The General Page 10

  "This next one," I told him, using the excuse to touch his arm as two women approached from the opposite direction. I would swear they sighed when he touched my hip, holding me back so he could reach for the door.

  Hell, I almost sighed too.

  "Oh, Mrs. Ericsson," Jayne, the woman who had worked at the shop since as long as I remembered greeted me as we walked inside. "I'm so sorry to hear about your husband."

  "Thank you, Jayne. I'm actually here for a black dress. You know... for the..."

  "Of course," she said, tone hushed as her hand pressed into her heart. "I have three options I think would be appropriate. Do you or your..."

  "Personal security," I supplied, a little annoyed at her suspicious look even if I had just been thinking about more close contact with Smith. "Smith. Smith, this is Jayne."

  "Oh, of course. Yes. The police never had any leads. You poor thing. You must be terrified to be in that house. Or go anywhere. But let's not talk about that. Would you like a glass of wine?"

  "No, thank you, Jayne. I have errands to run after this. If I could just look at your choices."

  It went as I promised Smith it would. I checked out the three dresses, chose the one most like the one I imagined in my head, Jayne wrapped it, I paid, and we were done with one dreadful errand.

  "Did you want to do any of the things the senator suggested?" Smith asked as we hustled our way back to his truck.

  "No. I hate strangers touching my face," I admitted. I had suffered through far too many spa dates with the women from the club. I was done. "And I can just file my nails. No one is expecting me to have a perfect manicure at a funeral, right?"

  "Right," he agreed, coming around the truck to my side like he had back at the house, opening the door, then offering me his hand so I could get my footing on the slippery rail thing to help me up. His hand touched my thigh, pushing it further onto the seat so he could close the door.

  And then, oh, and then, he took me shopping. For fun. It was a new, novel thing - walking down endless aisles at a big box store, each of us pushing a cart after the organizers for under my desk took up almost the whole one I had grabbed on the way in. By the time we got back up to the registers, I had picked up new sheets, throw blankets, a pair of sneakers, a book that looked good, pajamas, floating shelves that Smith said he would install for me, new curtains for my bedroom so it wouldn't be so damn dark in there all the time, and bath products. And still managed to spend less with two carts full than I did on the funeral dress.

  "Craft store or Marshall's?" he asked as we loaded up the bed of his truck, him pulling a cover over it all to ensure everything would make it home safely.

  "Marshall's," I decided solely because it was on the same side of the highway. I found I was equally excited about all the options. And as each moment passed, the tension of the morning and the uncertainty of the night before lessened, became background noise.

  "They have teacups," I announced loudly, making a few women in the housewares section turn, brows raised, lips only quirking when Smith called back from two aisles over. "With saucers," I added with emphasis, finding myself unusually charmed by their delicate design and feminine patterns. They were something Teddy never would have allowed in the house. And I suddenly found myself wanting to fill it with. The sheets I bought for the bed earlier had flowers on them. Pink and yellow flowers.

  "Well, then you have to get some, right?" Smith called back, and maybe it was crazy to say, but I could have sworn I could hear the smile he had on right then.

  "That man right there is a keeper," an older woman in the same aisle as me declared with a firm nod, like she knew from experience what it was like to have a man veto everything you wanted. And, well, I knew how that felt too. And Smith's amusement over all my little selections did, indeed, make him a keeper.

  Just not for me.

  It wasn't like that.

  Even if I wanted it to be.

  "Indeed," I agreed, giving her a smile because I wanted to sell her the fantasy. Sometimes, that was the kindest thing you could do for someone else. It was probably why I picked up that book with the happy couple on the cover. The fantasy. The happily ever after. The things life had pounded into me that I simply could not have.

  "What's with the dark cloud?" Smith asked, finding me a moment later, the cup still perched in my hand, but I was looking through it, lost in my own head again - a land so barren and empty of promises that I wasn't sure why I was so adamant about visiting as often as I did.

