Disclosure of the Heart (The Heart Series) (29 page)

That made me smile. “I don’t know. I imagine you would want to spend time back in London. Am I right?”

“You are,” he said in eager surprise. “How do you feel about that?”

“I think it would be nice for a while.”

“You don’t know how happy you make me.”

Considering I’d always said I wouldn’t move for him before, I supposed it would make him happy, and now it was the least I could do to repay him for resigning for me. “You make me happy, too. I love you.”

“I love you.” He then sighed. “Things haven’t been all good this morning, though. Sylvia called with bad news. Dad isn’t doing well at all. I need to go home straight away.”

“It’s that bad.”

“Yes, I must go so I can see him before…”

“I’m so sorry. When are you leaving?”

“This evening. It just depends what flight I can get on at the last minute.”

“Would you like me to come, too?” I asked without hesitation.

“No, you don’t have to. I’ll be okay.”

“All you have to do is say so, and I’ll be there.”

“I know. Really, I’ll be fine.” He chuckled. “And you already got to talk to him.”

“I did. He was very kind.”

“So, I guess I need to book a flight. Hmm. Funny. I’m unemployed now and without an assistant. I haven’t booked a ticket for myself in years.”

“Try Orbitz like the rest of us.”

“Maybe I will,” he said with some fake attitude.

“I don’t think our travel schedules are going to mesh very well. I’m going to be out-of-pocket a lot in the next couple of days. Please keep in close touch because I’ll want to come later.”

“Later?”

I took a breath and brought up the inevitable. “For the funeral,” I replied softly.

It took him a moment to say, “Thank you. Having you there will mean everything to me. I’ll be in touch.”

“I want to be there.”

“Then I’ll text you when I land in London. I love you, sweetheart.”

“And I love you.”

Over the course of the next few days, Adam and I kept in touch as best we could given my travel and the time difference. A number of the reporters noticed he wasn’t on our trip out West, and the BBC replacement gave no details as to Adam’s status other than that he knew Adam’s father was gravely ill. Because he was only a junior stringer and not the permanent replacement, I guessed he didn’t know the full story. No doubt the BBC would quietly install their new White House correspondent with little fanfare in order to minimize the attention.

I felt horrible for not being with Adam at such a sad time in his life. Yet our phone calls were lengthy as he relayed all the funny things going on in his house despite the grief. While Mrs. Kincaid and the hospice nurse had become fast friends, Sylvia despised her. The nurse had told her to stop wearing stilettos because the clacking was an annoyance to her father. Sylvia had responded that her father had put up with her for thirty years and would expect nothing less of her. David was in Cambridge as well, taking Adam out drinking every night and watching soccer as much as possible.

During one call, Adam complained that the hospice nurse had taken him aside to warn him his dad might die without him in the room. “So now we’re all standing by his bed round-the-clock, but I think that advice was just rubbish. Dad’s not going to kick off without us there.”

“But why would she say that?”

“Her theory is that people sometimes die alone to lessen the pain for their loved ones. Complete BS, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know…I could see that happening, or if someone was truly a loner in life.” I’d spent enough time around nurses to know they were usually smarter than doctors, at least when it came to stuff like this.

“Do you really think they have a choice for when their body dies?”

“Maybe. We decide when we go to sleep, don’t we?”

On Wednesday night, when Adam’s father finally passed away, he died with only Adam’s mother in the room. Adam was devastated. He cried on the phone with me, making me tear up also. When he’d pulled himself together, I asked, “When is the funeral?”

“Sylvia is in charge. It’s a big do on Friday—a memorial service at Trinity College Chapel, but then we’ll go to Scotland on Saturday to bury his ashes on the estate Sunday. That ceremony will be small and just family.”

“Well…I—”

“Nicki, you don’t have to be here on Friday.”

“I want to be there. I just need to figure out how.”

“Where are you right now, anyway?”

“In Aspen, Colorado. There’s a big fundraiser tonight at a swanky house.”

“Please, don’t cut your trip short. You get back to DC on Friday. If you could make it on Saturday so we could go to Scotland together, that would be wonderful, but, really, that’s not necessary either.”

“Well, let me see…”

That night at the fundraiser, Matt was in great mood, both from bringing in a haul of cash for the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee and from the mojitos that had been served. I caught him when he was ordering another.

“Matt, I’ve got a request that I know you’re probably going to turn down.”

“What’s that?”

