Page 9 of The Senator's Wife

“Good. Shall we walk back then? I’m getting hungry.”

“Okay,” she said, rising. “I’ll make us breakfast.”

“That’s not what I’m hungry for.” He stood, pulling her into his arms and kissing her.

Sloane felt desire build as they hurried back to the house. They showered together, lathering each other and afterward massaging lotion onto each other’s bodies before making love. Whit’s body was lean and strong against hers, his hands and mouth so expert at bringing her to a boil. The first time they’d made love, Sloane had been astounded, and also a little ashamed, that her body responded to Whit with such passion. It had felt disloyal to Robert, almost as if she were betraying him. In time, though, she’d come to believe that it was what Robert would have wanted, and she realized that to deny herself a life would not bring Robert back. Whit made her feel like a woman again, quickening the excitement and desire that she thought had died with Robert. Sloane had loved Robert, her best friend Camille’s big brother, from the time she was a young girl, mooning over the older boy all through her school years. He would always be her first and purest love, but Robert was gone.

“Thank you again for suggesting we come. It’s been a wonderful weekend.” He showed that smile she loved so much. “This is a great house. A good place to leave the world and all its worries behind.”

“What kind of worries?”

He pressed his lips together. “Work, of course. And us. I worry about Rosemary. It’s pretty obvious that she’s not too happy about our union.”

Sloane thought back to a couple of weeks ago when she’d invited Robert’s mother and sister to have lunch at the Georgetown house. She had been looking forward to the gathering. The afternoon, however, had been a disaster, cold and formal. Rosemary, usually so warm and lovely, had actually been insulting to Whit when she’d said, “It doesn’t seem to have taken you long to make yourself quite at home in my son’s house.”

Whit had remained silent, but Sloane’s ire made it impossible for her not to say something. “This happens to bemyhouse.” She looked at her husband. “And Whit’s.”

Rosemary remained rigid in her chair. “You’re right, Sloane. Itisyour house. You can let whomever you choose live here.” She’d turned to Camille, who appeared dumbfounded at her mother’s rudeness. “I think it’s time we leave,” she said to her daughter as she rose from the seat. And even though Rosemary had called to apologize the very next day, Sloane was still hurt at the way she’d treated Whit. Now she tried to temper any distress he felt.

“You have to understand that Rosemary lost a son two years ago. She’s still having a hard time seeing me with someone else,” she said. “And as you know, she and Peg were quite close. She saw the struggles Peg was dealing with, and I think it’s difficult for her to see us together. It’s only natural, but time will take care of that. She’ll come around; you’ll see.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I still miss Robert so much, and it’s hard having his mother be mistrustful of me.”

Sloane didn’t know what else she could say to allay his concerns. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. There’s something I want to do to put our marriage on a more equal footing.”

“What do you mean?” Whit asked.

She worried that Whit might in time come to resent the inequities in their finances. The more she thought about it, the surer she was of what to do about it.

“Our prenuptial agreement doesn’t include the houses, whichare all in trusts with me as trustee. I want to make you a trustee as well, so that we share in the ownership. I think it’s only right that you feel you’re an owner of the houses you’re living in.”

Whit raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have to do that, Sloane. I know you’re just doing it to make me feel better about what Rosemary said.”

“Of course I don’thaveto do it. Iwantto do it,” she insisted. “End of discussion. I’m going to take care of it as soon as we get back to Washington.” She reached out to take his hand. “Equal partners.” Notcompletelyequal, she thought, since there were certain things she wasn’t ready to share yet.

- 7 -

ROSEMARY

Rosemary Chase put down the book she’d been reading for the past hour and winced at the stiffness in her legs. Getting old was for the birds, she thought, feeling all of her eighty-two years, despite the fact that her hair, still thick and shiny, was now a beautiful silver, and her bearing continued to embody the elegance of her earlier years. An avid tennis player, gardener, and sailor, she was in good shape, but when she pushed herself too far, her body was quick to remind her that she was no longer a young woman.

She rang for Matilda as she walked to the window to enjoy the view of the pond from the living room window. This was her favorite room in the immense house she and her late husband, Chapman, had bought in McLean, Virginia, over fifty years ago, when Robert was only nine and Camille a baby. They’d celebrated countless happy events and marked so many milestones here. She pictured the glittering parties she and Chapman had hosted over the years, the men so handsome in their dinner jackets, the women so glamorous. The house had been noisy then, full of life, and many times she’d yearned for a quiet moment to herself.

Now it was too quiet with just her and the staff rambling around the halls. But she loved this house—it contained a lifetime of memories both sweet and bittersweet. She was fortunate to have the means to stay here until she passed from this life to the next, regardless of the ravages of age. But she fervently hoped that when the end did come, it would be swift and take her while she was still in full control of her faculties. She sighed. Her thoughts lately were bordering on the morose. Straightening her shoulders, she admonished herself.Enough feeling sorry for yourself. Life is good.She had plenty to fill her days—her charity work, her friends, and, of course, her family.

Despite grieving over the loss of her only son, Robert, Rosemary was able to find joy in the company of her daughter, Camille, to whom she’d always been close. And Sloane, her daughter-in-law—she would never think of her as anything else—kept in close contact with her as well. And then there was her beloved granddaughter, Emmy, the apple of her eye, on whom Rosemary had always doted. She did her best to count her blessings, but there would always be a hole in her heart that only Robert could fill.

Matilda, her longtime housekeeper, came into the room. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Chase?”

“Camille should be here soon for an early dinner. Would you please set everything up on the screened-in porch? It’s such a lovely evening, it would be a shame to waste it.”

“Of course.”

She’d had a full and remarkable life, and a good marriage to a wonderful man. Despite her sorrow at losing him five years ago, she was grateful that he hadn’t been alive to bury his son. Truth be told, at times she wished she hadn’t still been alive either. Even though two years had passed since the shooting, she often caught herself expecting to see Robert walk through the door, calling out her name. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d picked up the phone, ready to dial his number, only to remember that he was no longer here. And to lose both of them, RobertandPeg, who was like a daughter to her, had been almost unendurable. She sighed and, glancing at her watch, saw that she still had a few minutes before Camille was due to arrive.

What the hell, she thought as she opened a drawer of the chinoiserie desk, lifted the top off the glass case, and pulled out a cigarette. She slipped out the French doors and stood on the patio, feeling a small thrill of rebellion as she lit it and took a deep pull. Camille would have her head if she knew. Rosemary had quit years ago, before the children were even born, but since her husband’spassing, she had kept a pack in the house and, every once in a while, indulged. It made her feel—young wasn’t the right word, but youthful and in control. And really, at eighty-two, was an occasional cigarette going to kill her?

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