  "I can't pick," I said instead of answering, picking up the pink, white, and gold floral cup that didn't have the saucer, but was equally as cute. "This one without the saucer probably holds more tea though."

  "Sweetheart, it's not like you don't have the space to store two extra cups. Get both."

  And it really was that simple.

  We left when my cart was full of jeans, yoga pants, sweatpants, socks, t-shirts, long sleeve tees, sweatshirts. Comfortable clothes. The kind I wore as a girl. Clothes that would be a little more forgiving at my newfound appetite.

  The only section I skipped was the intimates. Because, quite plainly, I liked that one indulgence. Overpriced lingerie. Priced so high because it felt buttery smooth on the skin, because they were actual works of art in the painstaking, flawless details.

  The back of Smith's truck was near to bursting after we took a trip to the drive-through, then finally made it to the craft store.

  I'd been inside countless times, picking up little things I could get back in the house in my purse, not wanting Teddy to say anything, not wanting the staff to report it.

  Seeming to sense this mental process, whenever Smith saw my eyes land on anything for longer than a passing glance, he pulled it off the shelf and threw it into my cart. When I'd tried to object, he had reminded me that if I was going to try to start my business, that I needed all my supplies on hand. I needed to be efficient and organized. And a whole bunch of other B.S. that I just stopped fighting it. He made it sound like I was going to be selling thousands of pieces of jewelry a month. I didn't tell him, but I would be over the moon if I sold a dozen total. Or got rid of the stock I already had. I didn't have any high expectations, but I also had no reason to nitpick over a couple of dollars either.

  It wasn't until we got back to the house and he handed me the garment bag holding my dress that I felt pulled out of this dream - a floaty fake reality we had been inside for the afternoon.

  "It's just a day, Jenny," he reminded me, seeing the way my smile fell as the bag lay over my arm. "Just one more day of putting on a show. Then this is all over."

  I wanted to say there was no just about a funeral, that I had no idea how I was going to fake tears yet again, that I had no idea what I was supposed to say to people offering me their condolences, how I was going to find a single happy story to say at the service afterward like everyone else likely could.

  Maybe I could get away with it. Feign depression. Maybe I could just fall back behind Bertram, let him carry the conversation. He was good at it.

  "I just want it over," I admitted, reaching to help him with some of the bags.

  "It will be. You will get through it. And this will be the last time you will have to be around these people if you don't want to be. And Maren will be there, right? At least that is someone you don't hate."

  That was true.

  Smith would be there, but I couldn't exactly cozy up and talk with him. I could, however, cling to Maren instead. And because no one else could quite figure out how to relate - and therefore converse - with her, we would likely be left alone. And, from the outside, it would simply look like I was leaning on a close friend.

  "I hope Bertram had her invited," I mumbled as I washed my new cups before putting them away on an unused shelf in the cabinet.

  "She'll be invited." I must have shot him an inquisitive look because he shrugged. "My team looked into her."

  "That was not..."

  "It was. It was necessary," he c
ut me off, giving me a somewhat hard look, showing me a bit of the soldier within. "Solely for the fact that she knew about how Teddy treated you. We needed to make sure she wasn't suspicious in any way, despite what she said to you. I get that it feels like I am overstepping, but my job is to make sure nothing will blow back on you."

  Job.

  That word landed, a slap that smarted, leaving me sore, yet thankful for the reminder.

  That was what this was to him.

  A job.

  A paycheck.

  A really hefty paycheck.

  As much as that reality stung after yet another day half-deluding myself into thinking something was brewing between us, I needed it. Hope was for fools who didn't know how cruel and unfair the world was.

  I was no fool.

  I was intimately acquainted with cruelty.

  "She's clean, obviously," Smith said, misinterpreting my mood. "Anyway, my original point was that she will absolutely be invited. She's worth more than Bertram by almost double. And, let me tell you, Bertram is loaded. I guess taking all the money from lobbyists really helps line the pockets because most of it didn't come from his business that he claimed your late husband ran, but clearly did not."

