The Marriage Campaign

“I’m making the best of an impossible situation, even though I know … I know it’s not enough.” He dug his wallet out of an inside pocket in his coat, tossed some bills on the table before punching his arms through the sleeves. “But what else can I do—?”

“Dad?” Jack came up behind him, his forehead crunched. “You okay?”

Wes turned to smile for his son. “I’m fine. But we need to get going, I’ve got a ton of reading to get through before I go back tonight.”

After they left, Blythe dumped her wadded up napkin on her plate and lowered her head to her hands, feeling her cousins’ puzzled gazes boring into her skull.

Yeah. The ride back to St. Mary’s should be really interesting.

Chapter Three

Between her other work and the wedding plans, it was indeed nearly the end of March before Blythe could slot an appointment to see Jack’s room. Six weeks during which she hadn’t spoken to Wes except to ascertain whether the project was still a go, since, after that tense little confab in the HoJo restaurant, it seemed prudent to check. She’d also be a big fat liar if she said she hadn’t thought of Wes during those six weeks.

A lot. More to the point, a lot more than she should have, considering her who-needs-men? stance of late.

Especially stressed-out, still grieving men, already juggling way too many rings without trying to add a little somethin’-somethin’ into the mix. Not that he would, but if he did …

Oh, never mind. Pointless musings were, well, pointless.

As much as possible, she’d steered clear of her nosy cousins as well, having taken her skinny little tush back to Washington immediately after their return to St. Mary’s. Because the newly engaged were even worse than the newly converted, shoving their happiness down your throat in the hopes that you, too, could be saved if only you’d repent. Especially if they sensed you were thisclose to seeing the light.

Except having the hots for someone—no point in denying it—was way different than wanting to plight your troth with them. Or to them. Whatever. That she’d done, it didn’t take, let’s move on. Troth-plighting clearly wasn’t her thing.

And it clearly was Wes’s. Or had been at one point. And Blythe had no doubt it would be again, some day. Just not with her, she reminded herself as she pulled up that late Thursday afternoon in front of the quasi-colonial five houses down from the inn.

Not huge, but stately all the same. Brick front. White columns. Black shutters. A fitting congressman’s abode, she mused, punching the doorbell, clasping her gray mohair wrap to her neck against the biting spring breeze off the water. Bear, Jack’s black Lab, started barking; Blythe heard shushing, then the white paneled door swung open, revealing a short, trim older woman in jeans and a floral-appliquéd sweatshirt, her bright red smile welcoming underneath a froth of gray hair that treaded that delicate line between curls and frizz.

“After all the times we’ve talked on the phone,” Candace Phillips said, ushering her inside a black-and-white-tiled entryway with pale blue walls, “it’s so nice to finally meet you. The children are in the family room, playing one of those video games. Can I get you something to drink? Should I call Jack?”

“No to both,” Blythe said, squatting to pet the exuberant dog, dodging his kisses as she surreptitiously took in the entryway, what she could see of the living and dining rooms. It was weird, considering how often she’d schlepped the kids around, that she’d never actually been inside the house. Which, while reeking of tradition, was warm and tasteful and timeless, the colors and furnishings in perfect balance. She stood and turned to Candace, and the dog bounded back to his young master, skidding on the tile before regaining his footing on the Oriental carpet anchoring the formal dining room table. “At least, not yet for Jack. I want to see his room before I get his take on what he’d like in it.”

“Good idea. I’m sure Kym would have seen to the redo long before now, if …”

Candace paused, her lips pressed tight as she scanned the living room, the Wedgwood-green walls a soothing backdrop to the marble fireplace, the pair of white sofas facing each other on another Oriental rug. And yet, pops of a soft purple and a deep coral perfectly complemented the dusty green, keeping the room from being too staid. A room that hadn’t been used in a while, Blythe suspected.

“She had a very good eye,” Candace said. “Well, I think so. But then, I’m no designer.” She blushed. “As I’m sure Wes told you.”

Blythe smiled. “Good design is about surrounding yourself with whatever makes you happy. There are far fewer rules than you might think. As long as the home reflects the owners’ personalities, it’s good. And this is …” Her gaze swept the living room once more. “It’s lovely. Really.”

Candace beamed, clearly pleased that her obviously much-loved daughter-in-law had passed muster. “It is, isn’t it? And that was Kym—warm and embracing, but understated and conservative.” She paused. “She and Wes married so young, his father and I … well, we worried. That they didn’t know what they were getting into. Silly us,” she said with a little laugh, then gave her head a firm shake. “And listen to me, rambling on …” She headed toward the stairs, beckoning Blythe to follow.

“I understand Kym was a huge support to Wes when he ran for office,” Blythe said as they started up.

“Oh, my, yes,” Jack’s grandmother said, half pivoting as she trudged. “In fact, Kym gave Wes the push he needed to throw his hat in the ring.”

“Really? It wasn’t his idea?”

