Capital Wives (2 page)

“FYI…I lost two pounds last week eating salads.”

“What kind of salads?”

“Lettuce.”

“Lettuce and what?” Bethany asked.

“Just lettuce with light Italian dressing.”

Opening the refrigerator again, Bethany took out the ingredients for a veggie omelet. “What about fruit, vegetables or protein?”

“What about them?”

“You need them for a balanced diet.”

“Meat makes me fat.”

Bethany diced an onion, pepper and several mushrooms.
“You're not fat, Paige. What you need to do is tone your body. You can come with me when I work out with my trainer.”

“I'll think about it,” Paige mumbled. She wasn't about to give Bethany the satisfaction of agreeing with her. She would never have her stepmother's tall, willowy body, but knew she would look better without the additional twenty pounds she'd put on after her mother told her she was going to marry the man who'd once been her landscaper before he'd become her lover. What had frightened Paige was that the man had made sexual innuendos to his employer's daughter the year she turned twelve. At first she'd believed she'd imagined his intent, but the one time he walked into her bedroom while she was getting dressed confirmed her suspicions that he was a predator. There was no way she was going to live with her mother, even if she still blamed Bethany for breaking up her parents' marriage.

“Are you certain you don't want an omelet?” Bethany asked, breaking into Paige's musing.

“Is it fattening?”

Bethany smiled. “No. I doubt if it's more than fifty calories. And that includes cooking it with a nonstick butter-flavored cooking spray.”

“Okay. I'll have one.”

Not wanting to believe she'd scaled a small hurdle, Bethany cut up enough vegetables for two omelets. She squeezed oranges for juice and toasted two slices of all-grain bread. She wasn't certain if Paige would eat the bread, but she decided to offer it to her anyway. She'd been where Paige was now—yoyo dieting that had compromised her health when she experienced horrific headaches and fainting spells. A nutritionist taught her what to eat to lose and then maintain her weight, while a personal trainer put her through an exercise regimen
that toned and reconfigured her body until she looked as if she'd been nipped and tucked—even after two children.

Bethany was aware that she was a trophy wife, and she planned to look the part for as long as she could. The wives of Damon's associates had not accepted her, but she wasn't going to give the jealous women the satisfaction of knowing how much their rejection had affected her. The few times she'd found herself in their presence she'd made certain to look her best. The saying was that revenge was best served cold, but for Bethany it was looking hot. So hot that their husbands couldn't stop staring at her. And if she had been the bitch everyone thought she was, then she would have slept with each of the men, then reported back to their wives on their performances—or lack thereof.

Bethany and Paige ate without talking, only the sound of music coming from a stereo unit on the counter breaking the uncomfortable silence. There was so much she wanted to talk about with Paige, but she decided to enjoy their unexpected and no doubt temporary truce. She was only twenty years older than the girl and had wanted to relate to her not as a mother but as an older sister.

Bethany had never been on good terms with her two sisters because they'd always resented her ambition to escape the predictable existence if she'd remained in the tiny town where everyone knew one another. Alice and Mary-Beth stayed, married local boys and continued the cycle of working for the mill or in the newly constructed Walmart. Her younger brother did get out when he joined the Marines as a reservist, but after two tours in Iraq had moved to Alaska where he'd married and fathered three children in five years. It had been more than four years since Bethany had gotten a letter from him. Her letters to him had been returned with a stamp indicating addressee unknown.

Her parents had stopped talking to her when she told them she couldn't send them any more money, so that left just her and her twin. Jack was kind, gentle, but easily misled. He'd been arrested so many times for petty crimes that the local sheriff would lock him up for his own safety. Although Jack hadn't been able to stay out of trouble he had become Bethany's voice of reason. Whenever she needed someone to listen without passing judgment, Jack was there. Whenever she felt as if she was at her wit's end, Jack was able to give her another perspective. When he'd told her that nothing or no one was worth her losing her freedom she'd thought about what he had gone through whenever he was locked up. The one time he'd admitted that another prisoner had sexually abused him, Bethany had cried for days. Then she'd called the sheriff to tell him if he had to lock up her brother, to please not put him in a cell with another prisoner. If the sheriff had been anyone but the boy who'd been homecoming king while she was his homecoming queen he would've hung up on her. She and Lenny Mortimer had dated during their last year in high school, and although many thought they would eventually marry Bethany knew differently. She'd sworn an oath when she'd received notification that she had been granted an academic scholarship to attend the University of Virginia that she would never return to Parkers Corner to live.

