The Wrong Mr. Darcy

by Evelyn Lozada

  “Looks like we’re all done here. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Everyone was always asking her if she needed anything, and then they ran away. Hara watched Madeline saunter through the open doors, catching up with O’Donnell; they appeared to be headed to the bar.

  Hara settled back into her chair by the fire, pulled her notepad into her lap. Translating her shorthand went smoothly, most of the time. Despite having to stick to a script, she was pleased at the amount of material she had to work with. She would be able to write a decent story, thanks to Charles.

  He’d treated her like a real reporter. She’d done it. She had defined herself. And someone else—someone important—had accepted that definition.

  As she was pondering an indecipherable line of scribbles, two recognizable voices floated into the library. Derek and Charles. They were out of sight but close.

  “I need a drink,” said Charles.

  A low rumble rolled out in response. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Loosen up, Wreck. Go find yourself some female companionship.”

  “Here? In a room full of cougars and wannabe baby mamas?”

  “Harsh. And not true. What about that reporter? She fine.”

  “Maybe if she didn’t blink so much. Besides, come on, you have to admit, she was weak. All her questions were soft, lucky for you.” There was a pause, Derek’s voice taking on a tone of concern. “But, still, Charles, I was hoping you’d change your mind about talking to the reporter, that you’d get ahead of this thing, before it becomes a thing—”

  “Fuck, man, lay off.”

  Their voices faded.

  She blinked rapidly, then, frustrated, dug the creased plastic out of her eyes and flicked the contacts toward the fireplace. The synapses in her brain buzzed with angst and excitement. The hum of satisfaction bled out. She’d had it in her hands for just a second. A solid reputation. She clenched a fist, as if trying to hold on to the last scraps of her dignity and her career.

  Screw Derek Darcy … Wait … What thing?

  What story was she missing?

  CHAPTER 6

  We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man;

  but this would be nothing if you really liked him.

  —Pride and Prejudice

  The wall clock in her suite claimed it was only 8:00 P.M.

  She hadn’t even lasted two hours. What a loser. She set the bottle of Prosecco she’d swiped from the party onto the bar, kicked off the Louboutins, and sighed in relief. She could have sworn she’d been at the party for hours, trying to make out who was who in the blurry crowd around her and then get past Madison’s tribe of flunkies, young interns who proficiently cock-blocked her from every player and owner.

  She slipped into her old, comfortable pajamas, gratefully put on her glasses, and stretched out on a couch with soft blankets, her notes, and her computer. She was typing away at the story, the now half-empty bottle of sparkling wine on the floor next to her, when her cell rang; she had to scramble out of the deep cushions in order to reach it.

  “This is Telmate,” said an automated voice on the other end. “An inmate at the Oregon State Penitentiary is calling. Your conversation may be recorded. Do you wish to accept the call from—Thomas Isari. If no, hang up. If yes, please press one.”

  She pressed one. “Daddy?”

  “Baby girl! So glad I got ahold of you.”

  “Isn’t it five there? How’d you get permission to use the phone?”

  “I swapped time slots with a buddy. Had to know how it’s going. But I don’t have much money left on my account, so talk fast.”

  “This has been the weirdest experience I’ve ever had.”

  “Is the interview over?”

  “Yes. It went well. I’ve got plenty of material to write a good story, even doing it their way. But there’s something going on, something they don’t want me to find out about. I’m going to figure out what it is. That’ll be my real story.”

  “Wait. What are we talking about? What story? You be careful. Leave it be—”

  “It’s Charles Butler. It sounds like he might have some scandal brewing.”

  A computer voice intoned, “You have one minute remaining.”

  She continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “Which is too bad. I actually like Charles. He doesn’t come off as a bad guy. He’s not smarmy or painfully egotistical, not like some of the other guys. Not like Derek Darcy. Butler seemed to really believe in his team.”