They reached the landing; Candace bustled to the second door on their right, holding it open for Blythe to pass through. “Yes, of course it was Weston’s idea—he’d been thinking about running for Congress for a long time. After all, he’d been on the town council for five years—” which Blythe hadn’t known “—but he kept putting off taking that next step. Said the timing wasn’t right, that Jack needed to be older. Kym, of course, bless her heart …”

As if realizing where her musings were leading her, Candace turned, tears shimmering in her eyes. “We do what we can,” she whispered, “and I know Wes does, but Jack …” She shook her head, as if realizing she’d crossed some boundary she shouldn’t have. Instead, she stood aside so Blythe could see the kid’s room in all its messy, outgrown glory. “And maybe this will help him find his footing again. Discover who he is now. Am I making any sense?”

“Absolutely,” Blythe said, wondering if her own grandmother—hell, her own mother—had been half as intuitive as this woman, then maybe things would have turned out differently for her. “Jack is very lucky to have you around.”

Candace’s brown eyes popped wide. “Well, aren’t you sweet?” Then she sighed. “Bill and I do our best, but we’re still poor substitutes for what he lost. Well. I’ll let you get to it. I’m in the kitchen if you need me.”

After Candace left, Blythe stood in the middle of the jumbled room, trying to get a feel for it. See what it said to her. A large space, she noticed approvingly. And light-filled. Or would be light-filled once the heavy curtains were axed. Honeycomb shades, she thought, to let in the light and yet give him privacy. The beige wall-to-wall carpeting looked in decent condition, but a couple of fun throw rugs would definitely liven things up. Ditch the little boy race car motifs, replace them with lots of high-tech accents. Something that wouldn’t embarrass him when he came home from college, she thought with a smile. An inviting study area in the far corner. Track lighting, maybe, to replace the sucky overhead—

“Bear!” she yelped, laughing, when the dog poked his nose in her bum. “What are you doing, you goofy mutt—?”

“How come you’re in here?”

Blythe whipped around, taken aback by Jack’s rigid stance, the glower on his face. What would soon be a handsome, swoon-worthy face, she had no doubt, his features already morphing into a facsimile of his father’s underneath the surfer-blond hair.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” Then it hit her, that the radical attitude shift probably had nothing to do with her. “Your dad didn’t tell you he’d hired me to help you redecorate your room, did he?” The dog knocked his huge, gleaming head against her palm. Jack glared at the beast as though he’d betrayed him, then turned agitated green eyes to Blythe.

“So that’s what you two were talking about? That morning at breakfast? After I left?”

Blythe smiled. “Hatching our sinister plot—yes, we were.” Then she remembered. “Your grandmother said ‘the children.’ Is Quinn here, too?”

“Yeah. She thinks I went to the bathroom.” Jack looked around the room, then threw his school-uniformed self on the rumpled little-boy bed, an incongruous image if ever there was one. Then again, incongruity pretty much summed up kids that age, didn’t it? Too big to be coddled, not nearly old enough to handle the very grown-up issues that life far too often flung in their faces.

Sure, many kids had it far worse—something she’d told herself over and over at that age, when faced with all the crap she didn’t know how to handle, either. But she’d decided a long time ago that nobody got to decide whether somebody’s hurt was more or less valid than anyone else’s. Or that, given her own experience, there was a kid alive who could do or say anything that would shock her. Or keep her from being his or her champion, if necessary.

“What if I don’t want to change anything? I mean—” Jack grabbed a pillow and wadded it under his head “—what if I like it the way it is?”

Blythe’s brows lifted. “This wasn’t your idea?”

The boy was quiet for a moment, then suddenly sat up, slamming his sneakered feet onto the floor. “I mentioned it once, yeah. Like, a year ago. When I thought …” He shook his head, hard, then looked around. “I don’t want somebody coming in and changing it around just because. It’s my room, dammit.”

Blythe carefully shifted the pile of clothes on a nearby chair to sit on the edge. “Yes, it is,” she said, knowing how it felt to desperately want to hang on to what you knew, even if it hurt. “Which is why I wouldn’t dream of getting rid of anything you want to keep. That’s not my job—”

“You’re right, it’s not,” the boy shot back, more pain than anger sparking in his green eyes. “Because I thought—”

He slammed his arms across his chest, clamping his jaw shut in an obvious effort to keep a lid on his emotions. Again, Blythe reminded herself that this wasn’t about her.

“Because you wanted your father to help?”

After a moment, Jack nodded, and Blythe considered what to say next. “I’m not sure your dad knew where to begin,” she finally said. “So since this is what I do for a living, he asked me to get things going. That doesn’t mean he can’t still be part of it.”

Jack’s eyes shunted to hers. “He’ll probably be too busy.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Blythe said, smiling, then pushed through with, “And I promise, you can keep anything you want. Although you might want to think about updating a thing or two—” she pointed to the bed, which got a grunt “—maybe change the wall color?” She glanced up. “Ditch the wallpaper border?”

The boy’s eyes followed hers. “I remember when Mom put that up there.”

“Yeah? How old were you?”

His mouth twisted. “Six.” Then he sighed. “I guess it is kinda little kid-ish.”