Naomi closed her eyes. Her face seemed to sink in on itself.
“What’s going on, Naomi? Spill it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I … I signed something. I can’t talk about it.”
“That sounds bad.”
“The most I will say is that on the windowsill over there is an appointment card. I have a doctor’s appointment in the building next door. Take that as you will.”
Hara groaned. There was no denying what her friend meant. An abortion. Hara’s father had said not to trust O’Donnell, but this seemed like so much unnecessarily cruel meddling. “Did you make the appointment? Is that what you want?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m so confused. I just don’t know.” Thin tears spilled over her lower lashes, ran down into her ears. “I guess I do. But I don’t like having the decision made for me.”
“What happens if you don’t go?”
“My life changes, doesn’t it?” She reached out her hand. “Hara, please, don’t say anything to anybody, okay? Can I trust you?”
“Of course.” Charles had gotten a woman other than his girlfriend pregnant, and now she was being guilted into an abortion, his career hanging over her head. That wasn’t news. It was just goddamn sad.
A deep voice interrupted them. “Naomi?”
Hara swung around. A towering man in a hoodie, the thick cotton drawn low over his forehead, filled the doorway. He might have appeared menacing if his face, what was visible, hadn’t been so hangdog.
“Charles.” Naomi’s voice was small but tinged with joy.
The basketball player squeezed past Hara and sat on the edge of the bed, putting a hand on Naomi’s.
What have you done here, you son of a bitch? A wave of rage swept through Hara but evaporated quickly. Naomi was a big girl. She’d gone into this with open eyes. And Charles? He was here. They could work it out together. The ballplayer had other, bigger problems.
“I’m gonna go. Naomi, you call me if you need me. Please. I’ll be here.” But would she be here? She had a flight out that afternoon. Heading back to the lobby, she wasn’t sure where to go.
She could go home or she could take advantage of the opportunity in front of her, a story to look into, a real story. Hara just wished it didn’t involve Charles. Maybe she’d end up not running it, she decided, but there was no reason to walk away just yet. One or two more days in Boston wasn’t going to kill her.
She wasn’t sure where she stood with Derek. She’d like to find out, to see him again, sooner than later, but she wasn’t going to ask to stay there. Too soon. Too needy.
Unfortunately, Naomi’s power was out, and the roads on that side of town were still dealing with water and damage. She could go back to O’Donnell’s, but she’d rather die.
Carter.
“All right! A story!” her boss sang into the phone twenty minutes later. “I canceled your plane ticket and got you a room. You are going to love it, less than half a mile from the hospital where your friend is.”
“Thanks.”
“Just wait until you see the place.”
“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”
“Oh, I had to. I’ve always wanted to stay there. It’s called the Liberty.” Carter hooted with laughter, making her think that he’d had more Irish than coffee that morning. “It used to be the old Charles Street Jail! The hotel bar is the Alibi, used to be the drunk tank. So clever! There’s an Italian restaurant called Scampo—which means ‘escape’—in the section where guards transported prisoners from the paddy wagons to their cells. Seriously. I might fly out and join you.”
“Wha—”
“Honey, don’t you worry, this is a luxury hotel in the Beacon Hill neighborhood. The renovations cost over $150 million. I wouldn’t stick you in a dump. But I’m sure there are ghosts. I mean interesting ghosts, not just old pickpockets. There was a captured German U-boat captain being held there who broke a pair of sunglasses into shards and slit—”
“Gross.”
“I’m just sayin’, there are bars over the windows in some places. This’ll be an experience you can write about. Might as well get as many articles out of this trip as possible.”
“Speaking of,” she said, “I need to get out my notes from last night’s game and the crazy power outage. I know other reporters have already beaten me to the punch, but I can send off a game review by tonight, if that’s okay. I should go.”
“Wait. Don’t hang up on me yet. First of all, I put money in your bank account to cover the food and travel. And, second, I’ve got to know … you said this girl’s apartment didn’t have heat or electricity and the roads were flooded. You didn’t go back there, did you? Where did you stay? The airport again?”
Hara opened and closed her mouth. There was so much building inside her. Without using names, she’d already told him about Naomi’s accident, and she’d told him about “a player” whose family had taken money from a college to secure placement. But she wanted to tell him more, to tell him all the details and how she felt about them, what the people were like here. She wanted to tell him about Derek, the good and the bad, and how attracted she was to the ballplayer, and how confused …
“Another friend let me stay. I’ll tell you more later, okay? Right now, I just want to get started. If the information checks out and we do end up printing it, the story could be huge, Carter.”
She shut her eyes. Her daddy had nothing to do with this story. If this happens, it’s because of me.
CHAPTER 16
There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.
—Pride and Prejudice
Derek rolled up to the gate in front of the O’Donnell residence, said his name into the speaker, and felt the grinding creak of the gate in his joints. He didn’t drive forward right away, staring across the brick roundabout in front of the historical residence. There was storm debris and standing water on the road, and quite a bit of water in the driveway.
Why was he there? It couldn’t be good.