  "Did you look into my financials?" I found myself asking, a mixture of curious and uncomfortable.

  "No. Normally, we would. Just to make sure you can cover the fees. But..." he trailed off, waving a hand around at the house.

  "Right," I agreed, unpacking the rest of the bags, arranging them by what room they would be going to.

  "Jenny," Smith's voice called, a mix of soft and firm. Like he was trying not to be demanding, but also wanted to make it clear that he wasn't going to stop until he got my attention. So my head lifted, gaze finding his hesitantly. The suit with his dark shirts always made his eyes almost predictably brown. I missed the way they would refuse to make up their mind on what color to be. "What's going on today?" he asked, point-blank, putting me on the spot. It was a quality to respect, sure, but I had never been good at being on the spot. I shrank. I cowered. More than a decade of conditioning ensured that reaction from me. Even as I thought that, I could feel the way my shoulders were curling forward, hunching me into myself, shrinking. I was always shrinking, apologizing for taking up too much space.

  "Smith..." I started, hearing a thickness in my voice, realizing too late that it was there because there was a telltale stinging in my eyes.

  And hearing it, seeing it, Smith was the one who shrank back, something that seemed impossible of such a big man. "I didn't mean to raise my voice." He hadn't. Not really. He got more firm, but didn't raise his voice. I knew all about raised male voices. "I'm just trying to understand why you seem so..." he paused, searching for the right word. "Unhappy," he settled on. "Do you want to talk about what happ..."

  "No," I cut him off, voice almost a little shrill. "It's nothing. I'm fine. I am just waiting for all this to be over."

  And to that, Smith stiffened, his jaw going so tight that it started to tick. And before I could explain that I didn't mean having him around, that him being there was likely the only thing that was making this situation tolerable, he gave me a nod.

  "I have to call the office," he said, a nonsense excuse he didn't even try to sell me properly as he reached for his phone and disappeared out the back door.

  And me, not good with confrontation of any kind, grabbed all my new belongings, carried them upstairs, and put them away before changing into a comfortable pajama set, and sitting down at my desk, making a bracelet of intricately carved flowers, taking my time, making sure each and every petal was perfect, unique before attaching the clay beads onto elastic string, sliding the finished project over my wrist, deciding right then and there that I was going to wear it. To the funeral. Maybe it was a tiny thing. But they would be expecting Cartier, Tiffany, Harry Winston. It was a rebellion of sorts, rejecting their world I hadn't truly wanted to be a part of in the first place.

  With that in mind, I shuffled a few things back into their new homes, but left some on the desk, liking that, liking the idea of being able to pick up right where I left off.

  And then I made myself tea, silently hoping Smith would show his face, would casually stroll in so we could move past the awkwardness. But I got the distinct feeling he was trying to ignore me, only hearing him come out of his room when he heard me go into mine, silently moving down the hall whereas he usually made himself heard. Like an invitation to follow him downstairs to have warm drinks and talk or watch a show.

  But neither of us had even passed that room where things had gotten decidedly unprofessional. And the only other places to watch TV were our own rooms.

  I climbed into bed, staring at the TV without really watching it, unable to keep my mind from racing, from considering all the possible ways that the funeral could go terribly, and the realization that I wouldn't have Smith for support. First, because he was just supposed to be staff, someone detached from me, certainly not someone to lean on. Second, because there was a wedge between us.

  But there was nothing I could do about that.

  I would have to get through it.

  I could do it.

  My life was getting through tough times.

  And as I showered, dried, pulled back my hair, put on a garter and stockings, dragged on the dress, slipped my feet into shoes, put on pearls at my ears, a watch on my left wrist, and my clay bracelet, I reminded myself that it was just a few hours. Just a few more hours of playing a part, and I could come back home, climb into sweats, get the sleep I didn't the night before.

  Grabbing a set of oversized sunglasses in the hopes that they might help me appear like I was crying behind them when I wasn't.

