“You have good karma, babe,” Robin told him. “I got a house full of people who think you’re the man. Everyone’s got a Jules story for me, and it usually involves you cleaning up someone else’s cluster-fuck. Gina alone could write a book.”
“She’s not bulimic, by the way,” Jules told him. “She’s pregnant.”
“Ah,” Robin said. “That explains a lot.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Jules cautioned him. “Max told me in confidence. They’re not ready to make it public yet.”
“Did you know Joan Muldoon’s having a baby, too?”
“I didn’t. Wow. Mikey Muldoon’s going to be a father. He’s, like, your age,” Jules told him. “And, hey, you know who else is pregnant? You’re going to love this. She was actually part of the task force who came to pull us out. She stayed on the helo with the other non-SEALs, but you better believe she would’ve been boots on the ground if we’d needed her.”
“No way,” Robin said, starting to laugh. “Alyssa?”
“Yeah. Sam doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind,” Jules said, laughing, too. “He alternates between being beside himself with excitement, and stricken with terror. He was dying to tell us back in September—you know, when we shared the hotel room?”
Yeah, Robin definitely remembered that.
“Alyssa took one of those home tests later that week,” Jules told him. “Her little sister had severe complications—she actually died as a result of a pregnancy, so they wanted to wait for the end of the first trimester before telling anyone. They were planning to announce it at our house—during Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I had no idea,” Robin said. “Either about her sister or the fact that she was pregnant.”
“Yeah, apparently Lys has been wanting to go for it for a while. Sam made them wait until he studied up on her sister’s condition and convinced himself that it wasn’t hereditary. He’s trying hard not to drive her crazy,” Jules told him. “It’s funny to watch them. And there she was, in the field, so apparently he’s managing to control his anxiety.”
“Please tell them that I’m truly happy for them,” Robin said.
“I will. So that’s Alyssa, Gina and Joan,” Jules said. “What do they say—good things come in threes? It’s going to be an exciting spring.”
It was going to be, indeed.
“Hey, do you know who came over and dragged me to a meeting this morning? This is going to blow your mind. Will Schroeder.”
“The reporter,” Jules said.
“The reporter who saved your life,” Robin clarified. “Yeah. He showed up at ten—way early—with his kid—his niece, Maggie—she’s a hoot and a half. You’re going to love her. Anyway, Will was like, okay, I did some research and found a ten-thirty meeting down the street. After last night, Chadwick, you definitely need to go. He was right. I really needed it. I’m still jonsing a little—I don’t know, maybe it’s the whole holiday thing. This is my first Thanksgiving that I haven’t gotten tanked and…Yashi’s dad and Cos’s mom are going with me to another meeting tonight, God bless them.”
“One hour at a time,” Jules reminded him.
“I know,” Robin said. “I’m doing it. I’m strong, babe. I am. I didn’t tell you that so you would worry. I just…wanted to be honest about how this staying sober shit isn’t as…easy as I sometimes try to pretend it is.”
“I want you to be honest with me,” Jules said. “Like…even when your show gets cancelled…?”
“Ah, crap,” Robin said. It figured that Jules had found out about that. “I was going to tell you in the cab to the airport, but…I didn’t want you worrying about it while you were over there.”
“Are you okay?” Jules asked. “You must be so disappointed.” He knew how much Robin had loved working for Art.
“It hurts,” Robin admitted. “But it’s showbiz. Jobs end.” That’s the way it always was for an actor. “The good news is that Art called me this morning, asking if I’m interested in starring in another project—something about a movie star who lives in Boston. He’s going to fax over the pilot this weekend. We can look at it together—see if it’s something I want to do. I suspect, though, that our answer is going to be yes.”
“If you want to do it,” Jules said, “you know I’m with you.”
“Yes, I do know that,” Robin said. “Of all the things I’m thankful for today, babe, I’m most thankful that you’re in my life.”
Jules laughed softly. “Okay, so I was sitting here, feeling a little sorry for myself because I missed the party. But then you go and say that and…suddenly I’m having the best Thanksgiving ever.”
