by Susan Rohrer
“Not yet, Gracie.” Laurel kissed her daughter’s cheek and set her down. “I tried really hard, but...”
Grace’s face fell. Her blue eyes brimmed. “But I told the judge.”
Laurel took her hands. “I know, Baby. But he says we have to wait, at least till they figure out what happened to Daddy.”
All too soon, Shana strode over to them. Laurel could hear Howard Berg advising the press that there would be no more questions taken.
Briskly, Shana stepped toward her nanny. “Helen, could you help me get Grace to the car?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Helen stepped to Grace’s other side.
Shana leaned down to Grace’s level and stroked her head. “Grace, Honey, we’re going home, now.” With a hand to Grace’s shoulders, she guided the girl away. As Grace looked back, a tear tumbled down her cheek.
Howard Berg extended his business card to Laurel. “Laurel, if you’ll call me on Monday, we can set up your visitation schedule.”
Absently, Laurel took the card, her focus still rapt on Grace. Quickly, Laurel raced to catch up with them. The media pressed in as Laurel leaned over toward her daughter, tracking with their every step. “Sweetie, it’s okay. You go with Shana and Helen, and I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”
Grace dissolved into sobs. “But Mommy...”
Shana stopped. She leveled Laurel with a glare. “Do we really need to put her through this in front of the media?”
“Please, Shana. Just give me a few seconds with her. That’s all.”
Shana’s expression tightened. She looked away, relenting for the moment.
Laurel stooped down and set her knee on the floor. She took Grace’s reddened face in hers. “Baby, look at me.”
Grace looked up, trembling.
Laurel pressed her hand to Grace’s heart. “We are never apart, the two of us. Not in spirit. Not for a single second. Remember that, no matter what.”
Grace lifted a hand and placed it over hers. She bit at her lips.
Laurel kissed Grace’s hand, then placed it into Shana’s. “I need you to be good for me, okay?”
Grace nodded.
“I love you so much, Sweetheart. I’ll see you soon.”
Where she found the strength to tear herself away, Laurel didn’t know. But she felt herself rise and step to the side, allowing Shana and Helen to lead Grace toward the courthouse doors.
Grace turned back once more, a distant longing in her eyes, but it was only a moment before Shana hurried them out of sight. Laurel fought to maintain her composure as cameras clicked all around. Numb as she was, Laurel could hardly move. She felt her attorney take her arm.
Flynn addressed the surrounding press. “We have no comments, except to ask you to respect Ms. Fischer’s privacy.”
Step-by-step, somehow, Laurel put one foot in front of the other as Flynn led her out of that place. Her heart crumbled to pieces within her. She had allowed herself to hope, and now that hope was shattered.
Joe leaned against Laurel’s car. What kind of a profession was he a part of, where one person profited from exploiting another person’s pain? At least, for his part, he’d given Laurel the distance she seemed to have needed. He’d withdrawn from the crush of journalists that encircled like vultures, ravenous for a statement.
For a moment, he wondered. Would Laurel have given a comment to any of his competitors? No, he decided. How odd it was to be so sure of that. He was only beginning to get to know Laurel, but as hard as he’d looked, there didn’t seem to be a duplicitous bone in her body. She had promised him exclusivity and he would trust that was that.
Suddenly, there she was. Her attorney, Bennett Flynn, gave her a consoling handshake, then got into his sedan.
Slowly, Laurel turned Joe’s way. Her face was traced with something he could only describe as anguish. She’d lost her ex-husband and now her own daughter had been denied to her, all in the space of a week.
Joe had to hand it to her. This woman had uncommon grace. Considering the circumstances, she had held it together quite respectably inside. But now, as she walked toward him, with every step, he could see her falling apart.
By the time she reached him and looked into his face, she dissolved completely into tears. She could hardly get her words out. “I know you need me to...to talk to you,” she said. “But...I just can’t.”
