“Mom, I’m … hey, great, you’re downstairs. You must be feeling better. Did you watch TV?” She threw her books on the nearest chair. “Were you crying? Your eyes are all red.”
“No, of course not,” Athen said, trying to cover, “it’s just because of the cold.”
“I don’t think they were so red this morning.” Callie leaned closer for a better look.
“They weren’t open so long this morning.”
“If you say so.”
Callie went into the kitchen for a snack and to let the dog out. She returned with a glass of milk in one hand and an apple in the other.
“Since you’re feeling better, do you think I could go over to Nina’s for a while? There’s a big test tomorrow. Nina said we could study together and she could help me with the stuff I missed while I was out.”
“Certainly. Go.”
“Will you be okay?”
“I’ve been fine all day,” insisted Athen. “Almost good as new.”
“You won’t be good as new until you’ve had a shower and changed that nightshirt,” Callie reminded her with a grin. “I think you’ve had that old yellow nightshirt on since last week.”
“No, I have not.” Athen laughed.
“Okay, since the weekend. Either way, it’s time for a change.” Callie grabbed her book bag and leaned over her mother to kiss her on the forehead. “I’m real glad you’re feeling better.”
“Much better, thank you, sweetie.”
“I’ll be at Nina’s if you need me. Oh, I saw Mrs. Kelly outside when I came home. She said she’d drop off some more soup later.”
“Bless Mrs. Kelly.” Athen leaned back once more, and listened as the back door opened, Hannah came in from her excursion, and Callie slammed the door on her way out. Hannah frolicked into the living room and attempted to climb onto the sofa with her mistress.
“No way, Lumpasaurus.”
Thwarted, Hannah thumped onto the floor alongside the sofa.
After staring mindlessly at the ceiling for a few minutes, Athen picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. Reruns. Talk shows. Ditzy commercials. She turned it off again and thought about the shower she so badly needed. Now would be a good time.
She was almost to the top step when she heard a knock on the door. Hannah flew into the hallway, barking wildly.
The knocking persisted. Athen went back downstairs.
One hand on Hannah’s collar and one hand on the doorknob, Athen pulled the door open. On the top step stood not the elderly Mrs. Kelly holding a pot of soup, but the totally unexpected Mr. Forbes, holding a large bouquet of multicolored flowers.
“I, ah, brought you some flowers.” He smiled somewhat weakly.
She leaned back against the door, hoping its wooden panels could absorb the shock.
“‘Get well’ flowers,” he continued, holding out the bouquet to her.
“Why?” Flowers from the man who had made crucifying her his life’s work?
“May I come in?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“Well, actually, no, Quentin.” She was in no frame of mind to spar with him.
He stepped into the small hallway as if he’d not heard her. Wide-eyed, she backed away from him as if he was visibly poxed.
“These should probably go in water.” He made a concerted effort to disguise his amusement as he eyed her disheveled appearance. She blushed scarlet as she recalled she was barely dressed and, by her own admission, smelled like a barnyard.
“Thank you, Quentin. I appreciate it.” She held her hands out to take the bouquet, hoping he would accept her thanks and then leave. She should have known better.
“Where would I find a vase?” The slightest smile played at the corners of his mouth as he glanced down at her bare feet, half a leg away from her bare knees. One foot instinctively slid atop the other.
“That won’t be necessary,” she protested as he walked past her, stopping to let Hannah sniff his hand. The dog wagged her tail approvingly.
“Really, Quentin, I can …”
“Nonsense. You’ve been sick. Go sit down. Here? In the kitchen?” He went into the next room, a large mound of yellow fur sashaying merrily behind him.
“Traitor,” Athen grumbled as Hannah’s wagging behind disappeared through the doorway.
“What?” he called to her from the kitchen. She heard the water running in the sink.
“Second cupboard from the back door.” She threw up her hands and returned to the sofa, painfully aware that she looked like an unmade bed. At least she could hide under the afghan, but there was absolutely nothing she could do about the unkempt web of hair that hung over her shoulders and halfway down her back in thick dark clumps. She fought an urge to pull the blanket over her head.
“Where would you like them?” Quentin returned to the living room with the flowers in a pale green vase.
“Anywhere is fine. How ’bout on the table right here?”
He placed the flowers where she directed. “So,” he said.
He seemed uncomfortable, standing as he was in the middle of the living room floor while she lounged like Cleopatra on the sofa.
“Say, those are beautiful paintings.” He pointed to a series of small canvases on the wall nearest the door. “The flowers look almost real.”
He stepped closer to look. “A.S.M. Did you paint these?”
“Yes.”
“They’re wonderful. I had no idea that you painted.”
“I don’t. I mean, I used to, but I haven’t in a long time.”
“You should start again. They’re really good. The shading is exquisite, and the colors are …”
“Thank you, Quentin. Now, if you don’t mind …”
He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I’ll be right back.”
Dear God, what is he up to now?
She heard him leave the house, only to return in a flash with a brown paper bag.
