by Dete Meserve
“It was strictly business,” I said, looking her in the eye as I punctuated each word.
“Right,” she said with finely tuned sarcasm. She looked around the room again. “What I’m saying is that it’s an odd set of circumstances. The mysterious Good Sam turns out to be the fiancé of the very reporter working on the story. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m having a hard time swallowing that angle.”
I tried not to let Susan get to me as I headed to Cristina Gomez’s house that morning. As much as I hated to admit it, she had a point. My past relationship with Jack did complicate things. It didn’t just make the story problematic; it made me feel conflicted as well.
Now that Jack had helped me, it was clear he expected something from me. He wanted things the way they were before. Before the cheating. Before I walked out.
I couldn’t deny that I felt something for him, sparked by admiration for what he had done as Good Sam. It was as though he had changed and the new Jack had become all the things I had wanted him to be: generous, genuine, and truly doing good. Had it simply been the wine, the excitement of the evening? Or was I falling for him all over again?
Jack had agreed to meet me at Cristina Gomez’s house so we could tape his meeting with her. When Josh and I pulled in front of her house and I saw the Channel Two news helicopter buzzing overhead and all the TV news vans lining the streets, their antennas rising above the treetops like silver spires, I knew we needed another game plan. If Jack showed up here, he’d be stampeded in a nanosecond. So I called Jack and suggested that we meet on a quiet street a few blocks away.
Ten minutes later Josh and I waited on deserted Hardy Avenue as Vince Gill sang “Next Big Thing” on the radio. Jack’s limo pulled up, and thirty seconds later, we were on our way back to Cristina’s house.
“Take off your jacket, shirt, and tie,” I told Jack.
“What for?” he asked.
“We’ve got to get you into Cristina’s house without you being recognized.”
Jack smirked. “So you’re hoping I won’t attract attention if I go in naked?”
“You’re going to look like our cameraman. There’s a station polo shirt and hat in the back. You’ll carry the camera inside. With any luck no one will notice you.”
When we got back to Cristina’s house, I began to worry that the plan wouldn’t work. At least a dozen reporters had gathered on the sidewalks. Some of them surely would recognize Jack. I glanced back at him, now fully dressed in the guise of a cameraman and laughed. Even in an oversize polo shirt and a crummy hat, he had a bearing about him that said “wealth” and “power,” not “photojournalist.”
Josh got out of the van and organized the camera equipment. Then Jack hoisted the equipment on his shoulder, tilted his hat over his eyes, and headed toward Cristina’s front door. I curled my toes, wishing he’d hurry up, but Jack took his time, like a real cameraman would.
Thankfully most of us see only what we expect to see. That seemed true for the reporters and neighbors standing in front of Cristina’s house anyway. As Jack walked by loaded down with heavy equipment, no one even glanced at him.
Cristina’s official introduction to Good Sam was a made-for-television event. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she thanked him in a mixture of English and Spanish. She told him she desperately needed money after her husband had lost his job and explained how Jack’s gift had arrived at just the right time. She detailed how she planned to spend the money and how she planned to be a “un Good Sam pequeño” herself, a little Good Sam, by anonymously giving away some of the money. Jack was visibly moved by what she said and several times was completely speechless.
“How did you know I needed help?” Cristina asked quietly. “How did you pick me?”
Jack was silent for a moment. “All I can say is that I did a little homework,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, which prompted Cristina to give him a big, theatrical hug.
After we wrapped up the interview, Jack’s attention shifted. He kept checking his watch and began pacing, periodically glancing out the front window.
“I have a meeting at noon downtown that I can’t miss,” he said. “I’ve asked the driver to pull around to pick me up. You finished with me?”
I nodded. It seemed strange to think he was going to conduct any meaningful business with anyone today. Surely none of his clients would want to talk with him about venture capital and tax shelters when the topic on everyone’s minds was Good Sam.
