the course of the day. I behaved myself (for the most part). We spent a few hours at Caroline and Jack’s, and I was remarkably civil to Jacob, Susannah’s husband. Cordial, in fact. I played with Susannah’s twin boys in a properly grandma-like manner. I even helped make the mashed potatoes. All of these were appropriate elder stateswoman things to do, right?
Our honeymoon apparently ended once we got back to her house.
“What time are you leaving in the morning?” Susannah asked.
I should have stayed at Caroline and Jack’s. Why had I agreed to spend the night at my daughter’s? And why hadn’t my cranky, perhaps slightly intoxicated daughter left the room yet?
“I can leave now, if that’s what you want.” I tossed the towels on the bed for good measure.
Susannah crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not sure why you came.”
“Everything all right in here?” Jacob poked his head into the doorway. “Though I heard somet
hing fall.”
Oh, subtle. Very subtle. He knew how I felt about him and therefore knew that since I was in his house, he somehow had the high ground. Neither he nor his wife would cede any of it, I was sure.
I refolded the towels before placing them on the nightstand. “We’re fine.”
Jacob glanced at his wife. “Just making sure.”
Susannah gave him a peck on the cheek. “Go check on the boys.”
A curt dismissal. Maybe I wasn’t the sole target of her passive-aggression. He looked between us one more time before scurrying down the hall.
“I’m surprised you didn’t keep him here,” I said. “Two against one. Much better odds.”
She rubbed her temples before sitting down on the bed. “Mother, stop. I can’t keep this up all night. I had too much Moscato.”
Caroline’s doing, no doubt. She’d been deprived of her favorite alcoholic beverage for too long and as a result, the booze had flowed like water during dinner. All adults had partaken liberally. I could feel my own wine-induced headache coming on. “You need to tell me what I did before I can apologize for it.”
Because that was how it worked. We hurt each other, apologized, swore never to do it again, then did precisely that. A perfectly dysfunctional circle of life.
“You’ve been to the house,” she said.
Was that the issue? The house in Bryn Mawr. The house that she’d spent the bulk of her formative years in, along with her sister. The first place I’d ever realized what home meant, thanks to Tom.
And yes, I’d been there. For a matter of minutes. The key worked, the structure was sound, and there was no proof of the kind of ransacking Caroline’s properties had undergone. I had been pleasantly surprised but hadn’t lingered. I went there with a specific purpose, achieved it, and left, noting that it would need a good cleaning before it was livable again.
“Briefly,” I admitted. “I prefer to be in Washington.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve noticed.”
She hadn’t noticed the truth behind the lie, though. I couldn’t stand being in the White House, but at present it was better than the alternative. I wasn’t about to peel back the layers of that psychological tidbit though. “I’ve invited you to stay with me numerous times. You know you’re welcome. It’s the people’s house.”
Susannah tried to hide her eyeroll but I caught it anyway. “Sure.”
Perhaps I could have phrased that better. I tried again. “Coming to D.C. for the weekend gives your children the opportunity to destroy valuables in an entirely different zip code.”
“At taxpayer expense? No thanks.”
Were we getting along or not? We were quite efficient arguers but not nearly as resourceful when it came to the nitty gritty. “I just want to make sure you know I’d be glad to have you visit. Even if I’m only there myself for a few more weeks.”
“You gave Daddy’s letter jacket to Caroline,” she said softly.
With that, she got us back on track. “I’m sorry?” I said, unsure if I’d heard her correctly.
“Yes,” she said. “You should be.”
“I—”
“That’s why you went to the house, right? To get the jacket?”
Pretty much. I’d also grabbed a few photos and mementos to give to Caroline, but nothing else of value. “I needed to make sure it was habitable.”
“Such a non-answer. Nicely done, President Sullivan.”
Fine. She wanted direct, she would get direct. “Yes. My sole purpose was to retrieve the jacket.”
“You went back to a house you hadn’t lived in for almost three years, hadn’t even checked on aside from driving past it, to get one of my father’s most cherished personal possessions in order to gift it to someone who isn’t even a member of our immediate family.”
Well, when she phrased it like that, it sounded rotten on any number of levels. Maybe a real apology was in order. “I’m sorry. I can get it back.”
Susannah sighed. “Don’t do that. It would hurt Caroline’s feelings. I saw how she responded when you gave it to her.”
“She’ll get over it.” At least, I thought she would. She loved Notre Dame as much as my husband had, and once bonded with him over his football career. His letter jacket was arguably the most tangible reminder of the bygone days spent at his beloved alma mater. “I’ll ask her to give it back.”
“No,” Susannah said, her voice firmer this time. “There’s no sense in upsetting anyone else in a cheap attempt to remedy your mistake.”