Joe nodded. “It’s okay.” This was no act. It was grief, plain and simple.
Laurel covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God...” Sobs wracked her slender frame. She shook, what seemed uncontrollably.
Joe found himself at an utter loss. How could he even attempt to comfort her, but then again, how could he not? Where the impulse came from, he didn’t know. But almost before Joe knew what he was doing, he had taken Laurel into his arms. He held Laurel close as she wept. Gently, he brushed his hand against her back.
At least for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared. That was, until he raised his eyes and saw someone, watching them from a distance.
Debra.
Joe sat at his desk, his chin propped up on his thumb. Debra had varying degrees of ire. She also had no compunction about displaying the full array of them at the office. Usually, Joe could pretend to listen and shut the worst of it out. He thought he’d run the gamut of her emotions. But the bulge of that vein in her neck, it told him that her current rage, it was ascending to a whole new level.
She strode across his office, flinging her arms out to her side. “What do you mean you didn’t get a statement?”
Joe continued to type. “I mean she said no.”
“Come on, Joe!” She was over-enunciating, as if he couldn’t hear or understand. “We are paying her.”
Joe gave his head a sardonic tip. “Somehow, I don’t think that twenty-five hundred covers a total invasion of privacy.”
Debra’s eyes flashed. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” he said. “But I still had a soul last time I checked.”
She sputtered derisively. “There is nothing inhumane about getting a simple reaction.”
“I guess that depends which side of the decision you’re on.” Joe searched through the piles of work on his desk. Where was his notebook?
Debra set her hands down on his desk. “We are the press, Joe. In case you’ve forgotten, we don’t take sides. And we don’t make physical contact with our subjects.”
“Where is...” Joe checked his desk drawer. There was his notebook, right where he had left it. “Look, she trusts me. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? I promise I’ll go by tonight. I’ll get something. I just wanted to give her a chance to deal.”
Debra scoffed. “Yeah, give her a chance to compose, rewrite, rehearse and take any shred of honesty out of it.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some hack.”
“Yeah, well don’t act like one.”
Usually, this was the point in one of their spats when Debra would abruptly leave, triumphant over having had the last word. This time, she just stood there, gawking at him.
Joe laced his fingertips. He shook his head and lifted his brows. “Debra, you know... I used to think you were pretty. I really did.”
As soon as he let those words out, he knew it had been a mistake. It had been true, but it was below the belt to say that kind of thing. Plus, as wounding as that barb had been, she would definitely retaliate.
Debra’s mouth dropped. She whirled on her heels and stormed toward the door. As he might have guessed, she turned when she reached the jamb. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her.
“I pity you, Joe. I do.” Her voice was as low as her spirits seemed.
When he looked up at her, the saddest kind of smile wilted to nothing on her face.
She leaned against the doorframe. “You know, Joe... You have this picture of yourself like you’re this really great catch, waiting for somebody, anybody to discover the stand-up guy you’re convinced that you are.”
Joe scraped one
fingernail against another. He’d crossed the line. He would have to sit there for whatever Debra had to say.
An unsettling stillness came over her. All the emotion drained from her voice. “You think you know where you’re going, Joe. You know what’s what and you’re just...” She lowered her gaze, then raised it again. “You’re lost, Joe,” she said. “You really are. You’re lost.”
As day succumbed to night at his desk, Debra’s words turned over in Joe’s mind. Though the last thing Joe would do was to let Debra know she had gotten to him, she had. She had pierced straight through all his hard-earned armor. That sword of hers had penetrated, right through to his flimsy heart.
She was wrong about him. But then again, what if she weren’t? What if she’d nailed his whole sorry excuse for a life, right on its useless head?
This was no way to be.
Almost automatically, Joe opened his desk drawer and secured his notes inside. Taking notes while Laurel talked to him tonight would do nothing to help set her at ease. Jotting things down would only remind her that he was there to do a job, not to be the listening ear that she so sorely needed.