“I realize I’m in the professional doghouse for what I’ve done with Adam, but—”

“But what?” he asked, taking his third drink from the bartender.

“But Adam’s dad died this morning, London time.”

“That’s too bad. Please give him my condolences.” He didn’t quite pronounce “condolences” correctly due to the rum in his drink.

“I will. If I leave tomorrow, I could make the funeral in Cambridge on Friday.”

“So you’re asking for a few days off even though we’re in the middle of an important trip and, as you said yourself, you’re in the doghouse?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling the futility of my request.

He took another drink. “Everyone’s going to want to know where you’ve gone off to.”

“I know. I know they will. But do you have to tell them I’m at Adam’s dad’s funeral? Can’t you just say I had a personal matter come up?”

“Okay.” He took another drink, then his words slurred as he added, “Who’s going to see you in Cambridge anyway?”

“Thanks, Matt,” I said, touching his arm. “You’re the best.”

When I made it back to my hotel room that night, I pulled up Orbitz to book my flight, and I texted Adam.

I’m going to try to make it Friday morning. I love you.
I’ll be in touch.

Chapter Eighteen

O
N
F
RIDAY
M
ORNING
, it was a mad dash for me to get from Heathrow to Cambridge in time for the funeral. That was something I didn’t want to show up late for. I’d texted Adam that I’d try, and if it didn’t work out, I’d see him at the wake at his house.

It turned out I only had minutes to spare as I arrived at Trinity College Chapel. Adam stood on the steps of the church, shaking the hands of what appeared to be a crowd of Cambridge faculty and upper-crust British society. It dawned on me at that moment that Adam was now the head of the Kincaid family, the brand new Viscount Adam Kincaid. He was going to receive a lot of attention. There was even a photographer lurking around taking photographs of the mourners.

As I paid the private hire driver, I asked him to deliver my bag to the Kincaid’s house. Then I hopped out, hoping to catch Adam before he walked into the church. Only the family and a few stragglers remained outside, and the family would walk in last. I hurried toward the chapel, and Adam spotted me.

He walked straight toward me with a grin, and when we were close enough, he grabbed me in his arms and hugged me tightly.

“I made it,” I said with a sigh.

“You did.” He grinned. “And I love you for it.”

We kissed once, then twice, and then a third time. That last one went on for a bit until I pulled away and smiled. “Adam, this isn’t the place.”

“I don’t really fucking care.” Then he winked. “And I know Dad doesn’t either.”

Taking my hand in his, Adam kept it there, locked in place, for most of the service. As we took our seats at the front of the church, he stared straight ahead at the altar. No doubt eyebrows were raised at the unknown brunette walking down the aisle with the Kincaid family. His mother and Sylvia seemed happy to have me, occasionally smiling or patting my shoulder.

The funeral was the traditional Anglican mass with all the usual prayers for the dead. There was the one line that had always stuck with me:
“In the midst of life, we are in death; from whom can we seek help?”
Of course, the answer was supposed to be God. And that was the case, but as I looked at Adam’s family and the great number of people in the room it occurred to me another answer was that help came from each other. I knew all too well that to grieve alone was a terrible thing.

Instinctively, I tightened my grip on Adam’s hand as it came time for him to give the eulogy. I was glad to be there for him, because I could tell he’d corked his emotions tightly for the day. He proceeded to deliver the perfect off-the-cuff British public statement. It was sincere, but a little humorous, and the kind of speech that would’ve made his father proud.

After the service, we went back to the house, where Sylvia had seen to it that there was a properly catered event. Adam introduced me to everyone without thinking our guests might recognize me. At first, I thought them all geeky intellectuals and snobby aristocrats who kept themselves at arm’s length from the nastiness of American politics. Then an older woman walked straight up to me and held out her hand.

“Hello, I’m Professor Beatrice Hadley. I do believe you’re Nicole Johnson.”

“Yes, yes, I am.” I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Professor Hadley.”

Glancing at Adam, Beatrice said, “I suppose you know Adam from his work at the White House.”

“Yes,” Adam said. “But actually we knew each other before then.”

My eyes darted to his. We hadn’t yet discussed what we would tell the world about our past. I thought it best to be completely upfront. “Yes, we’re old friends.”

Then another professor joined our conversation. Offering me his hand, he said cheerily, “I’m Graham Schofield—I worked with Professor Kincaid. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Johnson.”