He was greeted at the front door by O’Donnell himself, his fine white hair sprayed up into a wave. “Thanks for coming. Let’s go into my study. Do you want any coffee or tea, anything sent over from the kitchen?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.” Derek followed him into his study and took a chair. His gaze landed on a group of three paintings on the wall behind O’Donnell’s desk. The player froze in shock. It was hard not to stare. He wanted to turn away but couldn’t.
Each painting was a different sexualized scene, all sadomasochistic acts set in nature. In one, a man was tied to a massive oak tree and a creature with the body of a man and the head of a goat was ramming a big horn into the captive. The captive’s face was twisted in pleasure.
I cannot fucking unsee this. He tore his gaze away before he could decipher what was going on in the other paintings, though he had the impression they were even more violent and disturbing. Lawd, am I in a murder room? Was he about to get fucked up by Bubba? There was no plastic tarp on the floor under his feet, though, and the freaky old man was sitting down on the other side of his massive desk. Derek moved to the edge of his seat, just in case, ready to spring up and ninja his way out, if need be.
He had to get it together. Refocusing on the unblemished nature outside the window, the player took a breath and centered himself. Calmly, in a civilized tone, he asked, “How did your place do with the flooding?”
“The river is right up to the back patios, but supposedly it will be receding in the next twenty-four hours. The gardens are under half a foot of water, so I’m sure they’ve been destroyed. The buildings have all been built up but if the water continues to rise, we’re going to have to deal with damp and mold in the substructures for years. Very disheartening, to say the least.”
“It sounds like you’ve been lucky so far. No real damage. I saw s
ome pretty terrible destruction in certain neighborhoods last night.”
“This is a beautifully maintained historical site. Some of those places could stand to be refurbished or even demolished. But this place, well, if something happens here, it will be a travesty.”
How was it that he and Derek’s father weren’t best friends? The only difference between them was skin color. Though his father didn’t spend too much time embracing his cultural heritage. Gobs of money had made him blind to his own skin, not to mention to the black community, and he definitely turned up his nose at those in poverty. His mother was the same way, though less aggressive, simply floating along in her little bubble made of Waterford crystal, never dealing with real-world problems. Or people.
O’Donnell picked up an unlit pipe from his desk and put the stem in his mouth, sucking on it. He said to Derek, “You know, Charles is worried about you.”
Derek coughed, caught by surprise.
“Me!”
“He says you’re struggling in your role as a support player. That you are taking a lot of unnecessary chances on the court, trying to assert your dominance. We just don’t need that, Mr. Darcy. We need a team player.”
“Charles told you I’m not a team player?” The blood had left Derek’s head, leaving him fuzzy-headed and bone cold.
“Not in those words, no. But that you are trying too hard to make a name for yourself.”
His lips were numb, tingling, from the loss of blood. “No, he didn’t.”
O’Donnell didn’t answer, just tipped his head to the side, eyes half shut, and sucked on his pipe.
The phallic nature of his boss’s oral fixation did not elude Derek. He stifled a disgusted shiver and said, “Sir, you’ve seen me play. You brought me on, and you kept me on last year when I couldn’t play. I’m not a ball hog, but I do take the shot if I’ve got it. I don’t know what this is about, but I am a team player. Ask the coach. I always have been.”
“Boy, the coach and I have talked about it. I need you to just back down a bit, stop pressing so hard. Get the ball to Charles.”
“I—”
“Exactly. I, I, I. Play for your team. Not yourself. Now, be a good boy and do as I say. Share the ball. That is what is best for the Fishers.”
Derek put his head in his hands, a pickax tapping on his center lobe. After a second, he pushed up from the chair. “Is that all? May I go?”
“You are acting like I have stolen your favorite toy.” His boss put down his pipe and came out from behind his desk. “I’m not punishing you, Mr. Darcy. I’m just, you know, guiding you. I only want what is best for the team and for you.” The old man clapped Derek on the shoulder, suddenly jovial. “So. I’ll see you at the game tomorrow.”
Seeing himself out, Derek could not clear the buzzing fog that had filled his brain. This didn’t make sense at all. Charles was trying to push Derek into the corner? Why? Why would he do that? They’d always worked together, supported each other, been the perfect partners out there. It’s why Derek had wanted to be on his team in the first place. Charles had wanted that, too.
What had changed?
* * *
“Yes, Mother, I have been talking to the players, meeting plenty of interesting people.” Hara pressed a hand to her forehead, which did nothing to alleviate her headache.
“Men. Hara, I want you to be mingling with men. I’m sorry your new friend got hurt, but you need to stay focused on the goal.”
“Since my interview made it onto the AP wire and I’ve covered two games, one from the owners’ box, I’d say I met my goal.” She had no intention of telling her mother that it had been her father who arranged for her to win the contest. No reason to give her even more fodder in her fight against her being a sportswriter. Hara was going to write this new story, all on her own.
“You—”
“I know what you meant. That I’m supposed to be flaunting my goods in front of wealthy men, trying to get their attention.” Derek seemed pretty taken with my goods, taking me for a good, long time … “You don’t have to worry, I’ve met plenty of men and I’ve been pleasant.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Hara sighed. There was also no way she was going to tell her mother about hanging out with some of the team members at the nightclub, and definitely not about spending the night with Derek. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t have time to gossip right now, but I promise to tell you all about it when I get home.”
