Mitch looked expectantly at Paul, whose grave expression unnerved Royce. Why, he's upset, concerned about Mitch. Something's happened and it's going to cause trouble for Mitch.
Paul cleared his throat and shot a quick look at Val before responding. "They're going to arrest Gian Viscotti. They found the gun that killed Linda Allen in his possession. Ballistics says it's the same weapon that killed Caroline."
A wave of relief so intense it brought tears to her eyes swept through Royce. Not Wally. Not Talia. Not someone she loved. It dawned on her she wasn't in danger any longer.
Hallelujah! She had her life back. And the love of her life. She looked at Mitch, and he beamed at her, an intimate smile that said it was finally over. Now they could really begin their life together.
"A crime of passion," Paul stated flatly. "Caroline told the count to get lost."
"Aren't crimes of passion usually spur of the moment?" Royce asked.
"Usually, but not always. This was a complicated crime, and it was amazingly well planned."
"Great. Case closed." Mitch grinned, apparently missing Paul's disturbed expression. "The Italian count's going to need a good lawyer. Don't let him call me. We're going on a honeymoon."
She couldn't help smiling at the thought of becoming Mitch's wife, but she was going to have to train him to consult her before making decisions. Perhaps they could marry and postpone the honeymoon. She wanted to stay in the city to be with Val when her brother died. Val had been there when Royce needed her even though Royce had sold her short, questioning her loyalty.
"That's a good idea," Paul said quietly before Royce could protest. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a newspaper. "You may want to be out of town for a while."
A frisson of alarm exploded. The paper in Paul's hand was the Evening Outrage. What had Tobias Ingeblatt printed this time? She went up to the desk as Paul handed Mitch the paper.
Half the page was the close-up of an older woman, her face contorted so she appeared demented, crazy. The headline beneath the grotesque photo was typeset in a size usually reserved for serial killers: DURANT'S LOONY MOTHER.
Her pulse beat erratically. No! Please, no! How had Ingeblatt found out about Lolly? It dawned on Royce that the photographer—a man—had caught Lolly off-guard. Perhaps he'd deliberately frightened her. And she'd gone after him, believing she was going to be raped. The poor woman.
The article that followed was full of half-truths and outright lies. Ingeblatt claimed Lolly had killed her cousin in cold blood. No mention of the gang rape. He suggested Mitch had violent tendencies because he'd been arrested for an unprovoked attack on a helpless farmer. The article conluded that Mitch had changed his name to hide his arrest record and the fact that his mother had been institutionalized.
Royce was so angry that if Ingeblatt had been in the room, she would have killed him. Now there was no chance that Mitch would be appointed judge. This could be so damaging to his reputation, he might never receive a judicial appointment.
And Lolly. Oh, God, what would happen to that tormented woman now?
Royce ventured a look at Mitch. He was squinting at the page like a scientist examining something under a magnifying glass. He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze and in them she saw profound anguish.
"Can't they leave her alone?" he said, as if he thought she knew the whole story. "Hasn't she suffered enough?"
"Mitch, no one will believe—"
"Bullshit. This is exactly the type of story that make rags like the Outrage millions." He turned to Paul. "You've got sources at the Outrage. Find out where Ingeblatt got his information."
Paul cracked his knuckles, his mouth crimped into a taut line. Finally he answered, "I already have."
Val looked as if she might cry any second. Suddenly Royce felt as if she'd fallen off a cliff and was about to land. Headfirst. No, she silently pleaded, but Paul spoke anyway.
"Ingeblatt got the story from Wallace Winston."
Mitch wheeled on Royce, his expression not one of an adult but that of a young boy whose trust has just been betrayed for the first time. In that instant she understood the depth of his love. And the trust that's the bedrock of love. She had no right to that love. Not now. Not after this.
"Mitch, I swear Wally would never..." Her voice trailed off; she couldn't lie to Mitch. She couldn't honestly say Wally hadn't investigated him, but she was positive he'd never tell Ingeblatt anything. "Ingeblatt's lying. Wally would never have a thing to do with him."
