by Gina Ardito
"How bad?" Lyn asked.
Even in the dark night, Lyn saw Phyllis hesitate. "Umm ... I'll let Richie tell you."
That bad, huh? She started forward, but her legs shook so violently, she stumbled on the edge of a mound of shoveled snow. Doug wrapped his arm around her, a stabilizing force that kept her upright. Clinging to his support, she offered a drained but grateful nod. "Thank you."
She didn't fault him for what he'd said on the ride here. Well, not entirely. Those who had never lived under the microscope couldn't truly understand the enormous burden the world's eyes created. They saw the money, the glamour, and found the idea exciting. They never saw the downside: the loss of freedom, the invasion of privacy.
Marc's last photo, his cancer-ravaged face against a pristine satin pillow, popped into her head. Lorenzo Akers. Buzzard Beak, as Ace so aptly nicknamed him, had somehow managed to either bribe or slink his way into the funeral parlor outside the standard visiting hours. Alone with Marc's body for God knew how long, Akers had snapped photo after vile photo, then splashed his ill-gotten booty all over the print media. The next day, before she said her final good-bye to her husband, she saw the horrible image of Marc in his casket on the front page of her morning paper. Add that offense to the pictures Akers had printed of her leaving her father's funeral a few months earlier, and Lyn had plenty of reason to despise the members of the Fourth Estate.
She shuddered.
Doug must have misinterpreted the reason behind her reaction, because he pulled her closer and ran his hand briskly down her arm. "Come on." He hustled her over the slate stepping stone walkway. "Let's get you inside and warmed up."
Her brain still firmly lodged on the heartless Akers, she nodded.
"Looks like they were waiting for you," Ace remarked from behind them.
"Plan B," she murmured. "Plan A if they accost me at the mountain; Plan B for anywhere else in town."
"Covered all your bases, huh?" Doug asked.
"Had to." She reached the series of hand-hewn wooden stairs and the matching railing, but Phyllis didn't wait any longer.
With a shriek of "Oh, my poor girl!" the older woman swooped down, arms spread wide like a giant pink-and-blackplumed mother hen. Pulling her away from Doug, Phyllis enveloped Lyn in a fierce hug. "It's all right, Lynnie. It's going to be okay."
Beneath Phyllis' viselike embrace, Lyn allowed herself to believe the comforting words. She even managed to climb the stairs and step inside the house. Ace and Doug followed behind.
A roaring fire crackled in the living room's stone hearth. While Ace introduced Doug to Phyllis, Lyn stepped closer to the blaze, hoping to pull the chill from her bones.
On the mantel, a dozen framed photographs smiled at her: Richie and Phyllis at their daughter's wedding a few years ago, Richie and Phyllis with their first grandchild last Christmas, Richie and Phyllis with the whole family on a summer outing, Richie and Phyllis at a VFW dinner party. Always together. Richie and Phyllis.
Loneliness pinched her heart.
"Lyn?" Richie called from another room. "Is that you?"
"Of course it's Lyn," Phyllis said with an exaggerated edge. "I told you I saw the car pull up."
"You didn't drive, did you, Lyn?" Richie asked.
"No," she said, turning away from the wall of family togetherness. "Ace drove."
"There ya go, Phyllis," Richie retorted. "You had no way of knowing if the car that pulled into the driveway was Lyn's or a bunch of those bloodsucking vampires from the press. I told you not to go running out there till you knew for sure."
Phyllis shot her hands to her hips. "But it was her. So no harm done." Under her breath, she added, "Stubborn old coot." She nudged Lyn forward. "Go on, sweetie. He's gonna wanna see for himself that you're okay."
Okay? Hardly. Breathing, sure. Heart beating? Yeah. A little too fast, but yeah. Still, she was miles away from the clinical definition of "okay." And she didn't think she had the energy to walk across the house under her own waning power.
"Lyn?" Doug's voice whispered in her ear. "You need help?"
She barely nodded, but somehow, he knew. He always seemed to know. Taking her elbow, he led her forward at a slow, easy pace. "Where to?"
"Straight back," she murmured. "It's a sunken den, but there's a ramp from the dining room."