“Are you serious about wanting to be homeschooled?” she asked Paige, who'd eaten half her omelet before setting down her fork.

“Yeah.”

“Have you spoken to your father about it?” Paige nodded. “What did he say?” Bethany asked, continuing with her questioning.

“He said I would have to talk to you.”

Pale eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Why me?”

A hint of smile played at the corners of Paige's mouth. “Because you would have to be my teacher.”

Bethany's mouth opened and closed several times. “You're kidding.”

“Nope. Who else did you think would teach me?”

“I'm not a teacher, Paige.”

“But you did graduate college, didn't you?”

“Yes, I did. But that still doesn't mean I would be the best candidate to teach you chemistry, algebra and trigonometry.”

Paige smiled. “That's what teachers' guides are for.”

“That's where you're wrong, Paige. I have enough to do when I check and help Abby and Connor with their homework. There's no way I'm going to spend five hours a day teaching and tutoring you.”

“What the hell else do you have to do all day?” Paige shouted. “You have someone come in twice a week to clean the house and do laundry. Miss Rodgers does everything else. So why can't you become my teacher?”

“Because I am
not
a teacher.” Bethany had punctuated each word. “I majored in English and communications, not math and science.”

“Maybe I should tell Daddy that you don't want to homeschool me because I'm not your daughter.”

“I don't give a damn what you tell him. I'm not going to homeschool you when you're enrolled in one of the best private schools in Virginia and—”

Paige put up her hand, stopping Bethany's tirade. “Daddy told me he's going to talk to you about it.”

Rising to her feet, Bethany glared down at the manipulative girl. There was nothing to talk about. She had no intention of homeschooling Paige when Damon spent what amounted to a small fortune for her tuition. If Paige had planned to come between her and Damon, then she was
fighting hard to make it a reality. As much as she loved her husband, Bethany had made up her mind to risk her marriage rather than be manipulated by a malcontent, rebellious and jealous adolescent.

Leaning closer, she narrowed her eyes. “There is nothing to talk about.”

Reaching over, Bethany picked up Paige's plate and emptied the contents in the trash. She left the dishes in the sink for Mrs. Rodgers to put in the dishwasher, then went to get her coat, purse and car keys. She had to get out of the house before she did or said something she would later regret.

 

Bethany did not glance up from the book she was reading when Damon walked into the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. He'd called earlier to let her know he would not join the family for dinner. He'd had a dinner meeting with the junior senator from Wisconsin.

“Hey, baby.”

She looked up and smiled. At fifty-four, Damon Pennington Paxton had movie-star looks. His close-cropped light brown hair was sprinkled with silver, and he had tiny, attractive lines around large, deep-set dark blue eyes that were mesmerizing whenever he smiled. Damon held a powerful position in D.C., and whenever elected officials were told Damon was on the phone, his call was promptly answered.

“Hey, yourself,” she said. Rising off the window seat, Bethany approached him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her breasts to his chest. “How was your day?” It was the same thing she asked him every day.

“It could've been better,” he said, his soft Southern drawl caressing her ear.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?” she crooned, her hand massaging her husband's back over his shirt.

“Paige called me at the office, crying that you won't homeschool her because you hate her.”

Easing back, Bethany met Damon's eyes. “That's not true, and you know it, Damon. If I hated her, then I never would've agreed to have her come here to live. When I spoke to Jean about Paige coming here to live with us, she was upset because she didn't want to lose her daughter. I reassured her I would treat Paige no differently than I would Abby or Connor, but it hasn't been easy. She fights with me about everything.” Bethany then informed him that Paige had disrupted what had been a peaceful household to one where the younger children were now fighting with each other.

“Why didn't you tell me about this before?”

Bethany closed her eyes, and when she opened them she saw something in her husband's eyes that hadn't been there before—anger. “I thought I'd be able to deal with her.”

“There's no way you could deal with her, Beth! She's my daughter, not yours, so it's my responsibility to deal with her. You don't need to be involved when it concerns my child.”