Mitch was studying her intently now, his expression guarded. "Did Wally go to the South to check into my past?"
Of all the terrible things that had happened to her lately, nothing compared with having to look Mitch in the eye and tell him the truth. "Yes. But he was only trying to help me. He thought there might be something in your past that affected me."
"All along you knew what he was doing." Mitch's voice was low, devoid of emotion, but his southern accent was more apparent than usual, betraying his inner turmoil.
"Yes," she admitted, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I was desperate. I didn't know who was framing me or why. I know it was wrong, but I was willing to try anything."
"Even though you'd promised, you went behind my back. You were sleeping with me, but you couldn't trust me." He didn't raise his voice, but the anguish in his tone expressed feelings he once would have kept hidden. "It wasn't enough that I was willing to do anything—spend any amount of money—to help you, and all I asked was for you to respect my privacy."
He gazed solemnly at the picture of his mother, shaking his head; his voice dropped the way it had that night when he'd told her about Harley. When he'd been so upset he couldn't look at her.
"Now my mother will be hounded by reporters. She's never had a life. That was stolen from her years ago. She's been making progress these last few years. I thought—I hoped—one day I'd be able to see her again. But now..."
What could Royce say? She'd never anticipated the horrible impact this story would have on Lolly Jenkins. Mitch was right. Reporters were ruthless. They'd be crawling all over that clinic, cameras in hand.
"Mitch, I'm sorry. I—"
"Get out." He turned around and stared out the window at the bay.
"Mitch, I"—she touched his arm—"I'm sorry. I never intended to—"
He spun around to face her. A wild flash of grief ripped through her, a pain so intense, it was almost physical. The minute she met his eyes, she realized what she'd done. His eyes. His expressive eyes were filled with profound agony— a glimpse of the young trusting boy he'd once been.
What could she say? She had encouraged Wally's investigation, hidden it even, and her actions had triggered this catastrophe. She tried to speak, not knowing what she could possibly say.
But Mitch spoke first. "Get out, Royce."
Paul followed Val and Royce up to his office after Mitch had stormed out, heading God-only-knew-where. Personally, Paul wanted to tell Royce to go to hell, but he loved Val too much. She didn't believe Royce could possibly be responsible for the derogatory article.
Royce slumped onto the sofa in Paul's office and Val sat beside her. Paul reluctantly took the chair nearby.
"What am I going to do?" Royce asked.
"You can go home as soon as Gian is arrested," Paul said, deliberately misinterpreting her question. Val shot him a scathing look. Paul couldn't help himself. Royce had gotten what she'd asked for. She'd ruined Mitch's career.
That was only part of the problem. He'd known Mitch was in love with her—but not how much. In those unguarded moments when Mitch discovered Royce had betrayed him, Paul had seen the depth of Mitch's love.
"When Mitch cools down, he'll understand why you were investigating him," Val told Royce. "He'll forgive you."
"No, he won't"—she turned to Paul—"will he?"
Val flashed Paul a cautioning look, but he couldn't bring himself to lie, so he merely shrugged.
"Wally didn't sell this story to Ingeblat
t." Royce's voice had an edge of desperation. "If he had, he would have used more detail."
"My source said the information came from your uncle."
"I think Ingeblatt used a scanner and overheard part of my conversation with Wally. He must have called Fair Acres and gotten a few facts, then he had a stringer take Lolly's picture. If only he'd told the true story, Mitch would be a hero."
"Just what is the real story?" Paul's curiosity had been piqued by the article. With Ingeblatt you never knew how much was true. He claimed to get most of his info from extraterrestrials with a penchant for abducting women and seducing them aboard their spaceships.
"Mitch didn't change his name," Royce said, her voice charged with emotion.
Paul listened while Royce told a story about Mitch's life that was so unbelievable, it had to be true. Mitch. God damn. He'd known him over twenty years—and yet he'd never truly known him at all.