The limousine pulled up. In one swift move, Jack opened the front door and pressed a long, hard kiss to my lips; then he dashed to the car. I was caught off guard, surprised that he had audacity to kiss me in public and mortified that people might have seen us, further compromising this story and my journalism career.
I quickly scanned the crowd to see if anyone noticed. Several of the people on the street turned to watch Jack sprinting to the limo but none of them seemed to be looking at me. Then Jack’s limo sped away, its tires squealing.
That’s when I saw Eric.
He was dressed in his dark blue firefighter uniform and talking with Kristin Michaels, a willowy blonde reporter from Channel Two, the top-ranked news station in the market. She didn’t have a microphone in his face, so I assumed she wasn’t interviewing him. I could also see from the way she smiled and played with the ends of her hair that they weren’t having a weighty discussion about, say, the Middle East crisis.
I’d admired Kristin Michaels ever since I came to work in Los Angeles. No TV reporter can cobble together more dramatic footage for a news package than Kristin. She has a kind of charisma and approachability that makes people want to talk to her, and her ease in front of the camera makes her one of the best at ad-libbing a live news report. Still, I didn’t like the way she was looking at Eric. Or the way he was smiling back at her.
I crossed the street. As I walked toward them, Eric turned to look at me. Then it hit me how much I’d missed him—and how stupid I’d been not to call him.
“Kate, how are you?” Kristin asked. “We met before at one of the mayor’s press conferences. I’m Kristin Michaels.”
“Yes, of course. Good to see you again,” I said, surprised she remembered me. I turned to Eric. “Hi,” I said, but it sounded weak and drippy.
“I see you made it back in one piece,” he said quietly.
“You two know each other?” Kristin asked, motioning at Eric and then at me.
“We do,” Eric answered.
“Was that Jack Hansen we just saw tearing out of here in a limo?”
I nodded.
“I have to say that all of us at Channel Two are more than a little envious of your exclusive interview with him,” Kristin said. “How did you manage it?”
“A little luck,” I said. Normally I would have used this opportunity to crow a little, since it was usually Channel Two that got the exclusives, not us. But I had no appetite for bragging—not with Eric standing there. “Can I talk with you a moment?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he answered flatly, then turned to Kristin. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” she said with a toothy smile. “Like I said, it’s got to be one of the tabloid reporter’s cars that’s blocking your car. Those guys don’t care where they park.”
When we had walked far enough away from her, I said, “I’m sorry. I meant to call you after the meeting downtown, but things have been a little crazy these past few days.”
“I can see that,” he said, with a bitterness that surprised me.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. The sound of the leaves crunching beneath our footsteps filled the air.
“What brings you here?” I said, trying to find something to say to break the silence.
“We were doing a training session a few blocks from here. I saw all the news helicopters and came to see what was going on.”
“Are you still game to give me another swimming lesson? I’ve been practicing holding my breath in the shower,” I tr
ied, in a lame attempt to inject some levity into the conversation.
He stopped and turned toward me, squinting into the sun. He didn’t say anything for several beats, which made me even more nervous. “I’d say you’ve got your hands full with Good Sam, or whatever your fiancé is calling himself.”
“Jack and I are not engaged—well, we were once. A long time ago but—”
His tone hardened. “From what I saw a few minutes ago, I’d say you’re very much back together.”
“Jack, well, he just doesn’t…” I stopped, irritated at myself for bumbling. It sounded like I was lying. “I’m spending time with him because he’s Good Sam.”
“Or so he says.”
“He’s got proof.” I didn’t elaborate. I figured Eric was envious of the attention Jack was getting, and I didn’t want to make it worse by pointing out everything Jack had done.
He glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to find the person who’s blocking my car.”
He started to walk toward his car; then he turned around. “Why don’t you ask your Good Sam again why he gave money to the Ellis family, who obviously are quite wealthy? Have him explain that.”
He walked away without looking back.
