The Peace Maker

by Michele Chynoweth

  “Actually, yes they were,” Chessa said, trying to lighten the mood. But her husband and his parents just stared at her, realizing she was serious.

  Donald Richards excused himself to go to the “little boys’ room.” But when he got up from his chair he nearly tipped over a vase on the table, slurring an apology and then laughing. Both Darren and his mother looked embarrassed but didn’t say a word, ignoring the situation as though it hadn’t happened, continuing to talk about the wedding.

  Chessa was mildly concerned but shrugged it off. She’d seen her parents drunk before, although she was still a bit surprised at how quickly her fiancé’s father seemed to get inebriated.

  Like his dad, Darren had a lot to drink that evening, but managed to talk more succinctly. When he brought her home later that night, though, he tried with more libido than ever before to engage her in making love while they were parked in front of her apartment building. Chessa brushed his hands away when he groped her more aggressively than usual, and she finally had to push him off her. He protested and got mad at first, sitting upright in the driver’s seat red-faced and silent. But seeing her upset, he had apologized, saying the stress of having his parents meet his fiancée had caused him to get a little tipsy.

  The whole scenario—not only the drinking, but the way the Richards had made her feel so inferior—sent alarm bells off inside. But Chessa decided she was probably being an overly sensitive bride-to-be.

  Besides I love Darren and that’s what’s important, she concluded, trying to banish thoughts of the evening from her mind.

  Christ Church was ablaze with candles. Oh, God, please help me through this, Chessa prayed as she approached the start of the runner down the long aisle.

  She felt overwhelmed with anxiety as the organist started playing the processional music, the ornate cathedral’s huge arches and domed ceiling towering above her as she began the very long walk down the aisle.

  She gripped her father’s arm tightly. Stephen Reynolds’ health was faltering; his liver and kidneys were almost shot due to his heavy drinking over fifty years, and he had suffered a heart attack as well. But Chessa wouldn’t take no for an answer when she asked her dad to give her away, so it was she who helped her father down the aisle that day. He’s still my daddy and I love him, Chessa thought, fighting back tears.

  Halfway down she looked up and saw Darren’s broad smile and her fears melted away. He looked perfect, standing tall in his navy Brioni tux, starched white shirt, and pink satin tie which matched the flowers she carried. Seeing his adoring gaze, suddenly Chessa felt like a princess in her wedding dress, a full-length white satin gown that flowed from a beaded form-fitting bodice. She hoped no one would guess her mom had helped her find it in a secondhand store.

  Cameras flashed and Chessa smiled and nodded. Finally she let go of her father’s arm and joined hands with her betrothed.

  The rest was beautiful but fleeting: “Love is patient, love is kind… wives, submit to your husbands…do you Chessa…promise to love and honor him…in sickness and health…and forsaking all others remain faithful to him all the days of your life…with this ring I thee wed…you may kiss the bride….”

  After hundreds of photos were snapped, the bridal party was transported by limousines to the United Nations, causing many tourists and bystanders to wonder what famous dignitaries were in town.

  Most of the guests were amazed at the lavishly decorated Delegate’s Dining Room, and again with the feast of delicacies that had been flown in from around the world and expertly prepared: an assortment of caviar, wild Gulf shrimp, smoked Atlantic salmon, filet tournedos with fois gras, roast breast of Magret duck, New Zealand rack of lamb, Chilean sea bass, Maryland lump crabmeat and sautéed Diver scallops, along with all the accoutrements. A large variety of intricate desserts accompanied the five-tiered wedding cake, and the finest wines, champagnes and premium liquors flowed.

  A gifted speechwriter, Pete Connor gave an entertaining wedding toast at the reception, telling a story of how he had gone to see a fortune-teller earlier in the day to help him prepare. “… I foresee great things in your future; perhaps even the White House one day. How can you miss when the most charming man in America weds the most beautiful woman, in the United Nations building, no less.”

  Halfway through the night, Chessa was in the ladies’ powder room adjusting her makeup when she heard voices from the adjoining bathroom.

