Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7)

by Cecilia London

  “I had to watch your father die,” I said softly.

  Susannah didn’t say anything.

  “I couldn’t save him. I tried. I tried so hard.” Dear god this was difficult. “I never even had a chance with Jessie.” My voice caught. “I can’t—not even Caroline knows all that happened. I haven’t even talked about it with Marguerite and Sophie and they were there. I just—”

  “Mom—”

  “No.” I pinched my eyes with my thumb and index finger, willing the tears to stay at bay. “I need you to understand. I’ve handled my grief poorly. I’ve been a shitty mother. You can’t tell me anything I haven’t already told myself. I just need you to know that I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, I’m far from perfect, I’m doing the best I can, and I love you. And now I’m going to get out of the car before I start crying.”

  Susannah grabbed my hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That came out of nowhere. I was out of line.”

  “You were completely in line. Don’t apologize for sharing how you feel. It’s the only way the two of us are going to muddle through to where we need to be.”

  “I have to get home to the twins but can I see you next week?”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “You can see me any time you want.”

  She hugged me in return. “Mom, I don’t want to start another argument, but will you at least consider calling George? I don’t think you got to see his best side. Or, if you need to, think about calling someone else?”

  Was that a hint to finally break down and see a psychologist? It wasn’t a bad suggestion. Everyone else I knew was in therapy. But I suddenly had a better idea. Granted, it usurped Susannah’s intent and kicked any of my remaining goodwill into the stratosphere, but it provided me the first awareness of pure pleasure I’d had in years.

  “I’ll call him,” I said. “Will that make you happy?”

  She hugged me tighter. “A little.”

  Another peck on the cheek and I was on my way upstairs. I’ll call him, Susie, I thought. And I’m going to ask him for Alexander’s phone number.

  *****

  I expect there is a supremely confident woman out there somewhere who doesn’t second guess herself with every decision she makes. I am not that woman, though I have played her on television. I had been the sort of politician who would often conduct multiple mock pressers in her head days before a significant public appearance just to make sure she’d considered all possible aspects of a question and answer session. And I must have employed my acting skills with great success, because that aloof, reserved persona I’d carefully cultivated maintained itself rather nicely during my time in the spotlight. Didn’t make the act any easier to sustain, though.

  I could have asked Susannah for Alexander’s contact information but didn’t want to disrupt the shaky truce we’d managed to forge. I wasn’t sure what it said about me that I would prefer to face the gauche prospect of asking George the same thing. It would be a pretty expedient way to demonstrate that my level of interest in him was absolutely nil. Served him right, after the way he’d smarmed his way through our meeting the week before.

  I never claimed to be above pettiness. Far from it. And as a woman with a reputation for frostiness, it gave me an opportunity to pad my already icy resumé. Maybe he’d tell his friends what a giant shrew I was and every other single, older man in greater Philadelphia would thus leave me alone. It would also give me the chance to burn George Guardiola’s business card in some sort of ritual cleansing ceremony.

  Short and sweet. That was the plan. He picked up on the third ring. Maybe I’d woken him from a well-deserved retirement nap.

  “George?” I asked.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Christine Sullivan.”

  “Oh ho!”

  So help me, he couldn’t control his obsequiousness even when we weren’t face to face.

  “Yes,” I said. “I wanted to apologize for having to leave early the other night. Normally I stay at these sorts of functions as long as I can.” Which was a complete fabrication, but whatever.

  “Even a few minutes spent with you is a pure delight,” he said.

  Time to cut to the chase before he had a chance to think of any more ineffectual compliments. “I was hoping to ask you a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Do you have Alexander’s phone number?”

  A pause. A longer pause. An even longer pause. “I’m sorry?”

  “Your son. His phone number.”

  “You—that is, I—”

  Bitch Mode had been fully engaged. There was no turning back. The knife, having been expertly inserted in his back, could now be twisted. “I can get it from Susannah if you don’t have it handy.”

  “No, I—” A whoosh and a sound like he’d dropped his phone. Or thrown it. That was a possibility. “I have it right here; I just need to find it in my directory. If I accidentally hang up on you, call back.”

  Not likely. “That’s fine.”

  He rattled off the digits and I wrote them down. “Thank you so much, George. That’s quite kind of you.”

  “You’re welcome, Madam President. And may I add—”

  “You needn’t add anything,” I interrupted.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “And, George?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do us both a favor and lose my number.”

  “You… you don’t want anything else?”

  I could almost see his hangdog expression through the phone. Womp womp. He’d have to learn to live with rejection.

  “No, that’s the only reason I called,” I said, staring down at the number in front of me. “Congratulations on your retirement, once again.”

  End call. Done and done.

  *****

  How did humans ask other humans out? I had no idea of the proper etiquette. Even if I could hazard a guess, the protocol might have changed from what it was back when I’d never, ever considered doing it. I spent a good few days plotting out imaginary, perfectly conducted conversations before I decided to pick up the phone and wing it. Of course, he answered on the first ring.