A few mojitos with Teri at our neighborhood California Cuban restaurant, Xiomara, didn’t dull the ache much. While the kiss Eric saw Jack plant on me complicated the picture, I couldn’t understand why Eric didn’t believe me when I told him my relationship with Jack was over.
Then again, maybe Eric knew me better than I knew myself. In quieter moments, I had to admit I was conflicted about my feelings for Jack. I didn’t trust him any further than I could throw a nine iron, but how could I not feel admiration and awe for his actions as Good Sam? Anyone who felt such conviction about helping working Americans and was willing to back that up by giving generously must be good.
“Eric’s jealous,” Teri said, as I started on my third mojito. She had her hair twisted in a slightly messy chignon, which made her look even more sophisticated than usual. “You know how guys can be sometimes. Look at it from his perspective—you and Jack are in the news everywhere together. That would make even the most secure guy a little jealous.”
“If he were jealous, you’d think he’d want to spend more time with me, not push me away.”
“That’s where being rational doesn’t help you,” Teri said. “Because maybe that’s how you’d react, but it’s obviously not what he’d do. What’s the Mars and Venus thing again? You know, how men have to go into their caves to process their emotions? Anyway, that’s what it is. Jack is a wealthy, attractive guy who’s the focus of national attention right now, and Eric thinks he can’t compete.”
“I think you watch too many daytime talk shows.”
“Guilty and proud of it,” she said, raising her hand. “Thank God for my DVR, because I couldn’t survive modern life without my daily fix of Dr. Phil and Ellen.”
“If you knew Eric, you’d see he doesn’t need to be jealous of Jack.”
Teri frowned. “What? Is Eric being talked about throughout the country right now? Did he give away a million dollars anonymously? Are Good Eric clubs being formed around his philosophy?” She lowered her voice. “I don’t see how anyone could compete with that, Kate.”
“Eric puts himself at risk every day to save lives. I don’t see why he’d feel threatened by Jack’s notoriety.”
“I don’t see why you even care about how Eric feels,” Teri said. I looked up, surprised at her callous tone. “Don’t kill me for being honest, but have you got two eyes? Why are you even thinking about Eric? What’s not to like about Jack Hansen right now?”
I slumped in my chair.
“Hear me out,” she said, waving a fork at me. “Let’s forget for a moment that Jack is Good Sam with a message that’s catching on across the country. We’ll just call that icing on the cake, okay? But what’s important is that he wants you back. He could have anyone he wants right now. And he wants you. And he’s doing everything in his power to win you over. Why can’t you let him?”
I smoothed a wrinkle in the checkered tablecloth. “Remember when I covered the story about the pregnant wife who disappeared, and I kept telling you I had a feeling the husband knew something about it? I ended up being right about it. It turned out he’d killed her.”
“I’m not following you,” Teri said, shaking her head. “Are you saying you think Jack is a murderer?”
“No, I’m saying I have an uncomfortable feeling about Jack. He seemed a little strange after the interview with Cristina Gomez today. Like he was supposed to be doing something else. Like he wanted to be somewhere else. Something about this afternoon felt…off. And my reporter’s instinct is usually right about things like that.”
She waved at the waiter and then pointed to her empty wine glass. “Maybe with all the excitement around this story, your instinct is dead wrong. Maybe you’ve got to tune out all the Good Sam stuff and listen to what Jack’s saying to you. Really hear it. And then you’ll realize he’s still very much in love with you.”
“Maybe that’s part of the problem. I wonder if Jack is in love with me. Maybe he’s only in love with the idea of having me. Jack always wants most what he can’t have.”
Teri sank back into her chair and shook her head. “There you go—overanalyzing this. Why can’t you just accept that he’s crazy about you?”
