One Forever Kiss (Affair Without End Book 4)

by Susan Ward

  “Why does it take so long for a baby to be born?” Krystal asks impatiently.

  “It doesn’t. It takes as long as it needs to.”

  Another pain visits my heart.

  “Listen,” I say gently, needing to cut short this call. “I’ll be down there tomorrow. Be good, baby girl. The birth of a baby is a happy day, but it’s also stressful. Help your mom out by not complaining and keeping your brothers entertained. Sometimes the most we can do is not make things more difficult for the people we love.” Oh Christ, why did I say that? Of all of my folksy words of wisdom, why did I pull that one out of the bag? Fuck, out of nowhere my throat feels surrounded by a viselike grip of emotion. “I’ve got to go now, Krystal.”

  I click off the phone before she responds and lean forward in my chair, turning my cell in my hand.

  Sometimes the most we can do is not make things more difficult for the people we love.

  I drop my phone on the cooler, shaking my head, drowning in uncertainty now as well as regret. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and my thoughts carry me back to my first day with Lena. I can see it all in my mind crystal clear, as though it were yesterday, but of course it wasn’t. It was fifty-six years ago.

  Christ, am I that old? So old that my youth is half a century away. I still see myself as the boy who dropped off Georgie next door after a day of surfing and a fast hookup with Bonnie in the cave before racing home, careless of my own soon to rapidly change journey.

  Sometimes you can tap into the feeling you had when you were young, in a way that makes it present and potent inside you; I can always do that when I think of the day I met Lena. A man doesn’t lose a feeling like that. Not death, not even time, can ever take away the vibrant wakefulness of a moment—even unknown while living it—that is forever life altering.

  I’d parked my car close to the front door, though it was Senator Jack’s spot and it irritated the hell out of Dad every time he found my car there, which is probably why I did it so frequently.

  My mother used to say, “Jackie likes to shake the fruit from the trees,” which I guess was her gentle way of saying I was a troublemaker or a hellion. I’m not sure which. She died before I could ask her. But I can remember her smile every time she said it, so I assume, whatever Nora meant, she meant it affectionately.

  And yes, that is a familiar weakness of mine: to see things how I want to. It would get me into trouble more times than I could count throughout my life, but it was me, in my DNA from birth—most probably from my mother—and I wouldn’t have changed it if I could because life taught me that sometimes seeing things how you want rather than how they are is the only thing that carries you into the next day.

  The house was quiet when I entered, but that didn’t take the edge off my guard because I could smell my stepmother’s perfume in a pungent way that warned she was still here, probably left behind by my father to wait for me and get me to the fundraiser.

  I cut my way through the formal living room toward the hallway for the kids’ wing where my bedroom was located near the housekeeper’s.

  “Jackie, is that you? Where have you been? Your father’s furious.”

  Damn. Caught with only ten steps to safety, and the woman had called me Jackie.

  Exhaling slowly, I turned to face her. “Yes, it’s me, Gloria. Who else would it be?”

  The plastic smile rose to her lips. “Don’t be impertinent, and don’t call me Gloria.”

  She was, of course, right. People didn’t call their parents by their first names back then, not even their steps, but it was uncomfortable—for a lot of reasons—to think of Gloria in a position of authority. There was a whole lot wrong with my behavior toward her; but hell, there was a whole lot wrong with her.

  First on the issue list, but not the least, my father had married her less than a year after my mother died. In explanation of the suddenness of it, he’d given me a flimsy story about politicians needing wives to be electable. That one hadn’t rung true even to my fourteen-year-old ears. Probably because the second Mrs. Jackson Parker was twenty-five years his junior, closer to my age than dear old Dad’s. But the pressing reason for my inappropriate behavior happened a year ago. During one of Dad’s longer stays in DC, I’d been woken by her late at night intent on having something more than a familial relationship.