The frustration that had been building inside Bethany for the past four months felt like gall in her mouth; she dropped her arms and took a step backward. “So, it's going to be your child and my children!” she screamed. “What do I do, Damon? Let her verbally abuse me, then say wait until your father gets home? I'm sorry, but it's not going to go down that way. I'm tired of being nice to her out of respect for you. You better tell your daughter that she'd better take her ass to that fancy school you pay twenty gees for, because I wouldn't help her add two and two.”

Turning on her heel, Bethany walked out of the bedroom and into one of the guest suites. Falling across the bed, she did what she hadn't done in years. She cried. She cried until her sobs became hiccuping sounds before she slept from emotional
exhaustion. It would be the first night since she had seduced Damon Paxton that they would sleep under the same roof, but not in the same bed.

D
eanna Tyson sat in her client's solarium going over the seating arrangements for an intimate dinner party for the following evening. It was the fourth time Mrs. Otis Charles had changed her mind as to where she wanted her guests to sit.

Crossing one long, slender leg over the opposite knee, Deanna gave the older woman a steely look. “I have to know tonight where everyone is going to sit because when I come here tomorrow I'll be too busy with the catering staff to begin rearranging seating.”

Hannah Charles exhaled an audible breath at the same time as she shook her head. “You just can't imagine the dilemma I'm going through with my sorors. A couple of them have been at each other's throats for the past two months. And it's not as if I can uninvite them.”

Deanna stared at the wife of one of the ranking House members. Hannah had married Illinois Representative Otis Charles, chairman of the Ways and Means Committee three months after his wife of twenty-six years had passed away.
There were rumors that Hannah had been sleeping with the elder statesman even before the late Mrs. Charles was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. Hannah was fairly attractive, and what most people found shocking was that she was more than a decade older than her fiftysomething husband. And her silver hair complemented a flawless complexion that reminded Deanna of golden honey.

“You don't have to uninvite them. Seat them at opposite ends of the table,” she suggested. “And I'd like to believe they wouldn't disrespect you, your husband or your home with a confrontation.”

Hannah patted her ample bosom over a white silk blouse. “I would like to believe that, but I'm beginning to believe what my other sorority sisters are saying about Andrea. Since she lost her husband she hasn't been the same.”

“Perhaps you can ask your husband if he has a male friend who can come. I know it's short notice, but it will give Andrea someone to talk to.”

Hannah's large eyes became even larger when she contemplated the event planner's suggestion. “I'm certain Otis can find someone. Will you excuse me while I call his office?”

Deanna forced a polite smile. “Of course.”

She wanted to tell her client that she wanted to conclude her business and go home. It seemed like a month when it was actually two weeks since she and Spencer had had dinner together. She and Spencer had recently celebrated their eighth wedding anniversary, but Deanna still felt like a newlywed. Maybe it was because she and her husband didn't get to see that much of each other, and when they did it was cause for a minor celebration.

Deanna wasn't one of those complaining wives who bemoaned that she didn't get to see enough of her husband because both were overly ambitious. As a D.C.-based litigator,
there were occasions when Spencer spent more time at his office than he did at their Alexandria, Virginia, home. When Deanna set up her event-planning enterprise she hadn't expected it to take off so quickly. One influential client became two, and soon she had made a name for herself as a preeminent D.C. event planner. Her client list included former presidents, vice-presidents and members of the house and senate and diplomatic corps.

She was very discriminating about with whom she contracted because she worked alone. Deanna designed the invitations and response cards and made recommendations as to seating, music, flowers and menus. She'd planned one wedding with eight hundred and fifty guests, and that was for the daughter of a former ambassador to France. Her specialty was dinner parties.

Running a hand over the back of her neck, she lifted the braided twists she had secured with an elastic band. Deanna had experimented with styling her hair with twists three years ago, and they were now shoulder-length. The hairstyle suited her lifestyle, in which she found herself with less and less time to devote to standing hair and nail appointments. Every Sunday evening she washed her hair and went through the ritual of repairing the twists until they were smooth and smelling of the special coconut-scented hairdressing she'd purchased from a local D.C. street vendor.

