Gilda left when Rebecca answered it. “Hello.” Today she sounded only slightly husky.
“Excellent. You sound much better,” David said softly.
“David.” Rebecca swallowed the aching lump in her throat. “I’m sorry I slept through your visit. You shouldn’t have come and done so much.”
“I did what needed to be done. I wish I was still there, but Gilda comes highly recommended.”
I wish you were here. Too much. “She’s a treasure, but I’m sending her home tomorrow morning. I feel much better, so don’t argue,” she said, using his own words.
“I’m too far away to argue successfully, and I don’t like to lose. I hope to be back in Chicago sometime next week. I’m eager to check on you and our rosebushes. How are they doing?”
“Still enjoying themselves.”
By the way he chuckled, she knew he’d understood her unspoken message.
“I’m making sure they get all the TLC they need. You, too. Don’t go back to work until you’re a hundred percent. We’ll talk soon.”
After he rang off, she realized it had been a very long time since she’d thought about David in connection with the Daily Mail. She’d started out thinking she could change his mind about her job and the paper in general, but he’d changed her. Now the thought of business intruding on her feelings for him left a bad taste in her mouth.
She snuggled down in her covers, thinking of David sharing this bed with her. She smiled, remembering all the playful “Ask Becky” moments. She got out her scrapbooks of old “Ask Becky” columns and read through them, laughing at how young she sounded, yet surprisingly wise at times. Unfortunately, she didn’t come across any advice that might remotely help her with her dangerous feelings for David. How to protect herself from the inevitable ending to all this joy.
On Wednesday, Gilda refused any money whatsoever, saying Mr. Sumner had already been more than generous.
On Thursday, the same two burly men wearing “The Farmer’s Market Nursery” T-shirts who had brought the rosebushes arrived to administer TLC on David’s behalf.
Rebecca, dressed for the first time in days, put a coat on over her cashmere Juicy Couture sweat suit to stand on the terrace to watch them prepare the bushes for winter.
They placed a quilted blanket like movers use to wrap furniture around the planters.
“Aren’t you supposed to put a house over the rose-bushes? That conelike thing I’ve seen?”
The taller man looked up at her. “Nope. We found out when it gets warmer the house causes mildew inside the cone. It’s bad for the roses.”
When they pulled out clippers, fear clutched at her heart. “What are you doing?”
“Gonna cut ’em back to eight and one-half inches. Then we mulch over the top,” the shorter one said and snipped the first bush.
“They’ll grow again. In the spring when the conditions are right,” the taller, kinder one promised when he saw her face.
Once they were gone, she looked at the rosebushes. Thanks to David they were tucked up safe and snug for the harsh winter. Thanks to David she felt swaddled in a warm glow of care herself.
She was so far past merely enjoying herself and dangerously, terrifyingly close to falling in love with him. Not that she’d allow such feelings to flourish, because then she’d lose control and open the door to pain. Yet something wonderful was happening between them, and she was bursting to share it with someone.
She knew the only safe place to do it.
CHICAGO DAILY MAIL WEDNESDAY FOOD
OYSTER AND COCKTAIL
Oysters on the half shell
1 cup ketchup
2 heaping tablespoons of horseradish, very fresh; adjust to taste
Dash of Tabasco
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon tarragon
Mix and serve with oysters, shrimp, or crab.
A Note from Rebecca Covington
Darlings, that’s not snow in the air, it’s love! I know I’ve been sharing stories about men getting it so wrong in the romance department. Now I’m thrilled to tell you about a divine husband who got it so right I wept when I heard the story.
This enlightened male knew how much his wife of fifteen years was dreading her fortieth birthday, so he planned a party for two at their favorite restaurant.
First came the oysters on the half shell, in which she found two-carat diamond studs.
Second came the filet mignon, wrapped with a diamond bracelet.
Third came the crème brûlée, with a diamond necklace sparkling on the rim of the cup instead of sugar.
