Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7)

by Cecilia London

  “There is no maybe,” he said. “I understand why he might have done it at first. There’s no excuse for it now. I’m still pissed he anglicized my name as well. He can pretend he’s not Catalan but I never will.”

  Well. That helped fill in some of Alexander’s blanks. “You’ve got a passion for doing good and a desire to break free from the trappings of typical legal practice. What did you do after you left the firm?”

  “Invested some of the inheritance and started planning for my retirement. Helped college and law school friends with seed funds for startups and the like. Traveled. I had big plans for that money. It was a gift that deserved respect and needed to be used well. I wanted to form a nonprofit that helped refugees from war-torn areas, or people who were persecuted because of their beliefs. I was well on my way, too, making contacts and gaining skills. I wanted to do it right, you know? I wasn’t going to rush into anything because I knew I had plenty of time. And then…” His voice trailed off, and I knew where his timeline ended. Fuck Santos indeed.

  “And then it all hit the fan,” I said.

  Asking a person about their political leanings can be hard. It’s even harder when you have to ask them how they spent their time under a pseudo-fascist regime. Their answers reveal the quality of their moral fiber, without question. If they did nothing to stem the tide, you have to dig deeper to find out why. Were they acting out of desperation? Self-preservation? Selfishness? If they were a member of a marginalized group, they might have done their best to lay low and ride it out.

  That was what I tried to do when Santos first ascended to power. I was in a position to do something to counter his increasingly troubling conduct, but I had Jessica to think of. High profile female Republican United States Senator with a gay daughter, who also happened to be close friends with Caroline Gerard, one of the president’s biggest critics… keeping my head down seemed the best course of action.

  I could make all the excuses I wanted. My complicity had been a copout and I knew it. I had a feverish craving to keep my child safe and hoped my privilege and power would allow me to do so. It would be hypocritical of me to stand in judgment of someone who did the same.

  But at a certain point it became impossible not to see what was happening. There was no excuse for those who permanently buried their heads in the sand or proclaimed their support for Santos and his practices. And there were plenty of Americans like that out there, who had used their ignorance as a buffer against the reality of the Santos Administration and would continue to wield their clubs of obliviousness like the trolls they were. I wanted nothing to do with them anymore, for they had nothing of value to offer me.

  Which, truth be told, made any hypothetical post-presidential speaking tours sound relatively fruitless.

  “I tried,” Alexander said. “Santos spiraled out of control so quickly. I should have done more. I was so tempted to run to Europe.”

  “That would have been a totally acceptable course of action,” I said.

  “I know.” He stared into his wine glass. “Susannah and I didn’t interact much but I remember hearing through the grapevine that she had put in for that transfer to France. I’m glad her timing worked out.”

  I didn’t like to think about what would have happened if her plans had gone awry. Susannah would have been branded a traitor because of her association with me, and Jacob’s family was Jewish. They would have had any number of strikes against them.

  “Me too,” I said. “Sometimes I wonder if I should have done more. Raised my voice. Stayed longer.”

  Alexander shook his head. “Christine, if you’d done any of those things you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

  Because I’d be dead. My, wasn’t this pleasant first date conversation. “What did you do?”

  “Funneled money to friends who needed it. Listened at doors. Played around a bit with the Underground. Nothing serious but… let’s just say my metaphorical Rolodex is about as empty as yours. A lot of people I knew got hurt. Or hurt others. Makes you rethink your priorities and whether those closest to you really share your values.” He managed a smile. “But I’m hoping the country is back on track.”

  “I had very little to do with it.”

  “The absence of something can be of substance,” he said. “You kept the nation calm during a time of colossal upheaval. No scandal, no further tragedy, nothing but open and honest government. That’s to be admired.”

  “Well,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Except for your Second Reconstruction. I did take some issues with how it was implemented.”

  That didn’t sound good. “In what sense?”

  The kitchen timer went off right as Alexander opened his mouth again. “Saved by the bell,” he said. “But I’ll be glad to discuss my many policy proposals with you as we dine.”

  If they were any good, maybe I’d pass them along to people who could actually do something about it. “Are you just using me to get closer to the wonks in Washington?”

  “I don’t know.” He pulled the lasagna from the oven, his face a bit red from the heat. “Will it be worth the effort?”

  I joined him as he began to plate the meal. “Not if I can find a diplomatic way to blow you off.”

  He laughed. “I suspect you’re capable of much more than diplomacy.”

  Was he attracted to bitches with a heart of gold? Could Alexander be more than a fling, but less than a serious commitment? Did I even know which one was the better option?

  Oh, there was no doubt. I couldn’t wait to find out what else I could discover about this man over dinner.

  Chapter 8

  “I hath baketh you pie,” Caroline said, setting a breathtaking lemon meringue down on the coffee table.

  One of the main reasons I looked forward to our biweekly meetings. She was my eternally reliable path to homemade sweets, including the tiramisu that, after a single bite, had clearly won me points with Alexander during our date the night before.

  “Looks great,” I said.

