Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5)

by Laura Van Wormer

  We talk on. I don't want to complain, but I'm starving and I don't even get offered water. Verity keeps asking questions and I keep answering them, giving her what I think are the interest­ing highlights to a very good story.

  During one of my answers, she closes her eyes, and when I finish, she opens them to ask, "What is the most devastating thing you've found out that you will not put in this article?"

  "That Michael Cochran is drinking again and cries over miss­ing Cassy, but ended up lunging at the interviewer instead."

  Her eyebrows go up. "And you're not putting that in?"

  "Well, I might put the desperately missing Cassy part in."

  Verity sighs, looking to the floor for a moment, before return­ing her eyes to me. "You're doing a good job of collecting infor­mation, doing interviews. I particularly like your valor in get­ting drunk with Michael Cochran—" She cracks a smile. "The man is vulgar. But Sally, the fact remains, this piece still has no bite. It has no—“ She snaps her fingers. "Nothing that says, 'Wow! This is the hottest issue of everything on the stands!' I don't hear people mentioning it in the news. I don't see items about it in the newspaper. Do you know what I mean?"

  I don't say anything. My heart is sinking. Is she going to make me twist this into something that it's not?

  "We've got to make people desperately want to read the ar­ticle. We want them to hear a little bit about it somewhere, just enough to let them know they must read the whole thing or they will miss out."

  I nod. "But can't it be in a positive way? Does it have to be negative?"

  "Of course it doesn't have to be negative," she says impa­tiently.

  I am at a loss. I'm missing something.

  Verity has slipped on her glasses and is opening the manila envelope that has been sitting in her lap. "Somehow, Sally," she says, pulling out a leather book and thumbing through the pages, "you have managed to completely miss a major event in Cassy's life. I don't blame you, but I do expect you to get up to speed on it." She abruptly closes the book and puts it back into the envelope. She peers at me over the top of her glasses. "You read shorthand, as I recall."

  "Yes."

  "Good," she says, taking off her glasses with one hand and holding out the envelope to me with the other. "Take this home and read it. You'll see that you're going to have to rethink your piece. Don't be upset by not finding this part out—Cassy's ob­viously very deceptive when she wants to be."

  I blink.

  “You’re going to confirm the identity of the person that’ written about in there. I know who it is and I'm sure you will, too. I realize you have become a big fan of Cassy's, but you're going to have to think of it this way—either this affair will be exposed by a tabloid, who will tear her apart, or we reveal the affair in your profile, where, at the very least, you will paint a sympathetic portrait of a great woman who had a moment of weakness. Considering what her husband was putting her through at the time, I certainly don't blame her."

  I feel like I'm having an out-of-body experience.

  Verity stands up, a signal that I am to leave. So I stand up, too. "Do your best, Sally," she says. "You can't quote directly from the book, you'll have to paraphrase. Make damn sure you can prove it happened. At the very least, witnesses and confir­mation of the time they spent together. Truth is the defense against libel."

  Now I'm in shock.

  Verity escorts me to the front door. "When this article is pub­lished, Sally," she says, "you are going to be a big name over­night. To keep you," she adds, smiling, opening the door, "I'll have no choice but to offer you a contract. As a matter of fact, I've got a draft of such a contract for you sitting on my desk right now. One hundred twenty thousand for four personality profiles next year."

  A contract?

  Stunned, I thank Verity for her help and vote of confidence and walk out to my car. Mechanically I get in, turn on the igni­tion, put the car into gear and drive away. At the first opportu­nity, however, I pull over to the side of the road to rip open the envelope and take out the book. I open it and read a few lines of what someone has written in shorthand.

  And then I feel scared and a little sick.

  Because what I am holding is Cassy's journal.

  36

  The journal begins with an undated entry:

  The only thing I understand about therapy is that I need it. Sometimes I feel like the tapes have been running in my head for so long I'm incapable of thinking for myself when it comes to Michael. Phoebe says I'm not supposed to keep a journal for her, but for me, even though all I want to do is forget.

  Okay, me, here's your journal. Let it work miracles! Somehow. Please.

  I feel so damn stupid. Why I think Michael will ever change. Why I think locking him out will do any good. Sam says to do it, and I am, but I don't think Michael will care, he will just keep drinking. I should only talk to Sam, and to Phoebe, but I find myself talking to her again. I shouldn't be. She told me that time she thought she was falling in love with me and now I'm blithely going ahead pretending that she never said it. I guess because she knows Michael and his problems firsthand. And I still think she's just lonely.

  There's nothing wrong with being friends. Phoebe agrees. But something tells me that no good can become of it, that behind that facade there is a vulnerable young woman who shouldn't be dragged into this mess called my life.

  Michael's run up over ten thousand already on the American Express card. Thank God she made me get my name off the account after Sam said something about it. It's strange how someone so young can know so much. She says her grandfather drank and she knows how her grand­mother handled it.

  She is incredible. I've never met anyone like her. Cer­tainly not one so young that knows so much. We keep talk­ing and I think maybe I shouldn't, but I always do.