  Her father let out a long swish of air. “You should probably stick to your deal.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Daddy, I’m not breaking any contracts. I’ll be fine. I didn’t sign a nondisclosure or anything, they just insisted they preapprove the questions. I agreed to that, but they can’t stop me from writing another article about Charles, not if I find something print-worthy. Besides, I’d make sure he got to tell his side of the story. He’s been decent to me, I’d—”

  “You have thirty seconds remaining.”

  “Sorry, little one, time’s up,” her father said. “I want you to know, I’m very proud of you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll hate this, Hara, but could you message your mom? Ask her to put more money into my account?”

  Hara cringed. What her father didn’t realize was that it was Hara who put money into his account every month, so he could buy toothpaste and shampoo. “Sure, Daddy, I’ll do that. And I’ll try to send you an email tomorrow after the game, let you know how it goes. I love you.”

  “I love—”

  The phone clicked and there was a buzz.

  * * *

  The next morning, Hara woke early, after a night of tossing and turning and grinding her teeth.

  The only reason she knew she’d slept at all was because of a repeating, vivid dream.

  She stood in a stone courtyard, just outside doors that opened up to a party inside. That’s a castle, she thought. She looked down and, oddly, she wore a gauzy Cinderella ball gown in brilliant shades of blue. Gold circlets wound around each forearm, digging into her skin. She started to remove one of the bracelets, but then a man in a tailed tuxedo was there beside her, holding her hand, his face shadowed. “These are stunning,” he said, tracing his finger over a circlet, and she decided she’d never take them off. “And you’re stunning,” the mysterious man said, running his finger up her arm, then down the side of her breast.

  It was then she realized the shadows along the edge of the courtyard were moving. She knew, then, that the low rustling and moaning wasn’t the wind, it was from the dark shapes, screwing at a furious pace around her, people from the painting in the hallway come alive.

  Her breath came faster and faster as the man’s hand went around her waist, to the small of her back. She slowly backed up against a wall, desperately wanting to keep his large, warm hand on her body. “May I kiss you?” he asked, and his face cleared and it was Derek Darcy.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, suddenly confused, but Derek laid his soft, full lips on hers, lightly. Instantly, her body responded; crushing against him, she opened her mouth to his. She felt him grow hard as she wrapped a leg around him, her skirt falling away, baring her flesh. His hand moved down to her leg, before gliding up to her bare hip, gliding, gliding. They both realized she wasn’t wearing panties. And she was ready for him. He ran his thumb …

  It was straight B-roll from old Cinemax porn.

  O’Donnell’s crazy painting had done a number on her, clearly. But why in holy hell did Derek show up in her dream? The man was a douche, not a dreamboat.

  She rolled out of bed with a groan and dug out her running clothes. Hara needed to get outside and clear her head.

  Fast-walking down the long hall, she avoided looking directly at the painting. Ducking out onto quiet, almost frosty streets just as the sun timidly began to poke its nose over the horizon, Hara ran for a long time, until her sweatshirt was saturated. Saturday-morning traffic a
long the Charles River was surprisingly slower than Portland’s downtown traffic on the weekend. East Coasters ate dinner so damn late, they needed to sleep in.

  Hara kicked up flutters of yellow, red, and green leaves with her worn running shoes. Turning away from the river, she slowed to a walk and crossed over Commonwealth Avenue. The city blocks were slowly filling with people. She occasionally overheard the catchy New England accent, with its broad a’s and short o’s. The whole “Pahk yuh car in Hahvuhd Yahd” thing. She adored the distinct sound. It was disappointing so few around her on the city sidewalks actually sounded “Boston.”

  As she passed down historic streets, the Colonial vibe emphasized that she was in one of the oldest cities in the United States. Puritans had turned old oak and hemlock forests into homesteads and markets and even the first public school, and, later, revolutionaries fought the British and suffered and bled on this ground so that American taxes would pay for American streets. The stories of hundreds of years of people and events hung in the air, clinging to the old brick structures. She inhaled deeply.

