Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  “He didn’t,” Carl said, his voice weary.

  Sid and Georgia both snapped their heads up to stare at Carl.

  “He didn’t?” they parroted in unison.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you.” He leaned backward on his cushion, propping himself on his hands. “The terms say I agree to keep the details confidential.”

  Georgia’s heart quickened. If everyone got to keep their jobs, then she hadn’t bollixed up quite as badly as she’d thought. Oh, she’d screwed the pooch all right, but she hadn’t ruined everyone’s lives. Just Sid’s, apparently, but maybe she could make it up to him by paying his legal fees and securing him a new job.

  “Fuck it. I have a gag order in my severance agreement, but I might as well tell you,” Carl finally said. “Everyone is being transferred to other positions at various Wells Industries subsidiaries.” Carl pushed his glasses up and looked at them both in turn. “But you’re right. He’s closed the paper and plans to tear down the building.”

  Sid gave a low whistle. “When that man cleans house, he doesn’t kid around.”

  “It’s my fault,” Georgia said, more than a little morose to be the demise of a hundred-and-some-odd-year-old institution as well as more than two dozen careers. New jobs or not, most of her coworkers hadn’t stayed on at the paper for money. They’d done the work because they’d loved it.

  “Given that my folder held the same ‘fuck you very much’ missive as yours, I assume Peter thinks I’m at least partially to blame.” Sid gave her an arch look. “Which I am.”

  If only Peter hadn’t found out. She’d have kept her promise to Sid and called to tell him today before he left for Christmas with his family. Knowing what she knew now, she realized it had been a pipe dream at best, and a complete delusional fantasy at worst, that he might’ve understood and forgiven her if she’d come clean before he’d found out.

  “I don’t understand how he found out,” she mused.

  “He called me. He wanted to know your middle name,” Carl said.

  “My middle name?” Shifting on her pillow, she thought about her middle names—all three of them—and wondered which one had given her away. “Whatever for?”

  “I think for a Christmas present.”

  Wasn’t that a knife in her heart. Swallowing hard, she looked away before choking out the words “Go on.”

  “I told him,” Carl said after a sip of his tea.

  A bucket of ice water thrown over her head couldn’t have stunned her more thoroughly.

  “You…you told him?” she sputtered.

  “Your middle names!” he said hastily. “That’s all it took to set the ball in motion. And once it was rolling?” He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “It was over before I could even call to warn you.”

  “How could he figure out who I was from my middle names?”

  “Once he had them, he thought to Google you. Apparently he never had before.”

  Silence fell, heavy, as she pictured Peter’s face when he likely saw her standing next to her father at the ten-year family reunion. The picture had been taken ages ago, but the name Earl of Montrose would have been enough to clue him in if Georgia Whitcomb, Lady Montrose, hadn’t.

  “He guessed you were Gigi’s sister and that you’d been withholding the information from him.” Carl took off his glasses and fiddled with them, twisting the arms this way and that, until Georgia thought they would come off. “Then he asked me how I knew your middle names.” Carl’s face whitened at the memory, and Georgia saw clearly the moment he’d realized his mistake in revealing that tidbit to Peter. “I’m sorry, Georgia,” he said. “I had to come clean.”

  “Did you…” She flicked her gaze to Sid, assessing whether or not revealing Carl’s sexuality was acceptable, given Sid’s orientation and all. The politics eluded her, however, and she finished with, “Come clean about everything? About you?”

  Carl’s momentarily widened eyes and glance to Sid said he caught her meaning.

  “No,” he said after a moment’s pause and a poke at the orange slices that had come with the check. “I couldn’t. Not then. But I will.”

  Thinking about everything they’d both lost, she must’ve pulled a face at him.

  Carl sat up, defensive. “What was I supposed to say? ‘By the way, I betrayed you, and I’ve been lying to you. I’m gay and in love with you’?”

  “I— No! Of course not.” Georgia pulled the check toward herself and fingered the edge of the paper. “I was just wondering if he knew exactly how much we really love him, if he’d have been quite as angry.”

