“I’m fine,” she said with a calm she wasn’t close to feeling. “This is Wade Pierce, a friend of my husband’s.”
“Your . . .” Missy’s mouth fell open, eyes darting from Christy-Lynn’s face to the book in Wade’s hand, clearly putting the pieces together. “But you said your last name was Parker.”
“It was. It is.” Christy-Lynn shot her a pleading look. She hadn’t wanted it to happen like this, but now that it had, she was going to have to pay the piper. Just not here. And not now.
“Please, Missy, I’ll explain at dinner, but right now I need to step away. Aileen, can you hold down the fort?” Without waiting for an answer, she jerked her chin at Wade. “Come with me.”
In the café, she glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot, then rounded on him. “All right, what do you want?”
SEVENTEEN
What did he want?
He wanted to know what Stephen Ludlow’s wife was doing in Sweetwater.
He wasn’t sure it was her at first. It was the hair, mostly. She was wearing it short now, tucked behind her ears with a fringe of dark bangs falling across her forehead. It worked. So did the gauzy blouse and flowy cotton skirt she was wearing. She looked younger, less buttoned up—or had before she’d opened her mouth.
She was glaring at him now, arms clenched across her chest. Classic hostility pose. But then who could blame her? The scene at the alumni dinner had been an ugly one, thanks to the back-to-back shots of Jameson Simone had urged him to down the minute they hit the bar. She thought it would help take the edge off. Man, had she read that one wrong.
Not that whiskey was an excuse for showing out. A smart man would have refused to engage. A smart man would have walked away. But that wasn’t what happened. Instead, he’d run his mouth and ended up nose to nose with Christine Ludlow. He’d thought about her from time to time, about how she had rushed to her husband’s defense that night, the heat in her voice, the daggers in her eyes. It hadn’t been pleasant, but as he stood there taking his well-deserved dressing-down, he’d found himself wondering if Simone would have done the same if the roles were reversed. It had taken three years, but eventually he’d gotten his answer. No.
And now they had chanced to meet again. She was still glaring at him, still waiting for an answer, though he honestly couldn’t remember what she’d asked him. “Look, if this is about the reunion, I’m—”
“How did you find me?”
He stared at her, baffled. “How did I . . . what?”
“You can drop the act. I know where you work, remember? Why can’t you all just leave me alone?”
“I have no—who is you all?”
Her chin inched up, and the familiar daggers were back. “I’m not going to talk to you if that’s what you’re hoping. There isn’t going to be any exclusive.”
“Exclusive? Christine, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really. I suppose you’re here on vacation. Because Sweetwater is a mecca for Pulitzer Prize–winning journalists.”
“It was a Hearst Award not a Pulitzer, and it was years ago—a million years ago to be exact. And to answer your question, I live here—for almost a year now. Though I could ask the same of you because I sure as hell can’t see Stephen hanging out in a place like Sweetwater.”
“Is this some sort of game?”
Wade exhaled long and hard, tired of whatever this was. “Okay, clearly I’ve missed something. Why would I be playing a game?”
“You honestly expect me to believe you walked into my store, today of all days, purely by accident?”
“I do as a matter of fact. Wait, this is your store?”
She eyed him sharply. “The whole town’s been talking about it. Have you been living under a rock or something?”
“You could say that. I’ve been squirreled away in my cabin while I finish revisions for a book I’m working on. Why?”
And just like that the fire in her eyes guttered. “Stephen’s dead.”
Wade struggled to absorb the words, thinking he must have heard them wrong. “My God, Christine. I’m so sorry. Was he . . . sick?”
“His car went off a bridge just before Thanksgiving. It was all over the news.”
He stood there a moment, dragging a hand through his hair. “Jesus. No wonder you thought I was being an ass. I wasn’t lying before. I really have been off the grid. And I really am sorry. Stephen and I had our differences, but I never wished him any harm. Are you . . . my God, I don’t even know what to say. Are you . . . how are you doing?”
“I’m . . . coping.”
“So that’s what you’re doing here? Starting over?”
“Trying to, yes.”
“I imagine it’s been hard.”
“It has. And it just got a whole lot harder.”
She was glaring again. Could all this hostility really be about something that happened four years ago? “Look, I didn’t mean to dredge up a lot of unpleasant memories. I know what it’s like to have to rebuild your life from the ground up. But at the risk of being nosy, why here? Don’t get me wrong, Sweetwater and I go way back, but for someone like you, it’s a speck on the map.”
“I don’t know what that means,” she said frostily. “Someone like you.”
Damn it. Everything he said seemed to be hitting a nerve. “I just meant it must be a little slow after the life you’re used to.”
She eyed him coldly. “You don’t know anything about the life I’m used to. And Sweetwater isn’t just a speck on the map. Stephen and I actually spent a few days here on our honeymoon. He said the two of you used to come here to fish.”
“We did. A long time ago. My grandfather had a cabin up on Silver Lake. It’s mine now. I guess we all run back to what we know. Nostalgia’s a pretty strong motivator.”
She straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze squarely. “Coming here wasn’t about nostalgia. It was about necessity.”
“Too many memories?”