  And coughed out the cold mist and smog.

  A couple of backpack-wearing college kids startled her when they emerged from a building, throwing open the door unexpectedly. They almost ran her over, intent on their oversize pumpkin spiced lattes and conversation. “That one’s ah slam pig. She wicked sheisty, too.”

  Finally! she thought, but they were gone too quickly for her to appreciate the native tongue for long.

  Hara was in front of the famous Trident Booksellers and Café. She checked her watch. Plenty of time. The car picking her up for the game wouldn’t arrive until late that afternoon, and tomorrow she hoped to tour the City Gazette’s offices and—gulp—hand in her résumé, so now was the perfect time.

  Inside, the smell of books and scones and bacon and coffee and more books permeated the air, and her glasses instantly fogged over. She sighed, took them off, and swiped at the condensation. She did not love running with her glasses on, but after last night, she was never wearing contacts again.

  Her next bit of self-care was to sniff at herself surreptitiously; she was glad she was in a city where no one knew the bedraggled, stinky Hara. Her hair was huge with the humidity, barely contained in its ponytail. After ordering a breakfast sandwich and green tea, she settled into a chair tucked back in a corner by the window and picked up that morning’s copy of the Boston daily paper.

  She had to know. Her stress level rose, despite her long run, as she prayed she wouldn’t find that another reporter had somehow scooped her.

  A determined frown line formed between her brows. If there was something out there about Charles Butler, she was going to be the one to find it.

  She had spent hours the night before wrestling with the ethics behind chasing down a story she knew the owners would not want her to investigate, the same people who’d paid for her to come out and give a once-in-a-lifetime interview. An even deeper, more painful struggle was with the demon who breathed life into her deeply rooted insecurities: Who was she to write an important story? She was a nobody. A crappy writer who worked for a small-town rag.

  She’d stared at the ceiling and asked herself, over and over, Who am I?

  However, each time she asked, she circled back to the fact that the universe had brought her, Hara Isari, to this place and this time and had pointed out, not so subtly, there was something more going on. Now it was up to her to take that opportunity and make something of it. To pull up her big-girl panties and take a leap of faith. I can do this. Who am I? I’m Hara Isari. I don’t back down from the scary things. I can do anything.

  But where did she start? She scanned the front page nervously, the thin paper gritty between her fingertips. If another reporter had already picked up the ball she’d dropped last night by not chasing down Charles or Derek … well, maybe she deserved that.

  The front page announced the city’s excitement at the Fishers’ game one, as Chicago invaded the Bostonians’ stomping grounds. But there was nothing scandalous about Charles Butler, only hype and hyperbole and Boston pride—Butler was one of their own, a local boy made good. They loved him.

  Flipping back to the sports section, she found it was also free of negative stories about Charles, and anyone involved with the team. The wrinkle in Hara’s forehead finally released. The articles in this section tended to be more factual and analytical than the front-page feature. Beat writers reported on the current roster of players, their stats, past performances, and current status. It was clear the town expected big things from Charles, as well as other players, but Derek Darcy was not one of them. The few times the second-year rookie came up, the writers hedged, saying, “We’ll see.”

  An article at the bottom of one of the pages caught her eye: “Darcy Family Foundation Opens New Children’s Wing at Mass Gen.” There, below the headline, was a picture of Derek in a fitted tuxedo, alluring even with his brooding countenance. An older woman in a fur coat, who had to be Derek’s mother, was at his side holding an oversize pair of scissors, ready to cut a ribbon. Hara had known Charles was from Boston, but she’d had no idea Derek was as well.

  And not just any local. One of the elite. A rich kid on the court. No wonder he acted so sullen—he was used to everything being handed to him. Hara clucked. You had to earn your success at that level of play, no matter where you came from.

  She jogged back to the residence, mentally preparing for the game that night, where she’d be working alongside peers. Older, male peers. She had some experience with the misogyny inherent with her job, but this was going to be on a whole new level. But Hara knew she had to earn her own success, and she was ready to put in the hard work. She ran faster, burning off nervous energy.

