Chapter 2

I enter the dining room exactly half an hour later with renewed confidence, wearing my new Michael Kors Jersey dress and Espadrille wedges. My hair is a bit frizzy, but presentable enough after brushing out the curls from yesterday—the only thing I could do with only a half hour to get ready.

I spot Mrs. Carmichael waving me over. She likes to be called Tippy, though her birth name is Patricia. I think there’s a story behind the nickname, but it has never been offered to me, and I haven’t asked. If there is anything I’ve learned about the Carmichaels over the years, it’s you don’t ask questions, just follow instructions. She’s petite with golden blonde hair perfectly coiffed, and she’s always so composed in her fitted, designer suits.

“We’re over here, darling.” She’s standing now and waving her linen napkin at me.

Tippy’s flare for the over dramatic can be a lot to take at times, but always seems genuine with me. Given that she’s  a politician’s wife, I suspect she needs to be a bit guarded and isn’t genuine with most people. When I reach the table, she gives me a gentle hug, air-kissing either side of my cheeks.

“You look lovely, Izabel. Married life certainly agrees with you.” Her cordial greeting is accompanied by a full glance up and down my body.

Bo and Mr. Carmichael stand to greet me as well. Bo’s dad gives me a clipped “good morning” accompanied by an uncomfortable hug that lasts a few seconds too long. He’s always been indifferent toward me. I think he secretly hoped Bo would marry a girl with a more influential family name, like Bush or Reagan.

I sit in my assigned place, and Bo pushes my chair in for me. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “You look gorgeous, Izabel Carmichael.” With a subtle brush of my hair to the side, he gently kisses the imprint that remains on my neck from last night’s strike.

Instinctively, I tense, but manage a feeble smile. He said he was sorry, Izabel. Just relax.

I appraise the buffet of dishes that have already been delivered to the table. The food is impeccably plated, but my stomach is heavier than a brick. There is juice and coffee, and Tippy has her signature pitcher of her go-to drink in front of her.

“Izabel, darling, let me pour you a drink. They make the perfect Bloody Mary here.” She smiles and waves her glass at me.

“No, thank you.” I decline as graciously as I can.“I’ll eat some breakfast first.” To make it seem true, I shovel some cantaloupe onto my plate.

Tippy dives in about her latest charitable endeavors and lists the events she’d like me to attend. She once told me, “Darling, a Carmichael lady has to be omnipresent, look opulent, and appear sober at all times.”

I turn my attention to the men’s conversation when I hear them talking about our honeymoon.

“But we’ve already discussed this, Dad. These arrangements were made months ago.” Bo’s face is turning ever so slightly pink.

Mr. Carmichael holds his hand up to interject.“Bo, I told you plans might need to change. The agenda over the next few weeks is too important, and your absence will be detrimental to the campaign. We can’t allow these Limousine Liberals to get a leg up on us.” He pauses and takes a sip of his coffee. “Plus, you kids are young. You have plenty of time to travel.”

Not go on our honeymoon? He can’t be serious. It isn’t fair. He has no right to dictate this too. I hold up my glass and look at Tippy. “On second thought, I’ll have that drink now.”

Tippy’s eyes sparkle and her half grin turns to a beaming smile as she tips the pitcher into my glass. I take two big, unladylike gulps. Wow, this does taste good... She gives me a wink, and I know it’s because she recognizes my bridled fury.

My poor Bo. He looks so defeated. He’d never question his father’s tactics. He aches too much for his approval and love. A glint of light shines off my ring. I’m his wife. He needs my support. I need to speak up.

“Mr. Carmichael, with all due respect, Bo has been working nonstop for months. The reason we delayed the wedding and the honeymoon”—I want to shout for the last three years—“was so he could dedicate more time to the campaign.”

Tippy’s head bobs like a buoy, up at me, down at her plate. Even Bo won’t meet my eye.

Mr. Carmichael snorts and gives me an amused look. “Listen, darlin’, I don’t expect you to understand what this business entails. You just keep looking pretty, and Tippy will let you know when you’re needed and what events to attend.”

Bo’s fingers grip mine and vise close before he lets go. Tippy hails the waiter and, ever so quietly, regards me over the rim of her glass with what seems to be a supportive wink.

Outside the hotel now, I continue to bite my tongue as I hear Jack mumbling political whatevers to Bo. Thomas, the driver, holds the door open for Tippy and she slides into the back seat of the vintage white Bentley. He’s decked out in a three-piece suit, a hat, and white gloves. The Carmichaels come from old money, and they make sure nobody forgets it. Jack waits on the other side of the car for Thomas to come open his door as well and leaves us with a goodbye nod. “Bo, don’t forget what we discussed,” he barks and then disappears into the car.

