From his travels. Jennifer fought her impulse to seize on the unspoken offer. He’d bitten it back, after all. “Well, if you happen to get to L.A. again, that would be great.”
“I don’t get here often.” He was withdrawing. Not only through his words, but he’d averted his gaze to the window, as if her patio held something of great interest.
“I suppose not.”
Then he fixed on her again, the azure of his eyes vivid in the morning light. “If I do, though, would it be all right if I call you?”
“Of course.” Her heart leaped. Don’t ask for too much. “I’ll be curious to find out if Rosalie remembers you that long.”
“You could e-mail photos.”
That seemed safe enough. “I’d be glad to.”
He dug into his wallet and handed her a card with his e-mail address. “You know, last time we had a conversation like this, I found out you were holding back.”
Jennifer wasn’t sure what he meant. “About what?”
“The surrendered babies. Any more secrets I should know about? I just don’t want to look like an idiot in case…never mind. I don’t even know why I brought it up.”
She took a deep breath. “Do I have secrets? Sure. Dark and deep. But I’ll save them for my memoirs, if I ever write any.”
He regarded her quizzically, as if unsure how seriously to take her. Then he shrugged. “It’s not as if I’m entitled to the whole truth and nothing but.”
Jennifer checked her watch. “Speaking of photos, Rosalie and I have an appointment at a studio in a little over an hour.”
“You don’t mess around. She’s only been with you a week and you’ve got the whole formal thing lined up.”
“If I seem organized, I assure you, it’s an illusion.” Jennifer rose, her mind filling with all the things she had to do to get ready. “Having a baby to raise means taking everything day by day.”
“But you’re happy?” Ian asked.
Suddenly she realized she was. Even though it all felt a bit tentative and fragile, she was happier than she could ever recall.
“I am,” Jennifer said. And if I can see you again before you leave L.A., I’ll be even happier. But she decided it would be wiser not to say that.
Besides, it was enough for right now that they worked side by side clearing the dishes and putting away the food. Moving in synch, at ease with each other and with the silence.
As if they belonged together. And for this brief span of time, they did.
ON THE DRIVE BACK TO L.A., the radio had nothing new to say about the judge. Luckily, there’d been no major developments while Ian was lolling on the beach and spending a memorable night with Jennifer.
He recognized what this meant. With his main story basically finished, there was no reason for him to stick around L.A. Sure, the rock singer and the actress would no doubt keep throwing brickbats at each other as their all-too-public divorce battle dragged on, but the local staff could handle that.
Usually by this point in the wrap-up, Ian became impatient for the next challenge. Eager to be surrounded by the scents and colors of another culture, by the sound of a foreign language.
Still, he wished he could spend a few more days at the beach, a few more mornings breakfasting with Jennifer and the baby. How long before he came this way again? Would Rosalie be walking already? Would Jennifer welcome him with the same gentle acceptance he’d found today?
Amazingly, she’d managed to diminish Ian’s guilt over failing to protect Libby Wycliff from the loss of her father. Now that the initial shock had faded, he supposed he’d been egotistical to imagine that he’d had the power to prevent the judge’s death.
As he transitioned to another freeway, Ian became keenly aware of the distance lengthening between him and Safe Harbor. It seemed unlikely he’d ever find out what supposedly deep, dark secrets Jennifer had referred to. While she might have been joking about that, he didn’t think so.
He wished she’d trusted him enough to confide in him. But he couldn’t blame her for not baring her soul to a man who was about to leave.
Whatever she hadn’t told him, it was none of his business.
Chapter Fourteen
Jennifer began the week, as usual, by reviewing supervisors’ summaries of weekend events for anything that might be newsworthy, for good or ill. Fortunately, things had been quiet: no more surrendered babies and no further incursions by the news media.
The coast appeared clear for her to start on the monthly mailer, a mixture of health tips and medical news that the hospital sent to the community. “We’ll have to address the baby issue,” Jennifer observed while reviewing ideas in Willa’s small office next to hers.
“I wrote a poem to thank the mothers for bringing them here.” The assistant handed it to her. “It’s kind of sentimental, but don’t you think it captures the spirit? We could frame this with cute little cupids. That way we don’t actually show the babies and breach their privacy.”
Jennifer scanned the poem. “Well done. Great idea.” The community enjoyed this kind of approach, judging by the positive response to a holiday tribute Willa had written to the nurses who worked while others celebrated. “You have a knack for going straight to the heart.”
Her assistant sighed. “Tell that to my kids. They stopped sharing their feelings with me in junior high.”
“They’re teenagers. They’ll appreciate you when they’re older.” On the far side of the administrative suite, a door slammed. “I wonder what that’s about.”
“I don’t know, but Tony marched in here this morning looking ready to punch someone, and disappeared into Mark’s office.”
Jennifer hadn’t heard of any bone of contention between the attorney and the administrator, so it must be something else. “What do you suppose—Never mind.” She dragged her thoughts back to the mailer. “Let’s go with this. It’s lovely.”
Later that morning, she nearly bumped into Tony as he exited his office. “Can I help with anything?” Jennifer asked.