Joe hiked his collar up as he left Kickerton Press’s building. The evening air was crisp. It smelled of garlic and herbs from the new Bistro on the corner. Inside, a wood-fire burned invitingly. The place had the perfect ambiance for a date, not that he had anyone to take there.
At least it was a good night for walking, and Laurel’s workplace wasn’t so very far away. As late as it had gotten, they’d probably be closing the place up soon. It occurred to him that she could probably use a quiet stroll along the harbor just as much as he could about now.
Before he knew it, he was there, outside the plate glass windows of the Blackberry Grille. The “Closed, Come Again!” sign was already flipped to the outside. That African-looking woman he’d seen there before bustled about, turning chairs over and setting them atop the tables. Laurel mopped the floor.
He had to give it to her, after the day she’d endured. She was a hard worker, this one.
For the longest time, he just stood there watching her. Finally, she set the mop in its bucket. She stretched up and noticed him. A smile crossed her weary face.
Boats bobbed in their slips as Laurel walked with Joe along the harbor. Water lapped against docks that had been buffeted by centuries of storms. Yet, somehow, they had survived. Just like she would.
Joe turned to her. “Can I ask you something?”
Laurel smiled softly. “That’s why you’re paying me, remember?”
Joe shook his head. “No, it’s not about... Maybe I’m the one who should go off the record with you this time.”
“Okay.”
He stopped by the rail overlooking the water. “I need the truth about this. No matter what it is.” He fixed his gaze on the water, shimmering in the moonlight. “Do you think I’m lost?”
The look on his face made it clear to her. This was no casual question. And she would have to be completely honest. “I think if you weren’t,” she said, “you wouldn’t have to ask.”
Joe sighed. “No. I guess I wouldn’t.”
She drew her jacket close. “Don’t feel bad. I’ve been there.”
Joe chuckled. “What? You weren’t always so tight with the powers that be?”
Laurel shook her head wryly. “Shocking but...I guess you could say I was something of a prodigal years ago. Still lose my way here and there. Like you have. Like I did today. And again, I...I’m so sorry.” She trembled in the night air.
“It was a blow.”
She nodded, still under the weight of it.
Joe took off his coat. “You’re shivering.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Probably just my blood sugar. Oh, the joys of diabetes.”
Gently, he draped his coat over her shoulders. “Better?”
She gave him a sheepish look. “Better for me, I guess.”
“It’s okay.” Joe shrugged. “Rumor has it that I’m pretty cold-blooded.”
Laurel turned his way. “You say that but...you’re actually very sensitive.”
Joe gave her a congenial smirk. “I suppose God told you that?”
She couldn’t help but chuckle. “No. In the few moments I’ve managed to get outside of myself in this...I’ve noticed.”
His eyes widened. “You have?”
“Yes. I have.” She felt the color rise to her cheeks. How long had it been since a man had made her blush? As ruggedly handsome as Joe was, she’d have to keep her wits about her.
He set his forearms down on the rail. “You know, my boss, she... She says I’m losing my objectivity about you.”
“Oh.” Warily, Laurel leaned against the rail beside him. “Is she right?”
“I don’t know, I...” Joe paused. “Never in all my years have I compromised my journalistic integrity with a subject. There’s this invisible line. You don’t cross it. And I haven’t. Not once.”
He shook his head and blew out a long breath. “I could get really stupid about now.”
Laurel took it in thoughtfully. So, he was feeling it, too. That same longing she’d been struggling to resist. “I’ll admit it, Joe. If I gave in to myself, I could get kind of stupid with you, too.”
“Would that be so wrong?”
For a little while, she waited. Things were so complicated. How could she answer that question in a way he’d understand? “I can’t deny what’s going on between us, Joe. It’s just that we’re still so—”
Before she knew it, he’d turned her by the shoulders. He’d drawn her lips to his. His kiss was so tender, so aching, so astonishing. Every cell in her being wanted to respond to him, to give in to the pleasure of that moment.