The pièce de résistance was the small birthday cake on a plate sprinkled liberally with tiny pieces of what looked like confetti but was actually their prenup, which he had torn up out of overpowering love for her.
Finally a man who knows the definition of true romance.
Sigh.
Good luck in finding your own Prince Charming. These oysters might help.
Enjoy!
Xo Rebecca
Chapter 19
On Wednesday, Rebecca closed her office door and sat in her favorite chair, waiting for the clock to finally reach the bewitching hour when David always called. She felt overheated, flushed by her ever-present excitement.
At the stroke of twelve, the phone rang. To prove she still retained some control over her feelings, she forced herself to wait for three rings before picking it up slowly.
“Rebecca, it’s David.”
“Hi.” Happiness bubbled through her, but she tried very hard to keep it out of her voice. “What part of your far-flung empire are you ruling today?”
“Iowa.” She’d learned to recognize the amusement in his voice. “I’m acquiring two small local TV affiliates. I read your column today.”
She smiled at his change of subject. “Yes?”
“I’m pleased you wrote something positive about men. Did I have anything to do with your change of heart?”
David knew, but she couldn’t help sparring with him. It was too much fun. “My god, your ego is as big as Lake Michigan!” She laughed through the pleasure burning in her stomach.
“That’s my Rebecca. Back to normal.”
“Yes. Thanks to you and Gilda.” She took a strengthening breath to say what she thought she should. “All better. So you don’t need to check on me every day.”
“Evidently I enjoy it. Do you?”
“Evidently.” The word came out soft and fluttery because she’d been holding her breath.
“Then I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Basking in the tingling, pulse-racing afterglow of David’s daily call, Rebecca knew she was in a new “life stage.” The consulting firms’ latest buzzword for baby boomers could now be applied to her.
Since she was ten, she’d feared people deserting her, or even worse, that she might desert someone who needed her. But when she’d finally let her guard down, Peter’s betrayal had reinforced why she needed to protect herself, and that launched her into the commitment-phobic years. Don’t love ’em, just have fun and leave ’em.
Rebecca wasn’t sure what label to place on her newly evolved stage. Maybe it should be called the “I want to take a chance on happiness stage” or, probably closer to the mark, “I’m being a complete fool stage.”
Whichever it turned out to be, it was fraught with so many contradictions it made her head spin. Like now.
At the heart of the contradictions was David, whom she had thought she could charm into giving her column back. Instead he made her understand how cleanly and completely one’s personal and professional life could be separated. There was nothing left of the silly idea of David being “dough” in her hands, as she’d so long ago bragged to Harry.
David had changed everything. He made her hope “as long as you and I are both enjoying it” would last forever. She knew she should be terrified of these feelings. She knew David would leave her. He’d been honest from the beginning. But like a moth to the flame, she couldn’t pu
ll back from this.
Maybe it was her recent birthday and the fact everyone knew she was smack in the middle of her forties, not just past her thirty-ninth birthday or even fortyish. Maybe the fact she’d never felt better made her believe she could handle the end of their affair. She was already building up her defenses against it. Just as she was building up her courage to leave the Daily Mail at the right time and accept Charlie Bartholomew’s offer.
By Sunday, six calls later, Rebecca was so mellow she practically floated to Harry’s brownstone. He was waiting for her in his kitchen.
“You’re glowing, sweet pea. And all from a few phone calls.” He stuck out his perfectly shaped lower lip in a pout. “I wish the same happiness for all of us.”
“So do I. But David’s not going to be back in Chicago until the night before Thanksgiving. They’re all flying in together from California on the jet.”
“Lucky you.” He kissed her forehead. “Just imagine the sizzling sex you’ll have once he returns.”
She smiled dreamily at the totally X-rated images Harry’s remarks made race through her head, sending a shiver over every part of her David had touched.