He scowled. “Yeah, you can buy me a straitjacket and throw me in a padded cell.” And out he stalked.
What on earth?
After tapping on Mark’s door, Jennifer peered inside. “What’s going on with Tony?”
The administrator regarded her grimly. “It’s a personal matter.”
She waited for him to elaborate. The moment lengthened. Okay, she could take a hint. “Sorry to intrude.”
Stepping out, Jennifer decided to see if Dr. Jared Sellers, Lori’s fiancé, had time to fill her in on a cooling machine the hospital had acquired to treat newborns who’d suffered oxygen deprivation. She’d love to write about it for the mailer.
The easygoing neonatologist proved eager to show her the machine. “Let’s say the umbilical cord chokes off the newborn’s air supply, potentially causing brain damage,” he said as she took notes. “By wrapping the baby’s head in this tubing and circulating cold water, we can lower the infant’s temperature slightly. Doing this for up to seventy-two hours reduces the risk of cerebral palsy or other disabilities, although it’s by no means a cure-all.”
She shivered, thinking of Rosalie. “Isn’t it dangerous to chill a baby like that?”
He pointed to a heating element. “We pamper the rest of our little patients’ bodies and monitor them constantly.” Warming to his subject—she’d better not use that phrase in her story, Jennifer mused—Jared went on to explain that, while the technology might be new, therapeutic cooling dated back to the days of Hippocrates, the ancient Greek considered by some historians to be the first real physician. He had recommended that soldiers’ wounds be packed in snow and ice.
After snapping pictures of Jared with the machine, Jennifer teased, “Do you plan to keep that mustache for the wedding?”
He fingered the thin line on his upper lip. “That’s up to my bride. She’s calling the shots.” Jared’s smile faded. “Although she’s a little freaked out this morning.”
“About
what?”
“Where we’ll hold the reception. But I’m sure she’ll figure something out.” His beeper sounded. “Duty calls.” Before she could quiz him further, he strode away.
The reception had been planned for Tony and Esther’s house. There was obviously a connection between the attorney’s bad mood and Lori’s concern, but what?
Since it was almost noon, Jennifer went by the daycare center to check on Rosalie. Although disappointed to find the infant sound asleep, she was glad her daughter had apparently adapted to the new environment. According to the supervisor, the baby had seemed entertained watching the other children play and had taken her bottles right on schedule.
Reassured, Jennifer headed to the cafeteria to meet her friends. After choosing a salad, she spotted Lori in a sunny corner of the outdoor patio, poking furiously at her pasta. In the sunshine, her freckles stood out like angry red dots. If Jennifer hadn’t known better, she’d fear her friend was coming down with a rash.
Jennifer set her tray on the table. “You look upset.”
“You might say that.” Lori stabbed the food in front of her, which she’d reduced to a mash of broccoli bits, carrots and noodles. It appeared to have been today’s special, pasta primavera.
Samantha joined them, carrying a large sandwich and a carton of milk. Straightforward as always, she plopped down and announced, “I’ve been hearing rumors about the Francos all morning, but none of them make any sense. What gives?”
“If there’s any problem with the wedding plans, you know we’ll help,” Jennifer added.
Lori glowered at them. “I am not some Bridezilla who thinks this whole thing is about me.”
“We would never think that,” Samantha assured her. “Now spill.”
“My best friend, the girl who used to practically live at my house because her rich parents were always flying off on trips and she couldn’t stand being alone, the woman who insisted that my wedding colors coordinate with her decor…” Lori broke off to take a deep swig of mineral water.
“In other words, Esther,” Jennifer filled in.
“Yeah, her, although I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to speak her name again.”
“She got back from Washington yesterday, right?” Samantha prompted.
“And I called her all happy and eager to talk about our much-delayed shopping trip,” Lori grumbled. “You know what she said?”
They didn’t.
“She said, ‘Don’t count on me.’ Can you believe that? She didn’t even have the courtesy or the nerve to say that she won’t be part of my wedding, just ‘Don’t count on me.’ Like I’d invited her to a cocktail party!”
“Why can’t you count on her?” Jennifer hoped they were about to unlock this morning’s mystery.
“She’s accepted a job in the U.S. Attorney General’s office, in Washington, D.C. Starting immediately. She boasted about what a great career move it is and how everyone should be thrilled for her,” Lori fumed.
“No wonder Tony was out of sorts.” Jennifer wondered how his wife had persuaded him to agree to this huge step. “A move like that is a big deal. She’s got a new job, but what about him?”
“I’m not sure Tony’s going with her.” In response to their startled glances, Lori explained, “She didn’t tell him what she was doing. Completely blindsided him.”
“How could she do that?” Jennifer spluttered.
“She went on and on about what a huge break this is and how she couldn’t bear to give it up, so she didn’t bother asking.”
“What about their baby?” Samantha demanded. “Is she giving him up, too?”
“I got that impression.”
“How could she?” Jennifer had to struggle to keep her voice low. “I thought she was the one who wanted a baby in the first place.”
“Probably because she learned she was infertile,” Samantha growled. “That woman can’t bear to hear the word no.”
