by Donna Hill
Kimberly stood at the podium and gazed out at the glitter and glamour of the room. Crystal goblets sparkled on white linen tabletops, silver gleamed, and the floral centerpieces all competed with the glitz of diamonds and pearls, evening dresses and tailored suits.
“Good evening. I hope each of you have enjoyed our little gathering tonight. Thank you so much for being here and lending your support.” She pulled in a breath. “As you all know, my run for State Senate is both personal and political. Personal because it is the legacy that my brother, Kyle, began many years ago. I believed then that public service was a duty and a responsibility, and I believe that even more now. My work in the Public Defender’s office has provided me with insight into the plight of so many of our fellow citizens, those whose circumstances don’t provide them with the same safeguards as those with means.” She scanned the group to push her point home.
“My vision and my platform are to ensure the fair and equal distribution of justice for everyone. That includes pressing forward with prison reform and sentencing criteria, a ban on the sale of assault weapons, and instituting comprehensive measures to provide real affordable housing for the residents of our city.
“These, I know, are lofty goals, but they are goals that I know can be achieved with the support of people like you and the countless others who seek equity for us all. We each want to feel safe and to live in a decent community, and when things go wrong and we are faced with the justice system, we want to be treated fairly, no matter where we live, how much money we have, or what we look like.
“This is only the beginning of a long and uphill fight to the State Senate, but with your support, it can be done, and I will do everything in my power to live up to all that I aim to achieve. Thank you all for being here tonight and for your generous support. Please enjoy dessert and the rest of your evening.”
Kimberly stepped away from the podium to a round of applause and into the warm embrace of her husband. They turned to the crowd and waved their thanks before walking off to their table.
“You were fantastic,” Rowan said in her ear. “They love you.” He helped her into her seat.
Kimberly looked up at him. Her eyes glowed as her veins were fueled with adrenaline. She beamed at her husband. “Damn, that felt good.”
“You’re a natural. Just think of all of this as a great big jury to whom you are presenting your arguments.”
She nodded and reached for her glass of wine.
Gail came over and stooped down to Kimberly’s level. “Great job. You’ll probably want to seal the deal with personal goodbyes as folks are leaving,” she advised. “You should be there at the door as well, Rowan.”
“Not a problem.”
Kimberly took a quick sip of her wine, and she and Rowan, along with Gail, went to the door to say good night to the guests.
* * *
“Very successful night,” Rowan said as he slipped under the sheets next to his wife.
“Yes, it was,” Gail said we garnered a total of fifty thousand dollars tonight. I can’t believe it.” She turned on her side to face her husband.
“This is only the beginning, babe. Tonight was a small gathering. Your next event is a much bigger venue.”
“I know. Gail said the RSVPs are already up to three hundred. But I’m ready.”
He kissed her forehead. “That’s my girl.” He pulled back the sheet and eased on top of her. Kimberly looped her arms around his neck. “I’m looking forward to finding out what it feels like to make love to a state senator.”
Kimberly giggled. “For the time being,” she whispered against his mouth, “you’ll have to settle for a lowly attorney.”
“I can do that . . .”
* * *
Zoie flipped open her notebook and searched for the number of Lou Ellen Maitland. She needed to nail down a date and time for this interview before Mark went ballistic and pulled her off the story. The last thing she needed was for him to turn it over to Brian. It still stung that it was Brian, of all people, who got to pick up her mantle and run with the 9/11 series.
Mark knew about her imploded relationship with Brian. He knew how competitive they both were, which was the root of their problems. It was a slap in the face, which was all the more reason why she must knock this story out of the park. She picked up her phone to call Lou Ellen Maitland, and it rang in her hand. She groaned. It was her office, and she was sure it was Mark, demanding an update. She pressed the talk icon.
“Hey, Mark, before you get started I’m on it, I was—”
“Whoa, whoa, it’s Brian.”
“Brian?”
“Don’t sound so appalled. You used to love hearing from me.”
“Used to are the operative words. What’s up?”
“Tsk, tsk. You still have that bite. Anyway, I wanted to run a few things by you regarding the series.”
“Oh. Okay.” She settled down in her chair by the window.
“I want to move forward with the interviews with the first responders. I have your list of contacts, but I wanted to clear it with you since you made the initial connections.”
Her brows rose in surprise. Since when did Brian ask permission from anyone, especially her? She was momentarily speechless.
“Hello?”
“Oh, sorry. Um, sure. Is there anything specific that you need from me?”
“I’ll give you a few of the names, and if there is anything you can share, that would be helpful. I know you don’t have your notes, but your memory for details is as tight as the Pentagon,” he teased.
Her ability to remember and hold onto even the smallest detail had always been a running joke between them. For work purposes, it was an amazing talent, but in her personal life, it posed the a major problem for the same reason. She tended not to forget anything.
“Shoot.”