“Stop!” Harry demanded. “That sex-crazed look is making me envious. Take your mind off your sex life and go to Whole Foods. Remember you have to feed him before you can ravish him on Thanksgiving Day. We have recipes to try. Here’s the list.”
The Whole Foods at Huron and Dearborn had a shopping cart traffic jam in every aisle. Customers, Starbucks in hand, strolled the aisles like Sunday drivers out for a relaxing afternoon. This might be fun for some, but Rebecca was on a mission.
Checking her list, she slowly walked along the meat section. She stopped to look down at the chicken breasts. Harry didn’t need any, but for some reason they reminded her of David and their first dinner. Disastrous on so many levels, but oh-so-stimulating and sexy on others.
In the liquor section, she picked up the sherry on Harry’s list. It was across the aisle from the champagne. She felt light-headed, warm and tingling, the way she had the night she and David had drunk Cristal to celebrate the twinners.
As she ground coffee, its aroma drifted around her, rich and full. It smelled great, but she’d always preferred tea. Her gaze fell on the boxes of English breakfast tea. The kind David had brewed for her the morning after.
This place is practically an aphrodisiac. No wonder people hang out here.
In the next aisle, the Belgian chocolates sent her thoughts racing to her birthday party and David bringing the rosebushes. In the middle of the delicious memory, she glanced up to see Shannon and a tall, slim-hipped, dark-haired woman pushing a cart around the corner at the end of the aisle.
There was something familiar about the other woman. Rebecca’s instincts sent out the alarm to follow that grocery cart.
She found the woman looking over the organic strawberries, but Shannon had disappeared.
Why does she seem so familiar? Trying to place her, Rebecca studied the perfectly made-up face, the trim body, the long legs encased in the newest narrow-cut pants.
The woman glanced up and spotted Rebecca.
The expression of distaste on her face warned Rebecca to brace herself. Years of professionally dealing with people, eager and not so eager to talk, had taught her how to single out foe from friend.
The moment she’d seen the woman with Shannon, Rebecca’s antennae told her she was on to something. “Hello. Have we met?” Smiling, Rebecca extended her hand. “I’m Rebecca Covington.”
The woman cut her off, pushing her cart past Rebecca and moving as fast as possible to the checkout counter.
Rebecca threw the last few items into her cart and followed. She needed the final piece of the puzzle to explain this circle of events that had so changed her life, and she had a hunch this woman was the answer.
The woman got out of the store faster than Rebecca. Finally done checking out, Rebecca raced after her.
In the parking lot Rebecca looked wildly around. Panic set in when it seemed she’d lost her. Then she spotted the woman loading groceries into the trunk of a navy blue Lexus.
Rebecca approached her again, this time blocking the door to the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry to bother you again. I’m—”
“I know damn well who you are,” the woman interrupted. Her disdainful glare and cold voice should have sent any sensible person racing for cover.
Rebecca dropped her hand but held her ground. “I believe we have a mutual friend. Shannon Forrester.”
“Friend?” the woman barked in a harsh intake of breath. Her glare and voice left no doubt she had an ax to grind.
The elusive memory of this woman’s patrician features and short, wavy dark hair finally clicked together.
“You’re Charlene Jones. You’re on the Culinary Institute Board. And I believe you live at Eagle Towers.” She nodded, putting the last piece of the puzzle together. “I understand now.”
“You don’t understand anything.” Hatred blazed out of Charlene’s cornflower blue eyes. “You ruined my life. I’m glad I made problems for you!”
Other shoppers were staring curiously at them as they walked by into the store. Rebecca tried to stay calm, but something nasty and hot was filling the back of her throat. “I don’t understand. Why do you think I ruined your life?”
“Think.” Charlene’s hands gripped the handle of the grocery cart so tightly her skin turned chalk white, making her nails look like bloodred talons. “You wrote one of your so-called blind items about what socialite on the Gold Coast is having an affair with her yoga instructor. Who knew my husband read your stupid column?”
