Capital Wives (3 page)

“I hadn't planned to serve any. But if you want to be the appetizer, then we can wait for the entrée.”

Deanna pressed a kiss to his spine. “Oo-oo! I love it when my baby talks nasty.”

“Wrong. Your baby is hungry for his woman.”

She sobered. “How long has it been since we last made love?”

“Too long.”

Deanna knew Spencer was right. She was thirty-three and he thirty-seven, and they had to schedule time to make love with each other. When, she mused, had they become so involved in their careers that they had neglected each other? Would it continue after they became parents?

She closed her eyes. “I want you to promise me that we'll make more time for each other, Spencer.”

His hands stilled. “You know I can't do that, Deanna.”

“Why not?”

“Because every case is different. Some we're able to settle and others we take to trial.”

“Can't you let some of the other associates fill in for you?”

Spencer went back to peeling and chopping a shallot. “It depends on the case.”

“What's going to happen when we have children, Spencer? Will I have to call and ask your secretary to schedule a time when you can see your son or daughter?”

Reaching for the arms around his waist, Spencer unclasped his wife's hands and turned to face her. Vertical lines appeared between his eyes when he frowned. “That's a cruel thing to say.”

Deanna refused back down. “Cruel or true?”

His frown deepened. “You damn well know it's not going to be that way.”

“I don't know how it's going to be. All I have to go on is what's happening in our lives right now. You just wrapped up a case, so you call to let me know that you're going be home earlier than usual. How often does that happen?” Deanna asked. “When you get home I'm already asleep and when I get up in the morning you're gone. If I don't call you or if you don't call me, then I wouldn't know if you're alive or dead. I married you because I'm in love with you, Spencer, but if I'd known what I know now—”

“Don't say it,” Spencer interrupted. “Please don't say you wouldn't have married me, because we both know that's not true. We married for all the right reasons. It's just that we're caught up with our careers. I've worked hard to make junior partner—”

“And you'll work even harder to become a senior partner,” Deanna said, cutting him off. “How many more years will I have to put my life on hold?”

“What are you talking about?”

“A baby, Spencer. I want a child, but I'm not going to bring a baby into a situation where he or she will have to deal with a part-time father.”

“Aren't you being a little premature?” he asked.

“About what?”

Cradling Deanna's face in his hands, Spencer kissed her forehead. “We have another two years before we start trying for a baby.”

“I don't want to wait two years, Spencer. In two years I'll be thirty-five and high risk. And my chances of having a baby with Down syndrome also increases with age.”

“There are tests to confirm that, and if it is then you'll just abort it.”

Deanna felt as if someone had plunged a dagger into her chest, then twisted it until she found it impossible to draw a normal breath. “Abort!” she screamed. “Do you know how you sound? You're talking about a human life, not an apple that when you bite into it and discover that the insides are rotted you throw it away.”

“I didn't mean it that way, Dee.”

“Please explain, because right now I'm thoroughly confused. When you talk about aborting a child it is not only my child but yours.” Her voice was soft, almost conciliatory. “I love you, Spencer. I want your children and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But we can't continue living the way we have. We have to make time for each other.”

Lowering his head, Spencer buried his face in the sweet-smelling twists. “You're right, Dee. Starting tomorrow I'm going to meet with some of the associates and have
them handle the cases that don't require my immediate supervision.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep.”

“I'm not promising anything. I said I'm going to
try
and lighten my caseload.”

“Thank you for meeting me halfway.”

Deanna didn't want to tell Spencer that there were a few events she'd turned down because they were either on the West Coast or out of the country. The ones in California would require that she spend more than a week with her client to plan the event, then return several times to make certain all the vendors were on board. The ones in the Caribbean were more convenient because they were in the same time zone and she could hop a flight at a moment's notice.

She'd made sacrifices to preserve her marriage, while her husband thought nothing of spending days at his office or in a hotel when working on a case. The one time she'd mentioned that she was going to stop by the hotel to surprise Spencer he had accused her of not trusting him. What he didn't know was that she
did
trust him, because it was something they'd talked about before exchanging vows. Both had promised that if they found someone else they wouldn't sneak around but be forthcoming. Spencer trusted her and she trusted him.

Spencer brushed his mouth over Deanna's. “I need you to set the table and uncork the wine. As soon as I grill the steak and chicken we can eat.”

