“Hey, Mere,” Jill greeted, the ever-present sound of her favorite band, Abba, in the background. Jill wanted to live life like a dancing queen.
“Hey,” she said, making sure to sound calmer than she was. “How’s business at the coffee shop?”
“Well, after a regional dairy salesman tried to talk me into changing my store’s name from Don’t Soy With Me to Don’t Milk Me, I’m about ready to bash my head against the espresso machine. He was so dense. I tried to explain it’s a play on words, but he just blinked like one of those dairy cows and went, ‘Oh.’”
Meredith’s panic slowly eased. Jill and her stories were always a comfort. “Being in New York, I don’t run into too many milk salesmen. Does he wear a special outfit?”
“No, thank God. Speaking of milk, did you get my present?”
Ducking closer to the store window so she wouldn’t be mowed down by a rush of pedestrians, Meredith said, “You mean the coffee mug with the line, ‘You’re My Udder One’?”
“Yes. I tried to appease the milk guy by telling him I’d put those mugs out for display, but he wouldn’t leave. He even offered to teach me how to milk a cow. I think he was hitting on me.”
As Meredith muffled her laughter, a passing banker gave her a disapproving stare. His shoes, belt, and briefcase matched—the Wall Street uniform. “And I thought my love life was pathetic.”
“What love life?”
“Funny. Speaking of which, I’m outside a bookstore. I woke up this morning and decided I want to read.”
“Oh, honey, I didn’t know you were illiterate.”
“Hah.” She eyed the rush of people heading in and out of the bookstore on 82nd and Broadway.
“Okay, take a deep yoga breath. Jeez, Mere, you sound like Great Aunt Helen when she put down her oxygen to steal a swig of Grandpa’s scotch at Christmas.”
“Right. Breathe.” Was her vision blurring? “I’m taking a step.”
“Oh, baby, I wish mom and I were there to see it.”
Her sister’s wicked humor cut through the fogginess in her head. Meredith wasn’t sure she was in her body anymore, but it moved when she walked. Her hand managed to open the door. She walked in on legs wobbling like an untangled yoyo.
“Are you inside yet?”
She squeezed into a book aisle as people cruised by. “Yes.”
“Welcome back to the land of the reading.”
Was there anything more comforting? “Thank you. I’m standing by the thriller and suspense section. Makes me think of Grandpa. He’s convinced there’s some sort of conspiracy going on at the university. I’m researching the college drug trade for him on the side. Maybe I should buy him a John Grisham book instead.”
“I know! He keeps pumping me for information about the parties I’ve gone to. I told him people drink too much and puke. End of story.”
“Tell that to his infernal journalism gut.” Not that she could point fingers. Hale DNA had given her one too.
“I know the fam’s grateful you’ve been helping out with the paper after Dad’s heart attack,” her sister said, “But Dad’s still working too hard. He loves that paper like it’s a child—just like Grandpa.”
“I know, Jill.” Suddenly guilt pressed down on her, its force almost as strong as the panic. She
was
helping, but she wished she could do more. Sometimes being long-distance sucked.
Her sister cleared her throat. “I don’t know how to say this, but you need to know. Sorry the timing’s not great with the whole one-year-divorce anniversary thing, but…” Her sister’s breathing went a little ragged on the line. “The doctor’s concerned about dad’s progress and wants him to take some time off. Mom hasn’t wanted to ask you, but someone needs to help Grandpa. I know he can run circles around us all, but he’s in his seventies. Is there any way you can come home to help out for a few months? I’d do it, but I have zero journalistic instincts. Plus, I have Don’t Soy with Me to run.”
“Come home?” She bumped into a book display, and a whole parade of James Patterson hardcovers slid to the floor. Her lungs seemed to stop at the thought. “I can’t breathe…and I really want to.” She gulped in air.
“Go to the coffee shop and sit down. Put your head between your knees.”
She wobbled over to a chair and caught sight of the romance section. The tightness between her ribs could have competed with a boa constrictor as it killed its victim. She didn’t care what people thought. She put her head between her legs when she saw red.
Her phone buzzed in her clenched hand, signaling another call. She ignored it, breathing deeply. When her equilibrium returned, she took deep breaths until she was sure she’d inhaled all the circulated air in Manhattan. She put the phone to her ear again.
