The Wrong Mr. Darcy

by Evelyn Lozada

—Pride and Prejudice

  The sideways rain hit the windows, wide rivulets running down the plate glass in Logan Airport’s Terminal C. The air, stifling, smelled of Dunkin’ Donuts and french fries and body odor, somewhat reminiscent of the basketball stadium.

  Hara crossed her arms and shifted on the hard chair, her feet propped up on her suitcase. She’d been in this seat for hours, listening to the never-ending rain. It was like being in Oregon, minus the clean air and decent airport.

  Before taking up residence on the chair, she’d trudged through every airport shop, trying to kill off the stretch of infinite hours before her flight, moving slowly past Victoria’s Secret nighties and Bose headphones and Boston Beer Works. Her brain throbbed, her stomach churned.

  When she’d first arrived, she’d been in shock. The giant world clock at the entrance to the airport had not yet hit midnight when she’d walked through the front doors; her flight did not leave until the next night. Hara had found a bench across from the American Airlines counter, where a steady stream of people dropped off luggage and speed-walked back to their departure gates. Where else was she going to go in the middle of the night? Her credit cards were almost maxed, she couldn’t afford a room. She could barely afford the taxi to the airport.

  Hara was not ready to tell Carter, or her mother, about this massive cock-up, not yet, even if it meant sponge bathing in the airport bathroom.

  Using her coat for a blanket and a sweatshirt for a pillow, she’d lain back on the bench and whispered passages from her favorite books to herself. She knew she looked crazy, but better that than having a nervous breakdown and sobbing it out.

  When she allowed herself to think, she went right into dark and twisty.

  He never believed I could do it.

  He didn’t give me the chance to prove that I could. He stole that from me.

  Eventually, her brain stumbled into the blackest place.

  Her father knew she was not a good enough writer for the big leagues. He’d been protecting Hara from the truth.

  She’d been fooling herself.

  Her dream of becoming someone bigger, better, than who she’d been back home, it was stupid. She was stupid. Hara should have realized time did not heal all wounds—that people in the sports world would put it together that she was the daughter of Thomas Isari. Derek had known exactly who the O’Donnells were talking about.

  Hara screwed her eyes shut. There was nothing wrong with working for Carter’s newspaper, where her past was no surprise to anyone. She’d have to cover city hall meetings and school board meetings and baby showers, but she could do write-ups on the high school games and cover the annual softball game between the police department and the fire department. It wouldn’t kill her. She’d be fine.

  Being a small person in a small town is fine.

  The distraught young woman had waited in the ticketing lobby for hours, zombie-like, for the rest of the airport to open up, surprised when no one came to shoo her away. However, after trying to nap through boarding announcements, the squealing drag of wheeled suitcases, passengers bitching at the computers in the ticket-printing kiosks, crying babies, and the constant swoosh-swoosh of the automatic doors, all while making sure no one stole her suitcase, she realized nobody purposefully tried to spend a night in the airport. The worst was the oscillating air conditioner in the ceiling, shooting cold air out at a temperature meant to freeze beef and then shutting off just long enough for the corridor to heat back up to a clammy tropical jungle.

  Still, better than being at the mansion of horrors.

  So, Hara put her head down, shut her eyes, and bulldozed her way mentally through the misery and discomfort.

  She never wanted to see any of those people ever again, wished she could erase the past few days. And Daddy … The pain she felt at his betrayal whipped through her, a fresh wound every time she thought of him. He’d let her think she’d made it this far on her own.

  Finally, after the airport slowly shuffled to life and she’d been allowed through security and then visited every shop, some twice, she’d found her gate and settled in. The grim, dreary day slowly turned to night in the domestic concourse, with its banks of individual plastic chairs, the rain pounding the windows harder and harder, and a gusting wind occasionally bowing the glass.

  Hara drank hot tea and watched the computerized arrival and departure board like it was a soap opera, getting tenser every time a flight changed from “on time” to “delayed.”