  It was the first time she’d spoken aloud of her feelings or admitted them to herself really. Too little, too late.

  “You’re a closet case?” Sid asked after a moment.

  “Sid!” Georgia said, aghast, though she’d essentially had the same conversation with Carl earlier in the week. “You, of all people, should know coming out is a personal decision.”

  “No.” Carl waved his hand. “No, it’s all right.” He exchanged a glance with Sid. “I was. But not anymore.”

  Sid sat back, frowning, and muttered something about losing his touch.

  Georgia smirked. Sid prided himself on being able to spot a potential brother in arms—of the nonviolent variety—from fifty paces. And yet Carl had flown under his gaydar all night long.

  A tense moment passed while Sid appeared to be contemplating the meaning of life and Carl focused on finishing the pot of tea. Georgia looked from one man to the other, playing visual table tennis, until realization broadsided her. She slowly stood.

  “I have to go to the, um…” She hooked her thumb in the general direction of the loo and scurried away to leave the two men alone to sort things out.

  As she washed her hands, she refused to look in the mirror, unable to stand the sight of her own face. With Sid and Carl to distract her, she’d survived the last two hours. Home, alone, she knew she’d fall apart. Until she crossed her threshold, she had to keep it together.

  When she returned to the table, both men sat on the same side, sharing quiet conversation and a bottle of sake. The murmur of their voices had died as soon as she slid the shoji screen aside and paused in the entry.

  “I’m going to get going,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” Sid made to stand, but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

  “Sure, I’m sure.” She forced a smile, glad that at least something good had come of this disastrous day. “I have a flight to catch.”

  “Call if you need me?” Sid asked, and she knew he meant it. He always did.

  “I will.” She smiled softly and slid the screen shut.

  As she stepped out into the New York night, she wondered when she’d see him again. So much was about to change—had already changed—and her along with it. And that, as they said, was probably for the best.

  The cab ride to her building was short. Too short. As she got out and the doorman paid her fare, automatically she looked up. The top of the building disappeared into darkness, making it impossible to distinguish the lights in the penthouse from the others several levels below. If she rang his bell, would he answer? Or would he ignore her? Was there anything at all she could say to make him change his mind about the paper? About her?

  When she walked in the door, the concierge handed her a gilt-edged envelope with the condo association’s name emblazoned on the flap. Instinctively, she knew what was inside. With a weary sigh, she grabbed the pen from the black marble counter and scribbled a note on the back. The condo association wanted her gone? She’d oblige them. For a price.

  “Please see Mr. Wells receives this?” she asked, handing the envelope to the man.

  He glanced at the back, his expression never changing though she knew he’d read what she’d written: I’ll sell it to you for $3.4 million. Going back to London. ~ G.

  If Peter so desired, he could gut her flat, just as he’d gutted her heart. She had done him wrong—she’d never den
y it—but by loving him, and continuing to love him, she was going to punish herself far more thoroughly, for far longer, than he could possibly dream. There was nothing worse he could say or do to her than what she’d spend the rest of her life doing to herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Peter took the long way to his parents’ house, avoiding I-95 and memories of his drive with Georgia altogether. When he pulled into their driveway at eleven thirty, the house was dark and the outdoor Christmas lights had been turned off. The moon glowed softly against the snow, casting a magical glow that on any other night might’ve made him pause and look up to enjoy the stars. Instead, he grabbed his suitcase and bag of presents from the backseat and trudged around the house, his Italian loafers squeaking as they filled with snow.

  He looked straight ahead, glancing neither left nor right, as if keeping his gaze off the empty space next to him might help him forget Georgia’s absence. His heart lurched, and he shoved her name down like a man murdering a memory, holding it underwater. He’d do so until the death throes became too powerful and he lost his grip, allowing the sputtering victim to surface again. Eventually, his target would grow tired, and he’d win. Currently, he counted five minutes without thinking about her a victory. Next month, if he was lucky, it’d be ten. Until then, he just had to put one foot in front of the other, bury himself in work, and survive.