A sense of needing to make retribution washed over Rebecca, and she steeled herself to take whatever tongue-lashing Charlene gave her. “I never mentioned names when I dropped in a blind item. I’m sorry if it caused problems in your marriage.”
“He divorced me. After having me followed and drawing his own conclusion.” A tear trickled down Charlene’s smooth, flushed face. “The irony is I hadn’t even had an affair. I’d only fantasized about it with my friends.”
Rebecca’s whole gossip column career flashed in front of her eyes. How many others had been hurt like this? Some images brought the bile back up in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Go to hell and get out of my way!” Charlene snarled, shoving Rebecca aside to get into her car.
Rebecca felt like she was descending into guilt hell with every step she took back to Harry’s brownstone. By the time she reached the kitchen and put the grocery bags down, she had entered whichever circle of Dante’s Inferno was reserved for doomed souls who had hurt others. Harry found her sobbing into the sweet potatoes.
“What happened to you? Come here and tell me all about it,” he coaxed.
She stepped into his comforting arms and sobbed out Charlene’s story. At the end, Rebecca sniffed and stepped away to wipe at her wet face with the back of her hand. “I think she’s right about me. What gave me the right to decide who deserved to have their secrets revealed?”
“Sweet pea, stop beating yourself up over this. Trust me. There’s more to the story than this woman is telling you. If her husband decided to divorce her after having her followed, then there was something more than mere lusting in her heart.”
She could hear the anger in his voice on her behalf. “I know. You’re probably right. But if the columns I intended to be witty and provocative had anything to do with ruining someone’s life, then I have to think seriously about whether or not I want to do it again.”
On Monday morning, still agonizing over what part she might have played in the dissolution of the Jones’ marriage, Rebecca walked into Shannon’s office and shut the door behind her.
From the stony look on Shannon’s face, Rebecca knew Charlene had called her about their Whole Foods confrontation.
“We need to talk, Shannon,” Rebecca said warily, exhausted to her bones with her soul-searching weekend.
&nbs
p; Shannon relaxed back in her chair, swiveling it gently to and fro. “It’s about time someone told you what they thought of your irresponsible journalism. You cost Charlene Jones the love of her life.”
“I understand you plotted with her to get even with me by planting that false tip about the senator at Eagle Towers and rigging the Culinary Institute auction.”
Shannon tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I admit to nothing.”
Feeling sick at the way Shannon was looking at her, Rebecca perched on the edge of the chair in front of the desk. “I deeply regret any pain I caused Charlene, and you with George.”
Something flickered in Shannon’s slightly bulgy blue eyes. “I’m not discussing my personal life with you, of all people.”
Still vulnerable from guilt, Rebecca hesitated. “Shannon . . . I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know you had feelings for George when I started seeing him.”
Shannon jumped up, slamming the chair back against the wall. “Charlene’s right. Your egotism is appalling. You don’t know anything about my feelings for George.” Shannon blinked several times, like she was fighting back tears. “George didn’t mean anything to you, but we were perfect for each other. All our friends said so.” She glanced down at the goldfish swimming in the bowl. “Chris and Kara were even setting us up before George started seeing you.” She curled her lip. “But you ruined it. I’d die before I’d stoop to take your rejects.”
Her fingers hidden in her lap, Rebecca twisted them together, struggling to find the right words to calm Shannon’s near hysterics. “George isn’t my reject. We were simply two consenting adults who shared a brief fling. End of story.”
“You’re eleven years older than he is!” Shannon shouted, her face turning a molten red. “You’re nearly old enough to be his mother!”
Shannon’s behavior over the last several months had caused Rebecca pain and sadness, but this last remark made her laugh. “Hardly. I was a late bloomer.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me.” Shannon slammed her palms flat on the desk. “You’re the laughingstock, hanging on here when no one wants you. Why don’t you admit you’re over the hill? Finished.”
Talk of the Town Page 20