  Yep, I could have had my own Mrs. Robinson adventure if I’d been so inclined, and no, even though they’d write and make movies about this, it wasn’t something appealing to me. Not that Gloria wasn’t attractive, but hell, there was no way—

  “I’m sorry.” I shrugged in an attempt to look apologetic, but I didn’t mean it and she knew it.

  “Your father left me behind to make sure you get to the fundraiser at a reasonable hour and are appropriately dressed. Reasonable hour. Not going to happen. Appropriately dressed. I’ve laid out your clothes on the bed.”

  Great. She’d gone through my things again.

  “Thanks, Gloria. What would Pop and I do without you?”

  “Probably kill each other in time.”

  That bluntly put observation took me by surprise, partly because it was true and partly because she’d dared to say it. My relationship with my father had been anything but harmonious since his remarriage.

  Was that why Gloria made it a point to market her availability at every turn? My contentious relationship with my father. Did she think I resented him? Disliked him? Maybe enough to do something reprehensible with his pretty bride?

  Neither was the case. She’d read that landscape wrong, though explaining it wouldn’t have done me any good, so I didn’t try to.

  It was time to change the subject. “So how is Vice-President Nixon faring these days in the polls?”

  Her brows hitched up. “Not as well as our dashing, young Senator Kennedy.”

  She left it at that, as though to allow me to assign my own interpretation to the comment.

  “This presidential election is going to be a squeaker, mark my words,” she added when I didn’t take up the bait. “Your father is afraid that Senator Kennedy will cost him his seat. And basically the demise of the world as we know it.”

  “I think Pop wins either way. Either a Republican in the White House or a Catholic.”

  Her pretty blond brows crinkled in puzzlement. “And how is that a win either way for your father?”

  Really? Didn’t she ever listen to Pop?

  “An Irish Catholic in the White House would make it easier for Senator Parker’s Irish Catholic son to someday follow. Isn’t that the plan with sending me to Harvard then law school, even though nothing could be farther from what I want? Continuing the legacy and the family business. I would think Pop would be giddy over the prospect of Senator Kennedy winning the election. A Catholic in the White House, before this, no one would have believed possible.”

  “I think old Joe Kennedy did, long before this.” She giggled, amused. It sounded like a cat purring. “I hope that’s not your father’s plan for you. I can’t see you as a politician, Jackie, even though you have a way of speaking that people listen to. I’d prefer anything but that, though I think that’s the general plan. Well, from your father’s point of view.”

  It was the first time she’d ever spoken negatively about politics. It surprised me. My father discussed all issues with her and depended on Gloria’s counsel so much there were times I thought that was all they had between them. She was his strongest ally and confidant. As his son, I garnered only minor attention and repeated lectures on my duty to my family.

  “What a radical thought, Gloria. You better not let Pop hear you say it. I thought the rules here were the senator’s way or no way. Is it possible? Can there be more than one plan?” I asked, deliberately sarcastic.

  Her eyes fixed on me in a way my teenage male body responded to despite my not wanting it to. A sexual look from a woman as beautiful as Gloria would always elicit a sexual response in a guy. Like a math equation, the answer was always the same. Abso
lute, no matter how much I wanted it different.

  “You were born with the gifts to be or have anything you want to, Jack. Your father, at times, is shortsighted. Remember that, no matter what your father plans for you. Exceptional men—and mark my words, you were born that—can be anything they want.”

  She did have a way of stroking a guy’s ego and having it settle in his dick. No wonder she had gotten what she wanted—marriage to a powerful US senator—so quickly after Mom’s death. It was time to get out of there.

  “Anything I want, huh?” I paused for a moment, fixing her in my stare, though I knew that was cruel. “What I want is to get cleaned up before Pop blows his lid. It won’t be good for either of us if we miss the entire fundraiser.”

  I put enough sharpness in that to convey a multitude of suggestions. She smiled once, stiffly, and then lifted her chin in a way unmistakably dismissing.