  I cleared my throat. Good, give off that female stalker vibe. Brilliant. “Alexander?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Christine Sullivan. We met at your father’s retirement party last week.”

  “I remember. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  Oh sweet tapdancing baby Jesus, his father told him he gave me his number. I wanted to slide off the couch and melt into the floor. Or throw myself histrionically onto the glass coffee table in front of me. Was I supposed to make small talk? Lead into it? Just get to the point so I could decide whether I was destined to scare him off or not? Small talk. I hated small talk. I should have written down some questions to ask if discussion slowed.

  Yes, I’d been asked out on a lot of dates when I was younger. But I’d turned most of them down. Perhaps I was too driven, too singularly focused, too scared by my relationship with my father to even think of voluntarily spending time with men I was certain would only try to clip my wings. I’d dealt with plenty of them in a professional setting, used my feminine wiles once or twice to get what I wanted, but other than that, I was unfamiliar with the practical application of flirting.

  “Are you still there?” he asked.

  I’d been silent for so long he thought I’d hung up. Hopefully I hadn’t been breathing heavily. This was already a disaster. “I am.” Was I supposed to say something else? “Um, I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink sometime.” Smooth, very smooth. “Or dinner. Maybe dinner. We could—” We could… do what? Discuss foreign policy? I sounded like a dolt. I felt like a dolt.

  “Are you trying to ask me out?”

  The smile in his voice soothed me somewhat. “Yes.”

  “I’ve never been asked out by a head of state before,” he said.

  “Former,” I corrected automatically.

  “Of course,” he said. “Although
I must say you’re a much more attractive head of state than our current president.” He paused, and for a minute I thought he might have hung up. “Not politically,” he said quickly. “Physically. Not that I have any problems with Bailey’s policies. I mean, I voted for him, and I’m pretty liberal in terms of my belief system. And I don’t mean to imply that I find you attractive solely because of your physical appearance because I’m sure there’s much more to you than your looks or even your politics and I’m royally messing this up, aren’t I?”

  Maybe I wasn’t the only nervous one. It couldn’t have been fun for him to have to sit through a talk with his father in which said father basically told him that the woman he’d been pining after for months had the hots for his son. “You’re fine,” I said. More than fine.

  “Dinner sounds good. Does dinner work for you?”

  “Yes.” I slid down on the couch in relief. That hadn’t been so hard. The coffee table was safe for now.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  All these basic, simple questions that he expected me to have an answer for and I didn’t. Poor Alexander, thinking I’d be a logical, rational person who was able to exchange words with other individuals in a manner that indicated I was able to properly interact in polite society.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” I said.

  “Do we have to go someplace that serves family style to accommodate your agents? Are they like older brothers who will beat me up if I try anything?”

  I had a mostly female detail but didn’t want to ruin his momentum. “We don’t have to restrict where we go,” I said. “Though as a practical matter, it won’t be private if we’re in public.” Obviously, genius. You do the words good, Chrissy.

  “I can make you something at my place,” he said. “I whip up a mean lasagna.” He paused again. “Do your agents need to taste the food before you eat it?”

  Was he insecure about the strength of his lasagna-making ability, or just curious? “No,” I reassured him. “But I might ask for a taster if it turns out your cooking skills are lacking.”

  “It’s a subjective standard. Very subjective.”

  He was funny. And much more relaxed than I thought he’d be, after our initial stumbles. I liked that. Maybe I could afford to take this a little less seriously. “They will have to run a background check,” I said. “I’ll need your full name, Social Security number, all your major credit cards including that three-digit security code on the back, and a list of your biggest fears.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  My deadpan delivery apparently wasn’t so obvious over the phone. Perhaps it was better to let the snark subside a bit. “Your address and date of birth along with your social should be fine. They just want to make sure you’re not a serial killer.”

  “Is that a disqualifier?”

  “Depends on who you’ve killed. I’m a vindictive woman who might need a defender every now and again.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when planning the meal.”

  I had to do something to demonstrate I wasn’t a total clod when it came to the whole dating situation. I was supposed to offer something up, right? Like a sacrificial goat but more edible? “I can bring dessert. What’s your favorite?”

  “Tiramisu,” he said instantly. “I’ll eat just about anything but let’s see how you do with ladyfingers and espresso.”

  He was good at poking back. And I had plenty of time to figure out how to obtain said tiramisu. “Done,” I said.

  He technically hadn’t requested that I make the tiramisu myself. And I had to impress this man, someway, somehow. I needed to plot, and plot I would.

  Chapter 7

  I’d forgotten how heavy and rich tiramisu was. It had practically set off the airbag weight sensor in my Mercedes. I probably should have belted it in for extra protection. I was actually driving myself to Alexander’s house, with my agents in tow, after making a suitable effort to confirm that he was, in fact, not a serial killer. I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or not.