  I moved down the stairs, finding Smith already dressed as well, standing in the kitchen drinking coffee, his free hand holding his phone, his thumb frantically moving around, shooting off a text.

  "I wasn't sure if we were supposed to wait here for the senator or not, so I warmed up your car. But we have to wait for Lincoln. He's coming as well."

  "Okay," I agreed, making my tea, trying hard not to overanalyze the fact that he hadn't made it for me like he usually did.

  "It's just a couple hours," he reminded me again, tone distant.

  "Yeah," I agreed, keeping my back to him as I went through the motions of making my tea, not sure I trusted myself not to get into it if I looked at him. And we couldn't do that. I couldn't get distracted. I had to keep my head on straight. I couldn't do that after having it out with Smith.

  "Angel face," Lincoln greeted me, having come in silently, moving in behind me. "May I?" he asked, touching me up high between my shoulder blades. "You didn't get the zipper all the way up." With that, not actually waiting for permission since I clearly wasn't going to go to my late husband's funeral with a zipper unzipped, he zipped me up. "I hope your coat is warm. We're expecting some snow," he added, seeming to sense the tension in the room, and trying to ease it.

  "A lot?" I asked, wanting noise too. There would be enough quiet in the house later.

  "Three or four inches. But slow. Hopefully, most of it will be after we're all indoors. You all about ready to go?"

  And so we went.

  By the time we met up with Bertram at the gravesite, big, fat tufts of snow were already falling lazily from the sky, dusting the shoulders of everyone's black jackets, wetting the tops of everyone's hair.

  "And this is where we part," Lincoln said quietly, touching my wrist discreetly before he and Smith fanned out, each going far to either side of the casket, both looking silently intimidating, looking every bit the security detail they were meant to be.

  "Jennifer, my dear," Bertram made a show of rushing up to offer me support, grabbing both my elbows like I might be weak of knee, leaning in to kiss my cheek, then linking his arm through mine - two devastated family members supporting each other.

  People milled in, each paying respect since there had been no wake. When everyone took their seats o
n the white fold up chairs that were wet from the falling snow, prompting scowls from the women as though anyone had any control over the weather.

  Bertram's grip on my arm went from comforting to borderline punishing as the priest stepped in front of the casket to begin the service. I reached upward with a ducked head, looking like I was swiping tears. They were snowflakes, but it was the appearances that mattered. And then I reached for my sunglasses as though trying to maintain some dignity while I mourned.

  A chill worked its way through my system, settling deep inside my bones, making me curl forward to try to hold in some warmth. But there was no stopping it as the snow wet through my hair. My body started trembling almost violently, something Bertram noticed immediately.

  "Hold it together, Jennifer. No need to make a scene. You can cry at home," he told me as he dropped my arm to reach up, pretending to swat a nonexistent tear.

  I was sure I was going to get frostbite by the time the priest called for everyone to start putting the white roses on the casket. Bertram moved ahead of me, still annoyed by my display. It wasn't until I felt an arm link through mine that I thought I could even force my frozen legs toward the casket.

  "You're frozen solid," Maren's voice said at my side as she actively pulled me up toward the casket, forcing a rose into my hand before taking one herself, very much playing the part Smith said she could for me. Speaking of, he was nowhere to be seen. It was Lincoln who followed us across the lawn now completely white with about an inch of snow. "I parked a couple cars down from you," Maren went on, rubbing my arm like she was trying to get some life back in it. Her jacket was thicker, longer. She'd had the good sense to wear gloves and a scarf. She didn't seem bothered at all by the weather.

  "Thanks, Maren."

  "Didn't think you'd make it up there without help. You warm up. I will see you at the service."

  With that, she gave my arm squeeze before walking away.

  "Come on, Jenny," Smith's voice said before his fingers closed around my elbow, guiding me inside a car that was already humming with life, the inside so warm that it immediately made my entire body prickle.