They walked together past the dining room with its knotty pine furnishings and the overhead light fixture made of deer antlers. Lyn averted her eyes from the wall filled with a dozen more family photographs, the timeline of a couple happily married for more than three decades. At last they descended the short ramp and stopped in a room filled with deep blue modular furniture. The far wall, covered by a ginormous television and surround system, commanded the attention of the room's lone occupant.
"Richie?" Lyn asked.
The steely-haired man in the wheelchair turned, eyes narrowed with tender concern. "Ah, sweetheart, are you okay?" His gaze swept over Doug. "Sawyer. Didn't expect you here."
"We were together when the press accosted us," she replied.
Beside her, Doug stiffened. Why? She turned to look at him and noticed how his eyes narrowed in Richie's direction. A minute or two passed, but then realization woke in her brain. "You didn't know Richie was an amputee, did you?"
"Doug's only seen me with my stems," Richie replied and rolled himself closer. "Isn't that right?"
On a quick exhale, Doug's posture relaxed. "Yes, sir. Excuse me for asking, but I'm just curious. Were you the first Ski-Hab student?"
Richie laughed. "Nah. I lost my legs a long time before Ski Hab. But I participated in a ski rehab program in Europe years ago. Brought the idea back here. Lyn had wanted to do something to honor her husband's memory, and Ski-Hab was the result." He picked up a remote control and beckoned Lyn closer with a crooked finger. "Now, let's get to the problem at hand. I've been recording the news reports. Take off your coats, have a seat, and we'll see what we've got."
Lyn managed to make it to the bolstered sofa under her own steam, but she left her coat zipped around her. Regardless of the heat in the house, her shivers hadn't completely disappeared. When she sank onto the cushions, Doug sat beside her and cupped her hand. Heat sizzled from his fingertips to hers. Either he had a fever, or she was more chilled than she thought.
"Hey, Richie," Ace said as he loped into the room. "How's it rolling?"
"All uphill," Richie retorted.
Ace grinned. "I hear that." He plopped down on the sofa next to Lyn, sandwiching her.
Ordinarily, she'd shove him away, but right now, with her dam walls about to crumble, she'd take all the shoring up she could get.
"Everybody ready?" Richie held the remote above his head, pointed toward the massive screen.
One shaky breath first, then Lyn said, "Go."
Richie had recorded at least a dozen different news reports from various television stations, both local and national. Every one of them ran with the same angle: "Did you know that April Raine of Taking Sides fame has an equally famous sister?"
Videos flashed in a blur. Brooklyn Raine accepting her gold medal at the Winter Olympics. Brooklyn Raine crossing the finish line in record time at the World Cup. Brooklyn Raine and Marc Cheviot waving from a Matterhorn float at the Disney World Electric Parade. Brooklyn Raine, swathed in white tulle, and Marc Cheviot in a white tuxedo, beaming at each other outside St. Patrick's Cathedral. Brooklyn Raine walking out of the funeral parlor where her father's services were held. Brooklyn Raine walking out of another funeral parlor where her husband's services were held. And finally, Brooklyn Raine walking hand-in-hand with Doug outside the Winter Wonderland ice sculpture park. On that last scene, the screen split with Doug and Lyn smiling at each other on the left. Meanwhile, a clip of April, Jeff, and the kids pushing their way out of a crowd at the base lodge of Mount Elsie popped up on the right.
Whatever the talking heads said didn't register, couldn't compete with the high-pitched buzz in her ears. Nausea roiled her stom
ach. Her skin hardened to battle armor, cold and steely.
At last, the torture ended. But, based on the grim faces around her, Lyn knew the nightmare had only begun.
Richie spoke first. "We gotta get you outta here, sweetheart. Someplace where they can't find you."
She looked from one stern expression to the other. No one gainsaid Richie's suggestion. "I-I could go to Summer's-"
"The last place you can go is to family," Richie shot back. "If the press has copped to you and April being related, Summer will be next. You want that?"
God, no. Lyn sighed. Poor Summer. Already, her marriage showed cracks. How much of the paparazzi microscope would it take to completely destroy whatever wedded bliss she and Brad still clung to?
"She can come home with me," Doug said.
