Believe in Me: A Rosewood Novel

“
O
wen, this is Jordan Ste—”

“Radcliffe,” she corrected automatically.

“Yes, of course,” she said with a tiny smile. “This is Jordan
Radcliffe
. She’s starting her very own interior design company and is here to give me some ideas for the cottage. Jordan, this is Owen Gage.”

The name threw her. Owen Gage? Surely not—oh, Lord, it must be. Hadn’t the buzz a while back been that Nonie had hired Gage & Associates to do the renovations on the guest house? Of course Jordan had heard of him. She made a point of buying
Antique House
and
Architectural Digest
whenever his restoration and design projects were featured.

But why had Nonie invited him today? Dumb question. Although Owen Gage must be twenty years her junior, Nonie had always been a fool for good-looking men.

“Hello, Miss Radcliffe.” His tenor had a gravelly rumble to it, as textured as his gold-flecked brown eyes.

“How do you do?” She must have put her hand out for him to shake, for suddenly it was wrapped in his own. An unwelcome jolt of surprise coursed through her at the feel of his warm skin pressed against hers. For what should be a strictly formal gesture, the sensation struck her as far too intimate. She tensed, only just managing to stifle the urge to snatch her hand away.

At the flash of amusement in his deep-set eyes, she knew he’d felt her instinctive reaction to his touch. His firm lips curled and a dimple appeared by the corner of his mouth. “I’m very well, thank you,” he replied with a small smile before freeing her hand.

Remember Me
In Your Eyes
Night Swimming
Chance Meeting
Ride a Dark Horse

“A
ND HOW DO YOU FEEL
, Jordan? Do you believe Richard’s been doing everything he can to prove his commitment to making your marriage work?” Abby Walsh asked in a voice that conveyed just the right blend of sympathy, compassion, and reserve.

Indeed, everything about Dr. Abby Walsh, her smooth, lineless face, sleek silver bob, her wardrobe consisting of muted silk and jersey knits, was designed to soothe. As was her office’s light sand and dove gray palette, with its requisite black leather sofa and matching armchairs, Joan Mitchell–like paintings and Tang dynasty ceramics—reproductions, Jordan assumed, but maybe not, considering Abby’s hourly rate for couples therapy—and the dried arrangement of star flowers and corkscrew and pussy willow in a tall, raku vase positioned in the corner of Abby’s T Street office in Washington, D.C. Even the boxes of Kleenex were positioned just so on the amoeba-shaped coffee table to mop up untidy tears.

For the past ten months, she and Richard had been coming once a week to this office to discuss with Abby Walsh their feelings and their progress in rebuilding their marriage, ever since Jordan had discovered that Richard was cheating on her with an associate from his lobbying firm when she was pregnant with their third child. She had come to despise this room as much as she now loathed being asked how something “made her feel.”

As Jordan had discovered in the months following his
betrayal, her feelings were pretty much like the floral arrangement in the raku vase sitting in the corner: dry and brittle. Every time she was asked to bring them out in the open for Richard and Abby to poke at, they crumbled into sorry bits of dust.

“Jordan?” Abby prompted.

“Hmm? I’m sorry.” She shifted on the couch and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Olivia had a bad night. What was the question?”

“You see,” Richard said, leaning forward on the sofa, intent on Abby. “Every time
I
talk about us, she brings up the children. It’s like she wants to remind me of what a failure I am.”

“I’m not saying that you’re a failure, Richard. I know you love the children and that you want to be a good father. I’m simply saying I’m tired because Olivia’s colicky. She didn’t fall asleep until two this morning.” And then five-year-old Kate and three-year-old Max were up at six, raring to go, and Richard had already left for the gym to get a workout in before a breakfast meeting with his team of associates.

“Right, sure,” he huffed, crossing his arms. He was wearing one of his charcoal gray pinstriped suits.