It had become a running joke between them that although Spencer could cook he was all thumbs when it came to uncorking a bottle of wine. When they'd begun dating Deanna didn't know why he always served wine with a twist-off cap until he finally admitted that most times the cork ended up inside the bottle. Much to her chagrin, she realized they'd seen more of each and had more fun when they were
struggling to make ends meet because both had refused to accept handouts from their parents.

Spencer had moved from his studio apartment and into her one-bedroom apartment after they were married. They worked hard and saved like misers before they were able to buy a house in a less-than-desirable D.C. neighborhood. Everything changed when Spencer's grandmother died and he'd inherited her entire estate, which included more than a dozen apartment buildings in a gentrified Chicago neighborhood. He sold the properties for a sizable profit, bought the house he'd coveted in Alexandria, then invested the balance in tax-free municipal bonds for their children's education. They had come a long way in eight years, but it was the next eight and many more eights that Deanna looked forward to.

“What do you say we host a little something for our friends?” Spencer said as she finished rearranging the place settings.

Deanna gave him a sidelong glance, wondering what had prompted that suggestion. “When?”

“Sometime next month.”

“Remember, we have the Red Cross function the beginning of March,” she reminded him.

“Then let's make it the end of March or the beginning of April. Hopefully the weather will be warmer by that time.”

Deanna suddenly warmed to the idea. It had been too long since they'd entertained as a couple. “How many people do you want to invite?”

Spencer cocked his head at an angle. “No more than twenty.”

“Buffet or sit-down?”

“That depends on you, Dee. If it's formal, then sit-down. Otherwise I'm not opposed to buffet-style.”

“Buffet is more casual and relaxed.”

Spencer smiled. “Then buffet it is. Friday or Saturday?”

“Let me get my BlackBerry and I'll let you know what I have available in April.” Deanna retrieved her cell phone from her handbag and scrolled through her calendar. “All of my Saturdays are booked, but I have the second and fourth Fridays free. Which one is better for you?”

Spencer lifted his shoulders. “It doesn't matter.”

“Give me one,” Deanna insisted.

“The second Friday.”

“Okay. You'll have to let me know who you want to invite before I make up the invitations. We can have happy hour from five to seven and a buffet dinner starting at eight. That will allow time for those who want to go home and change.”

“Who are you going to get to cater it?” Spencer asked.

Deanna chewed her lip. “I'm not certain. It's a toss-up between Jimmy Snell and Dominique Lambert.” She had a listing of caterers and restaurants she used exclusively, but had her favorites. The two she'd mentioned were at the top of her list of favorites.

“Are you going to invite your sister and brother?”

“I will if they can get babysitters, otherwise they'll probably decline.” Deanna's sister and brother had six children between them—all under the age of ten.

“Knowing your sister, she'll probably bring her kids with her.”

Deanna rolled her eyes at her husband. “Not to a grown-folks gathering.”

“Well, she did when we first moved here.”

“I know you don't like my sister—”

“Did I say I didn't like your sister, Deanna?”

“You don't have to say it, Spencer. You don't like her because she called you pompous.”

“That's not all she called me,” he countered.

“What did she call you?”

“Something I will not repeat.”

“I'll admit Neva has a sharp tongue, but—”

“Don't try and defend her, Dee. She is who she is and I'm willing to accept that. Just tell her that I'm not going to tolerate her disrespecting me in my home.”

“Can we please drop the subject and enjoy our time together without talking about other folks?”

Spencer's lids came down as he stared at Deanna. He knew she hated confrontation, but confrontation and debate came as easily to him as breathing. It was how he earned his living. “Okay, baby.”

Minutes later the kitchen was filled with the aroma of grilling meat, and he turned on the commercial exhaust that quickly got rid of the smell. Spencer knew Deanna was right about their not spending enough time together, but what he couldn't tell her was that it wasn't just work that kept him at the office. It was another distraction.

 

The chilled rosé was the perfect complement to the grilled steak and chicken with rice pilaf and a Greek salad with cherry tomatoes. Deanna drank two glasses of wine to offset the piquant taste of the spicy peanut sauce. Her eyelids were drooping when Spencer suggested she go to bed while he clean up the kitchen. She went upstairs, brushed her teeth, got into bed and within minutes was asleep.