  If it weren’t for Christmas, that’s where he’d be—up to his eyeballs in e-mail or maybe on a flight to China. Anything coma inducing would count, and at present jet lag sounded pretty damned sweet. As he keyed open the boathouse door, he braced for the memories stepping over the threshold would bring, and wasn’t disappointed. He paused, clutching blindly for something, anything to make him forget a pair of laughing gray-green eyes.

  Remembering his last afternoon here, he breathed deep in a futile effort to ease the ache in his middle. He’d turned up the stereo as he’d packed their bags. Georgia had been visiting with his parents in the house. Joshua Radin’s “I’d Rather Be with You” had come on the radio. As he’d tidied up the loft, he’d hummed the tune.

  She’d snuck up on him and twined her arms around his waist. He’d clutched her to him and pulled her into an easy dance. His cheek pressed to the top of her head, he sang the words to the song while Georgia held him close. He should’ve known then he was in trouble. It wasn’t until the next day when he’d returned to his own place that his reality collided with the romance, temporarily shattering the dream.

  Water lapped the pylons underneath the boathouse—a sound he normally loved. Tonight, it only reminded him of the emptiness of the place and the hollow inside his heart. Pushing the memories under the surface once more, he gritted his teeth and climbed the loft stairs. In the great room, he dropped his bags. The woodstove was dark, but he didn’t bother to start it. More weary than he could ever remember being, he peeled off his shirt and stumbled toward the bed, exhaustion tugging him under.

  His face-plant into the pillows made a soft whump. He groaned and rolled over, grabbing a pillow to shove under his arm. Someday, he’d get used to sleeping alone again, but tonight the bedding would have to do. He doubted it minded, and it wasn’t like the goose down would have much competition anytime soon. The idea of talking with, much less touching a member of the opposite sex held little appeal.

  Breathing deep, he tried to relax. On the second inhale, he opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at the pillow. It smelled like her. His stomach clenched, and his sinuses filled. Emotion crashed over him, bringing with it a gasp of despair. Knowing if he went too deep he might never return, he threw the pillow across the room and grabbed another, this time from his side of the bed. A tentative sniff brought with it the light scent of her perfume.

  “Doesn’t anyone fucking do laundry around here?” he yelled into the silence before bounding from the bed and stalking to the couch.

  The afghan smelled like wood smoke, the couch pillows his shampoo. Making a mental note to have every piece of furniture and linen replaced on Monday, he rolled over, and by sheer dint of will, he slept.

  * * * *

  Dawn turned the sky a lighter shade of black, then pearlescent gray, as Peter watched through the skylights. He’d been awake for at least an hour, he estimated. It had to be a little before seven. Rolling to an upright position, he stretched the crick in his neck. A popping sound accompanied the release of tension. He grabbed his birthday sweater and a white T-shirt, brushed his teeth, dressed, and made his way to the main house with the bag of presents he’d brought.

  The kitchen door squeaked as he entered through the back. Coffee and pancakes were in the making, his mother in her robe by the stove. Sweeping up behind her, he placed a kiss on her cheek. She jumped and clapped a hand over her heart as she turned.

  “Good Lord, Peter.”

  Her expression reminded him of Georgia—he didn’t know why—and he blinked down at her.

  “Sorry,” he managed after a minute. “Merry Christmas.”

  His mother smiled and kissed him back. “Merry Christmas.”

  “I’m going to put these under the tree.” He lifted the bag, indicating the presents, before he slipped out of the room.

  His mother had already turned on the Christmas lights. A pitcher of orange juice and champagne glasses formed the makings of holiday mimosas. Probably the champagne chilled in the fridge. Along with the pancakes, his mother would produce an obscene amount of food—enough to feed that proverbial army, or her sons, whom she liked to claim could outeat a platoon.

  On automatic pilot, Peter reached into the paper shopping bag he held and withdrew the topmost package. He placed it under the tree and stood to grab the next. As he did so, his head brushed a tree branch, setting the ornaments into a dangerous bob. He grasped the jiggling limb and froze as he recognized the first ornament Georgia had hung. The one he’d shown her how to place on the tree.