Was it in this jacket’s pocket that she’d discovered the condoms that exposed his infidelity? Try as she might, Jordan couldn’t suppress the memory that flashed in her mind, of her in the bedroom of their townhouse, clutching the jacket she was taking to the dry cleaners, staring stupidly at the foil squares she’d found in the inner breast pocket. They’d practically glowed, sizzling hot with their bright alarm-red packaging. The shock of finding them was so great, she’d had to read and reread the word
Love
printed in big, bold letters across the packaging, underneath the promise of extra lubrication, before she actually understood what she was looking at. They’d been so absurd-looking. How funny that they’d managed to shatter a marriage of nine years.

“I get it,” Richard continued. “You want to drive home
the point that I didn’t do my share last night and rock Olivia to sleep? Well, I’m
sorry
that I have to work sixteen hours a day to provide for our family and pay the mortgage on our house. I’m
sorry
nothing I do satisfies you. Do you see what I have to deal with here, Abby? I’m constantly being judged and found lacking in everything I do.”

Jordan massaged her forehead. “That’s not true. I don’t blame you for your job or its demanding hours. I’ve never complained about the long workdays you have to put in at Hudson and White. It’s that you chose to pad those hours sleeping with Cynthia Delaroux—”

“I can’t believe it. I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round. How many times do I have to say it? Cynthia and I are over. I’m fully committed to you and the kids. I love you. What more do you want from me?”

Richard wasn’t the only one who was tired of saying the same thing over and over again. “I want to be able to trust you again. I want to believe that when you kiss me it’s because you really love me.” Because these days even his most casual caress struck her as calculated.

“Why in hell would I kiss you or touch you if I didn’t want to?”

“I don’t know,” she said for the millionth time since last November. It was true. Jordan felt like she didn’t know anything anymore. When Richard broke her heart, her sense of trust—her sense of everything—was destroyed. She doubted herself as much as him. She hated that. Even more she hated that these sessions had become a weekly competition between them, where she reminded him of the myriad ways he’d hurt her, and he accused her of being cold and unforgiving. She hated that every week she walked out of Abby Walsh’s office half-convinced Richard was right. She hadn’t always been like this. They hadn’t been like this.

“I think what Jordan’s saying, Richard, is that she wants the kind of relationship you two enjoyed before, and I can tell how hard you’re trying to make that happen for her.”

On his side of the sofa, Richard nodded his sandy blond head energetically as if he were at a meeting with one of his clients.

“And while you two may not perceive it, I do feel real progress is being made here.” Abby paused to uncross and recross her legs. Jordan noticed she was wearing Fendi gray suede pumps this week. She had really good legs. Richard had once said in passing that Abby was one very hot sixty-year-old shrink.

He hadn’t mentioned
she
was hot in God knows how long. But then he’d never been turned on by her breast-feeding the babies, and Olivia was only two and a half months old, so Jordan would be wearing her nursing bra for a few more months. At least she’d lost most of the baby weight. Nothing like major stress to melt away those unwanted pounds. Given the choice, however, Jordan would have much preferred being fifteen pounds heavier and knowing her husband loved her.

She sighed, shifting again on her square of the sofa only to realize with dismay that Abby had been talking the whole time and she didn’t have the foggiest idea what she had said. She really would have to take a nap before heading to Rosewood later.

“I know how hard it’s been with Olivia, with her feeding and her erratic sleeping schedule. What are your plans for the coming weekend? It’s supposed to be beautiful. Getting away might provide a nice break from the daily routine,” Abby said.

“Actually, we’re going away,” she replied as Richard simultaneously answered loudly, perhaps hoping his comment would get into Abby’s notes for the day, “Some break, going to Rosewood and being surrounded by your sisters and their constant disapproval.”

Jordan stiffened. “The only reason they disapprove is because you hurt me. And they’ve been making every effort to forgive you. They’re pleased you’re coming.” Okay, that was
an exaggeration. Her sisters, Margot and Jade, were willing to tolerate Richard’s presence for her and the children’s sake. As for Travis, Margot’s husband, Jordan still remembered how, after learning of Richard’s infidelity, he’d taken her aside and offered to “fix” him for her. He’d been as fiercely protective as any brother and she would always love him for that.