Keir

“No Rowan today?” My mother’s forehead is creased.

“No. No Rowan today.” I smooth my tie before taking a seat on a velvet sofa in the Oval Office. My father sits at his desk, finishing up a phone call with the ambassador to China.

“Everything … okay with the two of you?” She lifts a brow. I know where she’s going with this.

“Not at the moment, no.”

Taking a seat across from me, she crosses her legs at the ankle and removes her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Your strategist really wanted you to appear grounded,” she says. “A nice girl, a nice Aldridge girl, would’ve sealed that for you.”

“Don’t you think that whole notion is a bit … old-fashioned? It’s twenty-seventeen. It’s perfectly acceptable for a single man to run for a senatorial seat.”

“Right. Yes. But you’re not just any single man, Keir. You’re a single man with a bit of a reputation,” she reminds me, as if I wasn’t aware.

“All I need to do is attend a few charity galas and kiss a few babies. They’ll forget all about my checkered past.”

My mother’s mouth curls into a knowing smile, as if she thinks I’m being cute. “Oh, Keir. So much to learn.”

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to discuss the campaign,” I say when my phone vibrates with a text. It’s Ronan. They’re outside the doors waiting.

She half-laughs. “Okay, then.”

Rising, I stride toward the double doors to my father’s office and show my brother and his wife in.

My mother nearly turns white.

My father ends his call.

Ronan’s arm is hooked around Camille’s lower back, and her body is wrapped in a form-fitting sheath dress, her belly taking center stage.

You could hear a pin drop.

I can’t help but smirk.

This is exactly how I expected this to go.

“Ronan,” my father breaks the silence with his deep bellow. “Son.”

Mom keeps her distance, gripping the sofa like it’s some kind of life raft.

“We weren’t expecting you,” Dad adds, walking around his desk and making his way across the long room. Out of all of us, Camille’s memoir least affected him. I don’t even think he held a grudge, at least not for long. And if he did, it was only ever for show, to appease my mom.

He never said it, but I know Ronan’s departure from his life hit him hard.

They were close. At least, as close as a father and son could be in our family. I think he always saw himself in Ronan, more so than in me.

Dad turns to Camille, his eyes lowering to her round belly then back to her crystalline gaze. “This … this is quite a surprise. Pleasant, of course, but still a surprise.”

Ronan and Camille both smile, and she rubs her stomach.

“It’s a boy,” she says sweetly. “We’re due in four months.”

“We’re due on your birthday, Mom,” Ronan says, though he doesn’t smile. He senses her tepid reception.

Mom offers a lukewarm smile, and I can almost read her thoughts. In her mind, I’m sure she’s stewing over the fact that the baby will be “half American royalty and half hooker.”

“We don’t want him born into a world where he’ll never meet his father’s side of the family,” Camille says, glancing up at her husband. “Having this baby … has sort of put things into perspective for us.”

“It’s time to piece this family back together,” Ronan adds.

My mother finally rises from the sofa, her expression softening for the first time in ages, and she makes her way toward Camille, her hand outstretched. “May I?”

Camille nods. “Absolutely, of course.”

Mom places her hand on Camille’s stomach, and for a split second, I almost think I see Busy Montgomery’s eyes glass over. But the moment she lets go, she straightens her posture and returns to her stoic demeanor.

“I think we can discuss how to move forward,” Mom says. “Yes. That would be very nice. Thank you, Ronan, for initiating this. We weren’t exactly sure where we stood with the two of you so we kept our distance.”

“This was all Camille’s planning,” Ronan says, glancing down at her with a proud half-smile.

Mom looks toward Camille once more, examining her almost. “Is that so?”

She nods. “Yes. I’d love to speak to you one-on-one if I could? When you have a chance?”

“Absolutely.” Mom squints before smiling, as if being cordial is taking a bit of effort, but at least she’s trying. “So it’s a boy, you said?”

She nods. “Bennett Ronan Montgomery.”

“Maybe he’ll carry on our legacy one of these days. A Montgomery president from every generation. Could you imagine?” My mother clasps her hands together as if the idea gives her nothing but sheer delight, and then she glances to me. “But first, we’ve got to kick off Keir’s career. Perhaps the two of you would like to help with that?”

Ronan and Camille seem taken aback by her suggestion, and I get it. The two of them have chosen a life outside DC, a life that doesn’t involve schmoozing and campaigning and smiling until your cheeks freeze in that position.

“We can talk,” Ronan says. “But no promises.”

Watching the two of them, so content and at peace, makes me realize long-term career in politics, one that leads straight to the White House, is no place to raise a family. I could never be the kind of father I want to be—the kind of father I never had—if my focus and attention are on the well-being and prosperity of the United States of America and not on the well-being and emotional prosperity of my own family.

“I’ve got a meeting across town,” I lie, checking my phone. Four missed calls. Three texts. None of them from Rowan. “Some contributor.”

I’ve left her alone all week, giving her space, hoping my absence might make her heart grow fonder, or at least come around enough to consider talking to me.

Showing myself out and leaving my parents to catch up with Ronan, I drag in a lungful of White House air and dial her number.

The line rings.

My heart races.

But she doesn’t answer.