Page 2 of At His Wife’s Behest
Ten years later…
K ellan leaned into the cushioned seat in the front row of the massive megachurch, gripping his daughter’s hand and eyeing Emma seated next to her.
His wife hid her red-rimmed eyes behind big, dark sunglasses, wringing a handkerchief between both gloved hands.
She was a vision in black, her long, strawberry-blond hair coiled in an updo, giving her a regal appearance.
He scanned the packed church behind them, filled to the rafters.
Emma’s father was ever the showman, going out on his own terms. He’d scripted every aspect of the service, from the style of casket to the type of flower.
Who was invited. Who wasn’t. Leave it to the Marshall Emmett Shelby II to make one last spectacle.
Thousands of mourners filled the auditorium.
The Shelby Family was infamous. Great-great-great-grandfather Shelby had been a ruthless and cruel robber baron, going from penniless to amassing a huge fortune before he died at the wizened old age of one hundred.
His eldest son had almost lost it all by gambling, drinking, and women.
Had he not died and his younger brother stepped in, the legacy would’ve ended there.
Later, Emma’s grandfather had added luxury retail to the list of other business ventures in their portfolio, targeting their merchandise to the uberwealthy with deep, deep pockets.
Add in the collective rumors of backstabbing, affairs, illegitimate children, drug use, and mental illness and it was type of family drama the world had been enamored by for generations.
Marshall had stirred the interest higher by going to Hollywood in the late sixties, assuming his family’s wealth would buy him starring roles in big-budget productions.
He hadn’t been completely wrong, but the roles hadn’t been as big as he’d expected.
The epic partying, drug use, womanizing, and illegal racing he’d participated in had landed him in gossip magazines, though, particularly the last race where one man had died, and Marshall had come close to it himself.
Lying in a hospital bed, Emma’s father had “found the Lord.” Once released, he’d come home and played the dutiful son, taking control of the family’s empire a decade later.
He'd had a better head for business than acting. Under his watch, the company had grown into a billion-dollar global phenomenon. Exclusivity turned rich people into idiots, and Marshall knew how to exploit that. He’d funneled a substantial chunk of that money into the PAC he created, helping to get ultraconservatives like Kellan’s father elected.
His father had suckled off the Shelby teat for decades.
Emma had added her own bit of drama to the family history during her wild, party days, much to her father’s chagrin.
She’d played the socialite in her teens and early twenties—and had even shown up in an episode or two of Keeping Up With the Kardashians .
She and Khloe had been frenemies, emphasis on the enemies , though Kellan still didn’t know exactly why.
All of that history and collective drama was enough to pack the ten-thousand seat church with friends, dignitaries, acquaintances, reporters, and probably a few enemies, too.
Speaker after speaker made their way to the podium, proclaiming Marshall a saint amongst men.
That wasn’t the man Kellan knew. Emma’s father had been a racist, homophobic, chunk of Southern-fried trash dressed up in a three-piece suit with a Bible always close at hand.
His father-in-law hadn’t cared for him because Kellan was a bit too “light in the loafers,” as Marshall liked to put it.
His own father had agreed.
While Marshall had spoken so eloquently about loving one’s neighbor and treating others with kindness when in church or at public events, that love and kindness was reserved for those who were wealthy, straight, and/or white.
Rich, white, straight men , that was, because womenfolk were only there to make babies and tend to the man’s needs.
Kellan glanced down at the unexpected, absolutely adored baby he’d made with Emma. Abigail kicked her feet, bored with the pomp and circumstance. At six, he was amazed she’d lasted as long as she had. When she started fidgeting in her seat, he nudged her arm.
She lifted her gaze.
“Need a break?” he whispered.
She nodded vigorously, a growing grin on her sweet face. He rose and urged her toward the door where they made their escape. After a trip to the restroom and a drink from the water fountain, he gazed down at her.
“Lemme see how that cartwheel’s coming.”
“I’m wearing a dress, Daddy.”
“And you’ve got shorts on underneath,” he reminded her.
Her eyes glinted. “Inside?”
He scanned the huge, empty foyer. “Is there a better place than right here?”
She giggled before performing her cartwheel. He applauded. “Not bad. How about another?”
Abigail did cartwheel after cartwheel. When she began to slow, he stopped her, sensing she’d worn off most of her wiggles. “Ready to go back inside?”
“Do we have to?”