  “… going to have a rude awakening. He’s probably on the same path as his father.” The voice sounded like it came from an older woman, although Chessa couldn’t place it.

  Another unfamiliar woman’s voice answered, “Poor thing, she’s in over her head. She’s probably not ready for the cutthroat world of politics, much less all the drinking and womanizing that goes on down there.”

  “She is very pretty though,” the first voice chimed back. “I guess I can see why he chose her.”

  “I just hope she didn’t choose him for his money. Oh well, it will serve her right if she did.”

  “She’s so shy though! I don’t see her fitting in with the rest of us. And can you believe she didn’t ask Deborah to be her maid-of-honor? I bet Dorothy had a cow!”

  “Especially when she saw that, instead, her new daughter-in-law picked a black girl!”

  The voices must be family members—maybe aunts or something. Chessa felt a knot of anger and fear growing in her stomach and started to feel as if she might throw up. She didn’t want the two women to discover she had been listening, so she hurriedly finished putting on her lipstick and exited into the hallway leading to the dining room. She almost smacked right into Darren’s cousin-in-law, Stephanie.

  “Whoa, what’s wrong, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you need to talk?” Chessa didn’t know what to say and didn’t see a way to escape even if she wanted to. A plump woman in her forties with a friendly smile and kind eyes, Stephanie Richards stood before her, filling the hallway.

  “Actually, yes, I do.” Chessa felt like she couldn’t keep her emotions in check any longer and needed to confide in someone. She had met Stephanie twice before—once at Christmas and again at lunch.

  Stephanie was a sociology professor at Columbia University and had offered to meet Chessa at the cafeteria one day, telling her she would try to help make her transition into the Richards family a little easier. Chessa had discovered from that one meeting that she and her future cousin-in-law had a lot in common; they were both from similar modest backgrounds, and they were both civic enthusiasts determined to help make the world a better place—Chessa through social work and Stephanie through teaching. Both women were also married into the Richards dynasty; Stephanie was Darren’s cousin Bob’s wife. Chessa had also learned Darren’s cousin-in-law was completely unlike the rest of the family. In fact, Stephanie seemed to enjoy making fun of them a little, which made Chessa laugh and put her immediately at ease.

  So Chessa decided to take a leap of faith and pulled Stephanie into an adjoining hallway off the main floor of the reception to tell her about the bathroom talk.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” Stephanie put her hand on Chessa’s shoulder in a gesture of compassion. “As far as your new mother-in-law and sister-in-law go, don’t worry about them; they’ll always be the way they are, all prim and proper. But I think they’ll warm up to you. It’s just that their precious baby boy has found another woman. As far as the other issue the women are referring to…shall we say, the propensity some of the Richards family members have for alcohol…well, most have never admitted it, but I would venture to say a few are full-blown alcoholics—including my husband, who’s in recovery, by the way.”

  Chessa felt her mouth drop open at Stephanie’s candor.

  “Now, I’m not saying your Darren is, but just in case you have a problem down the line, you call me. I go to Al-Anon and I’d be happy to take you along. It’s been a big help to me, and none of the rest of the family needs to know. Thank God it’s anonymous.”
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  “What is Al-Anon?

  “It’s a twelve-step program to help family members of alcoholics deal with the fallout of the disease and help them maintain some sanity and serenity despite the alcoholic’s behavior, whether he’s drinking or not.”

  “Well…I don’t think….”

  “You don’t need to let me know if you’re interested tonight, honey. It’s your wedding night, after all. I’m just telling you there’s help out there if you ever do need it. Now, you go dance with your husband and have fun.” Stephanie gave Chessa a hug.

  Chessa began to wonder if Stephanie could really be trusted or if she should just steer clear of the whole Richards family if at all possible.

  Then she heard her name being called over the microphone by the bandleader. Walking back out with Stephanie into the large reception hall, Chessa stole a sideways glance over at her husband, who was laughing, fifth or sixth drink in hand. He seemed to be flirting with the ladies who surrounded him, hanging on his every word. She didn’t recognize them, but then again, she hadn’t known half of the people Darren invited from his political enclave. It’s just part of the territory, she reminded herself, trying to ignore her feelings of jealousy. He is a senator after all, and his charm is part of what captured my heart.