With every word Royce uttered, Paul's opinion of her changed another degree, and it had nothing to do with the tears streaming down Val's face. Royce spoke with so much love and compassion that Paul had to admit Val was right. Royce would never do anything to hurt Mitch.
Still, the damage had been done.
"Everything Mitch did was to help Lolly, not hide his past," Royce insisted. "Isn't there something we can do?"
"Believe me, Mitch will be on a plane to Alabama this morning," Paul said. "He'll take care of Lolly. The question is: What can we do to help Mitch?"
He wished he had an answer. He might not have known about Mitch's past, but the guy was the best damn friend anyone could want. Still, he couldn't think of any way to help him.
He gazed at Royce. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. A seed of an idea took root in his mind and grew in the silent room until he was certain that there was a way to salvage Mitch's reputation.
"You said you have a picture of Mitch," he asked Royce, and she nodded. "Here's my idea. The Outrage is an evening paper, right? All the other papers are morning editions. Nothing was in any of them because they'd already gone to press by the time anyone saw the Outrage's article, but by now everyone's investigating Mitch. It'll take time for reputable papers to investigate; meanwhile people will be discussing the Outrage's story."
"And they'll believe it," Royce said with disgust. "I know. My family has been in the newspaper business my whole life. We know retractions never undo the harm of an erroneous article. Too often people want to believe the worst."
"That's why you have to act fast," Paul said. "Get over to the Examiner. Have your uncle help you convince the editor-in-chief to let you write the true story and use the picture."
"Me?" Royce vaulted to her feet. "I can't."
"Why not?" Val asked. "You're a fine writer."
"I promised Mitch I wouldn't."
Paul put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Under the circumstances the promise is already broken, isn't it?"
Royce slowly nodded, looking confused and frustrated.
"If you beat the other papers with this story, you have a chance—just a chance—of clearing Mitch's name. Reputable papers will have to send reporters south to verify the facts. That'll take time. Meanwhile, you know people. Rumors will grow like a malignant cancer and the true story will get lost in the bullshit."
"I can't do the story justice, but Wally can," she said in a suffocated whisper, her anguish clearly written on her face.
"No, Royce. You have to do it. Tell the story just the way you told us—with love."
"I never told Tobias Ingeblatt anything." Wally paced the small cubicle that was his office at the Examiner. He raked one hand through his hair. "Why would he say such a thing? Believe me, I'm getting to the bottom of this or it'll destroy my reputation."
"I knew you'd never sell information to that jerk. I think he overheard our phone conversation using a scanner," she answered, but she found it hard to concentrate on Wally's reputation when the damage to Mitch's was so much worse.
"What did Mitch say about this?" Wally asked.
"He was furious with me." She slumped back in the chair and stared at the computer terminal on her uncle's desk. "I doubt if he'll ever speak to me again."
Wally stopped pacing. "He blamed you when I was the one who did the investigating?"
"I knew about it. I should have stopped you." She closed her eyes a moment, not believing that her life, which had seemed so wonderful just hours ago, now was as bleak as it had when she'd been facing the trial. Worse, really. At least when she'd been facing a trial, she'd had Mitch with her.
"Oh, honey, I warned you." Wally expelled a martyred sigh. "Mitch is so like Shaun. A successful relationship is beyond their grasp."
"Mitch is nothing like Shaun." Really, she resented her uncle comparing the two. Why did Wally relate everything to Shaun? The answer came with startling clarity: You never get over losing the one great love of your life.
She should be more compassionate, she thought. Wally had been through so much. His battle with alcohol. A relationship that was nothing short of an albatross. But right now she didn't have the strength to discuss Shaun with Wally for the hundredth time.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Wally responded, obviously wounded by her waspish tone. "I love you. I'd do anything to help you."
"I know you love me. I didn't mean to snap, but I'm so upset about Mitch. And his poor mother. Can you imagine what she's going through? No doubt reporters are crawling all over that clinic, determined to get a picture of her."
"I'm sorry, honey. If there's anything I can do—"
"I have an idea. It's a long shot, but it just might help Mitch."