“Me, too,” Robin told this man who was the love of his life. “This one’s going to be damn hard to beat.”
PART FOUR
the good, the bad and the uninvited
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 29
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
T HIS WASN’T GOING TO BE GOOD.
Will could come up with only one reason why he’d been called into his editor Paul Rigatta’s office—and that was because he’d flatly refused to write about his Thanksgiving dinner with Robin Chadwick.
The public’s limitless fascination with the TV star was bordering on the grotesque, and when Will had responded to Paul’s e-mail request for a Thanksgiving piece by writing back, While the turkey was a tad dry, the gravy was delicious and more than made up for any over-cooking. The end. Paul had zapped him back a quick response: Keep going, a-hole.
To which Will had countered, I was invited, as a guest, into Chadwick’s home. And even if I didn’t have issues with taking advantage of his kindness, I’m NOT a food or arts & leisure or even a feature writer. Remember me, the hard-hitting investigative journalist?
Paul’s response: Tough shit. I want the story. Write it.
Which had led to Will’s somewhat regrettable Bite me.
So here he was, dead man walking, making his last excruciatingly long trek to Paul’s corner office, so that his editor could not just bite him, but, in fact, fire his ass.
Paul’s administrative assistant wasn’t at her station, and his office door was ajar, so Will not only knocked on it, he also poked his head in.
His editor was at his desk, on the phone, as usual—a high-tech earpiece and mic attached to his bald head and faintly cherubic face. He waved Will in as he kept his phone conversation going, giving him a narrow-eyed look, no doubt because Will wasn’t able to contain his massive disbelief at Paulie’s freakish outfit.
Instead of his usual rumpled suit, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, tie comfortably loose, the man was actually wearing bike racing gear—tight-fitting black pants and a neon blue and yellow long-sleeved shirt. Considering Paul wasn’t built like Lance Armstrong, it was a questionable fashion statement. In fact, with his phone appendage, he looked quite a bit like Danny DeVito’s slightly taller superhero-cyborg brother.
Will sat down in one of the purposely uncomfortable chairs in front of Paul’s desk, stretching his legs out in front of him, feigning ease.
“I want it via e-mail in five minutes, I don’t care who you have to kill to get it,” Paul ordered the poor schlub who was on the other end of that phone call. “I was supposed to go out biking during lunch, so just shut the fuck up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Will pointed out when he realized that the last sentence was directed to him. It could be disconcerting talking to Paul because he switched back and forth between phone calls and live conversation seemingly indiscriminately. If you didn’t pay close attention, you wouldn’t notice when he answered his phone. It was programmed so that it wouldn’t ring in the room, only in the man’s ear.
“The shit hit the fan with this NFC rape story,” Paul told him. “You heard about it?”
“Of course.” A Newton Falls College co-ed—one of the very few who’d stayed on campus over the holiday weekend—had been raped and beaten last Saturday night. Her roommate came back to their dorm, found her, and dialed 911. The
cops beat the paramedics to the scene, but when they ID’d the victim, they found an outstanding warrant for credit card fraud. Instead of receiving medical care, the girl was arrested—taken from her dorm room in handcuffs and locked in a cell for forty-eight hours, without access to a rape kit or the morning after pill—forget about psychological support.
“We got a tip that the charges of fraud were going to be dropped,” Paul told him. “And sure enough. But get this—turns out the girl’s a victim of identity theft. She knew nothing about the credit cards. All she knew was she was attacked, and then she was in jail. Eighteen years old.”
Will sat up. God. “What can I do?”
“Bite me,” Paul said.
“Come on,” Will argued. “This is my kind of story and you know it. Do you have someone talking to the university’s security? When I went to school, the police never came on campus without a security escort. Let me dig around, see if this school has similar rules, and if so, who was on call that night. Maybe they were understaffed because of the holiday. It’s at least worth asking why some kind of campus authority didn’t demand medical care for an injured student, regardless of past warrants. This kid got raped twice in one night—let’s give her more people to sue.”