  Last night I missed Henry so much I slept in his bed. It is so lonely here without him. And Mike. But then I think about the American Express card and I think to hell with him.

  This house is so empty. She called tonight and we talked for a long time. She made me feel better. I've got to talk to Phoebe about it.

  Mike's brother called to see if it was true that I'd thrown him out. I said yes. He said he thought it was a good thing, that either Michael will get help or die in an accident.

  Sam says I should change the locks on the door. I don't think it's necessary. He's not even in New York.

  We talk every night now. I look forward to her calls. To­night she asked me if I had many friends. Women friends. I said I have some family friends in the country, but in the city I'm so busy. I told her that Rosanne was a friend, and so was Chi Chi. I guess that says something, that my so­ called friends are people who work for me.

  I feel so confused. I want Michael to come back—and I don't want him to come back.

  I would like her to come over for dinner. Or maybe I could go over there. At least do something other than talk on the phone every day, but I'm scared, too. It's so stupid, because I'm not the least bit attracted to her, and yet, part of me must be, I think. I can tell she still feels something for me, but it doesn't upset me. To the contrary, I feel deeply flattered.

  Henry called this morning and said Michael showed up at camp. That he had been drinking but didn't make a scene or anything. I bet it was far worse than Henry let on. He did say Mike missed me so much, and was miserable, and Henry told him all he had to do was get some help and he could come home. I wish it was that easy. Now that he's gone, part of me dreads having to deal with his moods again, and he doesn't have a job anymore. If for one second I thought Mi­chael would go to AA like Sam, I'd feel differently.

  Or would I? Like Phoebe said, sometimes it's hard to go back once you've tasted freedom. I feel so weird being alone here, but I also dread having to go back to the way we were.

  I met her for dinner tonight. It was a quick meal near the station and it was very strange. It's one thing to talk to someone all the time on the telephone, but it's another when y
ou see them in person. I felt so strange. I had trou­ble looking at her. She talked on like nothing in the world was unusual.

  I wish I knew what was going on with me. Everything seems out of whack. I feel almost happy that Mike is gone. Phoebe says not to worry about it, but I have to, I have a family to keep together. It's not Henry's mess, it's ours, and we owe it to him to get our act together.

  Or maybe we should just end it. I just don't know any­more.

  She gave me a quick hug at the cab, after dinner. I looked at her and I nearly died because I almost kissed her, like I would Mike. You know, a see-you-later kiss.

  I can barely write this. I doubt I will be able to talk to Phoebe about it. Part of me doesn't want to talk about her anymore. I want her separate, away from the rest of it. Be­ing with her is simple. She gives and doesn't take much. What a phenomenon in my life!

  Who am I kidding, this is trouble and I know it. Maybe I should just give this journal to Phoebe to read.

  I had her over for dinner tonight after work. I could barely eat, I was so nervous. I can't believe what is going on with me, I don't understand it. But I feel it, I definitely feel it. I am drawn to her. And I know she is drawn to me.

  But I didn't do anything. I couldn't even go near her when she left, and I think she knew that. I wanted her to leave but I didn't want her to leave. When she got home she called and we ended up talking nonsense for an hour, but didn't care—I don't want her to think I don't care.

  Mike's in Chicago, I hear. We're gearing up for the awards dinner. Things coming on Electronika mess. Yeah, Sam! Pray he gets through this with a career intact. It's the least I can do for all he's done—has tried to do—for Mike. For what he's done for me.

  I'll see her at the awards dinner. That will be strange.

  I hope people won't be too hard on Michael. He certainly won't be there to defend himself. If WWKK gets anything, I wonder if anyone will thank him.

  There I was, waiting in bed for the phone to ring. She called. I want to see her. I mean, I really want to see her. I know what that means, but I've decided not to ana­lyze it. I like being with her and that's it.

  She is doing so well in New York it's almost alarming. And yet it seems very natural to her—no swollen head, not even much of an acknowledgment of the sensation she is causing. All she seems to care about is how I am, what I am thinking about.

  I think about her all the time now.

  I don't know what I want. But then maybe I do. Phoebe, you are not much help!

  She only asks if I think having feelings for another woman is more acceptable than having feelings for another man. In other words, do I think an affair with a woman doesn't count.

  I can't believe I can even write that. Feelings for another woman. Yes, that's what they are. And there's more. I know I am attracted to her. Physically.

  I had her over for dinner again. Nothing happened, of course. I'm beginning to think she won't let anything hap­pen. We just talked about Michael and I sautéed some veg­etables in garlic and olive oil, and made some bread and tossed a salad. It was pretty good. She loves all the old movies and collects a lot of Garbo, Lombard, Hep­burn, et cetera. She'd never seen Now Voyager and so I rented it and it was great, as always, although I felt de­pressed after.

  I am married, mother of one child. What am I doing?

  I had some wine. She doesn't really drink, she says. I did, anyway, because I was nervous. Scared, I suppose is more like it. Not of her. Of me.