But this wasn’t right.
Not for him. And not for her.
Ever so gently, she turned aside. She pressed her forehead against his cheek. “Forgive me, Joe. I shouldn’t have...” She straightened to look into his eyes. “I just can’t go there. Not with things as they are. Not with so much at stake.”
Joe brushed the hair back from her eyes as they parted. That’s when she noticed something light up in the distance. Her stomach sank. It was the glint of a streetlamp off a telephoto lens.
eleven
No matter how many times Joe dialed Lou’s number on the way home from Laurel’s, it rang through to voice mail. Clearly, Lou was dodging his calls. Joe was tempted to leave a message, but what could he say? Lou was paparazzi and this was his livelihood. Still, he’d promised Laurel that he’d try.
He couldn’t leave a voice record, asking Lou to suppress the photos he’d taken, or to at least hold them till he had a chance to explain. Anything like that could get back to Debra. All Joe could hope was that the missed calls would be enough to remind Lou of their friendship. But then again, maybe they were just colleagues at Kickerton Press and not really friends at all.
Joe pulled into the garage of his building. There was no point in trying Lou yet again. At least the paper would have been put to bed for the night before those compromising photos were taken. That would buy him another day to reach Lou. Joe sat in his car, his jaw resting on a fist. There was nothing to be done.
From the hallway leading to his apartment, Joe heard Stella meowing. It was almost a yowl, really. He could hardly blame her. She was just a cat. It was the only way she could communicate that he hadn’t made it home by her regular dinnertime.
Joe grabbed the keys from his pocket and opened the door.
Inside, Clay bent over Stella in the kitchen. He placed a fresh bowl of cat food on the floor by the counter. “Did he forget you? There. There you go.” Hungrily, Stella began to crunch the dry morsels.
Clay straightened slowly. He turned away from Joe, to the mirror he had set up on the island.
Joe draped his jacket over the back of the couch. Back to his real world, atilt as it was.
Clay winced as he brushed his face with one of those makeup remover pads Joe kept finding in the trash.
He barely looked up. “So, Joe. Where have you been?”
“Out.” The last person Joe wanted to recount this particular evening to was his brother. He wandered to the refrigerator.
“You get some?”
Joe grabbed a bottle of cold water. Leave it to Clay to turn something so completely innocent into something crass. “It’s not that kind of thing.”
“But it is a thing, isn’t it?”
Joe unscrewed his bottle cap. “Why do I have to explain this to you?”
Clay shrugged. “Pardon me. Just trying to show an interest.”
Joe took a swig of water as he rounded the kitchen island. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of Clay’s face. There were still remnants of Marilyn makeup around the edges. But he’d also been bloodied and bruised. A shiner swelled under Clay’s right eye.
Joe staggered. “Did you plan on mentioning that somebody beat you to a bloody pulp?”
Clay looked up, nonplussed. “Why state the obvious?”
Something in Joe popped a cork. “So, this is what they do at your high society parties.”
“Had nothing to do with the party,” Clay said. “It was after. Bunch of thugs grabbed me at the bus stop.”
“Put your shoes on.” Joe strode toward his coat.
Clay rotated on his stool. “Why?”
“Because we’re doing what you should have.” Joe shook his jacket. “We’re going to report this.”
“No.”
“We’re going to the cops. Right now.”
Clay looked back into the mirror. “I’m not going back to those goons.”
“Clay, I’m serious.”
“So am I, Joe.”
Joe dropped his coat. This was beyond the pale, even for Clay. “I don’t get you. One minute you’re Mister All-fired Community Activist, chasing down pedophiles, shutting down neighborhood restaurants and then... What? Are you actually going to let those hoodlums go?”
Clay dabbed his cheek with cold cream. “I let you talk me into going after Zoring. I figure I’ve done my bit.”
