Joan Johnston - Outcast

“I will,” Patsy replied.

Patsy and his father had come in separate cars because Foster had been late getting away from the White House. He worked as a special advisor to the president, and lately there always seemed to be some crisis brewing for which his services were required. It worked out all right because now he had a way to get himself home after the bachelor party.

Foster gave Patsy a hug and said, “I’m sorry about earlier tonight.”

“I can’t believe you let that woman get under your skin. Again.”

His father shrugged apologetically.

Patsy shook her head, then turned and gave Ben a hard hug and a quick kiss. “And you. You saved the day. As usual.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ben said.

“Trust me. If you hadn’t stood up when you did things might have gotten out of hand.”

“Thanks, Patsy,” Ben said, uncomfortable being reminded of all the times he’d acted as a peacemaker. And the reason it had been necessary.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay and visit longer,” Patsy said. “Camille has a school project to finish this weekend. Come see us more often. We miss you.”

Ben didn’t reply. He felt his stepmother’s pain from being second fiddle too much to spend more time with her. And the less opportunity his father had to chide him for leaving the military, the better.

Once Patsy was gone, Ben took the crystal glass of bourbon his father handed him and said, “I was afraid you and the senator were going to end up trading punches.”

“Waverly Collins has giant-sized balls,” his father said with a chuckle. “I’ll say that for him.”

“My friend is in love.” And has a baby on the way. Ben stared at the iced bourbon in his glass, thinking the last thing he needed was more alcohol, then swallowed it down. “And he was drunk, of course.”

“How are you doing?” his father said.

“I’m fine.” Ben didn’t feel like explaining to yet another person, especially his father, why he’d shot at some gang kid. He did his best to steer the conversation in another direction. “It was good of you to defend Waverly tonight.”

“I didn’t know Ham could turn that shade of purple,” his father said wryly. “If it hadn’t been for you, things might have gotten ugly. And Julia—”

“Julia has always been able to wrap Ham and Mother around her little finger.” Ben saw his father frown at the interruption but continued, “Neither of them is happy with her choice of husband. But neither of them is willing to make her unhappy by saying she can’t have the man she wants.”

Unfortunately, Foster Benedict wasn’t the kind of man who let himself get distracted. He looked into Ben’s eyes and said, “Are you all right, son?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ben replied.

“I read the report from the mayor’s office on that gang killing this afternoon. You actually shot at a fourteen-year-old kid?”

Ben huffed out a frustrated breath. “Dad, he was—” Ben cut himself off as he saw his mother enter the parlor and head in their direction.

Ben watched his father’s shoulders tense as his ex-wife stopped in front of him. Ben could smell his mother’s perfume, a musky scent she’d worn for as long as he could remember. He’d been surprised as a kid when he’d realized all women didn’t smell like that.

“I wondered if you would mind giving President Taylor a message for me,” she said to Ben’s father.

Ben was surprised at the request. His father had been named a special advisor to President Andrea Taylor shortly after her election eighteen months ago. The president had taken quick advantage of Foster Benedict’s military expertise when she had to make decisions about which covert antiterrorist activities to support.

It might have been a perfect job for his father if Ben’s brother Nash hadn’t been the man in charge of planning and executing the covert activities authorized by the president. Ben’s eldest brother and his father often knocked heads when it came to how an operation should be conducted.

Ben had figured the president would get tired of referee-ing and get rid of one, or both, of them.

But his father gave consistently wise advice.

And Nash Benedict was the best at what he did, a sometime assassin who worked directly for the president with unsurpassed skill and daring.

So President Taylor kept them both. Listened to both. And made her own choices.

Abigail Hamilton had been studying to be a surgeon before she’d married Foster Benedict, and her prodigious charitable activities were directed toward medical causes. So Ben wasn’t surprised when she said, “Would you please ask Andrea if she would mind meeting with the nurses who work in the Pediatric Oncology Clinic at Georgetown University Hospital before she takes her tour of the children’s cancer ward next week? The administrator says the nurses deserve an attagirl. I don’t think Andrea will mind, but I need to make sure before we say anything to the nurses.”

“Why don’t you call her yourself?” his father said.

His mother wrinkled her nose. “There’s a new, overly protective executive administrative assistant to the chief of staff. The impertinent female makes it impossible for old friends to talk to the president without telling her exactly what they want first.”

And his mother had no intention of doing that, Ben thought with amusement. She intended to put the administrative assistant in her place by using her contacts to go around the woman.

“No problem,” his father said. “I’ll give you a call after I talk with Andrea on Monday.”

Ben saw the trap into which his mother had fallen before she did herself. She’d avoided the administrative assistant, all right, but she’d obliged herself to accept a call from her former husband. Whom she otherwise avoided like three-day-old fish.

Ben saw the momentary hesitation before his mother nodded and said, “Thank you.”

She turned her attention to Ben. “Ham told me what happened in Washington today. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Ben said, somehow managing not to snap the words at her. “I’d better get going. I’m Waverly’s ride to his bachelor party.”

“If you need anything … “ his father began.

“Dad, I’ve got everything covered.” Ben escaped the room, leaving his parents standing awkwardly across from each other. It served them right, he thought. Any animosity—or attraction—that existed between his divorced parents should have been dealt with a long time ago.

He made a detour to the kitchen hunting for Waverly, then searched each room as he walked toward the front of the house, finding no sign of his friend. He eyed the staircase that led upstairs where the bridesmaids—and the bride?—had disappeared. Surely Waverly hadn’t gone up there. Not with the senator breathing fire.

He let out an exasperated breath as he debated where to search next. Where the hell was the groom?

Ben caught a glimpse of Waverly standing on the front porch as the archbishop exited the front door. The groom had his arms wrapped around the bride. Ben eased surreptitiously past the senator, who was headed upstairs, and slipped out the front door. “Hey, buddy,” he said to his friend. “You ready to go?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Waverly said, his voice slurred.

“You be good, now, sweetheart,” Julia said, standing on tiptoe within her fiancé’s embrace to kiss him on the lips.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Waverly said. “I’m not going to do anything bad.”

“It’s your bachelor party, Wave. I forgive you in advance for all transgressions,” Julia said with a fond smile as she rearranged the tie on Waverly’s tux.