“You still there?”
“Yep. You okay?”
Question of the year. “I didn’t pass out, but it was close.”
“Meredith, your husband cheated on you, and then blamed it on you—and Nora’s books. You’ve been through an emotional wringer. Give yourself a break. I keep telling Jemma that too.”
Jill’s best friend had just been dumped by her childhood sweetheart. “You’re pretty good at giving advice.”
“Practice. Jemma’s devastated.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Her eyes burned, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t stand another night in my apartment. I miss my Tribeca place and eating out in restaurants and visiting gallery openings. I don’t miss Rick-the-Dick, but I do miss being part of that jam-packed world.”
“You have the Power Couple Blues, Mere. Maybe coming home to help the paper will give you a new perspective. You don’t have any family there. Most of your friends changed when you got divorced.”
True, she had become intimately familiar with the term “fair weather friend” over the past year. “I miss you guys.” But going home? She’d been in New York since starting at Colombia. “Let me grab a coffee.”
“I wish I was there to make your favorite. Then I’d give you a ginormous hug and tell you about Paige Lorton snorting whipped cream up her nose and old man Perkins giving her the Heimlich.”
Her laughter popped out like the final popcorn kernels in the microwave. “Oh, Jillie, I love you.”
“I love you too. You’re my big sis. I miss you, Mere.”
Holding the phone away from her face for a moment, she walked up to the counter and gave her coffee order—a tall, no foam latte—before shuffling back to her chair. She slumped against the metal back, returning the phone to her ear. “Let me think about coming home.”
“Surely Karen knows how hard you’ve worked after joining her paper. You’ve been there for a year now. Plus, it’s Rick-the-Dick’s rival paper. That’s gotta be extra bonus points.”
Her coffee magically appeared in front of her. She looked up to see a petite barista with flat-ironed hair. “You look like you needed me to bring it over.”
Kindness didn’t happen often in New York. In her hometown of Dare Valley, Colorado, it happened more times than she could count. “Thank you.” A wave of homesickness hit her. “Maybe you’re right, Jill. It would be nice to be around people who know me.”
“Good! So think about it. Talk to Karen. Now, drink your latte, and then we’ll talk you into the romance section. Nora Roberts Land awaits.”
A smile tugged at Meredith’s lips. “I forgot how mom always used to call Nora’s books that. She’d point her finger at dad and say she was taking a few hours to visit Nora Roberts Land, and then she’d seal herself off in the bedroom. Like it was an adult version of Disneyland. Dad never got it.”
“Yeah, but at least he didn’t blame divorce on Nora’s books. Rick-the-Dick’s the kind of man who can’t take responsibility for his cheating, so he blamed it on you—and fiction. Isn’t that the most pathetic thing ever? It’s like blaming teen suicide on
Romeo and Juliet.
It’s asinine.”
“Actually, I think that’s been done.” She took the last drink of her latte and stood. Tested her balance. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“So strut your stuff over to the romance section.”
She didn’t strut. She stumbled—twice. Thank God there were scads of bookshelves to grab. As she passed the periodicals, she stopped in her tracks, her eyes zeroing in on a picture of her ex and the cocky smile he used to make women fall for him, her included.
“Richard’s on the front of
The New York Man,
” she rasped, taking in the navy suit and patriotic red tie. “Huh?” Jill asked, probably because Meredith sounded like a smoker on oxygen.
“Rick-the-Dick is on the cover of a magazine,” she said, enunciating each word. “It’s like a weekly local
GQ.
”
“What does it say? Please tell me he’s come out as a cross-dresser and is modeling your La Perla lingerie.”
After her split with Rick, she’d thrown out all of her cotton underwear, substituting it for La Perla bustiers and matching panties. Cinched in luxurious lingerie, Divorcée Woman was kind of like a superhero, sans the billowing cape and iridescent tights. Sure, it was a bit strange to create an alter ego for yourself, but it was helping her move forward. She could pretend she was a young and hot New Yorker, capable of bringing any man to his knees.
It had been a while since she’d brought a real man to his knees. A long, long while.
Since Rick-the-Dick. The bastard.
She read the headline: “Media Mogul Throws Hat into Political Ring.”
