This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Sherrill Bodine
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Melody Cassen
Cover photo by Gen Nishino/Getty
Book design by Giorgetta Bell McRee
Forever
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-54329-3
First eBook Edition: December 2008
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
IT’S GOOD FOR THE SOUL
“Don’t worry about confessing. You’d be surprised what people have told me. Remember, it used to be my job to get people to tell me their deepest, darkest secrets. . . .”
He winced. “Ouch!”
“No. No. I didn’t mean it that way.” She didn’t want to think about the Daily Mail. She didn’t want to remember she’d once thought of him as the-evil-boss-from-hell. She didn’t want to remember she’d once planned to do whatever it took to get back her job. Tonight she wanted it to be just Rebecca and David, with no expectations. No promises. Just the honesty of desire beating between them.
She touched his thigh and their eyes met. She shifted closer, reacting to the invitation on his face. “Let’s agree, David. Tonight, nothing about the Daily Mail will taint the celebration.”
“Daily Mail? Never heard of it . . .”
I dedicate this book with loving gratitude
to Chicago’s real queen of gossip, Ann Gerber,
who, with great wit, so generously shared her expertise.
I literally could not have written this without you,
my dear friend.
Acknowledgments
I love you, Chicago!
The entire city and the vast number of people who make it such a great place to live inspire me.
Special thanks must go—
to my husband, John, who continues to be the hero of my story in Chicago, just as he has been in all the varied places we have cohabitated with our charming children
to my critique group—Cheryl Jefferson, Jude Mandell, Patricia Rosemoor, and Rosemary Paulas—for gently but firmly suggesting how I could make this book better and patting me on the head when I obeyed their orders
to Susanna Homan of “Susanna’s Night Out” in the Chicago Sun-Times, for telling me all her war stories
to my literary agent, Danielle Egan-Miller, for welcoming me back into the fold and insisting I write about life in my favorite city.
P.S. I’m also quite fond of New York City. I especially adore Grand Central Publishing for wanting me to write books for them, and I adore my editor, Michele Bidelspach, for refusing to accept anything except my best work; obviously, we’re a perfect match—we’re the same diminutive height, and we both love Project Runway and chocolate!
THE CHICAGO DAILY MAIL WEDNESDAY EDITION
Rebecca Covington’s World
Darlings, you know I tell you absolutely everything! This bit of diet news is so bizarre that at first I threw it in the wastebasket. But hey—I promised you. The newest, sickest diet is the Last Hope Diet. You drink only Diet Coke and eat Kleenex. Yes, eat Kleenex! Does it have fiber? Don’t even think about it.
Catty Comments
Sshh . . . it’s a secret, but . . .
Who is the high-profile, wealthy, this-close-to-ruining-his-career, married politician who has been seen ringing the chimes of a hot lady friend in a Gold Coast high-rise? He pretends he’s a pizza delivery guy and carries the big quilted heating bag. What might it contain? Diamonds? Pearls? Perhaps even a giant pepperoni pizza? Although he wears dark sunglasses and a cap pulled over his thick locks, nothing can disguise his killer smile. Or those oh-so-kissable lips.
Chapter 1
Some Monday mornings start out so well.
The cab Rebecca stepped into had her picture advertising “Rebecca Covington’s World,”in the Chicago Daily Mail, plastered across the back of the front seat.
She squinted at the ad. How long had it been since she’d done a new press photo? Her blond hair was so much lighter and shorter now . . . her face thinner . . . older.
“You’re lookin’ good, Miss Covington. Wife loves your columns,” shouted the delightful cabdriver.
Before she looked up at the charming man, she remembered to widen her eyes to smooth out the dreaded lines on her forehead, just as Harry had instructed.
“Thank you,” she cooed to the cabbie. “You’ve made my day.” Of course, she gave him a huge tip when she alighted in front of the Chicago Daily Mail building.
Feeling wonderful, and looking forward to seeing Pauline Alper, BFF since they bonded over their divorces only two years apart and shed enough tears together to raise the water level in Lake Michigan, Rebecca swished through the doors and into the small lobby.
Pauline looked up from behind the reception desk, saw Rebecca, burst into loud sobs, and buried her wet face in two fistfuls of pink Kleenex.
Shocked by Pauline’s tears instead of her usual warm welcome, Rebecca rushed across the lobby to offer her shoulder to cry upon. “Pauline, tell me everything.”
Instead of being comforted, Pauline jumped up, crying even louder, and ran to the “For Staff Only” restroom.
Her heart pounding, terrified at what could be so wrong, Rebecca raced after Pauline and stood outside the locked stall. “Sweetheart, it isn’t your girls, is it?” The thought of any harm coming to Pauline’s daughters, Patty and Polly, caused tears to burn in her eyes.
“No,” came Pauline’s muffled reply, followed by a cacophony of fresh sobs.