  I heard a satisfying crunch as she sliced a knife through the crust, sliding a generously sized piece onto a plate and handing it to me along with a fork. “Eat up. You need sustenance.”

  Both of us did. She had quite a few pounds to go before she got up to her pre-Santos fighting weight, as we sardonically referred to it. Making a joke out of it was a hell of a lot easier than sitting down to unpack the reasons behind her bodily changes.

  “Got a surgery in the wings.” She pointed to her face.

  Well, that was sudden. Usually she’d let me get at least one serving in before laying consequential news on me. “You don’t need a nose job. Or anything else.”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I’m not talking aesthetics. This is a purely practical surgery. I’ve had trouble breathing and Jack and I have decided, in consultation with my physician, that surgery is the best option.”

  Oh. Maybe I should have let her explain before jumping in feet first and sticking said feet in my mouth. “Do you need any help?”

  “It’s fine. Outpatient stuff. I suppose having a smoother nose will end up being a nice bonus, but at this point I’ll take looking like a toucan if it means I no longer have so many sinus issues. I waited far too long to do it but when it first happened I didn’t have a lot of options.”

  I won’t lie, when we first reunited it took me a while to get used to Caroline’s altered appearance. We change as we age, but her differences were largely the result of a few dozen pistol whippings and gruesome assaults. It pained me to think about the kind of force needed to exact that kind of damage on a human face, particularly hers. I was usually able to block it out except when the two of us had our periodic cathartic talks about all the things we missed during the two years we were apart.

  “Anything else giving you trouble?” I asked.

  She wiggled her fingers. Another casualty of her resistance to Santos—a couple crooked digits thanks to a la
ckey with a hammer and an innately sadistic demeanor. “They do this weird achy thing when it gets cold or when it rains. Swelling and such. But they’ll do. Wedding rings fit, which is all I care about.”

  “How’s Jack doing?”

  “PT session today. Might need a couple more procedures to tidy up the knee a bit.” She paused. “At his last appointment the surgeon told us the cane was likely a permanent thing.”

  A not unanticipated revelation, but hard to hear. “How’s he taking that?”

  “About as well as you’d expect.”

  Not very, in other words. “He’s going to spend the rest of his life proving that doctor wrong, isn’t he?”

  Caroline took a bite of her own pie. “I assume so, yes. I’ve decided to force the issue. Every once in a while, I head downstairs and start doing full court running layup drills. I make him come with me and watch.”

  “You and your strange sexual fetishes,” I said blandly.

  She chuckled. “You know that’s not why I do it. Although his comments on my technique are sometimes annoying.”

  When Jack and Caroline had renovated their house, they’d made it much more accessible. Their master suite was now on the first floor. They made sure the outdoor and indoor pools were easy to get to. Perhaps most conspicuously, though, they hadn’t done away with Jack’s custom Villanova basketball court in the basement, which was an homage to his four years spent playing high Division I basketball. If that was what it took to inspire him, so be it.

  “He misses the ease of being active,” I said.

  “Indeed he does. Time won’t stop for any of us but we’ve all got a lot of years left. And you know how he hates being told what he can and can’t do. If you want to make a few cracks about his relative lack of movement, that might serve as additional motivation.”

  I’d never do that, and she knew it. “Think of another method. How goes everything else?”

  “Therapy this week was good. Still outlining my memoirs. Still working through my anger. Still wondering whether the country will get back to what we thought it was or what we hope it can be. Still trying to figure out why people love Sudoku and KenKen so much. You know, regular stuff. How about you, Chrissy-poo?”

  “Living the dream.”

  “Do you need more desserts? I want to make sure you’re hitting all your nutritional benchmarks.”

  I wasn’t sure butter and eggs and heavy cream helped provide me with the vitamins and minerals I needed on a daily basis, but I would never turn down her baked goods. “Might need another one next week. Perhaps something in Bundt form?”

  “Your wish is not my command because that’s a super lame request. You’re getting flan cheesecake instead. Maybe someday I’ll let you help in the kitchen.”

  God forbid. But I didn’t want to talk about sugar and spice and everything nice all day. We routinely kept things light during our visits, but today I had purpose.

  “Punky, can I ask you something?”

  “Yes, you can meet the dog. Next question.”

  Caroline had promised her daughters a puppy the previous Christmas. It had taken them a while to go through the process, but they’d finalized everything the previous week. She’d texted me a bunch of happy emojis and squealy exclamation point-riddeled messages once they made it official, but had flat-out refused to send a picture before the next time I visited.

  “That wasn’t what I was going to ask, but I would be thrilled to meet your puppy.”

  “Sophie and Marguerite’s puppy,” she corrected. “They’re both upstairs, presumably with the doggo. Want me to get them? They’ll be happy to see you.”

  Marguerite was in her second semester at Villanova and popped home more often than most freshmen would. But she had her reasons. “Later. Look, I’ve got a serious question for you.”

  “Ask away, then.”

  “Do you think I still, you know, have it?”

  “It? What is it?”

  “You know…” Was she really going to make me say it out loud?

  “Chrissy, if you can’t define what it is, I’m not sure you should be using it for anything.”