  A flash of purple and white light lit up the terminal; a jagged streak of lightning stretched across the twilit sky, from one end of the horizon to the other, scaring the bejesus out of Hara. But it was the cracking boom that made her shriek.

  The old man next to Hara patted her leg. “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, that lightning is right on top of us,” he creaked, his eyes kind under bushy gray eyebrows. “I hope they got their lightnin’ rods set tight.”

  Hara nodded in agreement. A lot of people were clustering at the windows, waiting for the next lightning bolt, excited by the violence of the storm. She was going to stay right where she was and avoid metal, the rubber soles of her Adidas planted on the ground.

  Another blinding, massive bolt of lightning filled the sky, this time making the hair on her arms stand up. Another peal of thunder crashed overhead, shaking the building for what seemed like forever. Then the rain kicked the spray up a notch, as if someone were hosing down the windows.

  More lightning. More thunder.

  Rubbing the bristle on his chin, the old man said, “Ayuh. Mother Nature showin’ off, then. Our first real nor’easter of the year. Looks to be a good un.”

  “I can’t believe they fly planes in this.”

  “Reckon they thought the same thing.” He got to his feet and nodded toward the board. He shuffled away, calling over his shoulder, “Good luck, miss. Be safe.”

  More than half the flights were now flipped to “delayed.” A quarter read “canceled” in big red letters. Including her flight to Portland.

  The airline personnel were crazed, unable to give her any help, unless she wanted a blanket and a sandwich for the night. There were no hotel vouchers available but they were bringing in cots. They weren’t going to start rescheduling flights until tomorrow. They would gladly set up the automated system to text her when a flight to Portland was scheduled.

  She took the sandwich.

  The only phone number she had for anyone local was for Madeline. Big, hard no.

  But she did know where Naomi lived. Kind of. She grimaced, looked around at the chaos, and decided it was time to test out the kindness of a stranger. Hopefully, Naomi was home. Hara could not take another night in this place.

  * * *

  The soon-to-be-ex-reporter hunched her shoulders and sprinted up to Naomi’s brick building, trying to get out of the swirling rain and wind, puddles forming around her feet. Reaching over to ring the bell, she yelped in surprise when the entry door swung out, almost hitting her.

  “What the—” Charles Butler quirked an eyebrow at her, a half smile on his lips. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Um. Uh,” she stuttered. I’m guessing Tina would ask you the same question. “My flight was canceled. I don’t really know anyone but Naomi.”

  Her Uber driver sprang from the driver’s seat of the Corolla behind her. “Hey! Butler! Man, this is awesome—”

  “Ah, Jesus.” Charles put a hand to his head, like he had a headache.

  Rain dripped from Hara’s bangs onto her glasses. “Can I come in?”

  The apartment door at the top of the stairs popped open.

  Naomi came running into the stairwell. “Baby, wait, don’t go!” The girl stumbled to a stop halfway down the stairs when she saw Hara in the doorway. And the Uber driver beside her, his mouth hanging open.

  “Well, shit.” The young woman laughed, weakly, pulling down her camisole, as if she could morph it into a miniskirt.

  “Hi,” Hara said, her feet frozen. If
her thighs were that thin, she’d hang out in her underwear, too.

  Everyone’s eyes shifted to the ballplayer. Charles laser-stared at the Uber driver until the kid hung his head and returned to his car.

  The player chuckled. “Awk-ward,” he said to Hara, then jumped up the steps to Naomi. “Sweet thang, you go on back inside. It’s cold out here.”

  Hara felt a lump grow in her throat when she saw the big man put a soft hand on Naomi’s cheek and peer into the girl’s eyes.

  Her thoughts shot immediately back to her father, reaching across the table to touch her cheek. She missed him, suddenly, briefly, until she was slammed flat again, remembering his disloyalty.

  Charles twisted and swiftly bounded back down.

  “Wait, Charles,” Naomi called, a controlled pleading note creeping into her voice. “Please.”