  Amy walked up to her. “Hey girl, they’ve been asking where you are. It’s time to cut the cake.” Amy noticed Chessa’s expression. “Why the down face?”

  Chessa nodded in her husband’s direction. He was still laughing, his perfect white smile dazzling all the way across the room on his tanned, handsome face. He leaned down on his elbow, resting it on the back of some red-haired woman’s chair, and whispered something in her ear. Chessa and Amy watched as the beautiful young woman’s red lips parted into a grin, and they both laughed, heads bent together as if sharing a private joke. The woman wore a red rhinestone-studded dress to match her hair and lips, revealing a lot of cleavage that was just inches away from Darren’s face, which in Chessa’s opinion, lingered there a moment too long.

  Amy caught her friend looking down at her wedding and engagement rings. Chessa had received hundreds of compliments on them. Her engagement ring held a three-carat, marquis-cut diamond encircled by another two carats in tiny white diamonds.

  “Come on, let’s go get him,” Amy said, grabbing her friend’s hand and yanking her in his direction.

  She’s such a good friend, Chessa thought, sighing. She could have said ‘I told you so.’

  After a final dance, Chessa braced herself for the onslaught of cameras and microphones that would surely be thrust in their faces once they exited the UN building. Hopefully the limo would park just a step or two from the door. It had been a long day. A great one to be sure, but exhausting.

  Chessa gave Amy a hug and peck on the cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Ah, just doing my job. I want you to be happy.”

  “I am—deliriously.” Chessa heard Darren calling her. “Gotta run.”

  She ducked into the limo as the crowd of guests cheered them off to the start of their lives together as man and wife.

  CHAPTER 4

  Leif

  Leif had prayed long and hard while considering Ray Silas’s invitation to run for governor. He was flabbergasted that he had been chosen over his brothers, who he thought were surely more qualified, and who seemed to want the job much more than he did.

  But Ray was unwavering in his choice. Either Leif Mitchell would run, or Silas would have to search elsewhere.

  A heated debate among his family developed once Ray made his choice known, and Henry called another family meeting the following Sunday after church to discuss it. Leif only had until Monday to give the Republican National Committee chair an answer.

  “I think we should be proud of Leif and support him,” Henry Mitchell said.

  “I just don’t see why he picked Leif. No offense, little brother.” Will had been the most disgruntled at having not been selected and was the most outspoken. “I’m an attorney, for God’s sake. I’ve actually been considering running for office. Everyone knows attorneys make good politicians. Leif is a horse trainer. What does he know about government and politics?” Brothers George and Charles nodded in agreement.

  “You forgot I’m also a musician,” Leif said, trying not to grin at the ludicrousness of it all.

  “I should have been asked since I’m the oldest,” protested Charles. “Leif’s barely old enough to run.” It was true. The minimum age to run for Governor of Kentucky was thirty. Leif had just turned thirty-years-old the previous November.

  “Well, Silas made his choice and that’s that,” Henry said. “You heard him. It’s either Leif or nobody. So what’s it gonna be, son?”

  Leif looked into his brothers’ angry, jealous faces.

  “Who will take my place to help you on the farm, Dad?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I think this is a higher calling, not to mention a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The farm will always be here waiting for you.”

  Leif got on his knees that night and prayed about it.

  He gave Silas the answer he was looking for the next day.

  Leif invited his three brothers to help with his campaign, but they all said they were much too busy. So Leif asked for help from his childhood friend Logan Reese, who at the time was unemployed after being laid off from his public relations job with a local advertising agency that had gone out of business.

  Although most people, especially women, looked at Logan as somewhat of a nerd, Leif considered him a savvy marketing strategist and brilliant writer. Leif had often turned to Logan to help him with the lyrics to some of his songs, and had asked his advice on promoting his music tours before signing with his record label, which now handled all of his music-related affairs.

