CHAPTER FOUR
Elijah
Captain Du Pont: Suffering? Or suffering no fools?
—Southern Insider News
I take a moment to brace myself before leaving the driver’s side of my truck. My smile is brittle as bark, but it stays in place as reporters swarm. Captain Du Pont, how are you feeling this morning? Any idea why Miss Clemons didn’t show for the wedding? Who is the woman you left the church with yesterday? Were you seeing the driver before the wedding? Is that why Miss Clemons chose not to marry you?
Holding up my briefcase in front of me like a mock shield, I push ahead through the humid morning air. “Am I damaged goods now? Don’t I get a good morning?”
A chorus of laughs rings out among the reporters. “Good morning, Captain Du Pont,” one familiar female reporter chimes. “The public is just concerned. Could you give us some idea of what happened? Do you think this will have a negative impact on the campaign?”
“No, I don’t expect it will.” A microphone blocks my view of City Hall ahead and I bypass the aggressive journalist, trying my best not to step on anyone. “I might have been dumped, but I haven’t lost my desire to improve Charleston for the better.”
“You think you can do better than your father?”
“Yes, but don’t tell him I said that.”
More laughter. I’m almost to the door and I know from experience at least one of the cameras is pointing directly at my ass. Goddammit. My backside has become something of a fascination with the Charleston press ever since a female journalist—and I use the term “journalist” loosely—pointed out on live television that I’m carrying some extra “junk in the trunk.” Now my butt is a local celebrity with its own Twitter account.
@DuPontBadonk. Whatever that means.
I’d never scrutinized my posterior before, but hell if I haven’t been checking it more often in the mirror lately. It’s not large, per se. It doesn’t move or shake. The damn thing is hard as a rock, if I do say so myself. But it’s…thick, I’d suppose one would say. And the squats I squeeze in at the gym four times a week only seem to make it worse.
Why am I thinking about my ass? My thoughts should be on the questions they continue to fire at me, but I find my mind drifting back to Addison’s apartment. To the reprieve those four walls represented. Those over-the-top, Christmas-covered walls. My mouth lifts into a smile—genuine this time—thinking about the tree I discovered this morning. From far away, the ornaments looked innocent enough. Up close, though, they have little phrases painted on the blown glass spheres. I came to Charleston and got a pair.
Basically, lots of balls jokes. Turns out Addison’s grandmother had a risqué sense of humor. My smile fades when I remember Addison talking about her grandmother last night. How she briefly dropped that mask of I don’t give two shits. Also known as, the same look she had on her face when she dropped me off at my car this morning after taking me to the storage locker to get a box of clothes.
“See you when I see you, Captain.”
I climb out of the Honda, leaving my forearms propped on the hood as I lean in to speak with Addison. “When do you reckon that will be?”
She gives me a sweet smile. “Probably on the news this morning.”
“You’ll be watching, will you?”
“Might take a glance.”
An all-around sassy delivery, but I swear I catch the tremble of her chin. “Thanks for everything, Goose.”
She stares straight ahead through the windshield. “Listen, I…I hope this doesn’t cause you any trouble.”
There it is. Not so sassy after all. “Even if it does cause me trouble, I’d still have taken that ride from you.”
I’d closed the door before she could say something smart, earning myself a frown. For some strange reason, I’m still carrying that frown with me like a good luck charm as I open the door of City Hall. But something—maybe the fact that I know Addison is watching—compels me to stop and face the cameras. A move I definitely didn’t plan. Based on the way the reporters go silent, they don’t expect it, either. I might be a politician, but I’m not the kind that uses every opportunity in front of the camera to manufacture sound bites.
“I just wanted to say that I have no hard feelings toward Miss Clemons. She had to make a very tough decision and I hope she can be happy. Lord knows marriage to me probably would have exhausted a saint.” I wait for the scribbling, chuckling and camera flashes to die down. “The woman who picked me up outside the church yesterday is a good Samaritan and friend. But just a friend. Yesterday was the first time I met her and I’m…well, I’m very glad I did. Thank you. You all have a fine day.”
Questions go off behind me like bomb blasts as I climb the curved, white stone steps and push through the double doors of City Hall. I intend to cut through the lobby and go straight upstairs, but that notion bounces like a bad check when I’m greeted by everyone. Every damn person who works in the building is standing in a big semi-circle, some of them holding flowers and stuffed animals.
