The World: According to Graham (6 page)

I know that I have no right to throw her out. This isn’t my house, and Graham and I aren’t even a couple. However, Veronica was in his hotel room and had access to his phone this morning. She’s at least going to know that I’m competition. He did say that he still loves me after all.

She scurries to her phone and at least she has the good sense to look apologetic as she grabs her purse. “I’m . . . I . . . I’m . . . sorry,” she stutters as she rushes out. “I thought you were from the personal organization agency that’s supposed to take care of Miss Early’s clothes. I . . . I didn’t know.”

When she gets to the front door, Veronica reaches for the door knob but turns around and gives me an apprehensive smile. “If it’s any consolation, you don’t look almost forty.”

I don’t respond, because as I’ve learned navigating the underbelly of Washington politics, nothing good comes out of responding to a backhanded compliment.

After the front door closes, I turn and shut the sliding glass door, dropping to the floor beside George. Just his proximity is calming to my frayed nerves. Stroking his back, I look around Graham’s home.

It really is a very comfortable place to live. I laugh as I remember how I asked in my snottiest voice which Betsy Ross, the Sons of Liberty’s name for their female sources, had decorated his place. Graham had smirked and responded that his sister had. Ha! I guess the joke had been on me.

As if he understands me, I say to George, “I’ve missed you, big guy. Want to help me find my belongings?”

Standing, I walk to where I dropped my purse and pull my phone out of the side pocket. No missed calls from Graham or texts for that matter. I wish that before I’d kicked Veronica out I had asked what his flights status was. Hmmm . . . and if they were in the same city together, how was she here when he’s not? More questions to ask him when he arrives.

First order of business though is to wash the wine glass. It’s sitting there as a reminder of the girl that I’m probably biologically old enough to be the mother of. That thought inspires me to make finding a personal trainer priority number one when I get settled.

I use a Brillo pad to scrub the tramp red lip prints off the glass and note that the last drop of wine must have been sitting in it for a while. A hint of rose has stained the bottom. Oh well. I put in the drying rack. Graham can figure out what to do next with it. At least any trace of lipstick has been removed.

Next, I make my way down the hall, past the door that hid Graham’s secret from the rest of the world. I’ve seen that room and the nasty things written on the “other white board.” There’s no need to dredge up those memories again. A shudder runs through me as I pass by.

Standing in front of the door at the end of the hall that I assume is the master bedroom, I pause a moment before I turn the knob. I feel a bit like a voyeur spying on Graham’s life. I’ve only been in his home once. I didn’t stay long enough to see where he sleeps.

As the door swings open, my breath catches in my chest. I was expecting another Pottery Barn regurgitated room complete with the wooden headboard, matching bedside tables and designer chest-of-drawers. Instead, I walk into a room that is a hodgepodge of the things that Graham must love.

Flipping on the light, I stare at the wall of canvas prints of different sizes hung in a collage. Local Washington D.C. landmarks are captured through the lens of a talented photographer, but I skip over those. What intrigues me the most are the black-and-white images of a young Graham and his teammates playing lacrosse. He must have gotten his fraternity letters tattooed on his calf soon after he left for college, because they are quite visible in this picture. There are pictures of the Sons of Liberty when they were young fraternity brothers. I love how they all look like kids—fresh, as if life hadn’t inflicted hardships on them yet. Max had crazy hair even back then. In one shot, he has his red curls knotted in a bun on top of his head. I smile and touch the image, running my finger over Graham’s chest.

My favorite one is of Graham, Max, and Jake dressed in tuxes with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. They could be going to a social or maybe it’s Max’s wedding day, but they look so carefree, young and uninhibited. Jake has a silver flask in his hand and there’s a cigar pinched between Graham’s lips. Whoever snapped the picture captured their spirits perfectly—or what little I know of them. I’ve only met them once.