She stared at the fronds of a potted palm in a corner of the solarium, wondering how Hannah could move into a house that had belonged to another woman and not insist she make some changes. Everything in the house was exactly the same as the first Mrs. Charles had left it. Deanna sat up straight when Hannah returned.

“Otis had one of his aides call his widowed father, and thankfully the man said yes.”

Deanna nodded as she uncapped her pen. “What's the gentleman's name?”

“Langdon White.”

She wrote down the name on the seating chart next to Andrea Wells, then recapped the pen with a solid gold nib that had been a gift from one of her clients. She closed the planner, slipped it into her tote and stood up. “I'll be here around three, so make certain the cleaning service finishes up before I arrive.”

Hannah pressed her palms together. “This is my first dinner party, so I want it to be perfect.”

“And it will be,” Deanna reassured her.

She wanted to tell the woman that a catered sit-down dinner for twelve was as relaxed as a stroll in the park. It was when an affair resembled a White House state dinner that everything had to be exact, from the wording of the printed invitations to the correct spelling and addresses of the invitees. Seating preferences became a priority, as well as synchronizing when each dish would be served and picked up, along with the accompanying wines. Deanna had a number of caterers and waitstaff companies on speed dial that she'd used over and over with astonishing results.

Those were the affairs when she would arrive early and stay late, all the while standing on her feet. Then she would go home and collapse, sleeping undisturbed for hours. Deanna was paid quite well for her services, but now at thirty-three she'd begun to wonder if it was worth the sacrifice of not having a family.

She and Spencer had decided to wait until their tenth anniversary before starting a family, but Deanna knew she was quickly approaching the age where each year her chance of conceiving decreased appreciably. In another two years she
would be considered high risk. That was something she did
not
want to think about.

Deanna followed Hannah out of the solarium to the spacious entryway where a young woman handed Deanna her coat. Washington, D.C., like most of the northeast, had experienced one of the snowiest winters on record. It had snowed at least once or twice a week since Thanksgiving, and every time she tuned in to the Weather Channel it was with the hope that daytime temperatures would rise above freezing. It was mid-February, and winter still hadn't loosened its fierce grip on the region.

Turning the collar of her mohair-and-cashmere-blend coat up around her neck, she walked briskly to where she had parked her car at the end of the block with its stately town houses. Depressing a button on the key fob, she started up the late-model BMW with the remote device, and by the time she was seated behind the wheel, Deanna felt heat flowing from the sedan's vents. She waited a full minute before maneuvering away from the curb and headed for her home in Alexandria.

The house was ablaze with lights when she drove into the two-car garage and entered through a door in the garage. It was a rare occasion when her car and Spencer's classic Jaguar were parked side by side before nine at night.

Her husband had shocked her earlier that afternoon when he'd called her cell to ask her for a date. Giggling like a teenager, Deanna had accepted. Her shock was exacerbated when Spencer offered to cook. Her brilliant and very talented husband had worked as a part-time short-order cook while he'd attended law school. His parents had deposited money into a checking account for him every month, but for Spencer it wasn't enough. What the elder Tysons failed to realize was that they'd exposed their only child to the finer things
in life, and taking his date to a local neighborhood hangout spot wouldn't do for Spencer. For him it had to be upscale restaurants whenever he entertained a woman.

His love for the finer things in life was reflected in their three-story Tudor house, choice of cars and those in their social circle. Deanna's client list was a D.C. who's who, and the clients at the firm where Spencer was now partner had some of the country's most prestigious companies on retainer.

She placed her tote on a high stool and hung up her coat on a hook in an area between the pantry and the kitchen, from which wafted the most delicious smells. She took several steps, leaning against the entrance leading into the gourmet kitchen. A smile parted Deanna's lips as she watched Spencer whisk a salad dressing, stopping to test its thickness.

He'd exchanged his tailored suit, custom-made shirt, silk tie and imported footwear for a white T, jeans and a pair of thick white cotton socks. Light from the high hats and track lights reflected off the red in his coarse cropped hair. Deanna couldn't remember the last time Spencer had allowed his hair to grow more than half an inch. He'd told her how he hated being a black man with red hair, but when she reminded him that El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, also known as Malcolm X, had red hair, Spencer never mentioned it again. She found his red hair and freckles cute—something she wouldn't say openly, but she wondered if whether they did have a child if he or she would inherit their father's and paternal grandmother's titian strands.