“Bless your heart, Captain Du Pont. How are you feeling today?”
“You’re going to be just fine, you hear me?”
“You’ve got no use for a wishy-washy woman. I say you dodged a bullet!”
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” When mouths snap shut around me, I realize I’m using my captain’s tone, but maybe it’s for the best. If I don’t handle this correctly right now, I’m going to be living with the fallout of yesterday forever. “I appreciate everyone’s concern. Truly, I do. But where do you think I’m going to get enough vases to hold all these flowers?”
“My wedding gift was a vase. A nice, crystal one,” someone offers, before promptly turning pink and ducking behind a co-worker. “Never mind. Sorry.”
“I’m sure it was very nice.” I clear my throat. “Now, please. Take those stuffed animals home to your children and grandchildren. I wouldn’t know what to do with one.”
“They’re meant to comfort.”
“Yes. I understand. But I’m doing just fine, everyone. Just fine.” I put myself back in Addison’s kitchen last night when she asked me what I want. How I thought returning to work, muscling down and pretending the last twenty-four hours never happened would be impossible. Somehow it feels possible right now.
Last night was the first time I’ve ever shut off the noise around me and let myself think. Be. Maybe I can do it again right now, though. I can focus on what I need to do to move forward, instead of dwelling on the fact that I’ve essentially been abandoned in front of my entire address book. Weirdly, though, I don’t…feel abandoned. Standing there in the middle of my campaign staff and employees, I realize half of me stayed behind in the glow of Christmas lights. In the quiet buzz of silence when they shut off. “The election is in two months. We have a lot of work to do between now and then. Can’t afford any distractions, can we?”
“No, Captain.”
“That’s right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to meet with the current mayor. He gets cranky when kept waiting.” I move through the sea of bodies, smiling at some of the older women who look utterly heartbroken on my behalf. “There’s a lot of unopened liquor that didn’t get used yesterday. If we win the election, we’ll break it out at the afterparty. How does that sound?”
A cheer goes up and I use that opportunity to leave the main lobby, taking the stairs up two flights and rounding the corner into my father’s corner office.
After returning from overseas, I ran for city council and I’ve been holding a position ever since. But I’ve been performing mayoral duties in an unofficial capacity for over a year now. More or less, my father just comes to the office to fundraise and reminisce about days gone by with the older councilmembers. His corner office has been offered to me on more than one occasion, but I refuse to take it until I win the seat.
The faint smell of cinnamon and coffee greets me first, letting me know my father has just finished his usual breakfast of steel-cut oatmeal. On his office television, the footage rolls of me walking into the building, just minutes ago, my voice mingling with laughter. My father is turned to the side with both feet propped on his desk, hand poised on his glasses as he views the screen. Ten years ago, the optometrist informed him he needed assistance to see, but he still keeps those fingers locked around one side, as if he’ll rip them off at any minute and transform into Superman. As the longest-sitting mayor in Charleston history, a lot of this town believes him to be a caped hero. I do, too, some of the time. But it takes a shrewd man to hold any political office for so long—and my father is no exception.
Standing near the television with hands clasped behind his back is Preston. He’s been working with my father for the last four years, starting as a part-time consultant before being promoted to full-time advisor. With the upcoming transition taking place of late, he’s become more of a glorified errand boy for my parents…and there’s something about him that makes me exercise caution. There’s an assumption on my father’s part that I’m going to hire Preston after the election, but I don’t think Preston has made that same assumption. There’s an unaddressed tension between him and me, and he’s clearly aware of it. Seems to even enjoy it somewhat.
My theory is partly confirmed when Preston seems poised to comment on the television footage, but notices me in the doorway first and shuts his mouth. “I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Mayor,” he says to my father, passing me with a nod. “Captain Du Pont.”
“Preston.”
The advisor closes the door on his way out and I continue into the office. “Well played, son,” my father says, using the remote to turn off the television. “A little more grief in front of the cameras wouldn’t have gone amiss, but the public will want a resilient mayor. Not someone who takes to bed over some woman.”