Next, I study a canvas of Graham with his niece, sister, Mom and Dad. It looks more recent. Kelly, Graham’s sister, and I went to high school together. He told me that she had survived breast cancer, and much to my happiness she looks to be thriving. A beautiful pre-teen girl is holding Graham’s hand. She’s looking up adoringly at her uncle. Graham’s head is thrown back in laughter. Kelly looks very mischievous. I decide that she must have told a joke or said something that was inappropriate because Graham’s mom doesn’t look thrilled about whatever is causing Graham to laugh. Her hand is firmly gripping her hip and her lips are pinched. Graham’s dad? Well, his face is blank. They all look so much alike—dark hair, light eyes and tall builds.

Instinctively, I run my hand over my stomach and wonder if Graham’s genes are as strong as his parents’ and sister’s. Will my baby have almost black hair with light eyes or will he or she look more like me—petite with light blond hair? My cheeks warm as I smile and look down at my bulge, and I feel something that I haven’t experienced in a long time. It’s excitement. For the first time since I found out that I’m expecting, I allow myself to be excited about becoming a parent.

“I’m going to be a mom,” I say to Graham’s family canvas.

Then my eyes catch a black-and-white canvas of Graham and me. It’s when we attended the fundraiser together. My hair is down and my short dress shows off the top of my legs, which I rarely display. Graham looks devastatingly handsome in his perfectly tailored tux, with his wavy long black hair and piercing blue eyes. His dimple is on display and he looks down at me with hungry eyes. I’m staring up into his as if I’m lost in the moment. Hours later we would make love for the first time, confirming our feelings for each other.

I’m honored that he would choose to add that image to his special picture wall. Actions speak louder than words.
Maybe Graham and I do have a chance of making this work.

George brushes past me as he flops down on the red plaid cushion that rests at the foot of Graham’s bed. George is a gentle giant. I like his chilled demeanor and non-demanding personality. Plus, I think it’s impossible to not pet him. It’s like my hand finds his head automatically.

“Hey boy,” I coo as I walk past him towards Graham’s fluffy comforter. Before my head even hits the pillow, his scent bathes me in warmth. It’s masculine and rugged with a hint of cologne. I grasp his pillow, bringing it to my nose, and inhale like a stalker. I look over my shoulder just to make sure it’s only George and me in the room. Odors and my pregnancy haven’t gotten along well, but his scent? Wow. It makes me ache for its owner.

Tossing the pillow back on the bed before my fingers get a mind of their own, I open the bi-fold doors of Graham’s closet, hoping to see my clothing in some semblance of an order. The only things before me are a row of neatly hung male jeans and slacks on the bottom, and T-shirts, sweaters, and shirts hung above.
Who hangs sweaters?
It’s as if these doors trapped the essence of him inside. If I had hoped to avoid his scent, I seriously should have stayed out of his closet.

My mind floods with memories of our time together. His dominance that I love. Tender kisses left in trails over my ribs. His talented tongue and magic fingers. How I ever thought that I could forget and move on from him is really beyond me. I was such a fool. Even when he isn’t here, just the smell of him makes me long for his attention.

I shake my head, clearing the thoughts as I exit Graham’s room and head back to the foyer to grab my bag. Presuming that my clothes are still in wardrobe boxes, I don’t think they have arrived.

This baby is the best thing that could have happened to me in more ways than one, I’ve come to decide. My recent dream of becoming a mother will be realized, but it also made me see just how much I love Graham. I would like to think that I would have eventually gotten out of my own way and forgiven him—Sons of Liberty politics and all. But I don’t know if that’s true. I could have let pride rule my emotions and been miserable the rest of my life. The thought saddens me. I hope that I would have been braver than that.

My phone still indicates no missed calls. I do have one text from a number that I don’t recognize. I swipe my finger over the screen and read, “I’m very sorry for how I acted. Your things are in the SOL room.”

Veronica
.

I’m actually rather proud of her. Possessing the ability to apologize at such a young age is a gift. After Graham and I discuss assistants not being welcome in hotel rooms, maybe she won’t be so bad after all.

Walking back to Graham’s bedroom, I drop my bag just inside the door. Then I turn around and walk to the door that surprisingly no longer has a combination lock installed on it. It has been replaced with just a normal non-descript knob.