  He didn’t turn around, though, or say another word to her. Instead, he pushed past Hara, and went to the Corolla she’d arrived in. “Nice to see you again, Hara,” he said over his shoulder. He pulled open the back door and said to the driver, “Can you take me to West Roxbury?”

  With that, the famous athlete climbed into the Uber and was gone. Hara felt bad for the half-naked Naomi, left behind on the stairs, shivering, a light sheen of tears in her eyes.

  The girl didn’t seem embarrassed, though. She swiped at an eye and asked Hara, “What’s going on? I thought you were leaving today?” Her cocoa skin broke out in ashen bumps as the wind gusted and pushed a spray of rain through the open door. “Come on, we’ll talk inside.”

  Back in the small apartment, Naomi slid into a robe. “I’m going to make tea. Do you want some?”

  “Do you have anything stronger?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. Hot chocolate is as good as it gets.”

  “I’ll take it.” They sat at the table, waiting for water to boil. Hara cleared her throat. “I interrupted something I shouldn’t have. If you need to go, to talk to him, I can leave.”

  Naomi shook her head, her dark brown eyes welling again with unshed tears. But calmly, she said, “No. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

  Hara told her about the canceled flight and her lack of funds. “Of course, if you let me crash here, I can send you some cash in a few weeks, when I get paid.”

  Naomi’s mouth dropped open. “Is that how they do things in Oregon? My ma would kick my ass if I didn’t take care of a guest. Whatever’s mine is yours. It’s still early, but when you’re ready, the couch is comfy.”

  Relief swept through Hara. “To be honest, I think I’m ready to go to bed now.” She pushed back from the table and stood. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

  “Can I ask you a question first? Don’t take this the wrong way, but how come you didn’t just go back to the O’Donnells’?”

  Hara burst into tears. She dropped onto the couch cushions.

  “Oh. Oh no.” Naomi sat next to her, drawing a soft blanket over them. “If you keep crying, I’m going to join you.”

  It took a while for Hara to fight back the boiling despair and tears long enough to get it out: how her father, a prisoner, had somehow set up the interview, yet let her believe she was here on her own merit, and how cruel the O’Donnells had been about her connection to her convict dad. And how Derek had first mocked her as a reporter, then later almost kissed her, then completely dismissed her without a word.

  And, finally, she explained her fear that she’d made a huge mistake, letting her pride push her down the path to be a sportswriter, thinking not only that she was good enough but also that people wouldn’t recognize her name—but now it was obvious she was going to have to be happy working at her local paper.

  “I didn’t deserve this chance.”

  “Damn. That’s a lot to process. Let’s go back to the beginning. How does your dad even know Mr. O’Donnell?”

  “I have no idea.” She could guess, though.

  “And Derek Darcy. What an asshole.” Naomi’s lower lip stuck out and she crossed her arms. “Not all the players are like that, you know.”

  “Obviously not.”

  She gave Hara the side-eye. “You can’t say anything about Charles being here. Swear it.”

  “You are my port in a storm! I am not going to turn on you. Besides, like I told Derek last night, I’m not interested in writing gossip.” Hara sipped her drink morosely. She wasn’t interested in writing anything anymore.

  “It’s not what you think. I’m no thot.” The young woman next to her let out a long breath. “I wouldn’t have an affair with another woman’s man. He’s left Tina, she just won’t accept it. He can’t afford a scene, though, so he’s asked me to not tell anyone until it’s sorted. Derek’s his best friend and even he doesn’t know about us. Yet.” Her eyes were wet again. “Charles wants to be with me. He does.”

  Hara bit her tongue as long as she could. “I hope that’s true. I like Charles. But if I’ve learned anything from Lifetime movies, it’s that guys lie to their mistresses. I don’t care how nice he seems.”

  “I’m not a mistress! He’s a good guy. He just doesn’t want to hurt her more than he has to. They’ve been dating off and on for years.”

  “I thought they were engaged.”

  “They were but Charles broke it off. And now she’s threatening to go to the press and create a shitstorm if he doesn’t come back to her. The organization has been pretty clear they don’t want any drama. There’s something in Charles’s contract that he’ll be docked, possibly benched, if he’s involved in a scandal.”