 

Spencer waited twenty minutes after Deanna left the kitchen to tap several buttons on his cell. His call was answered after the second ring. “What are you doing?” he whispered into the mouthpiece.

“I've been waiting for you to call me.”

“I couldn't call before.”

“Where is she?”

“She's in bed.”

“Are you going to make love to her, Spence?”

A rush of blood darkened Spencer's face, concealing the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. “I told you before that what goes on between me and my wife is none of your business.”

“It is my business, Spence, when you tell me you love me. Is it really possible for you to love two women?”

“Yes, it is. I didn't call you to talk about love, but to ask if you can meet me tomorrow.”

There was a moment of silence. “Where?”

“I'll pick you up at Union Station.”

“At what time?”

“Make it ten. That way we can spend most of the day together. I promised Dee that I would take her out to dinner,” Spencer lied smoothly.

There came another beat before the feminine voice said, “Okay.”

Spencer ended the call with the tap of a key. It wasn't easy living a double life, but there was something about Jenah he couldn't resist. She was like a narcotic. Sleeping with her was addictive.

“A
re you certain this fabric is good for the settee?”

Marisol Rivera-McDonald gave the nervous woman a reassuring smile. “I am very certain, Mrs. Wardlaw. What you want is much too heavy for the settee's frame.”

The widowed socialite stroked the gaudy brooch pinned to the lapel of her Chanel suit jacket. Marisol wanted to tell the woman that the suit alone spoke volumes. The proceeds from the sale of the ruby brooch and the enormous diamond solitaire on her left hand could feed a family of four for months—if they were conservative food shoppers.

Marisol had met more quirky people than she could count on both hands and feet since she'd become a D.C.-based interior designer. Most of her clients had more money than they knew what do with it, so they called her regularly to ask whether they should buy a new rug, change a chandelier or give away all the furniture in their home to a charitable organization just to fill it up again. She found it wasn't so
much their permanent residences that prompted them to start over but their vacation properties.

Sylvia Wardlaw had come from old, old money. Upon the advice of her financial planner, Mrs. Wardlaw had sold her home in McLean, Virginia, and had purchased a suite of rooms on the top floor of the Beaumont Hotel overlooking DuPont Circle.

The attractive and mentally sharp octogenarian had buried three husbands and was seriously contemplating marrying a fourth, but discovered he wasn't as wealthy as he had purported. She'd told Marisol in confidence that she'd had him investigated because at thirty years her junior she suspected he was after her money. Marisol had shaken her head, while calling him an unscrupulous scoundrel, which had endeared her to the woman.

Sylvia nodded. “You know I trust you to always give me good advice.”

She wanted to tell the woman her reputation was based on good advice and honesty. It didn't matter if her clients were wealthy, Marisol wanted them to be pleased with her services.

“Covering the settee with cream-colored silk instead of brocade will not detract from the fluid design typical of Chippendale.” The double-chair-back settee was an authentic reproduction of the high-quality colonial of American Chippendale furniture, circa 1880.

“You know I don't want my furniture removed from the premises,” Sylvia reminded Marisol.

“The work can be done here. After I get in touch with the upholsterer I'll call to let you know the dates and times he's available. It shouldn't take him more than two days to complete the job. Is there anything else you'd like me to help you with?” Marisol asked her best client.

Sylvia pursed her vermilion-colored lips as she appeared
to be deep in thought. “I don't believe so, but if I think of something I'll have Alyssa call you.” She smiled, and a network of minute lines fanned out around her cool gray eyes. “I want to thank you for recommending her as my personal assistant. I don't know how I've gotten along all these years without someone like her.”

Marisol smiled. “I'm glad I could find someone to make life easier for you.” Alyssa had been the personal assistant for a woman who'd fired her when she suspected her husband had more than a passing interest in her employee.

Alyssa had asked Marisol if she knew of someone who needed a live-in gofer, and she had asked Sylvia, who had to have control of every phase of her day-to-day existence, if she wanted to hire a personal assistant/social secretary. It wasn't easy for Sylvia to relinquish control of answering the telephone, reading her mail, accepting and declining invitations to various fundraisers and social events, but Alyssa had miraculously gained the woman's confidence and in turn protected her from those who sought to take advantage of her employer's generosity.

“She's my guardian angel.”

