Her words only seemed to irritate him more.
“I never thought I’d get the job, I don’t even want it — ”
“Stop. Do not play games with me, Leigh. The job, the meeting with Star Media on the same day word leaks out the paper’s officially yours — it’s all a little too coincidental, don’t you think?”
She stared at him, baffled. “The paper’s mine?”
“I knew this would happen.” Anger hardened his features. “First you pretend you want what’s best for the paper, then you tell me you like it here, that you want to stay, and what do I find out? That you’ve got a job all lined up in New York, and you’re trying to offload The Sun so you can move on with your life.”
Something inside her shattered. Despite all they’d been through, he still saw her as Ben’s selfish daughter, willing to sell-out to the highest bidder. A lump formed in her throat, and she bit down on her bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “Well, since you’ve obviously decided I’m guilty, there’s nothing left to say.”
“It’s that easy for you, isn’t it? You just walk away when you’ve had enough.”
“What am I supposed to do? You’ve made it abundantly clear, time and time again, that I’m not worthy of my father’s legacy, the paper, the Cameron name, any of it.”
“So that’s it. You can’t live up to the responsibility, so you’re going to sell. What about the last few weeks? Last night?”
“What does last night have to do with any of this?”
“I like it here,” he said, his tone a parody of hers. “I love you.” He spoke so viciously she wondered how she could have thought him kind.
Startled hurt turned into white-hot anger. “You low-life,” she spat with contempt. “You’re right. I am a liar. I don’t love this paper, I don’t love this town, and I certainly am not in love with you.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s all out in the open now. The games we played didn’t get either of us what we were after.”
The hidden meaning of his words sank in. “So the heart to heart talks, the dates, making — ” she hesitated, unable to call it love “ — the sex, it was all a game.”
His eyes darkened with spite. “Wasn’t it?”
None of it had ever meant anything to him. He’d slept with her to keep her from selling the paper. Her stomach churned, and she swallowed the knot forming in her throat. “Believe what you want. I’ve been nothing but honest with you, with all of you,” she said louder for anyone eavesdropping, “from the beginning. And this is what I get?” She paused, hoping he’d say it was all a giant mistake. He remained silent. “I guess I got my answer. Get out.”
David crossed his arms and stayed put. His mahogany eyes darkened like angry thunderclouds. If looks could kill she surely would have dropped dead at his feet.
Wild grief and disappointment ripped through her. “Fine. Stay. I’m expected at the Kingston Pen in a half hour today, anyway.”
“You’re going there in that get-up?” Contempt dripped from his voice.
“What the hell do you care?” She shrouded herself in the last few shreds of dignity she had left, grabbed her pocketbook, and brushed passed him, head high.
Outside her office, she looked around and paused, disoriented. Geoff’s disappointed glance confirmed her worst fears.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” One by one she’d lost them all. First her mother, then her father, now David and Geoffrey. The cameraman crossed his arms and leaned against the copy desk, as though daring her to explain herself.
She wouldn’t dignify the gesture. “If you’re still coming to K Pen with me today meet me in the parking lot in five minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “If you’re not there by eleven, I’ll assume you’re not coming.” She walked across the Bull Pen, and left.
• • •
Leigh jammed her last suitcase into the small sports car. Geoffrey hadn’t shown and she’d gone to the jail, alone. And, after she’d jumped through all the hoops, from the Pen’s pedestrian trap doors to the Visiting Center to be processed, waited in line for twenty minutes with her Request to Visit Inmate Form, and finally made it to the other side, John Blackbear hadn’t shown, either. His cellmate Fred Red Cloud Wallace had been waiting for her in his stead.
She’d been shocked by the young man’s appearance. The right side of his face was a disturbing shade of purplish blue, the eye swollen shut. And the other eye, the one staring at her with hostility from the other side of the table, was bright with anger. He wouldn’t tell her what had happened, only that not everyone inside was happy to have as much light shed on the situation.
And for what? As far as he and John were concerned, the offending guards had come off as gentle souls fulfilling a thankless task, the inmates like a bunch of crybabies and, once again, the outside world had sided with the establishment. She replayed their conversation in her head again, wondering how it could have all gone so wrong.
“Here. Print this.” He’d pushed a sheet of yellow foolscap across the table to her.
She’d looked at the handwritten document detailing various alleged atrocities Native American inmates suffered at the hands of their COs. “I can’t print this. Not without investigating every single one of these incidents.”
“You’re supposed to be on our side.”
“I’m not on anybody’s side. I am impartial and I gave both sides of the story as accurately as I could. Printing this,” she’d said, waving the page at him, “without a shred of evidence, would be irresponsible.” Not to mention fraudulent and illegal.
He’d gotten up so abruptly that his chair had fallen back, immediately alerting the guard on duty. “We let you in cause you said you were going to help out. If you’re not gonna, then butt out,” he’d screamed, as the guard took him away.
Then she’d returned to the Deery’s B&B and cried until she didn’t have a single tear left. Everything from the unkempt bed to the two empty cups of coffee by the sink just exacerbated her pain, reminding her of the brief idyllic period where she’d been on top of the world. Now, every inch of her room — from the newspaper clippings covering the floor to the research materials on her desk, reminded her of her debacle. Even the pillow she’d buried her face in smelled of David, and for a while, she thought her heart would never heal.
