The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [63]
Waylon barked at the back door to go out, and Jude moved like a zombie to the kitchen. She unlatched the door and stepped out onto the porch, then curled up in the far corner of the porch swing. She’d never felt so alone or so empty. Not since the night that Miles Kendall had called to tell her that Blythe—her best friend, her dearest friend in the whole world—had been run down on a Washington street and had been killed instantly.
That night Jude had sought a dark haven, driving out to the desert and turning off the car lights, Blythe’s baby girl asleep in the basket on the car seat behind her. Jude had gotten out of the car and walked just far enough from it so that her sobs would not awaken the infant and sat in the sand, her face in her arms, and wept until she was hoarse and exhausted.
Jude had stared up at the stars that night and relived every moment of the past year, from the afternoon she’d arrived back at her apartment to find Blythe sleeping on her sofa. Blythe had charmed the superintendent into letting her in, she told Jude with a grin. Blythe’s sister, Betsy, always said that she’d never met anyone who was immune to Blythe’s charm. Certainly Jude’s super wasn’t going to be the first.
“So. To what do I owe the honor?” Jude had asked over dinner—takeout from a fine restaurant that normally only did dine-in, but Blythe had worked her magic on the maître d’ and had returned armed with brown bags from which wonderful aromas wafted.
“I needed a little vacation,” Blythe said.
“The Riviera too crowded this month?”
Blythe grinned. “Yes. Actually, it is.” Then, “Actually, I was thinking about staying for a bit.”
“Here? In Phoenix? I thought you loved Washington.”
“Oh, I do. I do love Washington,” Blythe sighed. “There’s simply no place like it in the world, Jude.”
“Especially if one travels in such heady company.”
“It’s the heady company I need to distance myself from for a while.”
Jude left her fork on the side of her plate. “Okay, out with it.”
“I’m in love,” Blythe had told her, her eyes glistening. “Absolutely, totally head-over-heels, once-in-a-lifetime in love.”
“And I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that the lucky fella is equally smitten.”
Blythe nodded. “I can barely believe it myself. But he is.”
“What’s not to believe? I’ve yet to meet the man who hasn’t been grateful just for an opportunity to kiss your feet.”
“This man is different.” Blythe’s expression was un-characteristically solemn.
“Now, are we talking about the White House aide you mentioned?”
Blythe shook her head slowly.
“Someone else? Someone new?”
Blythe seemed to struggle for long moment.
“Actually . . . no.” Blythe bit her bottom lip, then said, “I haven’t exactly told you the truth about something.”
Jude’s eyebrows lifted. Not because her friend had kept something from her—everyone was entitled to their secrets—but because Blythe’s eyes had gone so dark.
“The man I told you about on the phone—Miles Kendall—I haven’t really been seeing him. I mean, yes, I’ve been going to parties and dinners and things with him, but not to be with him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I went with Miles so that I could see the man I’m really seeing, but I can’t see him publicly, so . . .”
“So Miles is the ‘beard,’ as the saying goes?”
“Exactly.”
“So, let me guess, the man you’re in love with is married.”
Blythe nodded slowly.
“Oh, sweetie, that usually doesn’t work out very well.”
“There’s a little more to it, Jude,” Blythe said softly.
“I was afraid there might be.” Jude reached behind her for the tissue box and brought it to the table just as the first of Blythe’s tears began to fall. “Go ahead, sweetie. Get it all out.”
“He’s not only married, but he’s . . . he’s . . .” Blythe struggled, the words caught in her throat.
“He’s . . . what? Much older?”
Blythe nodded.
“Has kids?”
Another nod.
“This is not good, Blythe.”
“You haven’t heard the worst of it yet.”
“What could be worse than an older