  She’d never decorated a Christmas tree. Would have been so thrilled to see his family gathered around it, opening presents and trying to outdo one another for the tackiest gift award. One gag gift for each member whose name they pulled out of a hat at Thanksgiving. A sort of Secret Santa gone wrong. She would’ve loved it.

  “Oh bullshit,” he said out loud.

  That woe-is-me story about her neglected childhood had been no more real than anything else about her. In fact, he was surprised her tits hadn’t been fake. With little care or attention, he tossed the rest of the gifts from his bag under the tree and hightailed it from the room. He took his seat, cup of coffee clutched in his hands, as Niall wandered into the kitchen yawning. Catching sight of Peter, he snapped his mouth shut and glared. Peter saluted him with his coffee, sarcasm tainting his thoughts.

  Turning to their mother, Niall brushed a kiss on her cheek with his own “Merry Christmas.”

  “Take the cinnamon rolls into the living room,” she said absentmindedly.

  Niall swooped up the plate and balanced it on his fingertips, lifting it over his head like a waiter as he swept from the room.

  “Show-off,” Peter muttered into his mug.

  And why hadn’t Ma asked him to take the plate in there when he’d gone a minute ago? He slouched in his chair and took another sip of coffee. Niall looked around, expectant, as he reentered, then frowned.

  “Where’s Georgia?” he asked.

  “I expect she’s still getting ready,” their mother answered.

  Oh. Fuck.

  “She’s not coming,” Peter said.

  Hands on her hips, lips pressed into a firm line, his mother stared him down. Peter took a deep breath and gave Niall a look that dared him to make light of what he was about to say. “She was the gossip columnist.”

  His mother dropped the spatula. Even Niall didn’t seem to breathe for a handful of seconds. Visibly shaking himself from whatever internal thoughts clogged his questionable brain, Niall frowned. “Are you sure, dude?”

  Was that real concern in his brothe
r’s tone?

  “Yes. I’m sure.” Peter hadn’t meant to snap, but the return of Niall’s stony stare said he had anyway.

  A chime sounded. Niall looked toward the door, as did Peter.

  “Who in the world?” Ma went to the kitchen door and peeked out. “Peter? Would you get that? It appears to be a delivery man.”

  Glad to escape the inquisition that would’ve normally followed an admission of the magnitude he’d just made, Peter went to the front door. Outside, a delivery man held at least six boxes, some small and some medium-sized, along with an electronic signature tablet.

  “Peter Wells?” the guy asked. Damn, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  Peter nodded. “That’s me.”

  “Delivery. Sign here.” He held out the tablet.

  “Don’t they give you guys holidays?” Peter asked, taking the tablet.

  “I’ll sleep on New Year’s.” The guy grinned wide. “After I’m done making a pile of cash in overtime.”

  Peter signed his name and exchanged the tablet for the packages. “Thanks. Merry Christmas.”

  “Yeah. You too.” The guy waved and bounded down the steps to his delivery van.

  A glance at the brown wrapped packages showed no address, but an envelope was taped to the outside of the largest one. Peter ripped it off and brought it to the kitchen after placing the boxes under the tree with the rest of the presents.

  “What’s that?” Niall nodded to the envelope.

  Peter gave him a “beats me” shrug and sat as he slid his finger under the flap. Wow. A whole spate of communication where they hadn’t sniped at one another. It might’ve been a world record.

  The card had a picture of snowy egrets on the front. It looked like one of those free cards from a wildlife organization; they always sent them hoping you’d feel guilty enough to give them a donation. Peter frowned and flipped the card over. Sure enough, the organization’s name and the plea for funds were stamped on the back. He opened the card, expecting to be underwhelmed by the sender’s missive.

  Peter,

  I think Georgia forgot she left these at my place. I wasn’t sure what to do with them. She tells me you have a woodstove. My guess is you’ll burn them, but hey, I had to do what my normally questionable conscience told me was right.