“When will that be, exactly? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled you’ve been able to spend more time over there, with the right kind of people. But I do want to know you’re safe. You are safe, right, Hara?”
“Carter has me set up in an incredible hotel.” She smirked. An incredible hotel that used to be a jail and was filled with the ghosts of murderers. “I should be done with my story in the next few days.”
They hung up and Hara unpacked her few belongings into the closet, next to a hotel bathrobe. She stroked a sleeve, smiling. Ah, memories.
When her car had first pulled up in front of the Liberty, she’d been afraid to get out. The hotel’s stone complex, built in 1851 as a jail, now looked like a posh castle with floor-to-ceiling windows and soft lighting. The lobby had three lovely balconies encircling the room. Those balconies had been the guard catwalks, back in the day, and were now sprinkled with small gathering areas, where couples shared secrets, and businesspeople drank martinis and stretched their legs.
The four stories of open brick wall were broken up by cream panels, murals of stylized trees reaching from floor to the very, very high ceiling. What should have been cold and hard had been transformed into an elegant, warm space. The staff at the highly polished teak front desk were kind and attentive though she was dressed in jeans and a sweater—as opposed to everyone else in the lobby, who were in a contest for best dressed.
Her hotel room was ready, so they were able to let her in early. The amazing room boasted huge windows and plenty of natural light, hardwood floors, thick area rugs, a fully outfitted bar, and a rich leather headboard and matching chair set.
She texted pictures to Carter, making sure to include the oil paintings in her room that were of famous Boston locations and looked to be original, though they were almost outdone by the fifty-five-inch flat-screen television and elaborate gaming console. A little something for everyone.
After a quick Internet search, she was surprised, and slightly disturbed, at how easy it was to find the address for Ms. Butler. Privacy just did not exist anymore.
Two hours later, Hara walked the streets close to the Butler house, wanting to get a feel for the neighborhood, grateful for a break in the cloud coverage that offered weak sunshine with a light breeze. It was nice not to have to deal with constantly wiping raindrops off her glasses.
There didn’t appear to be river flooding here, but storm drains were stopped up and the gutters were overflowing. Locals were out, in storm cleanup mode. The wind had done a lot of damage to these row houses—limbs, garbage, and roofing shingles littered yards and the sides of the road, and dozens of downed trees were resting on houses or cars, or sticking through broken windows. A yellow and red plastic play structure was wedged high in an old elm tree. There was a collection of five or six garbage cans rolling around in one driveway.
Coming around a corner, she squealed in horror.
A leg sat in a pile of leaves over an impacted grate, a shallow gutter stream gently bumping it, making the appendage shift and quiver.
Hara didn’t want to but her eyes looked again, without her brain’s permission.
After a second, she let out a breathless laugh. It was the leg to a mannequin. Hard plastic, the toes represented by one solid wedge shape. She took a picture on her phone of the surreal scene and texted it to Carter. Art everywhere, boss.
Eventually she found her way to Ms. Butler’s address. The home was the same style and size as the other houses on the street, but the new siding and windows and roof stood out, as did the wide
veranda. The front walk area was landscaped, while the other homes had patches of mud or moss and chain-link fences. The street was lined with old Jeeps and run-down Honda sedans but there was a black Mercedes in the driveway.
The differences didn’t prove anything. Her son was making millions. If anything, it was crazy that she still lived in this neighborhood and she only had one car.
Hara went to the front door but hesitated before ringing the bell. What exactly was she supposed to say? Hey, did you take a bribe a few years ago?
The woman must have seen her through the side window. She opened the door before Hara had a chance to push the doorbell. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Hello. Are you Ms. Butler, the mother of Charles Butler?”
The older woman’s face remained impassive, but her high cheekbones and the shape of her nose and mouth were the same as the famous ballplayer’s.
“Um, hi, my name is Hara Isari. I’m a reporter out of Portland.” Hara held up her press pass, which any third grader with a printer could have made. “I interviewed your son a couple of nights ago and thought I might do a follow-up piece. Would you be willing to answer some questions?”
“No. Honey, I ain’t tryin’ to be rude, but my boy has told me not to talk to reporters.”
“Oh. Well. He’s already sat down with me. Are you sure you can’t take a second…” The woman crossed her arms and shook her head. Hara hadn’t expected to be shut down quite so quickly. “Do you mind if I leave a card, in case you change your mind?” The young reporter pushed a card at the woman before she could answer.
Closing her fingers around the business card, Ms. Butler said, “You go on along now, you hear? Don’t make me feel bad.” She didn’t wait for Hara to respond; instead, Charles Butler’s mother slowly but firmly closed the door in Hara’s face.
Next stop, library archives, to find any old articles that might have featured Charles back when he was a high school phenom.
Later, she’d dig up Butler’s high school coaches, to see what they had to say. She was going to have to interview college coaches and managers, too, but those questions were going to have to be carefully curated, if she had any chance at all of getting them to talk to her.
The Wrong Mr. Darcy Page 19