“She wasn’t some woman. She was going to be my wife.” Even as I defend Naomi, I can’t even remember our last conversation. Or if I kissed her last night after the rehearsal dinner. None of it. I’m sure once I have some time and perspective, those things will come back to me, but right now, I’m coming up blank. I clear my throat. “How is Mom?”
“Miffed as hell. You know how she likes playing hostess.” My father lets his feet drop from the desk and sends me a smirk. “I suppose she’s a little worried about you, too.”
Guilt turns over in my chest. “I’ll give her a call to let her know I’m fine.”
He drops his chin, sending his voice down into a lower register. “We’ll give this a month to settle, then we’ll find you someone else. A new love interest that plays well with voters.” Two fingers lift to massage the bridge of his nose. “People care less and less about the issues these days. A blossoming romance will keep their interest.”
This suggestion does not come as a shock to me. Some of my first memories are of being thrown up on my father’s shoulders for a photo opportunity. Protecting one’s persona is the nature of the beast in politics. My father served in the army, like me, and has dedicated his life to what he believes will better this town, though. This city runs in his veins and he’s been the face of recovery after storms, perseverance through tragedy. To a casual observer of this conversation, he comes across as callous and self-serving—and maybe he is, on occasion. After all, he’s a politician. But he’s a man who is passionate about public service. And oatmeal.
In two month’s time, I’m the front-runner to take his place in this very office. At sixty-five, he could probably go on serving for another decade, but my mother is tired of the long hours he works and wants to travel. She also wants grandbabies, which is on hold for a while, since I’m an only child and freshly jilted. My father expects me to pick up exactly where he leaves off. To lead Charleston the way he’s done, without deviating.
Part of me wonders if it’s worth the inevitable battle and disappointment if I do things my own way. My father is a member of the proverbial old boys’ club. There’s a spot waiting for me there, too. Do I want to take it, though? Taking it means favors, funding, deals made at the country club. Traditions as old as time, but not ones that make a real difference.
Addison’s frown creeps back into my head. If I told her I had fresh new ideas that I was on the fence about introducing, what would she say? More than likely, she would probably threaten to dump soup on my head. Again. For just a couple seconds, I let myself remember the glow of the Christmas lights and Addison’s voice at my shoulder. If I’d gotten married yesterday, I never would have known such a unique person and place existed. That thought causes an uncomfortable flattening in my stomach.
“You’re on board with the new love interest idea?”
“I think you know I’m not,” I respond, unable to keep the weariness out of my tone. “You didn’t marry my mother for appearances’ sake.”
“I got lucky.” He picks up the remote control and taps it on the desk. “We can’t all find a diamond in the rough, though. You’ll meet another girl like Naomi. Good upbringing, looks, class. She’ll give you a comfortable life and respectability.” A pregnant pause starts a tingle at the back of my neck. “That girl you left with yesterday will give you none of those things, so I hope you scratched the itch.”
Black edges into my vision. “Excuse me?”
“If you were seeing Addison Potts while you were engaged to Naomi, I don’t want to know about it. Didn’t get a good look at her yesterday, but some of your mother’s friends did. Urges are a powerful thing, son. Especially if she grew up to look anything like her mother.” He sets down the remote with a firm clunk. “But seeing a woman like her again will lead to political ruin. If the press is suspicious now, just wait until they dig up the past. They’ll pounce on the fact that she’s a relation to the Clemons family. Eventually there will be uncomfortable questions about who fathered her. It could go national.”
“First of all, I’m not living my life for the press. Second, don’t refer to Addison as a woman like her.” My hands curl around the chair arms and squeeze. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“Careful, Elijah. You were less offended when I called Naomi some woman.”
The truth of that is like a bucket of cold water to the face. Jesus. My father is trying to be helpful and I’m ready to go a round over a perceived insult. Over a girl I’ve known for one day. Letting go of the chair, I stand up and pace to the window, looking out over the church-steepled skyline. “Yesterday was the first time I met her. I didn’t know she was Naomi’s…cousin.”
My father sits back. “All right, that’s good. There’s probably some way to prove that.”
“She was in New York until a couple of weeks ago.”
“Already have someone working on gathering dates and details.”
I grit my teeth to keep from demanding he call off his efforts. Addison just lost her grandmother and had her life transplanted in a new town. Any kind of investigation or media interest could disrupt it even more. “I want them off her trail. I want her left alone.”
“Then you better do the same.”