She swerved to face him, certain she'd see a huge leer or smirk, a hint he joked with her. But his expression looked solemn. Steady. Completely serious.
"No." The denial came from both Richie and Ace simultaneously.
"Why not?" Doug demanded. "Completely on the up-and-up here, guys. My place is big, secure, and anonymous. She'd have her own bedroom, twenty-four-hour security, and the ability to stay in contact with anyone she wants to while still maintaining a low profile."
Lyn's steely armor softened. Beside her sat a white knight, a man who cared enough to care. Unlike these other two Neanderthals.
"Actually," she said, "that's not a bad idea. New York is the perfect place for me to hide in plain sight. No one knows Doug. Even if the press eventually finds out who he is, there'd be nothing to link him to me."
"Actually," Ace replied, his tone more frigid than dry ice, "a lot of people know Doug. A lot of press people. And there'd be an awful lot to link him to you because of what he does for a living."
She shook her head. "Why? Because he works for you? It would still be too great a stretch for anyone to link you with me and by extension, Doug with me."
"Is that what he told you?" Ace glared at Doug. "That he works for me?"
"No." Doug eased his arm away from her. A subtle signal, but the gesture put Lyn on alert. "I never said that."
Her brow furrowed as she studied Doug, confusion buzzing in her brain. "Of course you did. I asked how you knew Ace."
"And I said that I'd known Ace since his first professional competition. That I was, sort of, in promotion."
"Right. So?"
The room grew eerily silent, with three pairs of eyes looking everywhere but at her. Cold sweat broke out on her arms.
Sort of. He'd said sort of. "What exactly am I missing?"
Doug ducked his head, sighed. "I work-that is, I used to work-for The Sportsman."
"The Sportsman," she repeated. The Sportsman magazine. She doubted he handled their marketing. Her heart crept into her throat. "You're a . . ." The word stuck, refusing to leave her lips.
Please, God, please don't let it be true. Don't let me be more of an idiot than I feel right now.
But apparently, God wasn't taking requests today.
"I'm a reporter, Lyn."
"And your arm? I'm guessing you didn't lose your arm in some drunken car accident."
Something about the nap of the couch cushion fascinated Doug all of a sudden because he kept his gaze fixed there. "I lost my arm in Iraq. I was embedded with Giles Markham's army unit. I'm the only survivor of a Humvee explosion."
"So, all this time, you've been spying on me? Taking notes? Planning to write a story about me?"
He didn't answer, still couldn't look her in the eye, and she had her confirmation. But she noted the same guilty expressions worn by Ace and Richie. The fine hairs danced on her nape.
"You knew, didn't you? Both of you."
Richie held out his hands in supplication. "Now, Lynnie, honey, it's not what you think. Doug really did need our help, and I had no way of knowing you and he would even meet, much less become involved with one another. When Kerri-Sue told me, I-"
"Kerri-Sue knew too?" She bit back a groan. Just how widespread did this conspiracy reach?
"Not at first," Doug interjected. "She Googled me, found out the truth."
Ha. Google. Why hadn't Lyn thought of that? Oh, maybe because she never thought her friends would deceive her so horribly.
"Kerri-Sue trusted that Richie wouldn't have accepted me into the program if I meant you any harm," Doug continued. "And I don't, Lyn. Really. In fact, now that you know the truth, we can make this work in your favor. All you have to do is give me an exclusive interview. I'll get the press off your back-"
Despite legs more wobbly than Jell-O, she got to her feet, pointed toward the doorway. "Get out." Her volume stayed low, but the tone was pure white-hot rage. "You and Ace, get out of here."
Doug rose and walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, as if he approached a raving lunatic. "Now, Lyn, please. It's not what it seems."
"No?" She tossed back her head and laughed bitterly. "Oh, well, thank God for that. Because it seems like my friends are conspiring with my enemy. It seems like I've been lied to and set up and made a fool of by people I've trusted for years. So by all means, Doug, tell me I'm wrong."
Even if he had attempted to take her up on that request, she refused to remain in this house one moment longer. Hands curled into tight fists, she turned away from the monsters surrounding her. "On second thought, you guys stay. I'm out of here. Phyllis?" she called as she strode from the den. "Would you call Larry and have him pick me up ASAP? I'll wait for him outside."