Wally listened intently as she told him that she wanted to write a feature article on Mitch. "I'll go to Sam Stuart myself and get him to agree to run your story."
"Thanks," Royce said, but she couldn't help wondering how the editor-in-chief would view her writing such a serious article. When she'd been writing a humorous column, he'd rejected every serious proposal she'd given him. "He'll probably want you to write it instead."
Wally studied her solemnly and she wondered if he preferred to write this himself. After all, it was Pulitzer prize material. She glanced at the picture on the wall. A younger, trimmer uncle smiled out at her, thrilled with his Pulitzer.
"Royce, I'm going to tell Sam that only you have the information. I hate lying, but I don't want to give him any choice. He'll have to let you do it."
"Thanks," Royce said, hoping her smile hid her relief. Ever since Paul had proposed the idea, she'd been worried about how Wally would react. He'd done all the investigating; she had no right to ask him to give up his story.
But on a deeper level: This was her love. Her life. Her story.
"You realize this could backfire. Mitch might hate you for publishing this."
"I'm aware of the risk, but what can I do?" Royce conceded. "I have to do what I can to salvage his career. Do you know he's being considered for a judicial appointment?"
"I just found out this morning," Wally said. "I'm not surprised. He's one of the best legal minds in the country, but this scandal is bound to ruin his chances."
"Not if I can help it." Royce pulled the photo of Mitch as a child out of her purse. "I want this to run with the article."
"Great idea. It'll counter that sleazy photo Ingeblatt used. Let me dash up to Sam's office." Wally pointed to his computer. "You get started."
Royce stared at the blank screen. This was the most important article she'd ever write and she was terrified. She'd always wanted to do a serious article, but not now, not like this. Not with Mitch's love at stake.
Think of Lolly, she told herself. You've got this one chance to right a wrong. Lolly had suffered so much. There had to be a way to help her. But could Royce do this story justice?
You'll never walk alone. Her father's words came back to her and with them his spirit, his love. The type of love and support that Mitch had never had. This was the only way to show him how much she
truly loved him—by letting the world know the truth.
"You're on." Wally grinned as he trotted back into his office. "Sam's giving you the upper front and moving the key article on Gian Viscotti's arrest to the lower half."
The top half of the front page. Lead position. These articles were supposed to increase sales, since they were the ones that caught the eye when someone glanced at the paper. Talk about pressure!
"And," Wally continued, "I promised Sam a doozy of a story. He's printing extra papers."
"Can I do this?" she asked Wally, her insecurity returning. "My last article was how to wash baseball caps and visors in the top rack of your dishwasher so they don't get ruined."
"Of course, you can," Wally said, using the same tone and bolstering enthusiasm that her father had always used to encourage her. "You never really wanted to be a television reporter, did you?"
"No," Royce admitted. "I wanted to write serious articles, but Sam always turned mine down."
"Your father cast a long shadow," Wally sympathized.
"You're right," Royce said, startled by her uncle's insight. "I never truly believed I could write as well as he could. Now I'll have to prove I can be as good."
Royce struggled, skipping lunch and then dinner, writing and rewriting. Wally read the numerous drafts and made suggestions. She was shaky from too much high-octane coffee when nine o'clock came and the article had to go to Sam's office for approval before the presses ran.
She wasn't satisfied with the article—how do you capture the feeling of trauma and desperation, then turn it into a lesson on the resilience of the human spirit?—but time had run out.
She might not be totally satisfied with her work; she could probably rewrite the story until she was dead and still not be really satisfied that she'd captured Mitch's anguish, his pain. His triumph over impossible odds. But her heart had been in every word. Her love in every line.
Forgive me, Mitch, darling. I love you. I never meant to hurt you.
Wally walked her upstairs to Sam's office, which was five times as big as Wally's but managed to look smaller because Sam kept stacks of old papers lined along the walls. He claimed he reread his favorite articles, but no one had ever seen him touch them. Pictures of Sam with every politician from Roosevelt to Clinton hung haphazardly on the pecky cypress paneling.
Sawyer, Meryl Page 35