“Too many reporters. They were camped out in my driveway, waiting to pounce the minute I set foot out my door. I wound up having to sneak out of my own house in the middle of the night.”
“And you ended up here. I can see that, I guess. Wanting to be in a place where you and Stephen spent time.”
“Oh, that’s good,” she shot back drily. “Brokenhearted widow returns to honeymoon haven. Tug at the public’s heartstrings, and you can sell it as a human-interest story instead of what it really is—none of anyone’s damned business. Either way, I’m sure it’ll make a great story. Maybe you’ll win another award.”
“I’m not a reporter anymore.”
She blinked at him. “You expect me to believe that?”
Wade felt the familiar pulse flare to life at his temple. “I do, actually. And it’s not polite to assume someone’s a liar when you barely know them.”
She shrugged, a casual blend of hostility and skepticism. “Forgive me, but I’ve had experience with your type.”
“And what type is that?”
“The parasitic type, the kind who’d step over anyone or anything to get a scoop. But don’t take it personally. It’s how I feel about all reporters.”
Her words rankled more than he liked to admit; perhaps because they were hard to deny. Yes, he’d walked away from Week in Review. But it would be lying to say he hadn’t done things that went against his conscience. Still, he wasn’t about to let her know she had landed a blow.
“For starters,” he said, not bothering to keep the edge from his voice, “the word scoop went out with Perry White and the Daily Planet, so if you plan to continue bashing me, you might want to bone up on the lingo. And is it impossible to believe some of us went into journalism because we wanted to do some good?”
“Oh yes, tell me all about journalistic integrity. I’m sure doing good was exactly what the guy outside my bedroom window had in mind when he snapped a picture of me in my underwear.”
Wade felt his blood begin to simmer
. She had every right to be angry—but not at him. “Guys who do what you just described aren’t journalists; they’re vultures. And I’ll thank you not to lump me in with them. I can show you—”
But she held up a hand before he could finish. “I don’t want to hear about your awards or sit through a recitation of your portfolio. I’m sure that’s what you all tell yourselves on the first day of reporter school—that you’re in it for truth, justice, and the American way, but I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the camera, to be mobbed by a pack of jackals who don’t care who they crush as long as they get the chance to shove a picture of your husband’s half-naked girlfriend in your face while the cameras are rolling, so please . . . spare me your indignation.”
Wade tried to blink away the images that had just burned themselves into his brain or to at least prioritize them. It was hard to know what to focus on first; the indefensible—not to mention illegal—invasion of her privacy or her casual mention of a half-naked girlfriend. Either way, he found himself seething, disgusted that she’d had to endure that kind of humiliation at the hands of the media—or her husband for that matter. For all he knew, someone from Week in Review had been part of the mob in her driveway. Someone like Simone.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he told her quietly. “In fact, I’m sorry anyone ever has to go through it, which is why I left Review—and New York. I needed to get the taste of it out of my mouth.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Just like that, you up and quit?”
“Just like that. I don’t own a television, and there’s no Wi-Fi at the cabin, which is why I had no idea Stephen was dead, no idea about the girlfriend, no idea about any of it. That’s the truth, Christine.”
“Please don’t call me that.” She sounded tired all of a sudden. And looked it too. “I’m Christy-Lynn Parker here, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”
“You changed your name?”
“It’s my maiden name. I was trying to fly under the radar, and until you arrived, I was doing fine.”
“There was no way I could have known that.”
“You weren’t lying,” she said finally. “You really didn’t know.”
“I really didn’t. The picture of the woman—that really happened the way you said?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know? Before Stephen died, I mean?”
“No.”
He had a dozen questions bouncing around in his head, but he didn’t ask any of them. His antenna, finely tuned after God knew how many interviews, told him to keep his mouth shut and wait. It wasn’t easy, but eventually she dropped into one of the café chairs.
“They pulled her out of the car,” she said quietly. “Naked from the waist up. They asked if I could identify her body.”
Bloody hell.
And yet he wasn’t as shocked as he should have been. Perhaps because Stephen had stopped shocking him years ago. His widow, however, was another story. Her husband’s betrayal had clearly rocked her, perhaps even more than she knew, and for an instant, he found himself tempted to reach for her hand.
“Is there any chance it isn’t what it looked like?” he asked instead. “That Stephen and this woman weren’t actually . . . involved?”
“No. I don’t know who she was, but there was a photograph in Stephen’s study, and a bunch of unexplained bank drafts, every month just like clockwork. I haven’t had a chance to dig through it all yet, but I’m pretty sure I know what I’ll find. The police don’t even know who she is. At least they didn’t when the morgue photos surfaced a week later.”
“Leaked?”
She nodded. “Front page of the Star Examiner.”
Wade closed his eyes briefly, wishing to God he didn’t know what he knew. He could imagine the celebration only too well, the inevitable strutting and chest bumping that came with that kind of score. And with photos, no less. He’d seen Simone bask in the glory of an especially juicy takedown piece, never once considering the people on the other end of those stories. It had sickened him then, and it sickened him now.
“A celebrity. A tragedy. And a half-naked mystery woman,” he said, recapping. “That certainly explains the driveway full of reporters, but not how a tabloid got hold of morgue photos.”