The close proximity to the space makes my stomach clench. When I stood in this spot months ago, I was angry and hurt, but most of all I felt betrayed. I’m still raw. Anxiety curls itself like a vine around my heart. My grip on the doorknob tightens, but I force myself to enter anyway.

Once again, I’m shocked by what I see, but in a very good way. I was expecting to find wardrobe boxes lining the wall; instead the oversized telephone booth is still there, but all the sound equipment, the round conference table, and the filthily-worded white boards are gone. They’ve been replaced with my business suits and clothing from the second bedroom in my town home hung in beautifully crafted white, open cabinets. There’s a built-in vanity in between my evening gowns and shoe racks. My full-length mirror has been installed on the front of a cabinet door. I open it and discover that it’s a cedar closet to protect my wool items.

Graham did all of this for me.

It’s too much and mesmerizing at the same time. My clothes that were destined for a spare room in Caroline’s guest house are now being displayed like works of art in this beautifully crafted closet—for me. “For me,” I repeat as I spin around, trying to grasp that this was crafted with me in mind. He saw my spare bedroom and realized what my clothes meant to me so he created this in a room that used to be associated with vile feelings.

The walls are painted a gorgeous shade of green that makes me think of the stems of wildflowers growing in a meadow.
I told him that my favorite color is green.
A crystal chandelier now hangs in the middle of the room. Its prisms cut the light, creating a rainbow effect on the ceiling. It’s a room crafted for a princess. Not even in my wildest dreams could I imagine something so wonderful.

It’s not like I ever fantasized about having a real closet one day; the thought actually never entered my mind. However, this . . . this is something that I didn’t think existed, except for Kim Kardashian and the First Lady. So much attention to detail has been shown. Graham gets it. Gets me.

In the corner of the room, where complicated panels of knobs and slides used to reside, is now a beautiful mahogany desk with intricate wood detail that has been placed near the only window in the room.

I run my fingers over the ornate detail as if I’m blind and memorizing every detail. Perfection. But then I gasp as I realize that the desk is very similar to the one that I just vacated at the White House. The chair is even similar, or maybe the same.

Graham copied my office desk and chair.

But how did he know what they looked like? He’s only been to my office once and neither one of us were in a talking mood. He’d been possessive—angry that I had danced with Roan Perez at the White House Christmas party.

I hadn’t attended the event with either one of them. I’d been too upset about my breakup with Graham to bring anyone. When I’d seen him there with another woman, my stomach had twisted into a knot resembling something that even a Boy Scout couldn’t unravel. The other woman had been young, pretty. I didn’t know her. After I’d done a bit of snooping—finding Lou and asking him to pull the guest list—I’d discovered that she was a lobbyist at one of the bigger firms. Graham had definitely been her plus one.

Was she a Betsy Ross? I’d tried to focus on the conversations that I’d kept getting trapped in, but inadvertently, my eyes had wandered around the great expanse of the room and locked with Graham’s. It had been as if he and I were the only ones in attendance at the Christmas party. He’d been dressed in a tux that was perfectly tailored for his tall form—probably the same one he wore the first night that we made love. Casually, his date had touched his arm or placed her hand on his back. It had made me crazy. That was my jacket. My man.

I’d attempted to forget him with two glasses of wine—my limit at White House functions. That hadn’t worked. I’d danced with a couple of male friends. All that did was remind me of our dance that we’d shared together when he sang “You Look Wonderful Tonight” while we twirled across the floor.

It has been as if we were playing a one-up game. He’d flirted with his date. I’d danced with a staffer. He’d let her feed him a bite of salmon croquettes. I’d sat by Roan at dinner. His forehead had creased and his eyes had become the shade of dark blue that I had grown to read as upset, so I’d asked Roan to dance.

Before I’d been able to register what was happening, Graham had grabbed my hand and led me to an alcove just outside the entrance to the ballroom. His eyes had been wild and his hair flopped over his eyebrows as he’d stared down at me.

“You only danced with him to piss me off,” he’d stated, glaring with such a look that I should have known what would happen next.

“You flirted with her shamelessly and let her feed you, for God’s sake. Are you a child? Can you not feed yourself food?” I’d replied, gesturing wildly behind me, as if she were standing right there.