Weak with relief, Rebecca collapsed against the cool metal door. “Thank God! Then whatever it is can be fixed. I saw you with the box of pink Kleenex on your desk. You didn’t try that ridiculous Kleenex diet and become violently ill, did you?”
“No,” Pauline hiccupped.
“Good. Then please come out so I can help you. You’re crying so hard you really will make yourself sick.”
“I can’t stop . . . I’m . . . so . . . so . . . sad,” Pauline wailed between sobs.
“Sweetheart, you’re hyperventilating!” Rebecca’s voice rose in alarm. She’d never forgotten the day Pauline fainted in her living room after a bout of prolonged crying over the divorce wars. “Please stop.”
“I . . . can’t . . . ,” Pauline gasped.
Drastic action must be taken.
“Keep breathing, sweetheart!” Rebecca kicked off her b
lack Brian Atwood stilettos. Hiked up her black Carolina Herrera skirt until the top of her pantyhose showed. Not caring if the expensive Wolford fishnets got bigger holes, she dropped to her hands and knees onto the cold, hard, black and white tile floor. “Pauline, keep breathing and tell me what’s wrong,” she called through the opening at the bottom of the stall.
An instant later, from beneath the door Pauline peered back, her green eyes swollen nearly shut from weeping. “Rebecca, get up! That’s . . . your . . . favorite designer outfit. You’ll . . . you’ll . . . ruin . . . ruin your beautiful clothes,” she sobbed anew.
“Sweetheart, I will get up. But you’re really scaring me.” Rebecca held Pauline’s red-rimmed eyes in a steady gaze. “Remember our pledge to always be there for each other. This is one of those moments, but this bathroom floor is no place to have a heart-to-heart. Please splash gallons of cold water on your face and come to my office. I’ll shut the door, bring out the chocolate like always, and we’ll talk for as long as you need. Promise you’ll come up with me.”
Pauline heaved a long, ragged sigh and nodded. “I promise. Oh, please don’t . . . hurt yourself getting up.”
“I’m fine,” Rebecca lied while struggling to her feet. Ignoring the little twinges of pain in her abused knees, she slid back into her shoes. She washed her hands for a good five minutes, all the while staring at the locked stall door, willing it to open. When that didn’t work she called through it again. “Are you all right? I’m sure I have enough Leonidas chocolates to handle this emergency. Ready to go up, sweetheart?”
“Not yet . . . please go on . . . I promise . . . I’ll be there . . . soon,” Pauline called back in a soft, breathless voice.
Rebecca hated to leave, but she sensed Pauline wanted a little privacy. “All right. I’ll be in my office waiting for you.”
Knowing Pauline would keep her promise, Rebecca climbed up the short flight of stairs to the Daily Mail offices. On the wide landing, the din of voices and noise from the newsroom seeped through the closed glass double doors. Even now in the throes of such powerful angst over Pauline, Rebecca felt a wave of gratitude for having escaped from there so long ago. In the newsroom she’d been just another reporter. She loved being Rebecca Covington, Chicago’s most notorious gossip columnist. She loved that she belonged in the quiet executive hallway. Now, if she was having a really bad day, she could shut her door and hide for a few minutes to perfect her confident front for the world.
Her stilettos clicked musically on the tile floor as she hurried to her office, where she’d hide Pauline for as long as it took to calm her down and find out what was wrong. At the end of the short hall, Tim Porter’s secretary, Maybella, glanced up from her desk and quickly looked back down, but not before Rebecca spied a smirk on her glossy fuchsia lips.
Something is up.
When Tim stepped out of his office and planted himself in front of her, she knew from the stricken look on his face that something wasn’t just up. Something was drastically wrong.
“No!” Rebecca gasped, clasping her alligator bag to her heaving bosom. “Not you, too! What’s happened?”
Gently, he ushered her into his office. “Sit down, Rebecca. I have something to tell you.”
The aura of doom surrounding him could mean only one thing. She flung herself into the chair before her knees buckled from the shock. “Tim, I can’t believe you’ve been fired! You’re the finest managing editor in the newspaper business. How could they do this? You have two boys in college and a wife making a life’s work of restoring your crumbling mansion in Lake Forest.” Devastated for him, she leaned forward to clasp his hand. “How can I help?”
He took a file from his tidy desk and laid it on her lap. “Sign these papers.”
She flipped open the file and squinted down at the small, blurry print. She tried holding the papers at arm’s length to read. “Darling, if it’s that you want me to cosign for a loan, I must tell you my credit isn’t any better than yours.”
“Here, try these,” he said, holding out a pair of reading glasses from his own shirt pocket.
She placed the glasses on her nose, and the letters loomed larger before her eyes.
An unpleasant numbness, like when she slept on her leg wrong, spread through every limb. “These are termination papers. With my name on them.” Not believing her eyes, refusing to accept it, she kept staring at him. “Is this some kind of joke?”