  Scandal. Charles must have told Derek about Naomi, whether she knew it or not. Outside the library on the night of the party, they’d been talking about Charles needing to get ahead of some story. It had to be about Tina and Naomi. Hara frowned. If so, here she was, thinking she was going to break some big story, and it was just stupid, everyday relationship drama. Another sign Hara’s journalistic instincts weren’t as sharp as she’d believed.

  After a few more minutes of hearing about the great Charles Butler, Hara nodded off, hours of misery having worn her down.

  * * *

  A loud crack of thunder woke her. Gasping awake, her back spasming with shock, she rolled off the couch, landing on a black shag rug. A gray pillow fell next to her head. Not home.

  The wind howled and the bulleting tra-tra-tra of rain on the window was constant. Dim light seeped in through the blinds, offering signs of a grim morning.

  There were no phone messages from the airlines. The day was beginning exactly the way it ended.

  The thunder and lightning moved past quickly this time, however; after a few minutes, only distant rumbles could be heard. Though, she realized, some of the rumbling came from the noisy prep cooks downstairs, who ignored early-morning common decency. Hara could hear instrumental music, an odd mashup of flutes and techno. The cooks would sporadically bang pots and pans, possibly to drown out the sound of their own music. She couldn’t believe Naomi slept through the cacophony.

  After showering, Hara found that the thunderstorm was gone and the rain had ceased, though banks of black clouds blocked the morning sun. She was too anxious to sit around but didn’t want to wake her benefactor. She decided to go for a walk. Being from Oregon, she wasn’t afraid of a little rain.

  Her mother had replied to her text from the night before, in which Hara told Willa the flight had been canceled, by asking if the friend she was staying with was handsome. That was it, no questions about why she wasn’t with the O’Donnells or even if she was okay. Hara didn’t reply.

  It took her a few blocks to find the courage to call Carter. She’d have to be more forthright with her boss.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hara. How could your dad have any sway over O’Donnell? You won a national contest,” Carter said, as perplexed as she was. “Maybe you’re blowing this out of proportion. Let’s just get you on a plane and we’ll talk about it when you get home. I’ll call the airlines, see what I can do.�
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  “Thank you.” She hung up.

  The rain had begun to pick back up.

  Wiping droplets from her glasses, she suddenly realized where she was, recognizing the historic building in front of her.

  Obviously, her heart hadn’t caught up with her mind—her subconscious had led her steps to an address she knew by heart. Deep down, she’d known where she was headed all along, she’d just refused to consciously question it, not even when she’d strapped on her red satchel before leaving the house. Inside that satchel was her résumé and portfolio.

  No. There’s no way I’m doing it now. I’ll stay home, write local stories. It was better than nothing and her dad was old news there.

  The tall glass building sat on a foundation of old and stately brick and, according to a wall plaque, housed the offices of the City Gazette. One of the longest-running newspapers in the U.S., it had employed many famous journalists who had fought the good fight in Boston for its readers. She traced the engraved plaque, entranced, until the sky doubled down and let loose with some real rain.

  Despite the deluge, she hesitated, trying to decide if she wanted to escape the weather in a place that symbolized her lost future … but then realized she sounded like an abused housewife on a made-for-TV special. Get over yourself, Hara. Despite the soul-scraping internal shift away from sportswriting as a career choice, she was still in awe of a place that had been one of the first to lead the charge for freedom of the press and upholding democracy. She was curious to see the guts of such a famous institution. And she wanted to get out of the rain.

  The lobby boasted a massive, curving staircase that reminded her of the one from the movie Titanic. The first-floor bathrooms were more modern and, more importantly, warm, as she attempted to blot herself dry with paper towels and then the air blower. Her tennis shoes squelched when she walked and her jeans were unpleasantly damp against her legs.

  As she emerged from the restroom, she heard her name.

  “Hara?” It was Eddie, the redheaded beat reporter she’d met at the game.