Marisol closed the large leather-bound catalogue filled with swatches of fabric, praying Sylvia was right about Alyssa. Marisol had insisted Alyssa submit to a background check before she recommended her to her client, because she hadn't wanted to be responsible for someone whose main focus was to work for wealthy people because of an ulterior motive. When she saw Alyssa's boyfriend she had warned her that he was never for any reason to come to Mrs. Wardlaw's apartment. One glance at the chronically unemployed young man spoke volumes. He wanted money, but didn't want to work for it.

She picked up her handbag and stood up. “Please don't
bother to get up, Mrs. Wardlaw. Alyssa will show me out.” Marisol met the young woman as she walked out of the living room. Conservatively dressed in a white blouse and a pair of black slacks, Alyssa Jenkins nodded. Her braided extensions were pulled into a ponytail.

“I had to call Mrs. Wardlaw's doctor this morning,” she said sotto voce.

Marisol came to a stop in the expansive entryway. “Is she all right?”

“She'd complained that she was feeling dizzy. The doctor said her blood pressure was slightly elevated. I guess it came from the popcorn we had last night when we were watching a movie.”

“You have to watch her sodium intake,” Marisol whispered.

“I know that now.”

“I'll probably call tomorrow to let you know when someone is going to come to replace the seat on the settee in the living room.”

Alyssa smiled, her dark eyes sparkling in an equally dark face. “Okay.” She opened the door for Marisol, waited until she walked into the elevator, then closed and locked the door.

Marisol flagged down a taxi, giving him her Georgetown address. She hadn't taken her car because she hadn't wanted to waste time trying to find a place to park. DuPont Circle wasn't that far from Georgetown, so getting around by taxi was faster and easier.

She barely had time to settle back in the rear seat when the driver maneuvered up in front of the three-story town house she owned with her political-consultant husband. She and Bryce used the first floor for their professional offices and the second and third as their personal residence. Marisol paid the driver, requested a receipt and exited the cab.

She had barely put the key in the lock when the door swung open and she came face-to-face with someone she hadn't expected to see. “Mami, what are you doing here?”

The smile on Pilar Rivera's face vanished quickly, replaced by a scowl. “Is that any way to greet your mother?”

Leaning forward, Marisol pressed her cheek to her mother's. “I didn't expect to find you here. Why didn't you tell me you were coming?” She dropped the catalogue and her handbag on a chair in the entryway and closed the door.

Pilar stared at her daughter, seeing things only a mother would see when Marisol took off her black cashmere swing coat and hung it on a coatrack. She was dressed entirely in black: sweater, pencil skirt, stockings and suede pumps. It was as if the thirty-two-year-old interior designer with her profusion of shiny black curls framing her round face like a cameo was in mourning. Even without makeup Marisol was stunning. Her olive coloring, large dark brown eyes and delicate features conjured up one word:
exotic.

“If I'd told you I was coming then it wouldn't have been a surprise.”

Marisol smiled. “You're right, Mami.” She hugged and kissed her mother. “How long are you staying?”

“Not too long. I had some time coming to me, so I decided to take the train down to see you.”

“Did your decision to take the train down have anything to do with you talking with my husband?”

Pilar shook her head, salt-and-pepper curls moving with the motion. “Not really,
m'ija.
When I called the house this morning Bryce answered. I told him that I had a taken a few days off from my job and he invited me to come and spend a few days with you.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What aren't you telling me,
m'ija?
”

Marisol ran her fingers through her hair, pushing a profusion of curls off her forehead. “Nothing.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“No.”

“What's the matter?”

Closing her eyes, Marisol exhaled an audible sigh. “Nothing, Mami. I'm just a little tired.”

“You're as skinny as a stick. And wearing black makes you look
flaca.
”

“I've never been
gorda,
” Marisol countered, mixing her English with Spanish. What did her mother expect? She was five-three and her weight fluctuated between one hundred eight and twelve.

“You're still too skinny.”

“
Sí, sí, sí,
Mami,” she intoned.

“Don't
yes
me, Marisol Pilar Rivera-McDonald,” Pilar shot back. “Bryce said he was going to take us out for dinner, but I've just decided I'd rather stay home. Go upstairs and relax while I fix you a good Puerto Rican home-cooked meal. I already checked out your refrigerator, so you don't have the excuse that you have nothing in the house.”