His face turned a deep crimson. “Damn it, Rebecca. It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have run the blind item about that politician. Didn’t you double-check your sources? Who was it?”
A rush of scalding anger brought feeling back into her body. Tim didn’t need to know that the paper’s very own security guard, who moonlighted at several Gold Coast condos, was her most reliable source. Until now. She couldn’t believe he had gotten it so wrong this time. Something wasn’t ringing true. “You know I never divulge my sources!” she snapped, not liking where this was going.
“Well, you might have to divulge it this time in court,” he snapped back. “The item struck a nerve with our junior senator, who is damn well connected. He’s been in California for weeks trying to reconcile with his wife. He hasn’t been anywhere near any Gold Coast condo. He’s threatening to sue.”
“So what?” She shrugged, relief making her smile. Now she was on safe, familiar ground. “The last time someone threatened to sue, circulation skyrocketed and I received a generous bonus. Tim, darling, you know I’m the queen of naughty gossip in Chicago. That’s what sells papers. That’s what you pay me to do.”
“Not anymore.”
She felt the earth shift beneath her in a strange, silent shudder. It started at her toes and rushed up to her brain, just as it had ten years ago when she’d gone home sick from work and walked into her condo to find her husband, Peter, in their bed performing oral sex on his young executive assistant.
Then, like now, every sense deserted her except sight.
She saw Tim’s lips moving, but no sound reached her.
She closed her eyes, believing that when she opened them it would all turn out to be a terrible nightmare.
But it didn’t work this time, either.
“Rebecca, did you hear me?” She heard Tim shout as his beady eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Your position has been filled by Shannon Forrester from the women’s page.”
“That’s utterly ridiculous!” she shouted back, all her senses restored to full furious force. “I’m the gossip columnist for the Daily Mail. It’s been my identity for fifteen years. I’m not giving it up to anyone!”
Tim shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, but you don’t have a choice. The blind item fiasco in your column brought it to a head faster than I wanted. Regardless of how we feel, there are changes coming under the new owner. He has evaluated the staff and feels Shannon will keep up with the youth market and bring a fresh perspective to the paper. Younger. Sassier. Sexier.”
Not caring how many wrinkles she made in her face, Rebecca sneered at him in disgust. “It’s ridiculous to think no one over forty has sexy, sassy fun! What is going on? I asked you if the rumors were true about the paper being bought and you told me no. How could you lie to me?”
Tim recoiled. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss anything but your termination.”
Wounded to her core by his cavalier treatment, tears choked the back of her throat. She rose majestically onto her wobbly legs. “I’d always hoped that should the worst happen, I’d built relationships along the way so my friends would stand by me.”
Tim slumped down onto the edge of his desk. “Rebecca, give me a break. My job could be on the line if you don’t cooperate.”
His dejected voice and posture caused her to feel a flicker of pity. She doused it with righteous indignation. “I won’t be discarded like last year’s fashion mistake, Tim. This is blatant age discrimination. I have two more years left on my contract. I’m not leaving without a fight. I�
��m calling my lawyer.” Becoming more furious by the second, she made the ultimate threat. “Then I’m calling Charlie Bartholomew at the Chicago Journal and Courier.”
At mention of Charlie, all color drained from Tim’s face. The nasty rivalry between the two papers was the stuff of urban legend. It had sucked dry more than one managing editor.
“Rebecca, you’re trying to kill me,” he groaned. “I can’t afford a messy legal battle with you right on the heels of the takeover. It’s bad PR for all of us. God knows what that bastard Charlie might do if he gets wind of this too soon. He could screw up this deal. He’d like nothing better.”
She lifted her chin in defiance and glared at him. “Then give me my column back.”
“I can’t do that. But I’ve been authorized to offer you another job.” He stood and slid his fingers around his shirt collar to loosen it. Perspiration glistened on his wide, red forehead above his suddenly glassy-looking eyes. “Your salary will remain the same for the duration of your contract. However, the only place for you on the paper is writing a twice-weekly recipe column for the Home and Food section.”
Her blood felt like it was freezing in her veins and she hid her trembling hands in her lap. She’d felt this same icy helplessness in her condo bedroom, when she realized her identity as Peter’s wife was erased. Hollow with pain from yet another rejection, she’d turned on her heels and quietly walked out the door. Sometimes she fantasized about what she should have done all those years ago. She should have screamed or thrown a shoe at her miserable cheating husband. Better yet, she should have pulled out every follicle of hair she’d paid to have transplanted along his receding hairline. The moment of truth was at hand. Had she learned nothing? Would she allow herself to be replaced by a younger woman again?
Anger and pride roared through her in one loud answer. No! This time I’ll dig in my stilettos and fight for what I want. “I accept the job.”
Talk of the Town Page 1