  His address was just south of where I’d spent most of the past several decades in Bryn Mawr. Not that I should have been surprised; that part of Main Line Philadelphia was an easy sell. I wasn’t sure how I’d pictured where he’d live or why he’d live there. Which was why I was hoping to spend some time figuring him out. I knew the bits and pieces I’d gleaned from our first encounter, but didn’t have enough data to fill in the blanks just yet. Aside from his lack of criminal record.

  Maybe I should have had the FBI do a more thorough check to be safe, but that seemed like a misuse of resources I wasn’t really entitled to anymore. What if he had a bad credit rating? Or had some weird vanity plates on his car? Or was an animal hoarder? Or collected Precious Moments figurines? Were these things I could overlook?

  I could almost hear Caroline’s voice in my head telling that maybe I should act like a normal person and get to know other human beings as human beings did. But that made me feel guilty since I’d asked her for the homemade tiramisu now sitting on the passenger seat of my car. She and Jack lived just a few miles north of where I was going, near Villanova, and we had two standing weekly meetings: one at her house for tea and baked goods and one at my condo for… tea and baked goods.

  If there was one thing we’d learned, it was that life was far too short not to have the damn dessert, and she always brought along an extra cookie plate, cake, or pie for me depending on my request. She’d been kind enough to drop by my condo earlier in the day after I’d texted her with an additional dessert order. I probably should have confessed my plans to her but it was too late for that now. Operation Supper and Sweets was a go and I was in mental disarray.

  I pulled into the driveway of a small, neat home. Well-suited to the neighborhood, probably overpriced, as was most of the area. A single man wouldn’t need much more than that, I reasoned. I hated that my agents would essentially have to babysit my vehicle but I hadn’t made the rules. They were getting paid good salaries to watch my back all the time.

  I probably would have done away with the detail entirely but for the fact that the country was going through a bit of a recovery from the whole fascism experiment and I figured better safe than sorry. As a former POTUS, you never knew who had it out for you, or how many bounties were on your head. Aside from that, most of my political enemies were dead at the hand of my predecessor, so at least I had no worries on that end.

  Which was an enormously humbling, disturbing thought. A slice or two of that decadent looking tiramisu and I’d be charged up, full of caffeine, and ruminating over that little anecdote about all of my extinct adversaries until the next morning. Yes, I was going to make quite the impression on Alexander.

  Spring had fully sprung but it was an unseasonably cool night, so I’d packed both my linguistic armor and my emotional support scarf, along with a light full-length jacket. I was a practical woman, if nothing else. I balanced the tiramisu plate carefully on one hand, ringing the doorbell with the other.

  Alexander grabbed the plate out of my hand as soon as he opened the door.

  “Well, then,” I said. “Hello to you too.”

  He waved me inside, placing the plate on a side table next to the door. “It looked like that platter was about to become intimately acquainted with the concrete steps. We can’t have that.”

  “No.” I removed my jacket and handed it to him, watching him hang it neatly in the hall closet. “We cannot.”

  He picked up the tiramisu again. “Is this homemade?”

  Technically. “It is.”

  “Looks fantastic. Let’s put this in the fridge where it’ll keep before dinner.”

  I dutifully followed him into the kitchen.

  “Would you like a tour of the place?” he asked.

  The house had the appearance of a typical smaller Main Line home on the outside, but had been renovated. The entire first floor had an open-concept layout with the kitchen overlooking a living area. Could I affor
d a little sass? “There’s more to it than this?”

  “There’s not much upstairs. Standard three beds up, everything else down.”

  “Did you fix this up?”

  He nodded. “Took it down to the studs. Had to find some way to spend all that sweet sweet junior associate money.”

  Alexander didn’t have to tell me more than that. Most ambitious newly hired baby lawyers would work their fingers literally to the bone in order to justify their salaries, but never had any time to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Susannah had been lucky to move to Paris when she did, for a number of reasons. Her firm’s overseas offices had a much better work-life balance. Still, she’d tooled around Philadelphia for a few years in a cherry red BMW convertible just to make sure she had an outward material indication of all the work she was putting in.

  “Well,” I said. “You did an extraordinary job.”

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked. “I’d be happy to give you a short presentation on the history of the living room.”

  “In general, or the one in this house?”

  “Both, if you prefer.”

  A glass of white wine later, he was giving me the circular tour. “Couch, tv, lounger, windows. You’ve already seen the kitchen. I assume you are most impressed.”

  I took a sip of wine. “I am.”

  “It’s not big, but it works for me.”

  “Why would you need something bigger than this? Are you hiding a secret family somewhere?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out until at least the third date. That’s the real reason I’m reluctant to take you upstairs.”

  “Break ‘em in easy, do you?” I asked.

  It was light, easy banter. Too light, too easy. Like we were trying too hard but not hard enough. Was it supposed to be this way? Was I supposed to say something? Who had more pressure on them, the host or the guest? I was running out of clever things to say.