54

Meg Williamson sat on the couch with her feet up on the coffee hassock. It was nine o’clock. The TV was now off. A few minutes earlier she had been channel surfing and landed on REL News. And him. His easy smile. His signature blue blazer, white shirt, and red-and-blue tie.

A feeling of revulsion had swept over Meg. The thought of that pig’s hands on her. She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of Chardonnay, and returned to the couch. “Mother’s milk,” her grandmother used to call the two glasses of wine she would have every evening.

Meg took a long sip and allowed herself to calm down. An hour earlier she had finished what for years had been the highlight of her day. She had curled up with Jillian on her bed and announced “time to pick out a book.” Jillian would scamper over to the bookshelf pretending to consider all the choices. She would then choose one of her favorite titles night after night, taking comfort and pleasure in knowing what would happen on the next page. Like mother, like daughter, Meg thought. Neither of us likes surprises.

In the six weeks since Jillian had started first grade their evening ritual had evolved. Now it was Jillian attempting most of the reading while Meg, helping when necessary, stroked her daughter’s honey-blond hair. There were three classes of first graders at Ponterio Ridge Street School. While the other two teachers were good, fifty-eight-year-old Mrs. Silverman was a legend. She had taught at the school for thirty-three years. Her early students, now parents themselves, gave the school board fits with their insistence that their son or daughter be taught by Mrs. Silverman. I didn’t have any clout, Meg thought to herself. This was the one time I just got lucky.

Her cell phone rang. It was beside her on the couch. The caller ID showed “Unavailable.” Please be a dumb credit card solicitation, she prayed as she answered. But it was him.

“Change of plans, Meg. Get something to write with.”

“Wait a minute,” she said curtly as she walked over to her desk and grabbed a pad. His rudeness never failed to amaze her. God forbid he should ask, how are you doing? Or, is this a good time to talk? “I’m ready.”

“You are going to talk to that reporter, Gina Kane—”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. Shut up and listen.”

“Okay,” she grimaced, spitting out the word.

“You made the decision to leave REL News because you had a young child and you wanted more normal work hours. If she asks, you are not aware of any sexual harassment or bad behavior that took place at the company. Everyone you worked with, especially your male colleagues, was always courteous and professional. Are you taking this down?”

“ ‘Courteous and professional.’ Yes, I am.” Again she spat out the words.

“She is going to ask if when you worked at the company you knew Cathy Ryan. Before I tell you how you should answer and what you should say about her, you may not be aware that Cathy was killed in an accident while in Aruba.…”

“Cathy is dead!” Meg gasped out the words. She and Cathy had gone to work at REL News at the same time. They had both just graduated college. They quickly became friends. Now an image of the girl with the long dark hair and sparkling hazel eyes filled her mind.

Carter was still talking. “Say you knew her and how sorry you were to hear about her passing. And here’s what I want you to tell the reporter about Cathy’s time at REL News…”

Meg was only partially successful attempting to stifle sobs as she wrote. Treating her like a child, Carter insisted she read the instructions back to him.

Finding courage she didn’t know she had, Meg challenged him. “When I accepted the settlement, the only thing I was obliged to do was to keep quiet. There was nothing in the agreement about having to lie to reporters.”

Carter’s voice was icy. “Meg, be a good girl and cooperate. And recognize how fortunate you and Jillian are. Very few first-graders have a teacher as good as Rachel Silverman.”