Brian went down the list, and one after another, Zoie relayed personal details she’d pulled together when she’d planned the series—things like where the first responders had grown up, how they’d come to work in their chosen fields, information about their families and friends.
“Wow,” Brian said. “Impressive as always. I see why Mark admires your work, Z, . . . and me too.”
She didn’t want to go down this road with him.
“I want this to remain a joint effort, with you still calling the shots.”
“I appreciate that.”
“So how are things going down there? Have you gotten stuff settled with the family?”
“Long story. I had a few surprises, to put it mildly. But everything is coming together. “
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you how sorry I was about your grandmother. I know how close you two were.”
“Apparently not as close as I thought.”
“Should I even guess what that means?”
“It’s all part of a long story. Basically, she left everything to me.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s complicated, but I’m trying to work it all out.”
“You will. If there’s anything . . . that I can do, you can always ask. I hope you know that.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I’ll let you go.” He paused. “Good hearing your voice. I . . . we miss you around here.”
Her heart jumped. “Uh, hope to be back soon.”
“Maybe when you get back we could have a drink, catch up, and maybe if you feel like talking about the complications . . . we can do that, too.”
Damn.
“No strings. Anyway, think about it. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Take care.”
“Yeah, you too. Bye, Brian.”
Zoie put down the phone and replayed the conversation in her head. It had been a while since she and Brian shared actual pleasantries. It wasn’t so much what was said, but Brian’s underlying tone, the vague attempt to take them back to where they once were. Did he really think that they could rekindle what they onc
e had?
Her relationship with Brian was built on their mutual passion for journalism, a passion that was combustible in the bedroom and lethal in the office. They were competitive on every level and never truly allowed each other to fully let down their guard to be able to connect emotionally.
Brian was the distraction that she needed after Jackson. He was able to blur the lines of her past. As a result, what could have been a strong, meaningful union remained superficial.
She could have loved him and been loved back if she’d wanted it, allowed it. But always beating in the back of her heart was Jackson. In the quiet hours of the night, she could admit that she’d never stopped loving him. In the light of day, she worked to deny it, pouring herself into her job and keeping any other meaningful intimacy at bay.
When she saw Jackson again, every emotion she’d cast aside was tossed back at her. That “almost” moment between them the other day was what she’d wanted. It was Jackson who did not seem to feel the same way. That became her hard reality. While she’d pretended to move on, Jackson had succeeded.
But if nothing else, she was pragmatic, never one to wallow in something as mysterious as feelings. She operated with facts, and the fact was that Jackson didn’t want her anymore—and maybe that was the wake-up call she needed that could finally quell the whispers of possibility that lurked under the cover of night.
She picked up her phone and blinked away the water that pooled in her eyes, reached for her notebook again, then dialed the number for Lou Ellen Maitland.
The phone rang several times. Zoie was prepared to leave a message when the call was answered.
“Maitland residence.”
“Good evening. This is Zoie Crawford from the National Recorder. I would like to speak with Mrs. Maitland.”
“One moment please.”
Zoie experienced that familiar rush while she waited. Gearing up for a story gave her a physical response. Her senses heightened, her heart beat faster, and the world became crystal clear. She equated it with a hunter going after its prey.
“This is Lou Ellen Maitland.”
Zoie snapped to attention. The voice was pretty much what she’d expected: cultured with a splash of southern comfort.
“Hello, Mrs. Maitland. I’m doing a series of articles on your daughter, Kimberly’s—”
“As I told my daughter, I do not have the time nor the inclination to deal with reporters. I’m quite sure that there is nothing for me to add that is not available to you otherwise.”
“I’m sure you have so much to contribute from a personal perspective. What I’m looking for—”
“Apparently, you didn’t hear me. I’ve taken time already to accept this call, and that is all the time I plan to give you. Good luck with your story, Ms. Crawford.”
Click.
Zoie snapped her head back in disbelief. Well, damn. She didn’t know if she should be amused or pissed off. She opted for pissed off. If there was one thing that set her on a quest, it was to find a way to get what she wanted after being denied. Denial made her tenacious.
Mrs. “High and Mighty” Maitland could continue to sit on her pedestal, but that only slowed Zoie’s forward momentum. It didn’t stop it. However, she did have to come up with something to tell Mark. No way was she going to lose this story because of a glitch like this.
Zoie checked the time on her phone; she had barely an hour to get ready and drive into town. She got up and headed to the shower while contemplating the difficult designer decision of which of her two pair of jeans to wear.
While she was washing off the sticky vibes of her abbreviated call to Lou Ellen Maitland, an idea clicked in her head. Even though he hadn’t seen fit to mention it, Jackson had some level of relationship with the matriarch, which she’d discovered at the library.
Smiling to herself while she dried off, she padded into her bedroom and began to formulate her “casual” approach to elicit Jackson’s help when her phone chirped with a text message. She picked up the phone. Le Grille. “Very funny, Jackson,” she groused. She tossed the phone on the bed and finished getting dressed.
