Bedroom Diplomacy

When Rowena got to her suite, Betty, their live-in maid, was stretched out on the sofa watching Dynasty reruns on cable.

“That must have been some swim,” she said, sitting up and switching off the television, her tight gray curls pressed flat against the back of her head.

“Betty, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

“As if I have somewhere more exciting to be,” Betty said. She didn’t ask Rowena what had taken so long, and Rowena didn’t indulge.

Betty slowly rose from the couch, stretching her arthritic back. She had been with the family since Rowena was a baby. She taught Rowena to bake cookies, told her about the birds and the bees and took her for her first bra, since her mother couldn’t be bothered. And when Rowena was battling her addictions, Betty was the only person who never lost faith in her. But she was getting older, slowing down physically, and eventually it would be time for her to retire.

“Did Dylan wake up?”

“He didn’t make a peep.”

“Thanks for watching him,” she said, giving Betty a hug.

“No problem, sweetie. Tomorrow night, same time?”

“If you don’t mind.”

As she walked her to the door, Rowena casually asked, “So, what do you think of my father’s guest?”

“Mr. Middlebury? He seems friendly and very polite. A bit of a flirt, I suppose, and boy is he a hottie.” She looked back at Rowena. “Do they still call attractive men hotties?”

“Hottie works.”

“Well, then, he definitely is one. Maybe, if I were thirty years younger…” she said with a grin. “Why do you ask?”

Rowena shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Are you interested?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. You know I don’t date politicians.”

“Oh, he’s not a politician. He’s just here as a favor to his family. They seemed to think that because he’s a war hero, he would have more of an influence in Washington.”

Not a politician? Interesting.

“You seem to know an awful lot about him,” Rowena said.

“We’ve chatted a time or two. You should talk to him.” She didn’t mention that she already had. “I’ll think about it.”

After Betty left, Rowena checked on Dylan, who was sound asleep in his crib, and then she showered, changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed with her computer to check her email, which, as usual, was mostly junk.

She was about to close her laptop, but on a whim, opened her browser instead and typed in Colin’s name.

A page of results popped up on the screen, but instead of social columns about a womanizing earl and his exploits, what she found was news stories about Colin Middlebury the war hero.

An honor he had clearly earned.

During his last tour in the Middle East, a helicopter he was a passenger in crashed. He was thrown from the craft and, with a shattered leg, had crawled back, dragging the pilot, who had been knocked unconscious, away from the wreckage. But before they could reach a safe distance the helicopter burst into flames. Both men suffered severe burns, and Colin spent first a month in the hospital, then another eight weeks in a rehab center.

It sounded as if Colin had been incredibly lucky. Other than the small scar bisecting his brow, he had no obvious marks. Until he took off his clothes, that is. And the last thing she needed to be doing was thinking about Colin with his clothes off. Did she miss dating? Sometimes. But there was nothing Rowena needed that she couldn’t provide herself. In or out of the bedroom.

That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun.

Three

The following day seemed to drag by, as if time were moving through a vat of molasses. Rowena tried to keep busy, ordering supplies, working on lesson plans and scouring the internet for craft ideas. Then right in the middle of a task, a vision of Colin, standing in the pool house, his chest bare, his arms thick with sinew, would pop into her head and she’d completely forget what she was doing.

Would he be at the pool again tonight, or when he said maybe, had he just been humoring her? Did he really mean no way lady? Maybe after they talked, he didn’t find her quite so attractive after all.

She felt nervous and distracted all afternoon, and during dinner, while Dylan chattered away about his day, she was only half listening. What if Colin really did show?

What then?

Even if he liked her, and she liked him, he was only here for a few weeks. It’s not as if they could ever have any kind of relationship.

She was a responsible adult. Someone’s mother. Her days of brief affairs and one-night stands had ended the day she found out she was pregnant. It was too… undignified.

It shouldn’t have mattered if Colin was at the pool or not. So why, when she went to take her swim and she found the chairs empty, was she so disappointed?

When she was done, as she was walking back to her suite, she thought about taking a quick detour to Colin’s suite. Only to tell him again that she had enjoyed their talk, and to let him know that if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask.

Rowena, she imagined him saying, all I need is you.

He would be shirtless, of course, and possibly just out of the shower, with droplets of water dotting his pecs. His hair would be wet and spiky. He would hold out his hand, and though she would hesitate for several seconds, she would take it. He would pull her into his room, closing the door behind them.…

At that point she made herself keep walking until she reached her own suite. As unlikely as it was that would ever really happen, it scared her to think what would happen if it did.

The following morning she managed not to think about him much at all, until she was walking up to the mansion and saw Colin and her father’s attorney sitting on the back patio.

“Hello, Colin,” she said with a smile, her heart lifting at the sight of him, only to flop back down and land with a sickening thud when he replied, “Hello, Miss Tate.”

He didn’t even crack a smile.

’Nuff said. She squared her shoulders and kept walking. She had no reason to be upset or feel slighted. They’d talked one time. It wasn’t as if he’d promised they would see each other again. To avoid seeing him again she left through the front door, taking a different route back, walking all the way down the driveway to the road, then up a quarter mile to the day-care center.

“Why did you go the long way?” Tricia asked.

“Good exercise,” Rowena told her, then hid in her office for the rest of the morning, refusing to feel sorry for herself. She was being silly, that’s all. All the time she spent cooped up on the estate must be taking its toll.

In the afternoon a feisty ten-year-old named Davis, whose mother worked for the senator soliciting donations, took a tumble off the monkey bars and Rowena sat with him, holding an ice pack on his bruised and swollen arm, until his mother arrived and rushed him off to the E.R. for X-rays.

She filled out an accident report and all the other appropriate documentation, then sat through a berating from her father—in front of Dylan, no less—because naturally it was her fault.

“Dabis godda owie taday,” Dylan said as she tucked him into bed that night.

She pulled the covers up to his chin. “Yes, Davis got an owie. But his mommy called and said it was just a small owie. Nothing broken.”