But after a few hours, the pain ripping through her subsided to a dull heaviness in her chest and a pounding headache — a state of mind she knew only too well. She’d dragged herself out of bed, packed her things, and paid Mrs. Deery for the rest of the month. Thank God the old gal had the good grace to pretend not to notice her tear-stained face. Time had come, once again, to leave Watford and move on with her life. Zeus, alerted by the luggage and bags piling up at the door, stayed close, growling at every sound.
She looked down at her ever-faithful companion. “All right buddy, time to go.” One more stop beckoned, then she’d be free of this town for good. Zeus lifted her hand with his muzzle and put his head under it for a scratch. Leigh stroked him behind the ears and clipped his leash. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands me.”
Zeus’s answer came in the form of a vigorous lick and tail wagging.
• • •
Leigh pulled into Oak Hill and realized with a start she’d been so caught up in her thoughts she couldn’t remember the drive. Visions of what might’ve happened flashed before her eyes. Thank God she hadn’t ended up in a ditch or worse, caused an accident and hurt someone. She shuddered at the thought and winced as the nagging drumbeat in her temples doubled.
Andrea trotted up from the lower gardens, no doubt alerted by the six-cylinder’s engine. “What’s wrong?”
Leigh groaned. Her stepmother was right in suspecting her unscheduled visit meant something was up. Of course, the puffy eyes and car jammed with suitcases weren’t exactl
y the right ingredients for keeping her agenda a secret. “I’m leaving. I just came by to give you this.” She held up the old photo album Bruce MacDonald had given her at the wake.
Andrea looked at her, a strange look twisting her face.
“Sheesh. You too? I’m not selling. Well, maybe I am. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. It’s complicated. Either way, there’s no guarantee anyone will keep their jobs and no one wants to understand that.”
Andrea seemed confused. “Slow down, honey. I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m upset …I thought you … here, take it.”
Andrea reached for the leather-bound volume, tears welling up in her eyes. She cracked it open and a melancholic smile lit up her face. “Your father’s first scrapbook. He was so handsome.” She paused, pleasure and sadness fighting for space on her delicate features. She closed the book and hugged it against her chest. “I don’t understand. You don’t want to keep it?”
Uncomfortable with Andrea’s candor, Leigh turned the key in the ignition, eager to leave. “I can’t.” I don’t deserve it. “I know he would have wanted you to have it.”
“Wait. Stay. Please. Let’s talk about this.” At Leigh’s obvious indecision, Andrea added, “I have something for you, too.”
Leigh turned the engine off and chewed on her lower lip. She just wanted to go back to the city to lick her wounds in private. Was that too much to ask? The spicy aroma of warm apple pie drifted from the kitchen drawing a growl from her empty stomach. On the other hand, she really did need to get a grip before she got back on the road, and she hadn’t eaten in hours.
Andrea must have sensed her indecision. She glanced at Zeus as though he might attack at any moment and took a deep breath before adding, “You can even bring the dog.”
At the word dog, Zeus’s perked right up and tried to jump onto Leigh’s lap. Andrea took a step away from the car.
“Tell you what. I’ll let him run around the property while you and I go inside.” Leigh opened the door, and Zeus scampered off after some imaginary foe.
As she followed Andrea through the long hallway that ran down the center of the house, Leigh marveled at how little the place had changed since her mother’s death. Photos of her ancestors looked down at her from the walls.
“Did it ever bother you? Living in her house?”
“Living up to your mother’s memory was the hard part, not living in her house.”
Leigh ambled on in silence, not trusting herself to say the right thing. Wisps of Nina Simone’s melancholic voice drifted from the antique phonograph in the front parlor. Her father had always loved the diva’s deep sultry tone.
“Help yourself to some pie, and take a seat. I’ll be right back.” Andrea disappeared up the old service stairwell. Leigh’s glance traveled around the cozy hearth to the hot pie cooling on the marble counter. Funny, no matter how miserable she felt, lack of appetite never seemed to be an issue. She cut herself a sliver of the warm desert wishing she had Andrea’s metabolism and could scarf down a large piece without gaining an ounce. She popped a small morsel of the sweet treat in her mouth and immediately felt better. To hell with the diet.
Andrea came back carrying two old black and white striped shoeboxes bearing the words Giorgio Armani in gold lettering on their sides and lids. Leigh couldn’t help but smile. The size of the boxes and designer make left no question as to which parent she’d inherited the big feet and taste for expensive shoes from.
“I found these when I cleaned out your dad’s office.” Andrea put the boxes down on the nook’s table and sat opposite her. “I’m sorry, I kind of looked inside. I didn’t know what it was until I — ” Her voice trailed off, and she got up as though she’d suddenly remembered to do something.
Leigh lifted the first one’s lid, and stared at the box’s contents. Newspaper clippings, some yellowed with time, were methodically organized and gathered together by date and subject. On closer inspection she realized they were stories she’d written for The Star, and The Globe before that, the most recent one dating back to the day before her father’s death. “Mousetrap back at the Old Alex” the title read. She’d gone to the premiere of the show after obsessing about which shoes to wear to the event for over an hour. Meanwhile, her father, to whom she hadn’t spoken to in ages, was mere hours from his death. How completely clueless she’d been.