He crouched beside her, eye-to-eye. “I know this isn’t easy, but Mama needs us right now.”
“Why’s she so sad? She didn’t even like Pawpaw.”
He frowned. “When did she ever say she didn’t like Pawpaw?” Emma had hated her father but had been careful what she said around Abigail, from his experience.
Abigail followed a curl in the design on the carpet as if it were a tightrope, her gaze rapt on her feet as she traversed it. “She never said it, but I could tell.”
“Oh? How could you tell?”
“She always made a face when he came into the room. And her voice got mad. And she fussed at him all the time.”
Kellan smiled. “She fussed, hmm?”
“Yeah. Kinda like you do when you’re around Grandma and Grandpa.”
Kellan winced. When had their baby girl gotten so perceptive? “I love my parents.”
“Mama once told Pawpaw she loved him, but she didn’t like him very much.” Abigail lifted her gaze from her feet. “Do you like your parents?”
Kellan snagged his daughter into his arms, hugging her tight. “I don’t know,” he said, tickling her. “Do you like your parents?”
Abigail’s giggles echoed in the foyer. From farther down, he noticed a few funeral goers had appeared in the foyer and were glaring in disapproval.
Excuse me for giving my six-year-old a break from all the sadness inside.
He stopped the tickling, sighing inwardly.
They didn’t need to add more rumors. He could see the tabloid headlines— Senator’s Son Celebrates Death of Father-in-Law with Daughter: Wife Stands to Inherit Billions. “Ready to go back in now?”
“I guess,” she said rolling her eyes in the exact same way Emma did. Abigail was her mother’s mini-me. Kellan had a hard time seeing himself in her at all. When he did, it was usually when she was sad. He ignored what that might say about him.
Opening the door, he led his daughter back inside, where she took her seat beside Emma. Emma grabbed Abigail and dragged their girl onto her lap, hugging her tight. She inhaled Abigail’s hair, her lips quirking. She reached out for Kellan’s hand and gripped it tight, too.
Sliding into Abigail’s empty seat, he changed hands and wrapped his arm around Emma’s shoulder.
She leaned into his embrace, trembling. They remained like that for the rest of the funeral.
When it was over, he handed Abigail over to her nanny and her freedom, while he took his place at his wife’s side while masses of mourners approached to offer their condolences.
His mother and father headed that line. His father bypassed him and grasped Emma’s hands. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Emma.”
“Thank you, Senator Rhodes.”
Kellan bit the inside of his lip hearing the icy tone in his wife’s voice. His father wouldn’t appreciate his laughter.
“You know you can call me Norman,” his father said, smiling. “We’re old pals, hmm?”
Emma’s lips squeezed into a thin line. “Um-hmm.”
Old pals? Right. His father wanted the money Marshall had been funneling into the re-election campaigns to continue flowing. Kellan turned, noticing his mother staring at him through narrowed eyes. She leaned closer. “Is that gray I see dotted in your hair?”
He reached up unconsciously, brushing his hand through.
“You best get that covered up. Your father needs to be seen as young and vital. Having a graying son won’t help that.” She clicked her tongue. “I swear you don’t have the sense God gave a goldfish.”
He sighed before forcing a smile. “Yes, mother.”
Thanks to his mother’s comments, he’d missed most of what his father had said to Emma. After his parents wandered off to network with the crowd, he leaned closer. “What did he want?”
“What do you think?” she murmured back.
Getting through the rest of the attendees took hours.
After, they returned home for the repast. They entered their home, full of family and acquaintances, a few strangers, and catering staff, and the expected condolences began all over again.
The hours passed slowly, ticking by at a snail’s pace.
He checked his watch often, counting the minutes.
How much longer would he have to feign sadness for a man he’d despised?
His father sidled up beside him. “I need you to come in as soon as possible and review the opposition reports that just arrived. Help me formulate a game plan for re-election.”
“I told you that I wasn’t working for you anymore,” Kellan murmured. The words ever and again had also been in the mix, but there was no point poking the bear any harder.
“While I accept you no longer wish to work on my staff, I expect you to help with the campaign. It shows family unity.”
“I explained the reasons why I wouldn’t work for you. Do I need to repeat them?”
“Man up, Kellan. You’ve organized my last two re-election bids. You know what needs to happen.” His father growled. “I’ll up the salary.”
From nothing to nothing? Kellan clenched his teeth. “You’ll have to find someone else.”