“Stephen had a friend on the force, a detective by the name of Connelly. He promised to do what he could to keep it out of the papers. Apparently someone had other ideas.”
“Who?”
Christy-Lynn shrugged. “They’re working on it. Or so they say. To be honest, I haven’t called in a while. They don’t seem very eager to talk to me.”
“No, I don’t suppose they would be. It had to be someone inside, probably someone in the ME’s office. They don’t want the public knowing that.”
She sighed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Stephen’s dead. And so is his wife as far as I’m concerned. I’m Christy-Lynn now.”
“Except, I just blew your cover. I really am sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting to see you, and then there you were. What are the odds?”
“Yup. Today’s my lucky day.” She flashed a brittle smile as she pushed back her chair and stood. “I knew someone would recognize me sooner or later. I just hoped it wouldn’t be a reporter.”
“It wasn’t.”
“So you say.”
“It’s true,” he said, holding up three fingers in a kind of scout salute. “You have my word of honor.”
She eyed him squarely, ignoring his attempt to lighten the moment. “We’ll see. I’d like you to go now. We’re closing soon, and I’m going to have to explain you.”
Wade pushed to his feet, still trying to get a bead on the emotions she was struggling to keep under wraps. Fear. Anger. Those were easy. But there was something else too, something he couldn’t put a name to, despite being keenly aware of its pull. “It was good to see you again,” he said, extending a hand. When she didn’t take it, he withdrew it and stuffed it into his pocket. “Right. I guess not.”
He turned and headed for the door, leaving the unpurchased copy of A Fatal Franchise on the table. He would read it, of course, at some point. Just like he read all of Stephen Ludlow’s novels. Not because they were great. Or even good. They were neither. He read them because he was still trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.
EIGHTEEN
Christy-Lynn held her breath as she watched him go, releasing it only when she saw him climb into a dusty black Jeep and pull away. It was almost closing time, the store empty. Behind the counter, Aileen and Tamara stood whispering, their heads bent close. Tamara took a step back when Christy-Lynn’s gaze settled on her. Aileen turned her attention back to the register, eyes averted as she cracked open a roll of dimes and spilled them into the cash drawer.
It was Tamara who finally spoke. “You okay, boss?”
“Yes,” Christy-Lynn said quietly. “I promise I’ll explain all that eventually, just not right now.”
“Why don’t you take a break?” Aileen suggested, handing her the takeout container Missy had brought by. “Eat your salad.”
“Or I could make you a nice chai,” Tamara offered. “We’ll be closing soon. You could just hang out in the café and, you know, collect your thoughts.”
Christy-Lynn managed a grateful smile. She appreciated their concern, but at the moment, collecting her thoughts was the last thing she wanted. “Thanks. I think I’ll just go straighten the shelves.”
It was a relief to disappear into the rows of books, like losing herself in a forest. If only she could stay there and continue to hide. But the truth was out now, which meant hiding was no longer an option. Unless she decided to pick up and run again—but to where and for how long? For all Wade’s protests, he could at that very moment be spilling his guts to one of his reporter buddies, and come morning, the press would be back at her heels.
But even worse than the prospect of a renewed media frenzy w
as the memory of Missy’s face as she stood there holding her salad and slowly connecting the dots. Even now, she and Dar were sitting at Taco Loco, sipping margaritas and digesting the fact that they’d been lied to.
She had a lot of explaining to do.
Taco Loco was in full swing when Christy-Lynn arrived. Missy and Dar were already seated, unsmiling as they sipped their drinks, and she found herself grateful for the boisterous Saturday night crowd. Less chance of a scene—she hoped.
She had rehearsed several versions of an apology on the way over but had come up empty. There was simply no way to pretty up what she’d done.
“I can imagine what you must think of me,” she began gravely. “But I never meant to lie to you. When I first came to Sweetwater, I was . . . well, I don’t know what I was, really, except exhausted. Things were so crazy after Stephen died. And then the pictures leaked, and everyone wanted to know who the woman was—including the reporters. I became a prisoner in my home. And then one day I caught a reporter outside my bedroom window, pointing his camera at me while I stood there in my underwear. That was it. I packed a bag and snuck out of the house. I drove until I couldn’t drive anymore—and ended up here.”
There was a long stretch of silence when she finished. Missy was shaking her head, staring into her nearly empty margarita glass, while Dar fiddled with the crystal pendant she was never without. Christy-Lynn held her breath, waiting.
It was Dar who finally spoke. “It must have been awful. To be trapped like that. Spied on in your own home. No wonder you left. You must have been beside yourself.”
Christy-Lynn felt herself relax but was determined to tell the rest of the story. “It was like having a target on my back. My picture was on the news and in all the tabloids, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and the house was surrounded. I knew they’d never leave me alone, that no matter where I went they’d hunt me down. Which is why I was so relieved to find Sweetwater. It seemed like the perfect place to hide. I used my maiden name because I was afraid they’d find me. I told myself it was okay since I wasn’t staying. And then one thing led to another, and I didn’t want to leave. I should have told you sooner. I wanted to. Instead, I let the lie get bigger.”
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