Don’t miss the prequel to The Other Sister
A House Divided
Journalist Zoie Crawford had to leave New Orleans to finally make her own life. Her grandmother, Claudia, inspired her to follow her dreams—just as her mother, Rose, held on too tight. But with Claudia’s passing, Zoie reluctantly returns home, where the past is written in the lonely corners of the bayou and the New South’s supercharged corridors of power. And there she discovers a stunning, painstakingly kept secret—one that could skyrocket her career but destroy another woman’s—and change both their vastly different lives, for better or for much worse.
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Enjoy the following excerpt from A House Divided . . .
PROLOGUE
Zoie closed her grandmother’s cedar trunk and ran her hand lovingly across the smooth finish. What a wise woman her grandmother had been.
She rose from her knees and crossed the creaking wood floorboards to gaze out of the attic window and onto the future that was now truly hers. The sound of laughter from below floated upward to meet her. She smiled in acceptance. Her grandmother knew the firestorm that her will would evoke, what it would do to her three daughters, and to Zoie.
Loss may have forced Zoie to return here, but love and commitment allowed her to stay. She understood that now. Understood that everything she’d been searching for had been right in front of her.
CHAPTER 1
Come home. Come home.
The words tumbled over themselves in Zoie Crawford’s head. Her mother, Rose, had mastered the singular ability to weave her words into a mantle of guilt that she ceremoniously draped over Zoie’s shoulders. The weight of it, heaped on her over the years, eventually forced Zoie to flee her home in New Orleans to build a new independent, guiltless life in New York. A life free of the overbearing, the clinging, the neediness, and the possessiveness that threatened to swallow her whole.
Not now. Not an option. Not even for Nana Claudia. Too much was at stake, and she knew her grandmother would understand, even if her mother didn’t. Yes, her grandmother was in declining health. Yes, she was pushing ninety. Yes, she had been the mother to her that Rose had never been. But the world was still reeling from the horror of the Twin Towers crumbling and the devastating loss of thousands of lives. Her immediate responsibility was to dig through the debris of misinformation and present her findings. Her readers, the world, deserved nothing less than her best. It was her Nana who always told her, “You is a little black girl in a white man’s world. You gon’ haveta work ten times harder to get halfway to the finish line.” Zoie lived by those words. Those words got her out of bed every morning. As a result, she was a rising star in journalism, and her focus remained on getting the story and the coveted prize. Her coverage of 9/11 had Pulitzer written all over it, and she couldn’t do her job from the family home in New Orleans. She dropped her cell phone into her purse.
She’d call her grandmother later and listen for herself whether there was any truth to her mother’s clarion call or whether it was simply another ploy to manipulate her emotions.
Zoie strode into the hub of the newsroom and instantly felt the familiar orgasmic rush that fueled her. She’d long since given up trying to explain why she was so hellbent on pulling back the curtain to reveal the Wizard of Oz. Her zeal and single-mindedness had estranged her from her family and contributed to the demise of her relationship with Brian Forde. Then there was Jackson Fuller—but that . . . was different. Yet her tenacity jettisoned her career, taking her from being a beat reporter to a senior correspondent. She took great solace in that fact and forged a new family in her coworkers. They understood her passion and commitment. That was the balm that soothed the raw places in her soul, the places she shared with no one other than her one friend, Miranda Howard—even though they often bumped heads over the importance of having more than work to keep one warm at night.
“Zoie! I need to see you,” Mark Livingston bellowed over the cacophony of chirping phones, slamming doors, and a chorus of voices. He stood in the frame of his office door with his usual harried expression. For Mark, everything was code orange.
“Be right there,” Zoie called out over the bent heads of her colleagues. She dropped her purse, coat, and laptop on her desk and wound her way around the bullpen to Mark’s office.
“Close the door and have a seat,” he said without preamble.
Zoie stepped into the claustrophobic space of her publisher, quietly shut the door, and was quickly sucked into the abyss of paper and the towers of files that occupied the four corners of the room. She lifted a box from the one chair, placed it on the floor, and sat down.
The organized chaos of Mark Livingston belied his brilliance. He had a nose for news and the ability to recognize that fever in others. His reputation for integrity and excellence was renowned in the field. He’d spent ten years with the Washington Post and the New York Times before pooling all of his resources and launching the National Recorder. In the fifteen years since its launch, it had stood toe to toe with the Post, the Times, and the Wall Street Journal.
When Zoie graduated from Columbia University’s School of Journalism, she bounced around for two years before landing, five years earlier, a freelance spot with the Recorder, which soon became more of a staff post than freelance. But Zoie was firm in keeping her “freelance” title. It allowed her to maintain a sense of independence. Mark took her under his wing. He mentored her, groomed her, tested her skills, fed her the passion they both shared, and treated her like the child he never had. She was his protégé, and would be his heir apparent when he retired. She’d come a long way under his tutelage, but she would never be satisfied. She could always be better.