Their unresolved rift weighed on her, a huge painful knot in her chest, and wild grief ripped through her as she realized the number of hours of work that had gone into this collection. She touched the carefully filed pieces of writing with trembling hands, not quite believing they were real. There must have been hundreds of clippings in the box. Paper cuts of the words she’d written to catch his eye. Her articles. All of them. He’d been paying attention all along.
The other box caught her glance. She bit her lip until it throbbed like her pulse. What else could there be?
She put her hand on the container and inhaled deeply. Some sixth sense told her therein lied the answers she sought. She jerked the cover off and gasped. There, in black and white, a young Ben and his beautiful bride, smiled at her. She stared, at once blank, amazed and very shaken. Her eyes prickled with bittersweet tears of joy. She caressed the photo with a trembling hand, and a delicate spicy fragrance wafted from the box. Her mother’s perfume.
In a frenzy, she pulled out photo after photo, her entire childhood coming together before her like the pieces of a puzzle. At the bottom or the back of each one, her mother had recorded the occasion in her fine script. Vivian and Ben, New Year’s Eve. Vivian and Ben, engagement party. Vivian, six months pregnant. Vivian and Leigh, ten minutes old. And on it went. Every photograph, every memento, down to the last scrap of paper brought memories of her mother flooding back.
At the bottom of the box lay a blue velour case about the size of a cigar box. Her mother’s jewelry box.
All the loneliness and confusion she’d felt about her father’s actions and their ten-year estrangement welded together in one surge of overwhelming grief and regret. She gulped hard, hot tears slipping down her cheeks and tried to make sense of her feelings at her father’s secret display of affection. Through the haze of her confusion, she felt the comforting squeeze of Andrea’s hand on her arm.
“He never stopped loving you,” she said, a gentle softness in her voice.
“I never got to say goodbye,” Leigh said, swallowing a sob. “I never — ” anguish knotted her throat and silenced her. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she surrendered to her grief and wept aloud, covering her face with her hands.
She yielded to Andrea’s embrace, and let herself be cradled and rocked back and forth. “He knew you loved him, baby girl,” she whispered. “He knew.”
Leigh cried, deep sobs racking her insides. Then, as the truth of her stepmom’s statement flowed through her, some of the pain she’d been carrying around for years subsided. After some time, her tears lessened, and she pulled away from Andrea’s hold, embarrassed. “I was so angry at him, and awful to you. When you came into our lives, it seemed so soon after her death … I, I blamed you for everything.”
Andrea handed her a tissue. “You were just a child. I was the adult. I should have tried harder.”
“There was nothing you could have done. After Mom died, he changed. He went from being the sophisticated soft-spoken journalist I knew and loved to this big, loud, small-town newspaper editor. He sold our apartment on Central Park West and left New York for Watford. Spending summers here was bad enough. But moving here.” She shook her head. “Then he met you and — ”
“And I wasn’t exactly what you’d call high society.”
Leigh averted her eyes and her cheeks burned in remembrance. “That’s not true. It’s just that, it wasn’t you, you weren’t my mom, you were different — ”
She sat up w
ith dignity. “It’s okay, honey. I have no illusions about who I am and what I’m made of. But at the time, I was intimidated by you. You were barely a teenager and you seemed so self-possessed and worldly, and I was just an uneducated floozy.”
“No.” She put her hand over Andrea’s. “Don’t ever think that. I wanted to blame you, but deep down I was angry with him. I hated it here. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to leave Manhattan. My mother and I loved the city. All of a sudden, it was like he wanted to erase both of us from his memory.”
“Sometimes, when people are hurting, they do strange things.”
“He missed every dance recital, school play, graduation, award ceremony, and each time he had the perfect excuse. He was interviewing someone important, he was in the middle of breaking a big story. And now this, I don’t know what to think — ” Leigh stopped, her eyes burning with a new batch of tears.
“Remember the time we both came to your piano recital at Farrell Recital Hall?”
“Urgh.” Leigh rolled her eyes and made a lame attempt at a smile. It had been a disaster. After the spectators had spotted Ben and Andrea in the audience, there was no getting them back. They’d whispered, pointed, and many had stuck around after the show for pictures and autographs of the famous columnist and his new wife, the small town waitress. Leigh was mortified.
“After that night, he vowed he wouldn’t do that to you again.”
“And he stopped coming out to stuff.” The feeling of abandonment that had weighed her down for so many years began lifting. “Why didn’t he just tell me?”
“He wrote beautiful prose, but he wasn’t exactly the best communicator.” Andrea continued, seemingly undaunted by Leigh’s skeptical stare. “Come on. You and I both know what a big kid he was. That’s why people liked him so much and it’s those same qualities that put the paper in the hole.”
Suddenly, it all made sense. “Mom made all the decisions, didn’t she?”
Andrea smiled. “He couldn’t even balance a checkbook.”
Heart to Heart Page 18