  “Then run. Get ready. We don’t want Jackson to blow his lid. This event is important. To all of us, Jackie. The polls, they’re not good. The senator could use some good press. You being your charming young self at a fundraiser for the music academy will help more than you know. Your father is no Jack Kennedy, but you are, Jackie. You’re our own little bit of sparkle and dash and hope. Try to be supportive of your father tonight. Dem in the governor’s mansion, soon to be Dem in the White House. He’s feeling his base erode. Anything could happen this election. This night is important to all of us.”

  She put emphasis on to all of us, and as I went toward my room I wondered what that was about. Dad was campaigning harder and earlier than I’d ever seen before. He’d won easily in ’56. Sure, he was having a tough time in the polls, but the election was two years away, and even if he lost his seat it wasn’t a catastrophe. There was life after politics, just as there had been life before politics for Dad. He was a top-notch attorney.

  I found my clothes laid out on the bed as Gloria had assured me. Khaki slacks. Loafers. Crisp white shirt. Harvard red striped tie, even though I hadn’t set foot on the campus yet. A navy blue blazer. Afternoon country club attire, a surprising faux pas, though now I’m sure Gloria thought of it as dashing young Senator Kennedy attire suitable for all moments in the public eye.

  A dark suit would have been more appropriate for a nighttime concert at the theater, but it was clear Gloria was bypassing correctness for what she considered a better image to portray.

  Youth. Possibilities. Sparkle. She was media savvy in the political realm before most politicians understood the necessity. But oh, she knew the power of imaging.

  There had been all those Hyannis Port pictures of JFK with his family, and though he was a Democrat, my stepmother devoured them pretty much like all the wives of my parents’ circle. Only Gloria studied them with a critical, analytical eye. Dissecting. Wanting to understand the appeal of the young Kennedys. Something about a handsome man with a growing family, filling a need we all have internally. A need beyond substance and suitable electability. A more powerful need; one she claimed would win over all else every time.

  Hope. That’s what Gloria had said. Just seeing them made one feel hopeful.

  I tossed my beach clothes into the hamper, took a fast shower, towel dried my hair and dressed. The tie—nope, wasn’t wearing it. The shoes—nope. I settled on my Chuck Taylors instead. When I lifted my suit coat there was a whiff on Gloria on it, but reluctantly I shrugged into it.

  A half hour later, I found her waiting in the living room for me, smoking. She stood, gave me a sharp once-over, glared, and said nothing about the wardrobe alteration.

  She stomped out her cigarette. “The car is out front waiting.”

  There was no way I was going to drive alone with her in the back of the limo, even if it was less than a ten-minute trip to the venue.

  I fished my keys out of my pocket. “I’ll catch up with you at the Arlington Theater, Gloria. I’m going to drive myself.”

  Her frown lowered. “Straight there, Jack. We’re already late. We don’t need to anger your father further.”

  Jack this time. Her subtle way of reminding me we’d be in public soon and that she expected me to do my part for Dad.

  I tossed the keys in my hand. “Of course.”

  I headed to the door, opened it, and waited for her to float through it in front of me.

  She paused, close, her lips doing that little curl. “Why is it your difficulty of personality only makes you more attractive?”

  Damn. “Somehow, I think Pop would argue with you about that one.”

  Her eyes locked on mine. “And he would be wrong. Exceptional men don’t always understand other exceptional men.”

  Ego stroke; dick tease.

  I watched her climb into the limo and pull away. As I went to my car, I was relieved that in a handful of days I would be away from here.

  A guy can resist a woman only so long. And once the senator left on the campaign trail in the morning, I’d be alone in the house with Gloria again.

  Not good, Jackie. Not good.

  I toyed with the idea of crashing at Georgie’s until we left for school next week. I turned a dozen schemes in my head on how to avoid my stepmother the remainder of my time there. The solution that came to my growing concerns was one I never anticipated.

  Chapter Four

  The Santa Barbara Arlington Theater in 1960 looked pretty much as it does in 2016. A historic landmark on State Street; a stunning white Spanish structure with a red-tiled roof. There was a large courtyard of colorful Talavera with a blue-bottomed fountain in between the street and the main doors.