  Michael's in town, I hear, but I don't know where. Part of me wants him in a rehab, part of me wants him dead, I get so angry. He told the bank manager I stole all his money.

  Long conversation with Henry. What an incredible young man. He has a counselor out there who had prob­lems with someone drinking. Henry's giving me a pep talk! Hang tough, Mom, he says. Don't let him come back.

  Thought about flying out and surprising Henry, but can't do it right now.

  Stopped at sidewalk table on Seventh Avenue and bought t-shirt because I don't want to feel so old. Is forty­-one old? I used to think so. Now I feel like life may be start­ing. Me in a t-shirt!

  Found Michael in the apartment yesterday. He chased me.

  Got to awards dinner shaking mess and got ovation for Electronika story. Felt so strange. Drank too much, saw her—

  I can't even write what happened. It's too new. I don't know what I'm doing but I think I'm glad I've done it.

  I did it. I made her take me home after the dinner and I went to bed with her. That sounds crude. It wasn't. It was, I don't know—dif­ferent.

  Who am I kidding? It was wonderful! I was scared to death and she made love to me like no one ever really has.

  There. I said it. Now, can I admit that to Phoebe? I don't know, but I don't want to think about it, I just want to en­joy it. It's as though she sees someone in me that I thought had died years ago.

  Last night she came here and we went into the guest room. I kept thinking I should have changed the locks like Sam said, half expecting Michael to come home. I'm too old for this, I keep thinking, and yet nothing seems to faze my body.

  I don't know what she has unlocked in me but I feel as though I have never had sex before. I feel starved. I do love her, but I worry about what is to happen because I don't think this is going to last the way she hopes, al­though she has not said anything. She is too smart.

  I am thinking about men. Sexually.

  I should shoot myself for writing that. Look at what she has done for me. Look at all the love she has poured into me.

  What am I doing? If I am going to sleep with her, I have to focus on her.

  Henry's coming home next week. Michael is heaven knows where and I'm not sure I care.

  I'm beginning to see that she is thinking we'll just go on and I will go over to her place after Henry’s back. I don't know how I'll feel.

  I realized how tired I was at work this morning. I guess my body's starting to come back to terra firma, hinting I cannot run around like this day and night.

  Still, how can I do without her? Her support, her affec­tion? How can I ever replace it?

  The idea of going back to that old existence is unbearable. Sleeping with her is a small price to pay for such comfort and support.

  What am I saying?

  Someday she's going to want someone with her. It's not going to be me. I'm not convinced it will be a woman for her, either.

  Strange to be carrying on this way and entertain the thought that neither of us is really gay, but we simply found each other during an emotional crossroads.

  I don't feel gay.

  I don't think I'm in love with her, ei­ther. Not that way. Not the way I should be if I am.

  (Have I ever been in love???)

  I just read my last entry. I don't think I am in love with her. Certainly I love her, but it's not the bottom line. The sexual energy is not what it was. I cannot say the same for her. If anything, her desire seems to be increasing as mine diminishes and I'm not sure what to do. I don't want to hurt her.

  She cannot lead a gay life. She must know this. I'm scared to ask her what she is thinking. Every time I get near the topic, she only sighs, kisses me and says all she cares about is how happy she is in that moment.

  And there the journal ends.

  I am almost shaking. I feel as though I have violated every right to privacy any human being can have. I might as well be part of the Thought Police.

  Verity's read this, too. And who else, I wonder.

  How the hell did Verity get this?

  I dig into my briefcase to find the chronology I've constructed of Cassy's life. I find the period before Michael Cochran went into rehab, when Cassy helped Sam Wyatt with the Electronika International story.

  I check another notebook to verify yet again what I have known from the first entry.

  I know who Cassy had the affair with. And then I wonder why I never suspected it before.

  37

  Cassy Cochran's housek
eeper lives in what I suspect is one of the nicest buildings on the West Side of New York, on Riverside Drive and the comer of Ninety-First Street. As the doorman calls up to announce me, I have to wonder exactly how much this Rosanne DiSantos gets paid. If the average one-bedroom apart­ment in Manhattan goes for one thousand dollars a month, I cannot even imagine what living in this place costs.

  Rosanne herself opens the door (I'm now half expecting her to have a housekeeper), and since I had pictured an older, heavy­set woman, I am very surprised to find a short, trim, Italian­-American woman with long dark hair, large brown eyes and very effectively applied makeup. She is wearing designer jeans and a flattering t-Shirt that has Leonardo DiCaprio's picture on it.

  "Boy, do you look like one of 'em," she says, eyeing me care­fully and waving me in. "Are you really a reporter, or are ya just workin' for Mrs. C?”

  "Excuse me?"

  She gestures to my linen suit and heels. "You're one of them. You fit right in. I don't care what she says, I think the fix is in on this article."

  "Is this a compliment?"

  "Yeah, if you like being sort of conservative and all. I guess you've got that WASP thing going."

  I guess I do.

  Rosanne leads me through the large foyer into a spacious liv­ing room with a stunning view of the Hudson River and Riv­erside Park. "Have a seat. What can I get you to drink?"