“I thought it would be nice if we could visit over a cup of coffee.” He opened the bag without looking at her. Pulling the small table to a spot midway between them, he placed a cardboard cup in front of her and dumped small white containers of cream onto the table. “How do you like yours?”
“Light with half a sweetener.” She stared at him suspiciously as he prepared it to her preference, then opened the second cup and poured in some cream, all the while acting ridiculously nonchalant.
“Okay, Quentin, what gives?” she asked pointedly.
“I just thought I’d stop by and see how you are.”
“Since when has it mattered to you how I am?” What, she wondered, was really behind the visit? “And flowers? Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”
“Actually … well, it’s the only way I could think of to apologize.”
“Apologize?” Her eyebrows climbed halfway up her forehead. Had she heard correctly? “Are you apologizing? To me?”
“Yes. I’ve been every bit a … What was that Greek word you called me that day in the car?”
“Malaka?” Amused in spite of herself, Athen leaned back against the sofa.
“Yes. Malaka. A jerk. I have been a jerk.”
“Do tell.” She tapped her fingers on the side of her coffee container and tried to avoid direct eye contact. He was not, she had to admit, without a certain charm.
“Athen, may I sit down?” he asked.
She gestured toward a chair across the room. He took the one nearest the sofa.
“Rossi’s after you, Athen,” he declared frankly.
“No!” She feigned surprise, a hand over her heart. “Why, thank you, Quentin, for tipping me off. I’m simply overcome by your concern.”
“I mean it, Athen. He had Wolmar call a press conference this morning.” He leaned forward as if sharing a secret.
“I saw it,” she told him. “Someone called to tell me.”
“Who?” he asked.
“A friend in City Hall.” She sipped her coffee, grateful to Veronica that she need
not be beholden to Quentin for the news.
“I didn’t think you had any friends in City Hall,” he said bluntly. “Especially after that dog-and-pony show I witnessed this morning.”
“So you thought you’d stop over here and be the first to get my reaction.” She bit her bottom lip. At least now she knew why he was really here. “Wouldn’t that be a nice touch to tomorrow’s story?”
“No, Athen, I didn’t come for a story.” He put his cup down on the table.
“Then why are you here?”
“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” His gaze was steady, his voice hypnotically soft and surprisingly sincere. “You told me the truth and I didn’t believe you.”
“Why would you believe me now?” Sipping from her cup, she attempted to resist the spell cast by his eyes.
“Rossi had Wolmar call that press conference for the express purpose of letting everyone know you are on Rossi’s shit list.”
“I know that.” She jutted her chin out just a bit, refusing to hang her head in his presence.
He swished his coffee round and round in the bottom of its container, but did not take his eyes from her face. “Was it because of what you did last week?”
“It would appear so.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said gently.
“You’re sorry he’s trying to push me out?” She remained unconvinced of the purity of his motives, and could not resist playing as hard with him as he once had with her.
“I’m sorry because you don’t deserve what they did to you today.”
“But I deserved all the crap you’ve been throwing at me all these months,” she snapped indignantly.
“That was different,” he replied.
“Oh, of course. Your motives were strictly professional. The journalist’s right to know.” She drew a sharp breath. “Whereas Wolmar blatantly intended to cut me off at the knees for political reasons. Your motives were pure but his weren’t? Is that what you see as the difference?”
“Athen, I never intended to hurt you personally,” he protested.
“Yes, you did, Quentin, every bit as much as Jim did. Only he’s a hired gun.” She paused to cough, and he handed her the water glass that she’d left at the far end of the table. “At least I know why he’s after me. I never understood why you were.”
They stared each other down for a very long moment.
Finally, he said, “For a long time, I really believed that you were part of it. Now I know better. And, well, I guess it bothered me that you were involved with Rossi.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Why would you care?”
“I know how stupid this sounds, and I know I had no right to have any expectations of you, but I wanted you to be the woman I thought you were when I first met you—if that makes any sense at all.” He held his hands out in front of him as he sought to explain.
“What was it you thought me to be?” she asked.
“Sweet. Honest. Straightforward. Intelligent. Beautiful.” He seemed embarrassed, as if he’d said more than he’d intended.
She rolled her eyes, knowing how she looked at that moment. “You should have stopped at ‘intelligent.’”
She stole a sideward glance at his face, seeking a sign of guile. She found none.
“Can you forgive me for thinking you were a …”
“… a political whore?” She squared her shoulders and completed the sentence for him.
He winced at the memory of having called her exactly that. “For all the things I thought you were since you took the job.”
“Can you promise never to make a fool out of me again?” she asked pointedly.
“Athen, a reporter doesn’t make the news. If you stand up at an open meeting and make statements that indicate you don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on, how can I ignore it?” He challenged her sense of fair play.
For the first time it dawned on her that if he had made a fool out of her, it had been because her own actions had made it so easy for him to do so.
“That will not happen again,” she vowed firmly.
“Then you have nothing to worry about as far as my paper is concerned.” He smiled gently. “I promise to be fair to you if you will be honest with me. And if you will forgive me for … well, for everything. Do we have a deal?”
She nodded, understanding that a truce had been called, though uncertain if she’d made a friend or if she’d made a pact with the devil.