  As I made my way through the throng toward the event, I didn’t even dare to imagine that a decade later I would be on stage there before a packed house, a star and a man on an FBI watch list classified as an enemy of the state.

  This night, I was just Jackie, the senator’s son. A role I was oddly comfortable with, since I had no aspirations as yet for my future, and one I managed with the cocky confidence of being born with money and the skill of having done public appearances for my father hundreds of times before.

  A senator’s son, groomed from birth, to be a senator as well. Politics. The top of the American power elite. But the world was changing, power was shifting. Soon the battlefield of the social war and political conscience of my country would be in the hands of my generation and not Jack senior’s, and the skill set I’d learned from Pop would make me famous in a way he could have never imagined.

  In all honesty, I had never really wanted it. Men are often made by the times they live in. I sure as hell was, and had never come to terms with it. It struck too close to my upbringing—being a symbol of a movement was not that different from being the hope of a father for an enduring political dynasty—but I was a good son so I did my part. Remember, I loved my father.

  And in a way, we became a political dynasty.

  He made critical decisions for our country.

  I gave the youth of my generation a voice so we could change the world.

  Not what Pop hoped for, but what we became.

  Polar opposite. Adversaries. Men driven by their politics. Frankenstein and his creation. Neither of us would have existed without the other.

  I’d already shaken two dozen hands by the time I reached the open lobby doors that signaled I’d arrived at intermission. The giant high-ceilinged space was packed with bodies, the crush continuing into a lounge that emptied into an attached courtyard where a bar and servers could be found.

  It was a beautiful evening, clear overhead and awash with the faint blue of dusk, and by the looks of it, everyone important in Republican politics was here. Pop supported a wide array of causes in the arts, my mother had been a pianist of small renown and had later taught at the music academy we were fundraising for. It was a surprisingly good political strategy, an effective way to cultivate new donors and support in neutral territory where the California power brokers would be their most vulnerable.

  On one side of the patio I spotted G
eorgie and Patty, and on the other my father with Gloria close at hand. I would have preferred to bypass the circle around the senator, but I couldn’t. Duty called. In fact, it was staring at me with eyes filled with displeasure. Nothing new, but that didn’t mean I wanted to irritate my father further.

  I continued my smiles and handshake introductions through the crowd as I moved toward him.

  “Jack Parker,” I said, offering a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The words and gestures were well-practiced. From the age of six, my father’s first election campaign, I’d been instructed how to do this and told never to cross a room without pressing as many palms and giving my name as frequently as I could. I often wondered why people responded so warmly to me, but they did.

  I was almost to my father, saying to a city councilman “…yes, causes like these are important to support. The arts need patrons…” when my eyes locked on her and the scripted words in my head left me.

  Standing alone on the far side of the room was a girl—no, strike that, a woman, because even at eighteen I could tell she was older than me and not just in a chronological way. There was the essence of life experience in her eyes, as if she’d lived more than I had, which contrasted sharply with the dew of innocence about her.

  I estimated her to be twenty-three and definitely totally a woman, even with her delicacy, a look of fragility like a little girl.

  I was still talking to the councilman beside me, mumbling what I hoped were appropriate responses to his never-ending stream of comments that kept me from my father, doing my familial duty so I could cut out and quickly cozy up to her.

  In that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to finish my obligation here and move on to her. I didn’t run across girls like that every day; hell, I doubted I had ever run across someone like her before anywhere in Santa Barbara.

  I tried to discern why this vision of loveliness held me spellbound. It was more than her looks—petite, lean Audrey Hepburn build. Marilyn Monroe rack tastefully covered by a pink angora sweater set and what I knew were long legs hidden under a pencil skirt. Jet black loose curls cut chin length à la Jackie Kennedy. Bedroom brown eyes. The lightest olive skin I’d ever seen. A dainty, sensual mouth holding a gentle smile—breathtakingly beautiful, and yet different.