“That’s a good idea,” Paul said. “Belinda, have Matt Jablonski give me a call in about ten minutes.” He was speaking into his phone again.
“It’s my idea,” Will stood up, the better to loom menacingly over his boss. “You’re giving it to Jablonski?”
“You can share the by-line,” Paul said. “You’re busy—I’m giving you something else. Siddown. Yeah, B., thanks, send him in.”
“Something else?” Will repeated.
“Sorry I’m late, Paul.” The voice was familiar, and sure enough, Will turned to see Jules Cassidy coming through Paul’s office door. Oh, damn. “Traffic was insane.”
“No worries,” Paul said, getting to his feet. “Come on in. You know Will Schroeder, of course.”
“Nice to see you,” Jules greeted Will with a firm handshake. “And thank you. I’m pretty sure I owe you my life.”
“I was glad to be of help.”
“I’ve been walking around today hyper-aware that my funeral probably would’ve been held this morning,” Jules told him. “Kind of puts things like gridlock into perspective.”
“I bet,” Will said.
Jules turned to Paul, reaching across the desk to grasp the editor’s hand. “You have lost a lot of weight. You look fabulous.”
“Thanks, yeah, the biking’s been working.” Paul patted his still rotund stomach. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when the snow starts piling up, though.”
“Rock climbing,” Jules suggested. “There’s a gym just a couple blocks from here. Now that your weight’s down, you should try it. It’s really fun—great upper body workout. Robin and I go all the time. If you want, you can come as our guest—give it a try.”
“I’d like that,” Paul said. “Thanks.”
Jules turned back to Will, who was no doubt radiating impatience. “You didn’t ask him yet.” His words—not quite a question—were directed to Paul.
“I don’t ask, I tell,” Paul countered. “He wants a paycheck, he takes the assignments he’s given.”
“What assignment?” Will asked, with dread. As if he didn’t already know.
“Mr. Cassidy and his famous fiancé have graciously decided to give the Globe exclusive coverage of their upcoming nuptials,” Paulie told him, very smugly. “It is an event of national interest, which President and Mrs. Bryant will be attending. You’ll be covering the story in a daily column, right up until the big day—think of it as a printed blog.”
A daily column, for nearly two weeks? On a subject that deserved a single sentence on the social news page?
“We have society reporters,” Will pointed out. “Any one of them is better qualified for this than I am.” They’d also probably knife fight each other to get this plum assignment. Plum for anyone but him, that is.
“Mr. Cassidy has decided that they want you.” Paul was a little too happy about that.
Will turned to Jules. “With all due respect, sir, if this is supposed to be some kind of payback for my help with the Jack Lloyd thing…? Please don’t do me any favors. I really don’t want—”
Jules laughed. “With all due respect,” he interrupted. He was still smiling, but his eyes were no longer warm. “I don’t give a shit what you want. You may have saved my life, but you’ve only just begun to pay us back for coming into our home, uninvited, for lying and taking advantage of Robin’s generosity. You do realize that this pig mask thing will never go away…?”
Will nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “I know, and…I’m sorry.”
“Personally?” Jules asked. “I think it’s absurd, but Robin doesn’t. He feels awful that he said it, and he hates that it’s still—still— getting airplay.”
And that was Will’s fault. He’d thought it would help to get the recording of his conversation with Robin out into the public. But that had backfired. The National Voice article would’ve quickly faded away. But sound bites of Robin’s voice were still getting played—and mocked—on hate-mongering radio shows.
“If you’re trying to guilt me out,” Will admitted, “it’s working. But a daily column? The President and Mrs. Bryant will be attending… That’s it. After that, there’s nothing more for me to say. There’s no story here.”
Jules Cassidy smiled again. “And that is exactly why you’re the man for this job. Because we don’t think there’s a story either. We’re all on the same page. You’ll have full access—but please call Dolphina and set up any visits in advance. If there’s something you need, just ask.”