CHAPTER 15
Jackson figured he was taking a risk by inviting Zoie to the place where they’d met. His hope was that maybe, surrounded by the good memories, they could find their way back. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that Z would miss the irony of his choice, but he hoped she would see it as his clumsy way of saying he was sorry for being an asshole and letting her go in the first place. But, with Zoie, anything was possible.
She did say that she didn’t have much in the way of clothing, so he toned down his usual suit and tie to black denim and a fitted black T-shirt. He considered a sport jacket but decided against it.
* * *
Driving over to Le Grille, he had a serious bout of nerves, as though he was going on a first date with the high school prom queen. His palms were damp, and his stomach was in a knot. The first thing on his agenda when he hit the restaurant was to get a quick drink.
He pulled up on the street next to Le Grille, then drove behind the building to the parking lot in back. When he’d walked around front, he checked the time. He was ten minutes early. Rather than stand outside and look as anxious as he felt, he went in and headed to the bar. He ordered a Jack Daniel’s straight up and slowly began to unwind while he listened to the live band.
As he sipped his drink, his thoughts ran through a montage of outcomes for the evening. Knowing Zoie the way he did, the night could go in a variety of directions. She could be indifferent, or she could be open to possibilities. His goal was to lay everything on the table, up to and including his relationship with Lena—well, now the lack of one. He needed Zoie to understand that while he was committed to Lena, he could not betray her trust.
“You started without me.”
Jackson turned on the barstool to see Zoie standing behind him. Seeing her in all her lushness sent a jolt of electricity through his system. Even in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt she was fine.
“Hey.” He stood and without thinking went to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her head at the last second, and their lips met instead.
Zoie smiled, walked around him, and eased onto the stool next to him. She placed her purse on the bar. “Jack Daniel’s?” she asked knowingly.
“You remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things, Jax.”
“Not all bad.”
“No. You’re right. Not everything that I remember about us was bad.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I picked Le Grille.”
She laughed lightly. “If nothing else, Jax, you’re transparent.”
When she looked at him, the light caught her eyes, and they seemed to actually sparkle. This was the Zoie he wanted to remember. The one who laughed and teased and was so totally unaware of how crazy sexy she was.
“You want to order something or get a table?”
“Let’s get a table.”
“Cool.” He looked around, signaled one of the passing waiters, and asked to be seated.
The waiter got them seated and placed menus in front of them, detailed the specials for the evening, then took Zoie’s drink order.
“I’m glad you said yes,” Jackson said. He leaned back in his seat.
“I do have an ulterior motive,” she hedged.
“Oh?”
She linked her fingers together on top of the table and leveled him with her gaze. “I ran across a bunch of info today on the Maitlands.”
So this was going to be a business dinner. “Helpful?”
“Curious is more like it.” She went on to tell him about the articles and ended with her tidbit about him being in business with the Maitlands.
He gave a slight shrug. “The Maitlands are very wealthy and very tied to the community. The foundation they started after Kyle was killed has always contributed to development. It was a no-brainer to get their support.”
“But why didn’t you say anything?”
<
br /> “One thing doesn’t have anything to do with the other,” he said in an offhand way.
Zoie sighed. “Maybe, maybe not. But you still could have told me. You knew what I was up against. Why keep that a secret? It seems everything about the Maitlands is under wraps for all kinds of reasons.”
“Maybe I had my reasons, Zoie.” He felt himself getting annoyed at once again being cast as the bad guy.
The waiter appeared with Zoie’s margarita.
“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.
Jackson looked at Zoie.
“I’ll have the seared salmon, yellow rice, and a side salad.” She handed over the menu.
“And for you, sir?”
“Steak, medium well, baked potato, and string beans—and a refill,” he added, holding up his near empty glass.
“I’ll put your orders in right away.”
Jackson turned his attention back to Zoie. “Look, maybe I should have said something. I didn’t. Like I said, I didn’t see it as relevant.”
Zoie pursed her lips. “Anyway, I called the head lady in charge today.”
Jackson’s dark eyes widened with curiosity. “And?”
“She pretty much told me to get lost.” She went on to recount the brief conversation
“Hmm, unfortunately, that sounds like Lou Ellen. She’s . . . difficult at times and very private. As much as the foundation does, she rarely, if ever, talks about it. The article in the paper should have never happened. She went ballistic—in her way—and even threatened to pull out of the deal until I promised that it wouldn’t happen again.”
“So that’s the real reason why you didn’t say anything, not that it wasn’t relevant.”
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Yeah.”
“What is it with those people—that they can wield that kind of power over everyone? Clearly, they had some kind of hold on my grandmother, and they can even black out information with the press and hold you to some kind of pact.” She slowly shook her head. “Unreal,” she murmured, then lifted her glass to her lips. “She totally refused to talk to me—period.”