“Well.” He broke the silence. “Are you going to let Rossi push you out?”
“I don’t want to make any statements.” She shook her head.
“No, no,” he assured her. “Strictly off the record. This is friend to friend now.”
“I don’t know how to stop him if he wants me out.”
“You can refuse to go.” Blue eyes studied her intently.
“To what end?”
“If nothing more, to be as big a pain in his butt as he is in everyone else’s.”
“I don’t know if it’s worth the humiliation.”
“What happens if you resign?” he wondered aloud.
“You saw it this morning.”
“Wolmar?” He frowned, then nodded. “I guess that follows.”
Quentin’s eyes lingered on the photos Callie had placed on the mantel. Callie and John. John in his uniform. Athen holding a newborn Callie, John standing by proudly.
“What?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know.” He smiled. “I guess in a way, I’m disappointed.”
“About what?”
“That you’re giving up so easily. That you’re giving in to him.”
“Why, because you won’t have old Athena to kick around anymore?” She tried to make a halfhearted joke.
“Hey, a good reporter doesn’t care who he kicks around,” he quipped. “Actually, I guess I expected you to fight him.”
“Fight a man I can’t beat to keep a job I don’t want? I don’t see any logic in that.” She dismissed the possibility with a wave of her hand.
“Would you want it if it was real?” His eyes narrowed.
“You mean if Rossi didn’t hold this city in his iron grip and I could do things the way I wanted to?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s an unlikely scenario.”
The slamming of the back door announced Callie’s arrival home.
“Mom … oh, Mr. Forbes. Hi.” She stopped dead in the doorway, as surprised to see him as her mother had been.
“Callie, good to see you.” He smiled his best smile.
Callie looked warily the room. “Is Timmy …?”
“Nah.” Quentin’s eyes danced. “The little geek is riding this afternoon at my mother’s.”
“Riding?” Callie asked.
“Horseback riding,” Quentin explained. “My mother and stepfather have quite a stable. Say, maybe some afternoon you might want to …”
“I don’t think so,” Callie said pointedly, and Quentin laughed good-naturedly.
“Callie, you’re being rude,” her mother whispered.
“It’s okay,” Quentin assured her, “but the offer is always open, Callie.”
“Thanks anyway, Mr. Forbes.” Callie stood looking at them from the doorway.
Quentin took the hint.
“Well, I should be getting back to work.” He rose from his seat. “Athen, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“I am, thanks.” She debated whether or not to walk him to the door. She recalled suddenly how she was dressed, what she must look like, and decided to stay put.
“I can find my way out.” He smiled as if reading her mind.
“Thanks for the flowers.” She found herself looking up at him, unable to look away. “And for the apology.”
He appeared to be about to say something more, then glanced at Callie, standing like a sentinel at the entrance to the front hallway.
“Well,” Quentin said, “I guess I’ll be talking to you. Bye, Callie.”
/> “Why was he here?” Callie demanded after he’d closed the door behind him.
“He brought me flowers.” Athen tried to appear nonchalant.
“Why?”
“It’s customary to bring flowers to friends when they’re sick.”
“Since when has Mr. Forbes been your friend?” Callie asked suspiciously.
Athen barely heard her, suddenly lost in thought.
“And what did he have to apologize to you for?” Callie pressed.
“For being wrong about something.” Athen smiled to herself.
“What was he wrong about?”
“Me.” He was wrong about me and he admitted it. And will wonders never cease … the man brought me flowers.
“Sometimes grown-ups make no sense,” Callie muttered as she went to answer the front door, where Mrs. Kelly waited to make her soup delivery.
ATHEN PLANNED TO GO INTO the office the next day, but at dawn she found herself still too weak to get up and get dressed. When she returned to City Hall, she wanted it to be with her head up, and as weak as she still was, she just wasn’t ready. She decided to take one more day off.
It’s not as if I have piles of work to do when I get back, she thought glumly. Edie’s no doubt taking the mail home to Dan, anyway.
Around noon she dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt, ate a leisurely lunch, and decided to spend some time with her father.
The day was warm and clear, a perfect spring afternoon. She rolled the car windows down and breathed in the sweetly scented air as she drove through the park. She turned into the parking lot behind Woodside Manor and searched for a spot under the trees. She walked toward the building, and spotted Diana Bennett’s car at the end of the first row. Athen glanced at her watch. Diana’s lunch hour must be almost over. Athen could wait. She walked to the pond and sat down on the bench to kill some time.
A group of small children gathered on the opposite side of the pond. Laughing with delight, they tossed pieces of bread to the ducks and geese, which swam ever closer to the shore. She thought of the day last summer when she’d stood right in that same spot, and Quentin had appeared with a bag of popcorn. She had liked him that day, she recalled. She’d liked his easy smile and his affability.
She’d thought about him a great deal since his visit the previous afternoon. Once she was able to admit that it had been she who’d set herself up to look like an idiot, she could no longer hold him responsible for the situation she had created. Quentin, while perhaps the most persistent, hadn’t been the only newsperson to recognize her blunders.
A Different Light Page 18