“There's something very sexy about a man in a kitchen.”

Spencer Tyson's head popped up when he heard his wife's sultry voice. He smiled, his light brown eyes twinkling like newly minted pennies. “What's even sexier is having his woman in the kitchen with him,” he said, his Midwest drawl
still evident despite having lived more than half his life in the South.

Deanna stood up straight. A platter with thinly sliced steak and chicken and a bowl of water with bamboo skewers indicated Spencer intended to grill the meat on the stove top and probably serve them with accompanying sauces. He knew she loved Thai cuisine, and there was no doubt he would concoct a spicy peanut sauce for the chicken.

“Do you need some help?”

Spencer shook his head. “No, but I could use some company.”

“Do I have time to shower and change into something more comfortable?”

“Of course. It's going to be at least half an hour before everything is ready.”

Deanna blew him a kiss, then turned and walked down the hallway to the staircase that led to the second-floor bedrooms. Two years ago she and Spencer had made a decision to turn the third floor into space for entertaining family and friends, but they had yet to use it. However, Spencer wanted to upgrade the space and had a contractor install an elevator. Standing five-eight in bare feet and tipping the scales at one hundred forty-two pounds when stripped down to bare skin Deanna preferred walking the staircase to riding the elevator.

There were times when Spencer was preparing for a trial that he and his team stayed over in a downtown D.C. hotel, but whenever he came home after she'd gone to sleep he would usually bed down in one of the other bedrooms so not to disturb her. Deanna was fixated about getting at least seven hours of sleep or she would find herself out of sorts.

Her home had become a showplace thanks to Marisol Rivera-McDonald, who had become the go-to interior designer for Washington's elite. Deanna had been introduced
to Marisol at a soirée several years before, and they had hit it off immediately. There weren't too many women in the D.C. area she would think of as a friend, but Marisol was the exception. They talked often and got together at least twice each month—whenever their busy schedules permitted.

Deanna expected to see Marisol and her political-consultant husband Bryce McDonald at the National Museum of Women in the Arts for the American Red Cross Annual Oscar Night fundraiser the first weekend in March. Spencer had bought a table for ten, and it would give Deanna a chance to reconnect with his law partners, their wives and the McDonalds.

She undressed, leaving her clothes in a large wicker hamper in the laundry room at the end of the hall. She'd had the laundry room moved from the first to the second floor because she'd tired of carrying baskets up the stairs. Although someone came in once a week to clean, Deanna felt uncomfortable with strangers handling her underwear. The phobia had come from her overly superstitious grandmother's warning never to let anyone get a hold of her underwear because they could use it to cast an evil spell. Of all of her nana's warnings, this was the only one that she'd adhered to.

Covering her hair with a large plastic shower cap, Deanna stepped into the shower stall. Punching several buttons, she programmed the water temperature before turning it on. She sighed as the warm water sluiced over her face and body. Usually she ended her day with a warm soak in the tub, but tonight it was a shower because she wanted to spend as much time as she could with Spencer before they went to bed.

After lathering her body with her favorite scented bath gel, Deanna rinsed off the bubbles and stepped out of the stall, reaching for a towel on the heated rack. Fifteen minutes later she skipped down the staircase in a pair of white sweatpants, matching tank top and fluffy slippers. She'd removed the
elastic band from her hair and a profusion of twists framed her face while brushing her bare shoulders.

She walked up behind Spencer, wrapping her arms around his slim waist. For a man who spent hours sitting behind a desk he was incredibly physically fit. She knew there was a gym at the firm but doubted Spencer found the time to work out there.

“You keep pushing up on me like that and I'm going to have you as the appetizer.”

Deanna smiled as she pressed her cheek to his muscled shoulder. “I didn't realize you were serving appetizers.”

Spencer glanced at his wife over his shoulder, finding her stunningly exotic. Her oval, flawless, medium-brown face with large almond-shaped light brown eyes was hypnotic. It had been her eyes and lush mouth that had caught his attention when he saw her at a party she'd planned in a private room at a D.C. restaurant. He'd asked for her business card, then called her the following week, not to contract for her services but for a date. One date led to a second one, and less than a year later they were husband and wife.