  Susannah wondered why I didn’t want to talk to her about intensely personal bits of my life. If my best friend was going to give me a hard time about my difficulties discussing… things, how would my own child react?

  Fortunately, Caroline spoke again before I was forced to explain myself. “You want to know if you’re still sexy,” she said.

  A bite of pie dropped rather inelegantly from my fork to the plate. Such timing. “I guess so.”

  She started to get up. “We could ask Jack.”

  Lord help me. “Please don’t.”

  She flounced back on the couch. “You’re no fun. But… should I draw this out for effect?”

  “Again, please don’t.”

  “You’re super hot. Blazing. Like, blonde bombshell bordering on silver fox hot. On occasion you make me question my own sexuality.”

  “Come on,” I said.

  “Seriously. And your legs. Damn, Chrissy, you have the lower body physique of a thirty year old. Mine never looked that good. Ever.”

  My bestie thought I had great gams. Lovely. “You’re teasing me.”

  She licked some meringue off her fork before pointing it at me. “Wouldn’t you like to know, eh?”

  I didn’t need her giving me a crash course on the lesbian continuum. “I mean it, Caroline. I need some reinforcement.”

  “You’re fucking gorgeous and you know it. And you’ve never fished for flattery before. Why now?”

  Revealing things to my best friend involved a delicate balance of timing and phrasing, lest the conversation devolve into chaos. But it seemed as good a time as any to dip my toe in the water. “I went out on a date last night.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  She slapped the couch cushion, making the connection immediately. “This is why you had me bring you a tiramisu yesterday. You never ask me for shit that fancy. You gave a man fraudulent baked goods.”

  “Well, yes.” I didn’t bother justifying myself. She knew how to prepare yummy things. I didn’t. Was it so very wrong to tell a little white dessert lie to save face on a first date?

  “I spent hours on that thing.”

  Okay, now I felt a little guilty. “It was good, though. I believe said man proclaimed it remarkable.”

  “Of course it was remarkable! I made it!” She smacked my arm. “You’re a charlatan, President Sullivan, and your schemes hurt me here,” she said, theatrically placing her hand over her heart. “But anyway, your deception is fine, I’m totally over it, please tell me more about the date you neglected to mention while asking me to expend considerable energy in making you a dish that I erroneously assumed was solely for your consumption.”

  Caroline may have given up her career in public service, but she could still pivot back and forth between issues to the next like a champ. “It wasn’t something I planned on doing,” I said. “But then it just kind of happened so I went with it.”

  “Obviously.”

  Her feelings were hurt. I could tell. And it wasn’t really about the tiramisu. “I was going to tell you but...”

  “Did you think I would talk you out of it?”

  It had been so, so hard to keep my mouth shut. I told her almost everything I felt was worth sharing. “No, but I was afraid that talking to you would provide me with an excuse not to do it.”

  “Ah,” she said. “The curse of the overthinker.”

  Pretty much. Both of us had the annoying habit of analyzing everything to pieces. “I met him at Susannah’s office.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “At that retirement party she forced you to go to?”

  “Yes. You might say he was an unintentional bonus to a fairly uneventful evening.”

  “Oh, my my my.” Caroline took another generous scoopful of meringue. “We have been busy, haven’t we?”

>   Dare I tell her the meatiest part? “Susannah was trying to set me up with the retiree and, well, I hit it off with his son.”

  “No way.” She started laughing. “Some poor little man got cockblocked by his own flesh and blood. Harsh.”

  He wasn’t poor and he wasn’t little and his cock deserved to get blocked but that was a story for another day. Caroline would have to settle for the Cliffs Notes version of how everything went down. “I didn’t know he was related to the guest of honor when I first ran into him. Literally. And then I, uh, asked him out.”

  “Making the first move. And describing it so inarticulately. We’re full of surprises today, aren’t we? So, tell me about this man. Has he earned a second date?”

  I reached across her to snag a second piece of pie. “I think so. He’s quite appealing.”

  “Ooh, do tell.”

  “He’s nice.” For the love of god, now I sounded like Susannah.

  “Okay.”

  I had to do better. “And sweet.”

  “Sure.”

  “And funny.”

  “Chrissy, can you be more specific? What’s he look like? What does he do? Does he appreciate a good cookie? Does he challenge you? Is he willing to put up with a home cooked meal from me and Jack?”

  “Will you be preparing the main course or the dessert?”

  She yanked the slice of pie out of my hands. “Are you implying I’m a shitty cook? Because this meringue can hang out in my tummy instead of yours.”

  “I was, but I can also state it directly. You cannot prepare most foods well.”

  “You co-opt my homemade tiramisu, which I made from scratch—”

  “Did you mill the flour yourself?” I interrupted.

  “Shut up, you’re not stealing my thunder. I made that damn thing from scratch and you used it to weasel your way into some strange man’s heart and you dare malign my cooking skills? Need I remind you that you almost set fire to your brand spanking new condo while sautéing some chicken?”

  “That burner was way too hot. How was I to know?”