“’Night, Jane.” Two women’s voices, almost in unison, called out as they passed her cubicle. Jane glimpsed the tops of two heads, blond and blonder, as whoever they were hurried by. She heard them laughing as they headed to the elevator.
Unable to stop herself, she clicked off the Lassiter newsletter and into the Register’s Internet search. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt this time. Maybe something had happened. She keyed in her own name. Then, quickly, “Arthur Vick.”
The headlines scrolled. Her name and his. Over and over. He was still the winner. She was still “Wrong-Guy Ryland.”
Nothing had changed.
Holly Neff squinted at the wood-framed bulletin board. She’d strung a thin wire behind it, one end to the other, attaching it to the frame with two little round things. She’d measured with a foldout yardstick, so the board would hang exactly between the scrolling vines of the green parts of the wallpaper. Like a frame in a frame. She’d been at Harborside, what, two weeks now? And the living room was on the way to perfect. When things worked, they just worked.
The bulletin board was smaller than she’d wanted, not covering the entire wall, but that had been a fantasy, she supposed. It would have been impossible to bring home such a huge-she tilted her head one way, then the other. Something was-
Ah. The corner of the third photo wasn’t lined up with the second one.
Holly frowned, adjusting the white-bordered eight by ten. It had to be perfect. She had to start all over.
One by one, she pulled the clear plastic pushpins from the corners of each photograph. There were an even dozen, which was perfect. One by one, she placed each picture, aligned in an even row, across the pristine white cloth on her dining room table.
Picture number one. Black-and-white. Owen Lassiter behind a bunting-draped podium, announcing his candidacy for the U.S. Senate. Crowds surrounding him. That woman beside him, all blond and smiling. Like she had something to do with it. Maybe that should be picture number two. Not first.
Holly moved the Lassiter announcement photo farther along the tablecloth and replaced it with the new photo number one. Color. Lassiter’s head shot, just him, gray hair, cheekbones. Charcoal suit, white shirt, red tie with little-what were they? She squinted at the photo. Flags. Massachusetts flags. Flags on his tie.
She paused, remembering. The love of her life. He’d be happier, so much happier, when he realized what she was doing. Yes, it was a sacrifice. But doing what was right often included sacrifice. That’s what made it powerful. That’s what love was about. Devotion. And persistence. And timing. Then, happy endings. You just had to be patient. And she was patient, patient, patient.
Her timer, a red plastic apple that you twisted to set your limits, buzzed a warning. Hurry. She had to hurry.
Photo number one: head shot. Maybe she should measure? No. I can do this. Photo number two. Announcement shot. Pushpins into each corner. Photo number three. One of her favorites. Cut from the newspaper with pinking shears, its zigzag edges setting it apart from the others. She was in this photo with him.
Holly stared at it, seeing herself, herself, caught on camera, wearing that perfect little outfit, her honey brown curls perfect, that perfect expression she’d practiced, in the same photograph as Owen Lassiter. That was just, just perfect.
And now she had to go to sleep. Tomorrow would be a very exciting day.
6
If she were giving advice to a friend, Amy or Margery or someone, she’d tell them poking the place that hurts is no way to make it heal. Easier to say than do. Jane ignored the blinking screen of computer newsprint on her desktop monitor. How had doing the right thing backfired so disastrously?
What if she’d been on vacation, or busy, or out on a story? Sellica might have called someone else, or decided to keep quiet.
But no.
Back then, Jane picked up her ringing phone. And back then, that ordinary move, that no-decision decision, landed her in journalism hell.
“Is this Jane Ryland?” The voice on the other end had sounded guarded.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
Silence.
“Ma’am?” Jane had prompted.
“It’s Arthur Vick.”
Jane frowned. The voice was a woman’s, most definitely not the grocery store mogul calling, unless he was brilliant at disguising not only his gender but the trademark Boston accent he exploited in his ubiquitous television commercials.
“Arthur Vick… what? I’m so sorry,” Jane said. “You lost me.”
“They’re all like, he didn’t do anything wrong. Like I’m some kind of slut-bitch who trapped the guy into, whatever.”
The voice spoke quickly, tense, the words rushed and crowding one another. “He promised me I could be in the commercials. Then, like, he was outta there. And now the judge is like, yeah, oh sure, Mr. Big Shot, we wouldn’t want your wife to be upset. So we’ll keep your name out of it. Seal the court documents. Like, that’s supposed to be fair? I want what was coming to me. And you help people, right?”
Jane instantly knew what this was about. Sellica Darden, “the other woman” in a headline-grabbing sex case, was calling her. Why?
She gripped the phone, white knuckled. She couldn’t record it: Massachusetts law made that illegal. If this woman hung up and disappeared, she would never find her. But if Sellica Darden kept talking, Jane predicted, it could make her career.
Jane Googled up a newspaper article as she listened. It had been a lead story, all lust and lies. Sellica had threatened to expose her high-profile big-name john to his unsuspecting wife if he didn’t fork over big bucks. He refused, and ratted her out to police. She was arrested for extortion, her name plastered across the news-but the judge had sealed the john’s name, even though he’d also broken the law. Even though the names of other men who hired hookers were often made public.
Back then, Jane had felt her fingers cross. Please let it be Sellica. “Miss Darden? Is this you? And yes, I can help you. It was-unfair, that the judge kept the man’s name secret. And threatened you with jail if you told. Can we meet in person? As soon as possible? When?”
It had been Sellica on the phone. And she said “yes,” and “tomorrow.” Soon after, Jane had gotten everything she wished for.
And soon after that-everything she feared.
Jane’s big story outed Arthur Vick. He sued, saying Jane had named the wrong guy. Sellica disappeared. Jane refused to give up her source. Vick won. The station lost a million dollars. And soon Jane was the one who was out.
Jane’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the memory.
Someday Sellica Darden would reveal the truth. Give Jane her life back.
She had to.
Jane’s cell phone buzzed.
Wouldn’t that be funny if-? She grabbed it, clicked, fearing to hope.
Amy. Texting.
U not home? Called U! Even Brenda Starr went home! TTYL.
Amy’s right, as usual. Jane clicked away the headlines, wishing she could as easily delete the past. Things would be better when she was reporting again. Jane brought up the Lassiter newsletter. It had a new headline.
LASSITER FUND-RAISER RESCHEDULED. Jane reached for her hair, worrying a strand over one ear. The Lassiter campaign was imploding. No wonder Moira was hiding. Probably shopping for a new husband, or a new life. Probably Lassiter was off with that girl in the red coat. They all do it, Alex had said. As if somehow that made it okay.