“I truly am sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think—”
“That’s exactly the problem. You didn’t think. You don’t think. I bet it never occurred to you that it was something I might want.”
It hadn’t, but I wasn’t about to verbalize that truth. Her therapist had enough fodder already. Maybe I could explain myself, even if it was a rather shoddy effort. “Jack renovated his office for her. So she could have a safe space to deal with everything she’s been through. He managed to get copies of diplomas, old awards, sports memorabilia, photos, and—” The more I said the worse my lapse in judgment sounded but I kept going. “And you know how much your father cared about Caroline. They both were so loyal to that school so I thought it would look nice in her office and give her happy memories and… I should have asked you first.”
“You never talk about Daddy. Or Jess. Why not?”
Susannah would never normally broach this topic were she sober. I debated whether to engage. It was something we needed to hash out, something that would take far more than a single mother—daughter chat. She and I knew exactly which buttons to push on the other person, and we rarely did so unless we had a specific reason. Like frustration. Or anger. Or grief-laden curiosity.
Deflection was my default response to Susannah’s button pushing, and this evening’s attempt would fare no different. “Susannah, let’s not do this tonight. It’s Christmas.”
“Yes,” she said. “As you noted earlier. I haven’t forgotten.” She held up a finger. “Don’t counter me with a sarcastic retort. I’m not in the mood.”
I certainly was. “Not tonight,” I repeated.
“You never talk about them. Ever. It’s not healthy. Especially during the time of year they enjoyed the most.”
They had, which was what made holidays so agonizing. Tom had a large, boisterous family and he’d always gone over the top when it came to presents and celebrations. For decades we’d thrown a New Year’s Eve bash that brought what seemed like every person he’d ever met to our door, however briefly. He had a lot of former patients, former colleagues, former classmates, former anythings, and he never forgot a face or a name. All of them had been welcome in our home.
I spent the bulk of those evenings making small talk and playing politician schmooze games once I ran for office, but by the time the clock struck midnight I was ready to fall over. Large, overwhelming social occasions were not my bag.
And Jess… Jess had loved everything, regardless of the time of year or the weather or the occasion. She’d milked every last drop out of life like it was the nectar of the gods.
Just thinking about them made me hurt. Caused me actual physical pain. Tom still had plenty of family and friends around, as did Jess. But they hadn’t reached out to me, undoubtedly because they knew how much of a social hermit I truly was. Perhaps it was my obligation to seek them out, to hold their hands, to ease their pain, but I couldn’t do it. I’d managed to hold the country together for a few months but I couldn’t very well be expected to heal hearts on an individual basis. I just didn’t have it in me. I never had.
“I can’t talk about them,” I whispered. “I’m not ready.”
“Every time you avoid it, it gets worse.” Susannah sniffled. “You’re the only person I can share my grief with, and you don’t want to. That really hurts.”
“Susannah—”
“I bet you talk about them with Caroline. Don’t you?”
Was this jealousy, o
r anger, or confusion? I couldn’t read her at all and didn’t know if her primary motivation remained the jacket or if she’d pivoted to something else. But I wasn’t going to delve into my swamp of despair with her. Not under these circumstances. Some things belonged to me alone.
“That’s none of your business,” I snapped.
“Which means you have.” Susannah glared at me. “Sometimes I feel like you consider her more your family than me.”
An awful thing for my daughter to think, let alone say aloud, yet it wasn’t all that outlandish an accusation. “Caroline is my sister,” I said. “Or the closest I have to one.”
“She’s closer to me in age than you.”
What was she getting at? Susannah was thirty-five; Caroline was ten years older. I failed to see the relevance of her comment. “I’m aware of that.”
“She’s totally devoted to you. You don’t need to buy her love with gifts.”
Was that what Susannah thought I was doing? “Are you saying that’s how I need to behave with you? That perhaps it would improve our relationship?” I reached for my purse. “Because if that’s the case—”
“Mom.” Susannah stilled my hand. “You don’t make it easy for people to talk to you. You know that, right?”
Oh, I was very aware of my many flaws. She could never tell me anything I didn’t already know. And yet… “Your communication skills aren’t that spectacular either. Especially for a lawyer.”
“I seem to only have this issue with you.”
Fabulous. “Susannah, please. Say what you mean.”
“I wish that you could be as easy with me as you are with her. Then things like this wouldn’t happen, because you would naturally know better.”
I couldn’t explain why I behaved the way I did sometimes. I only knew that there were two individuals in the entire world with whom I could feel completely comfortable. One of them was gone, and the other was at this very moment proudly displaying the material proof of my indifference to my own child in her private office. “I’m sorry.”
Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7) Page 1