Ignoring the cacophony of arguments from the men inside the Armstrong house, Lyn waited outside in the wet snowfall. She didn't care if she resembled Frosty the Snowman. Cold didn't bother her anymore. Her fury kept her toasty warm.
How could they treat her so badly? Ace, she supposed, simply didn't understand her aversion to the spotlight he so obviously adored. Doug, no doubt, saw her only as a story. But Richie? Richie, who knew and understood the pain she'd endured when Akers printed that photo? Richie had gone behind her back to put her in the direct line of fire. And his duplicity cut past her ribs, tearing her heart to shreds.
By the time Larry's familiar, battered blue Chevy pulled into the driveway, she'd grown numb. Numb from the frigid night air, numb from the agony of betrayal. Without waiting for Larry to get out of the car to help, she yanked open the passenger door and slid inside.
"Where we headed, sweetheart?"
Where, indeed. She had no idea. For the moment, she said, "Just drive, Larry. Please."
"You got it."
He pulled out of the driveway and headed back toward the center of town. For a while, the only sound in the car came from the occasional static of the dispatch service and the squeal of the windshield wipers clearing the fallen snowflakes.
"Saw what happened on the news," he said at last.
Great. She rubbed her temples with icy fingertips. "Please, Larry. I can't talk about it right now."
"Whatever you want, Lyn," he said. "I just want you to know that you need anything, anything at all, you ask, okay?"
Staring out at the endless black highway, she murmured, "Okay. Thanks."
She finally made him drop her off at Winterberry Cafe, where she begged to use the phone in the owner's office. When April answered her cell, the dam inside her burst, and she broke down.
"Oh, thank God!" April exclaimed. "Where have you been? Are you okay?"
"No," she said. She wanted to tell her sister everything. About Ace. And Doug. And Richie. But any words she tried to utter wound up choked by tears or unintelligible thanks to the shudders racking her.
"Okay, okay. Breathe, sweetie," April soothed. "Where are you?"
"Winterberry's."
"Not out in the open!" April stated with surprise.
"No." But she looked around the cramped room filled with restaurant supplies and invoices anyway, to be sure she was alone. "I'm in the office."
"Okay, can you stay there?"
"Uh-huh."
"Giv
e me a number to reach you."
Lyn managed to rattle off the phone number.
"Sit tight and give me five minutes. Mrs. B.'s waiting to hear from you. She's got your bag packed and Aaron's car gassed up and ready. Stay where you are until you hear back from me."
Once April hung up, Lyn sank into the squeaky chair, placed her head on the desk, and wrapped her arms around her ears. Still, the recriminations screamed inside her brain.
Way to go, Lyn. Of all the men for you to fall for, you chose a reporter? Now what?
Because you fell hard, kiddo. And he just shattered your heart.
How would she ever recover?
The restaurant's office phone rang, and she hesitantly picked up. "Thank you for calling Winterberry's. How may I direct your call?"
"Got a pen?" April asked.
Assured Lyn was ready, April gave her a series of directions and summed up with, "Aaron's on his way to Winterberry's with the car. Once you're on the road, don't stop till you're way out of town. If you have to go to the bathroom, go now or hold it for the next three hours."
Lyn stared at the chicken scratch she'd hastily written on a blank invoice sheet. "What exactly is this place?"
"It's the perfect hiding place. The house belongs to a client of Rainey-Day-Wife. He's away in Brussels on business until after the New Year. Take care of his dog, his houseplants, and his python, and the place is yours till he comes home."
Lyn swallowed hard. "His python?"
"It's in an aquarium in a locked room. You don't have to do anything more than feed it one mouse every week or so and make sure the water dish is full. All the instructions are taped to the outside of the tank. It's a piece of cake, really."
A python? She shivered. Ick.
But then again, honestly, what was the difference between a caged python or the nest of vipers she'd just left? At least the python didn't try to be anything but a python.
"And what kind of dog?" If April mentioned any breed with a remotely aggressive reputation, she'd have to rethink this whole get-out-of-Dodge plan. Larry had offered his couch for her to crash on. A crazy idea that was beginning to sound like a reasonable alternative.