He took two files from his briefcase, handed one to Paul and one to Will. “Here’s a schedule of events, as well as bio information for both Robin and me. The schedule is for your use only—if you print it or publish it online, we’ll change it immediately—and our arrangement will instantly end. I do not take Robin’s safety lightly. He’s a celebrity, there are people out there who want a piece of him, and I don’t share well. You fuck with me on this issue, and you are gone.”
Gone, and no doubt badly bruised for quite a while. Not to mention out of a job…
Jules closed his briefcase with a crisp snap. “After you have a chance to review the file, please contact Dolphina, so we can set up a time for an interview. She’s prepared to work closely with you, to make this ordeal as painful as possible.” He blinked. “Did I just say painful?” he mused. “That’s kind of funny, but I really did mean painless.”
Yeah, right.
“Feel free to bring Maggie with you to any of the social occasions on the list, including the wedding,” Jules continued. “All of the parties will, of course, be alcohol free.” He did a round of handshakes again. “It was great seeing you, Paul—I’ve got to run—Will, I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
With that, Jules Cassidy was gone, leaving Will staring down at a schedule of dates, the first of which was Bachelor Party, Saturday, December 8th. That was a week from this coming Saturday.
Were they really having a bachelor party, like, with strippers jumping out of a giant cake?
Bring Maggie, Jules had said, so probably not.
At least she was going to be orbiting the moon, getting an invite to the celebrity wedding of the year.
She would be happy, too, to see Dolphina again. She’d been talking about her nonstop, ever since Thanksgiving.
Yeah, Maggie was the one who was going to be happy to see Dolphina again.
Right.
“You’re really going to make me do this?” Will asked Paul.
“I’ll need your first column by noon Monday,” Paul said. “Yeah, Matt; no, the timing’s great. Lookit, Schroeder had a story idea, but he’s tied up with something else.” He smiled sweetly at Will. “Shut the door on your way out.”
MONDAY, DECEMBER 3
The door
bell rang at the worst possible time.
Every day brought a new potential disaster—and okay, maybe that was just Dolphina’s tendency to be overly dramatic coming through. But today’s calamity was, without doubt, an ugly one.
As she sat at her computer in Jules and Robin’s home office, opening the morning mail and inputting the latest batch of responses from wedding invitees—stragglers, all of them having missed the deadline to RSVP—Dolphina saw that the trend was finally broken.
Everyone on the guest list—everyone—was coming to this wedding.
Except for Robin’s father and his newest wife.
The doorbell rang again, and Dolphina went to answer it, only to find Will Schroeder standing on the porch, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.
“Hi,” he said, and she closed the door in his face.
Robin picked that very moment to come down the stairs. “Wasn’t that Will?”
“He’s early,” she said.
“I’m pathologically punctual,” Will shouted from behind the still-closed door. “That means, yes, I sometimes arrive early.”
Dolphina opened the door to give him a withering look. “Two hours early?”
“It’s sad,” he said, with what he no doubt hoped was a winning smile. “I know. I’m trying hard to overcome it.”
Sure he was. On Friday, when Will had called to set a time to discuss his latest assignment, she’d made the mistake of telling him their Monday morning schedule, and asking him to wait to arrive until after Robin had left for a casting session at Urban Studios.
Apparently Will wasn’t going to follow the rules. Including the one she hadn’t told him yet—about not looking at her as if she were something he wanted from the dessert cart.
Or maybe he was aware of that rule, because he tried to make his smile less about hunger and more about friendly teasing. “I had no idea we were dressing for our little meeting,” he quipped. “I would have worn my top hat and tails.”
“This is how I dress for work,” Dolphina informed him coolly, despite the fact that she had taken extra care with her appearance this morning. She’d foolishly believed—after Friday’s somewhat lengthy phone call—that Will had moved out of the liability column and over into the assets. But it was definitely a different kind of ass who showed up two hours early. Wearing jeans and sneakers, and badly needing a haircut, to boot.
All Through the Night Page 11