“Two summers ago, Jack lost a big golf tournament,” I said, draining the last of the mojito. “Turned out the winner was an investment banker too—an entry-level investment banker. For months after that loss, Jack practiced day and night, got himself the most expensive coaches, bought even better clubs—everything. It totally consumed him. Not because he loved the game of golf but because he thought the other guy had gotten something he should have won. I wonder if that’s how Jack feels about me. I’m something he should’ve been able to get, but I got away.”
Chapter Twelve
I don’t make it out to the Pacific Palisades often. With its sprawling mansions fortressed behind electronic gates and stone walls, few crimes are reported here. It’s a city with a median household income that’s three times that of the rest of Los Angeles, where the new money of Hollywood celebrities and high-tech instant millionaires coexists with the moneyed establishment.
So when I pulled up to the brooding cliff-side mansion in the Riviera section, the most fashionable part of the Palisades, I definitely felt out of my element. Jack had asked me to meet him there for a dinner party.
I’d said no at first, not wanting to fuel any more rumors about our relationship, but I finally relented when he told me the dinner party was being hosted by Senator Tom Wintour, a man who’d served in Congress with my father for more than a decade. Knowing the party was at the Wintours’ gave me a level of comfort because I knew they’d never allow other reporters into their exclusive compound.
A valet opened my door as soon as I stopped the car. I heard the sound of piano music as I stepped through a long tree-lined walkway lit by thousands of twinkly white lights. At the end of the walkway loomed a three-tiered Spanish-style mansion alongside a shimmering waterfall infinity pool and 180-degree ocean and city views.
I was about to knock on the front door when my cell phone chirped twice, indicating I had a text message from Alex. It read:
Rumor that Jack H. is running for US Rep. 33rd District. Confirm?
My heart froze. I read the message again in case my eyes were deceiving me in the dim light.
They weren’t. Jack apparently was running for Congress in a district that covered Beverly Hills, Malibu, Pacific Palisades, and Palos Verdes—places where residents had recently received money from Good Sam. Was Good Sam simply a setup for Jack’s congressional campaign?
I would’ve discarded this as yet another crazy rumor born during the Good Sam media frenzy (one rumor was going around that Jack was Bill Clinton’s secret lovechild), but Jack had told me many times that he planned to follow hi
s father into politics someday. I had always assumed that day was a long way off. But why would it be?
A slender woman with high cheekbones and a blond bob answered the door. “Kate,” she said warmly and then gave me a brief hug. “Candace Wintour. We met when you were a teenager.”
I recognized her name, of course, but couldn’t remember seeing her before. Not surprising. When I was growing up, my father frequently socialized with others in the political stratosphere, and their faces and names were always a blur. Almost all the men had thick heads of hair, even those well past sixty, so it was hard to distinguish one from another by their hair. So in my teens, I’d developed a kind of shorthand for remembering them, or at least something about them. “Garlic breath, turkey neck” was a congressman from Nevada. “Basset hound, watery brown eyes, orange suntan” was a senator from Georgia. “Glasses, toupee, close talker” was a congressman from Pennsylvania.
“Nice to see you again,” I said, as though I remembered her.
“I understand your father is in DC this week,” she continued. “That’s unfortunate. We would have loved to see him.”
She led me into the living room, where about two dozen others, most of them my father’s age, were gathered in small groups. I recognized a few of the faces. A congressman from northern California. A senator from Arizona.
Not knowing what the tone of the party would be, I’d dressed in the most conservative of the two black dresses I owned. Given all the Chanel and Louis Vuitton on the women in this room, I’d chosen wisely.
I spotted Jack across the room with a group of men dressed nearly identically in dark blue suits, light blue shirts, and colorful ties. When he saw me, he crossed the room, took my hand, and introduced me to the man he’d been speaking to, a burly guy with a healthy head of gray hair and bushy eyebrows shaped like giant commas. “Kate, this is Tom Wintour. He and my father were roommates at Harvard.”
“Last time I saw you, Kate, you were in high school,” he said. His voice was hoarse, like he spent a good part of his day talking. “Your father and I served a couple of terms together then.”