Marisol closed her eyes and gently massaged her forehead “How do you just come to my house and take over?”

“Easy. It's because I'm your mother and I'm worried about you. I know you're still having those headaches because you're rubbing your forehead. You work too hard, don't eat enough and the result is you're a bag of bones. Remember,
m'ija.
No man wants a bag of bones in his bed.”

“Bryce has never complained about my weight.”

“That's because he loves you.”

Movement caught Marisol's eye over her mother's shoulder. The topic of their discussion had come out of his office. Her gaze softened when her eyes met a pair that were
a shocking baby-blue. Bryce McDonald was the epitome of preppie, from his conservative haircut to his button-down shirt, cuffed slacks and wingtips. During the summer months he spent hours on the water aboard his parents' yacht. The hot sun turned him into a golden statue with his sun-streaked light brown hair and slim, toned body.

Marisol lifted her chin for her husband's kiss. “How's it going?” she asked.

Bryce smiled, revealing a set of straight white teeth. “Pretty good. I hope you don't mind that I invited your mother to hang out with us for the weekend.”

Marisol placed a hand on Bryce's back. “Of course not.”

“I'm going to call the Equinox and see if I can get a reservation for three.”

“Make it for tomorrow,” Pilar said. “I'm going to cook tonight.”

Bryce stared at his mother-in-law. “Are you sure?”

Pilar smiled. It had been six years since she'd become mother of the bride and Pilar was still shocked that her little girl had managed to marry one of Washington's most eligible bachelors. “Very sure. Go and relax with your wife and I'll call you when it's time to eat.”

Reaching for Marisol's hand, Bryce led her into his office while Pilar walked up the staircase to the second floor. As soon as he closed the door, she rounded on him. “Why didn't you call me to let me know my mother was coming down?”

Cradling her face, he touched his mouth to hers. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Marisol's fingers went around his wrists. “It was more like a shock than a surprise. You know I didn't schedule anything for this weekend because I wanted to be alone with you.” What she hadn't told Bryce was that she was ovulating and if
they were lucky, then they could look forward to becoming parents before the end of the year.

Bending slightly, Bryce picked her up and carried her over to the leather sofa. He sat, bringing her down to his lap. “We'll have many more weekends to spend together after she leaves.”

Resting her head on his shoulder, Marisol inhaled the lingering scent of her husband's aftershave on his lean jaw. Although he worked from home, Bryce got up every morning to shave and shower as if he were going into a traditional office, because he never knew when he would have to leave at a moment's notice to meet with a client and/or candidate who needed his political expertise. Some men in Washington sold influence, while Bryce McDonald sold advice and strategy. His family was as entrenched in politics as some families were in banking and finance. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather had earned a reputation and amassed their wealth as power brokers.

Marisol's dilemma wasn't that she didn't love her husband, but his reluctance to go to a fertility specialist to determine if her inability to get pregnant was the result of a low sperm count. She'd tried to assure Bryce that she wasn't attacking his virility, but if they had to resort to other measures then she wanted him to consider other options.

His comeback was if they couldn't have a child through the normal intercourse route, then maybe they were destined not to become parents. He followed his tirade with the statement of adoption not even being a remote possibility. It was the first time since she'd become Mrs. Bryce McDonald that Marisol had thought about seeing a divorce attorney. A two-week stay in Jamaica redesigning a client's vacation retreat had saved her marriage. When she returned she realized
she'd married Bryce because she loved him, and if they never became parents, then she would still love him.

“The next time you invite her, please call to give me prior warning,” she crooned, placing light kisses along his jaw. “I always need to gear up before dealing with my mother.”

Bryce's hand was busy searching under Marisol's sweater. He gave her breast a gentle squeeze. “Your mother is a pussycat compared to mine.”

“My mom is pushy.”

He laughed softly. “That's because you're all she has. My mother has three other children to annoy.”

Marisol knew Bryce was right. Pilar Rivera was only seventeen when she'd found herself pregnant with a married man's child. Her parents sent her to Puerto Rico to have the baby, and when she returned Pilar moved in with her grandmother before she finally got her own apartment in an East Harlem public housing development. Pilar went to beauty school, graduated and worked in a local hair salon for years. She had finally saved enough money to open her own salon, but six months later a fire in an adjacent restaurant destroyed her shop and half the stores and apartments on the block.