“She’s always been spoiled,” Lori conceded. “And selfish. But I never imagined she’d go this far.”
How could a person simply toss her family aside? Jennifer wondered. Well, perhaps they were being unfair to Esther. She might still work things out with Tony.
For once, though, Lori seemed in no mood for further conversation.
AFTER SENDING HIS EDITOR a follow-up story filled with quotes from former colleagues who regretted the downfall of Judge Wycliff’s once-promising legal mind, Ian forced himself to do the task he dreaded.
He dialed Eleanor Wycliff’s number again. Not her personal line, which she hadn’t revealed, but the one that rang through to her home office. While she might still refuse to speak to him, he had to try.
A spokeswoman answered. Instead of giving Ian short shrift, she said, “I believe Mrs. Wycliff would like to speak to you.”
Oh, great. Although as a reporter he was obligated to keep trying to contact her, he didn’t look forward to being hauled over the coals. Despite the woman’s aversion to her slimy ex-husband, death had a way of bringing out hidden feelings.
She came on the line. “Mr. Martin?” He would have recognized that patrician voice anywhere.
“Mrs. Wycliff, I hope Libby’s all right.” He braced for whatever came next.
“Thanks to you, my daughter’s fine.”
“Thanks to me?” He didn’t detect any sarcasm in her tone.
“On Friday, my ex-husband called to say he was sorry,” she said. “Apparently, you suggested it.”
Ian had, indeed. “I never expected him to listen.”
“Well, he apologized first to me, for cheating and behaving so disrespectfully to me. Can you believe it? We were married for eighteen years and not once did he say he was sorry, about anything.”
Ian pictured her shaking that head of silver hair in amazement. “I suppose you saw the video.…”
“Yes, and your words obviously got through to him.” Eleanor cleared her throat. “Then he talked to our daughter. I didn’t hear what they discussed, but afterward, she was crying. The good kind of crying. She said, ‘He really does love me.’ I think she’d begun to doubt it.”
Ian’s throat tightened. “I’m glad he did that.”
“The next day, he died,” Eleanor continued, a touch of amazement in her voice. “If it weren’t for you, he’d have gone to his grave without making amends. We owe you a great deal, Mr. Martin.”
Gravity seemed to lighten for Ian, as if he’d been rescued from trudging across the planet Jupiter. “I was afraid our interview might have contributed to his heart attack.”
“I don’t see how. Reconciling with Libby should have been good for his heart,” she responded. “You gave him peace, and you gave us closure.”
“I appreciate your telling me this.”
“You can quote me if you want,” she added. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I think it’s best that we keep this private.”
After the call ended, Ian sat staring at his computer screen, scarcely noticing the din of phones and conversation in the newsroom. What a sense of elation.
“Hey, Martin!” yelled the day supervisor. “Somebody here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t give a name.”
Hardly anyone ventured into the Flash News/Global offices except the occasional publicist, outraged story subject or nut job. Warily, Ian went to the receptionist’s desk.
He didn’t recognize either of the two people standing there, both clearly nervous as they watched him approach. The woman, in her early forties, leaned on a cane, while the man beside her stood crookedly, one shoulder lower than the other. They must have suffered serious injuries, he surmised.
Ian introduced himself.
“We know who you are, Mr. Martin. We’ve seen you on the Internet,” said the man. “I’m John McCoy and this is my wife, Andrea.”
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“You can write the truth about Jennifer Serra.” Bitterness laced the man�
��s words. “She’s the criminal who did this to us, and she’s never paid for it. We’re here to see that she does.”
Chapter Fifteen
After lunch, Jennifer set to work on the article about the cooling machine. Pieces for the mailer had to be short and upbeat, and this one suited the formula perfectly.
She was halfway through when her peripheral vision caught someone standing in the office doorway. At first glance she imagined it might be Ian—obviously wishful thinking—and then, with a spurt of pleasure, she saw that it really was him.
But the tightness in his jaw told her this wasn’t a social visit. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“We need to talk.”
As she got to her feet, Jennifer found it hard to breathe. What could have happened to bring him here in the middle of the day? “Ian, is your family all right?”
He blinked in surprise. “Yes, of course.”
“Well?”
She missed the sparkle in his gaze and his usual easy stance. He’d gone very stiff, very controlled. “I had a visit from two people who claim to know you from the past. John and Andrea McCoy.”
The blood rushed out of her head, leaving a dizzying void. A hand on the desk steadied her, but only marginally.
This was what she’d feared from the moment she’d allowed herself to be thrust into the public’s attention on Ian’s video. Now the ghosts of twelve years ago had returned.
She struggled to speak. “You’re going to write about this? Ian, it’s old news.”
He folded his arms. “They’re angry about all the publicity portraying you as a heroine. They said they’ve tried to put the past behind them, but seeing you in the news has raked up old, painful feelings. Mrs. McCoy’s been having nightmares, and some of her family members insist that’s because you never paid for what you did to them. If I don’t write about this, they might go to someone else—someone far less sympathetic. Please tell me your side of the story.”
He’d come here in person, willing to listen. That was a good thing, Jennifer told herself. But it didn’t feel very good.
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