  * * *

  Derek threw up ball after ball.

  “Dude. Enough. You’re going to wear yourself out.” Charles rebounded the ball, tucked it under his arm.

  Hands on his hips, breathing hard, Derek said, “What you’re trying to say, weak sauce, is you tired.”

  Charles shot the ball at Derek, a chest pass from five feet away.

  “Ow. Dammit. That hurt, motherfucker.”

  “Who’s the weak sauce, weak sauce?”

  “All right, fine. Just trying to stay focused.” Derek swung his eyes around the stadium; hundreds of early-arrival fans were filing into the tiers of seats.

  His friend picked up a ball rolling past and bounced it to Derek, gently this time. “I know. First game since you went out last year. Big night. But you got this.”

  I do, Derek thought grimly, dribbling the basketball hard and tight by his foot. I do have this. Now he just needed to prove it to everyone else, but especially his father. “By the way, where’d you go last night? You disappeared. I looked for you to make sure you didn’t need a ride home. And we have a conversation that we need to revisit.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, boy-o. I always gotta ride.” His teammate waggled his eyebrows. “And she was fine.”

  “Classy.” Derek held the ball. If Charles didn’t want to get into it right then, fine. But they were not done. “Please tell me you did not mess around with that reporter.” He’d been shocked to find out that the girl from the car had been the reporter sent to interview Charles. The coincidence was almost too much. He hoped she hadn’t been shadowing him, trying to get a story, but that was not out of the realm of possibility.

  “I left her for you,” said Charles. “I know you like the smart ones. But she a ten in the looks department, so your homely little self is gonna have to woo her with your money.”

  “She might have looks, but I’m not so sure about brains. I don’t know why O’Donnell didn’t bring in an actual journalist to do the interview. I am guessing the front line at ESPN”—he waved at the row of reporters standing in front of cameras at the side of the court—“would have jumped at the chance to hear you spill your guts.”

  “That girl did fine. She won some contest O’Donnell set up. He knows wha
t he’s doing.”

  “I don’t trust her, or any reporter. And I definitely don’t trust O’Donnell.”

  Charles frowned and tossed a ball to another passing player, then stepped closer to Derek. “Friend to friend, you’re right not to trust him. Stay away from him, out of his sights.”

  Derek would have been startled, if it hadn’t been for their talk earlier. “Why so mysterious, Scooby-Doo?”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  Then his friend’s face lightened up. The coach had thrown a hand signal to Charles, who then yelled out to the others on the floor, “Come on, guys, let’s run some plays.”

  * * *

  The Town Car rolled through the darkening Boston streets, the traffic getting heavier as they approached the basketball stadium. The downtown was energetic, with twinkling lights and busy stores.

  Hara caught sight of her reflection on the inside of the window. She pushed back her oversize black-framed glasses, smoothed down her bangs, and tucked loose strands into the tight bun. She then stroked nonexistent wrinkles from her pencil skirt and fitted button-down blouse, and straightened her favorite black blazer—it was actually a haori, a modern, kimono-inspired jacket, looser than regular blazers and with slightly deeper sleeves. And the lining was colorful, a flowery satin that made Hara happy when she caught a glimpse of it.

  Carter always teased Hara about her take on the “sexy librarian” look, but Hara thought it was professional without being too uptight, and there was something fulfilling about acknowledging her Japanese heritage in this one small way.

  The sparkly cocktail dress had been fun but, for now, it was back on its hanger and, sadly, her boss’s Louboutins were back in their box. Instead, she’d pulled out a pair of kitten-heeled, red leather mules she loved. She saw no need to be totally boring. Plus, they matched the red leather satchel she carried around when she was on the job, a satchel that held paper and pens and a recorder and safety pins and a rape whistle and a tampon and lip gloss. The essentials.