  Growing up, Logan was like Robin to Leif’s Batman. In fact, as young boys they would often play “superheroes” and Logan would always vow to fight by Leif’s side to beat the criminals of the day at large. Of course they would always win, no matter how tough their make-believe assailants happened to be.

  Leif and Logan set up a little campaign office in a vacant strip center store in Louisville, hanging a red, white, and blue banner over the door that read “Leif Mitchell for Governor.”

  For weeks it was just the two of them working long hours developing a database and website, printing and delivering fliers, sending e-mails and making phone calls.

  Then they had their first visitor. It was none other than Leif’s opponent, Leon Slater.

  Everyone in the know, including Ray Silas, predicted it would be a tough race. The Democratic Party not only had the upper hand with the incumbent’s bad press, but an extremely popular candidate lined up.

  Leon Slater was a retired local prizefighter and war veteran whose mother named him after the famous world heavyweight champion Leon Spinks, who had gone down in history by defeating Muhammad Ali.

  The South had long cried for a black man to finally win a major election. If Leon Slater won, the governor’s seat in Kentucky would afford them their opportunity.

  Leif and Logan watched out the storefront window with incredulity as the huge black man, dressed impeccably in a dark-gray suit, white collared shirt, and red-and–navy-striped tie, approached their campaign office door, two television news crews in tow. He entered alone, after apparently asking the TV crews to stay outside. Their cameras were mounted, however, and Leif could see the two reporters each talking into a microphone about ten feet apart from one another.

  Slater flashed his trademark white smile and removed his sunglasses, blinking in the semidarkness of the office.

  He looked straight at Leif, who was sitting on a desk in his jeans and a ragged T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved that morning in his hurry to get to the office, and had covered his unruly hair with one of his cowboy hats. He hadn’t known he was going to be filmed that day.

  On the other hand, Slater had known, and had taken full advantage of the opportunity.<
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  “Just stopping by to see how it’s going and to say hello,” his bass voice boomed, filling the tiny office.

  Leif stood up and approached him, looking up. Slater was a giant compared to most men, with his bulky, muscular frame measuring six foot nine to Leif’s five-foot-eight. “Well thanks, we’re doing just fine. Welcome to our humble abode.”

  The fighter grabbed Leif’s hand and shook it. His back was to the camera crews outside, so they could neither hear nor see what he was saying. He bent down and whispered into Leif’s ear so even Logan couldn’t hear him. “If you even think you stand a chance against me, you are sorely mistaken, Cowboy. If I was you, I’d get out before it gets ugly and you ruin what little reputation you have. Why don’t you go back to your horse farm and stick to playing your guitar?”

  Without giving a stunned Leif a chance to reply, Slater turned, smile intact, and headed for the door.

  Once outside, he began autographing photos for a gathering crowd of kids who had lined up to meet the great Leon Slater.

  The reporters, who had multiplied as word had quickly spread to their dispatchers, stuck microphones in his face for a comment.

  “Mr. Slater, why are you at your opponent’s campaign headquarters today?”

  “I just wanted to tell Mr. Mitchell, ‘may the best man win’ and let him know that even though I can look pretty mean in the ring, I’m really a friendly guy and it will be a clean competition.” More smiles and a few laughs. More autographs.

  “And what was Leif Mitchell’s response?”

  “You’ll have to go in there and ask him yourself.”

  Leif had gone to the only place he knew he would find refuge and solace that night—to the stables at Little River, where he worked out his aggravation after watching the six o’clock news by grooming a colt and two mares.

  He had watched the news with his parents in their den. The cameras had zoomed in on his scruffy face, then cut to the proud Leon Slater politely answering the reporters’ questions and signing autographs in front of their puny campaign headquarters. It then showed Leif looking stupidly stunned as he opened the headquarters’ front door, squinting in the sunlight and uneasily holding up his hand, refusing to answer any questions, and turning around to go back to work, while Logan shuffled paperwork in embarrassment, almost as if they had something to hide.