After Bo’s parents drive off, we wait in silence for what seems an eternity for the valet to bring our car around. I can actually see the pre-fall leaves on the London plane trees changing color. Bo gently wraps his fingers around mine. The torment that is Jack Carmichael is tangible. I wish Bo would let me in. He’s so guarded when it comes to his father. We’re in this together now. I’ll be his supportive wife and do what I can to avoid adding unneeded stress. Sure, it would be wonderful to wake up early tomorrow morning, roll over, kiss my husband, and say, “It’s time to get up, baby.” Hop in the town car, airport bound. Just me and him thousands of miles away, being lazy all day, sun tanning on the beach. Maybe do some snorkeling or scuba diving. My clothes were picked out last week and packed by outfit. I bought a new baby blue bikini and sandals as a surprise for Bo; baby blue is his favorite color. If postponing our time in paradise helps Bo deal with his father, then that’s what we’ll do. His dad isn’t wrong. We’re young. We have a long future together, and we’ll have to work on being better to carve out time for us. All part of being married: compromise and communicate. I squeeze Bo’s hand as a gesture of my love and support.

“Seriously! Where is the fucking car?” Bo huffs. “This place has really gone to shit.”

I choose not to respond. My phone pings. It’s a text from Natalie.

“Who’s that?” His tone suggests impatience, but his expression gives no clue as to why.

Unsure of what his reaction will be, timidly I say, “Oh it’s just Nat.”

“What does she want?” is his gruff response.

“She wants us to meet her tomorrow night. Some art thing.”

“Not going,” he responds immediately.

“What? Why?” I’m vexed and puzzled. “Bo, I know some of Natalie’s friends aren’t your scene, but it could be fun. It will be our first function out as a married couple.” Pausing for his response, I catalogue my thoughts so I can choose my words carefully, but he says nothing.

“It’s okay, just forget I mentioned it. I’ll just go on my own. You’re busy and have a lot on your plate with work and with Jack—I mean, your father.” My feeble attempt to back pedal is making me feel uneasy.

“Izabel, we’re not going. Also, I’m leaving on business in the morning,” he says.

“So soon?” The disappointment in my voice is undeniable. “Is that what you and your dad were talking about before?”

“Yes.”

This conversation is going from bad to worse. You can do this, Izzy. Deflect his mood. Turn this around and bring Bo back. Remember: compromise and communicate.

“Great, now I don’t have to feel bad leaving my new husband home alone.” I poke at his side and flash him a big smile, hoping an injection of levity will change the curve this subject is taking us on.

He lets out an audible sigh, drops my hand, then turns and faces me.

“Izabel. Maybe you didn’t hear me. Read my lips. You. Are. Not. Going.”

My body tenses and I take a small step back, leaning away from him. He must realize how forceful he sounds. Bo pulls me quickly into one of his signature bear-hugs that always make me feel like a giant has just cradled me.

“Besides, now you’ll have time to yourself to get back to the decorating changes in the house you had talked about. It’s all yours, baby, my gift to you. You can choose the colors, the furniture, and the tapestries. All of it. Whatever your heart desires.” He hugs me tighter to reinforce his words. “Anything for my baby.” He drops his lips onto mine and offers a gentle kiss. 

Well, he’s not wrong. I’ve been so wrapped up with all the wedding plans this last year, I haven’t had an extra minute to do much else, let alone think about redecorating.

The valet arrives with the car. One thing I can say about Bo is he’s a gentleman. He always holds the door open for me. Once I hear the sound of the door, I let out a big sigh. Regroup, Izzy.

Our ride home is quiet. I’m not bothered by that.

The silence is appreciated, actually. The tension from earlier hovers over me like a construction crane carrying a load of concrete.

A wave of relief floods over me when we pull into the driveway. When we’re back in our house and settled, Bo will retreat to his office and I can sink into my soaker tub and wash away the angst from the last twelve hours.

Unconcerned by my familiar surroundings, I walk up to the front door as I’ve done countless times since we moved in. But I’m startled by the swift move of being tossed over Bo’s shoulder. His laugh is hearty, and he playfully smacks at my bottom.

“What are you doing?” I shriek, partly with joy and partly with trepidation.

“I have to carry my new bride over the threshold,” he proclaims.

Instantly, my body succumbs to the moment of celebration and I enjoy the jaunt to the front door.

He fumbles with the key but finally unlocks the door and takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the top landing of the second floor. Without stopping, he heads straight to our bedroom and tosses me on the bed. Gently now, he straddles me and rests his forehead on my chest. The sound of the sigh he releases is that of agony.

“Izabel. You have to know how sorry I am. I hate that I acted like such an asshole. He . . . he just makes me turn into something—someone I don’t want to be.”

I cradle his head in my hands and guide him to look at me. “Listen to me. I know you, Bo Carmichael. We’ll get through this together. Let’s promise each other, please.” I plant a tender kiss on his left cheek and then another on his right.

“You’re so good to me, and I’m . . . well, I’m nothing without you.” He pauses. “I have a great idea. I’m going to run a bath for you and pour you a glass of champagne. You are officially a Carmichael woman and deserve to be treated like one.”