“Oh, shit,” she said, picking up a copy.
“What?” her sister yelled.
“The rumors were true.” She thumbed to the article. “Rick’s finally going to do it. He’s formed an exploratory committee for the Senate.”
“You’re kidding. Man, this is the only time I wish I was a New Yorker so I could vote ‘no’ in the ballot box.”
She scanned the article, holding her breath as she checked to see if he’d stuck to their bargain. Her unease grew when she reached the part about their divorce. He hadn’t. Isn’t that why her pulse had started pounding the second she saw the cover? “He broke our agreement not to talk about the divorce.”
“Asshole fink. What does it say?”
“It says…” Her heart rate doubled as she read the print. She was tempted to put her head between her legs, standing up. “He said we had
different
ideas about our life together. He wanted to serve a higher good. Give the public information to…improve their lives. Bullshit. Oh, and now he wants to be a public servant in an elected office. He said I wanted a more traditional family with kids—
the kind you read about in books
—not that he’s against that.” Pain seared her temple at the betrayal even as she wanted to rip apart the magazine. Her old wounds emerged, raw and fresh.
“Asshole, dickwad…” her sister said.
Jill continued to call him names while Meredith’s head spun. She tagged a bookstore worker, who was carrying an armful of books. “When did this come out?”
The young woman stopped and puffed out her chest. “That’s an advance copy. We negotiated to receive it a few days earlier than the other outlets since it’s such a big story. He’s cute, huh? I’d vote for him.” She sashayed off without another word.
Meredith turned back to her cell phone. “We
agreed
we wouldn’t talk about the divorce. We shook on it.”
“When did he ever keep a promise? I’ll bet he’s super nervous you’ll tell the media about his infidelities. Voters don’t like cheaters.”
Or politicians who paid for sex…But that hadn’t stopped him. Nothing did. That’s why people called him a mogul. Her phone beeped again. She looked at the display. The familiar number had her breath hitching again. Then her anger dug in.
Rick-the-Dick was calling her. Well, he wasn’t the only one who had something to say.
“Jill, it’s Richard. I’ll call you back.”
“Wait—”
She clicked over. “What in the hell do you want?”
“Meredith,” he uttered brightly. “I take it I didn’t reach you before you heard the news.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I called your assistant three times this morning. When she finally said she couldn’t reach you, I decided to try your cell.”
She leaned against a display. The sound of his smooth, charming voice made her knees shake. It was the first time she’d spoken to him in a year. “You bastard. You broke our agreement.”
“Well, it couldn’t be avoided. Voters want to know. I was as charming as I could be. I praised you to high heavens, but the writer didn’t choose to include those quotes.”
Clorox couldn’t clean the bullshit off that one. “I’ll bet.”
“So, I’m calling to touch base. I don’t think too many reporters will call you now that I’ve announced I’m forming an exploratory committee, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your statements short and sweet. You can say what a great guy I am, and think I’d be a great senator even though we couldn’t make it work as man and wife.”
The nerve. She saw red for reasons other than a lack of oxygen. “You bastard.”
“Now, Meredith…”
“No, you stop right there! You didn’t call earlier because you knew I’d object. You’re selfish to the last.”
A few people browsing raised their eyebrows at her and hustled by.
“Dammit. I hoped you wouldn’t be like this. I gave you a generous settlement for Christ’s sake.”
Money was one of his many tools of manipulation. “It was never about the money. God. I loved you!” She ground her teeth for control. Two could play this game. She had tools of her own. “Were you hoping to buy my silence?”
“Meredith—”
“Shut up. You know what I know, and if you don’t leave me alone and out of your…bullshit public servant messages, I can’t be held accountable for my actions, just like someone else I know.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“Don’t
manage
me! You don’t have any right to tell me what to do, and if you try, I swear I’ll make you regret it. Goodbye, Richard.”
She hit the off button so hard she broke a nail. Her head buzzed like a swarm of bees had found honey in her hair. She stomped over to the Romance section.
She was not letting him control her anymore.
Her feet rushed forward, and before she knew it, she was holding Nora’s newest hardcover in her hands. She caressed the spine. Traced the NR logo. Took deep breaths to calm her pounding heart.
How could she have ever bought into Rick-the-Dick’s accusation?