Enlisted by Love (21 page)

He put the phone away and leaned his head against the leather headrest as Peter steered the town car through the rain. A headache was threatening, the result of listening to Paula's high-pitched lecture immediately on the heels of having refrained from saying what he was thinking to the chancellor — a restraint he had been required to exercise for hours on end. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if his self-restraint failed. But so far it never had.

Paula would come around — she always did — but in the meantime there would be drama, and if he didn't want to go through the trouble of finding a new girlfriend, or the annoyance of spending the next few months experiencing celibacy, and he was pretty sure he didn't, he'd have to play his part in the production of reconciliation. But not just now. Later, he would figure out which combination of cajolery and gifts would win him back into her good graces.

Before he had a chance to take a calm, relaxing breath — his administrative assistant had once encouraged him to take up yoga, and he'd gone twice a week for an entire six-week session, so he knew the importance of breathing — Peter spoke up, glancing in the rearview mirror to catch Jordan's eye even though Jordan had stressed on many occasions that a driver should keep his attention on the road. And his nose out of Jordan's business. “Today's your mother's birthday.”

Jordan sat up, swearing softly. He'd forgotten it in the flurry of activity that had occupied the last few days. He could have stayed in Manhattan and wished her a happy birthday in person for all the good this trip had done. Of course, appearing in person would mean having to deal with his stepfather, not something he ever looked forward to.

He turned his phone back on, and, rubbing his throbbing temple with his free hand, punched in the number he knew best and had the most mixed feelings about. As usual, it was answered on the first ring. Phones did not go unattended at that house.

“Matthews residence.”

“Daniel?” That was Randall's aide, a man who treated employment with Randall as if it were the same as being in the service of royalty. Rubbing shoulders with power, wealth, status or at least celebrity. Perhaps it was the same as being in the service of royalty. It almost certainly paid better.

Randall never answered his own phone, not even his personal cell phone. Not that Jordan ever called him on his personal cell phone. He just happened to know it was true. “It's Jordan. May I speak with my mother?”

“Oh, sir, I left a message with your office.”

Daniel's shocked voice made it all too clear that the message wasn't good. Jordan's lurking headache roared to full strength. The part of him that didn't want to know made him reluctant to ask but he did it anyway. “What message?”

“Your mother, sir. She's back in the hospital.”

The world shifted and Jordan gripped the phone tighter. “Dammit.” He'd believed she was getting better. She'd seemed frail but recovering the last time he'd seen her, and he hadn't expected this news. Had she known it was possible and just hadn't warned him? She sometimes thought she was protecting him by not telling him everything, and he often wondered what she thought she was protecting him from, and why she thought she needed to. He wasn't the small boy he'd once been, lost and bewildered after his father's unexpected death, but she didn't seem to realize that. He wouldn't have gone on this timewasting trip if he'd guessed she might end up back in the hospital. The university chancellor would always be there, one way or another. His mother wouldn't.

The vise of tension, not satisfied with giving him a headache, now gripped his shoulders, working its way down his spine. Why hadn't the message been conveyed to him before now? He tamped down his impatience — whoever had failed, it wasn't Daniel, so there was no point in taking his frustrations out on the one person who'd tried to do the right thing. Jordan had no problem assigning blame, but he tried to do it fairly. He said, still not sure he wanted to know the answer, “What happened? Is she very bad?” If only it could be something like a broken leg, unfortunate but not insupportable —

“I don't know all of the details, sir.” Daniel hesitated. “I believe she's very ill.”

Jordan closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you,” he said tightly, and hung up. Peter didn't, thankfully, ask any questions and kept his attention carefully on the road. For once.

Jordan's elegant, worn-out mother deserved so much better than anything puffed-up Randall Matthews could give her. Love and laughter and joy — that was what she should have, should always have had. When he was small, after his father had died, he'd hugged her fiercely and promised he would take care of her. She'd laughed and hugged him back and said she would take care of him first. That had resulted in Randall.

Jordan stared out the car window, not taking in anything, the slashing rain a perfect match for his mood.
I just want to see you happy,
she'd told him last year, when the cancer was first diagnosed. Then, smiling mischievously,
and I wouldn't mind seeing my grandchildren.

If only he could convince his mother that he was happy and that he was working on the grandbabies. It might help her fight one more battle … and if not, at least she could go peacefully, thinking he had found what she wanted for him.

If only —

As much as he might wish to give her that gift for her birthday, he wasn't going to be able to do it. Especially considering Paula's most recent explosion. Still, he'd have to figure out something special to give to his mother. Something that would remind her that despite everything (such as Randall), he treasured their relationship.

A memory flitted through his mind, of her leaning near, her Chanel No. 5 a vague scent on the air around him, reading to him from a book of poems. He would have been very young then because she hadn't tried to share poetry with him in more years than he could count. He wished he could have found it in him to like the poetry, or at least pretend he did. But he'd been too young then.

If he couldn't bring her the promise of grandchildren, he could at least bring her some poetry.

The name of a shop flashed by, hard to read in the pouring rain but clear enough for him to guess what it was, and he leaned forward and said urgently, “Stop the car, Peter. We just passed a bookstore. I want to go in.”

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