Mark lowered his long body onto his mud-brown leather chair, which had long ago seen better days. He linked his pink and white fingers together. The overhead light reflected off the bald patch on his head, projecting an illusion of a halo.
“What’s up, Mark?” She crossed her legs at the ankle.
Mark leaned back. His disarming green eyes zoomed in on her. “I know you’ve been knee-deep in the Twin Tower series,” he said, quickly adding, “and you’re doing one helluva job,” nodding his head while he spoke as if to reaffirm his own affirmation. He cleared his throat, and Zoie instinctively held her breath. “I have another angle that I want you to follow. I want you to turn your notes and your contacts over to Brian.”
It took a moment for what he’d said to register. Zoie’s eyes narrowed in shock an instant before fury exploded. She leapt up from her seat.
“Are you freaking kidding me, Brian? Oh, hell no. I worked this series.” She jabbed her chest with her finger for emphasis and began to pace the tiny space. “No.” She vigorously shook her head and folded her arms in defiance, then swung toward Mark. “No!”
Zoie planted her palms on the quarter inch of available desk space. “This is my story,” she said again, in a singularly deliberate tone. “I’ve worked inhuman hours, turned in stories that no other paper has done.” Her voice rose with emotion. “This is what you groomed me for, and you want me to turn it over to Brian Forde. Why in God’s name would I ever agree to that?”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?” he calmly asked.
Zoie tried to focus on her breathing and not the numbness that began to rise from the soles of her feet. Her heart raced, and she had to rapidly blink to stave off the hot tears that threatened to expose that part of her she kept hidden.
“You’ll continue to receive a co-writer byline.”
Her nostrils flared.
Mark flipped open a folder and turned it to face her. “Kimberly Maitland-Graham.”
Zoie couldn’t focus. What the fuck was he talking about? She shoved it back. “What about her?”
“She’s running for New York State Senate against the Democratic incumbent and she has a groundswell of support. Especially now. She comes from money and is being propped up as a star in her party. If she wins, it will be a major coup and shakeup up in Albany.”
Now he had her attention.
“I want you on this from the beginning. I want her life, her policies, her stump speeches, everything she’s ever written, and every job she’s ever held. I want interviews with her staff and friends, the works.”
“Are we positioning the paper as her supporter? Since when have we backed a Republican?”
“We aren’t.” He leaned forward. His green eyes darkened. “That’s why I want you to cover her. No one else on the team has the tenacity to turn over every stone to get to the truth.”
“What truth?”
“Who she really is, not this picture-perfect brand that her people are creating. I know there’s something there. I feel it in my gut, and you’re going to find it.” He pushed his face forward. “If she wins, she’ll tip the balance in the State Senate.”
Zoie’s thoughts swirled. Excitement bubbled in her veins. Her reporting could very well help set the narrative of the state’s politics.
“But it must be balanced.”
“Of course.” Zoie reached for the file and slid it toward her.
“I don’t want this to come off as some kind of witch hunt. Facts, facts, facts,” he reiterated with a slap of his palm on the desk. “I’ve already gotten you assigned to her press pool.” He opened his desk drawer and took out her credentials. “You’ll have full access.”
Zoie glanced at the laminated tags. “How’d you know I’d agree?”
Mark grinned, deepening the lines around his eyes. “When have you ever turned down anything this big?”
Zoie bit back a smile. “You know me too well.”
“This is it, Zoie. This is the story that will get you that Pulitzer.”
“And Brian is on board with this whole co-byline thing?”
Mark nodded. “Listen, I want you on this like yesterday.”
Zoie pushed out a breath and stood. “Okay.” She snatched up the folder and press tags. Come home. A flash of guilt knotted her stomach. “I’ll get started.” She turned to leave.
“You won’t regret this.”
Zoie opened the door.
“Send Brian in, will you?”
Her step halted for a moment. “Sure.”
Brian Forde was smart, driven, an excellent journalist, and an expert lover. One would think they’d be a perfect match. That’s what Zoie thought, too. But it was those very qualities that imploded their very tempestuous relationship. They were too much alike, and the fire that flamed between them burned them both. Their fights were epic, their voracious work ethic combustible, and after six months, their monumental lovemaking couldn’t overcome the very qualities that made them so damned good at what they did.
Zoie stopped beside Brian’s desk. His total focus was on his computer screen. His earbuds blocked out the office noise. If she pegged it right, he was listening to John Coltrane, his go-to guy whenever he was deep into a story. The hand of melancholy tried to grab hold of her, but she shoved it aside.
She tapped him lightly on the shoulder. His head snapped up as he simultaneously snatched the buds out of his ears. His initial expression was pure annoyance at being disturbed until his focus settled on Zoie.
“Oh, hey.” He swung his chair around to face her and took her in with a single eye sweep.
Brian had the uncanny ability to look at her as if she were naked.
Zoie cleared her throat. “Mark wants to see you.”
He folded his arms. “You cool with the co-byline?”
Her lips thinned. She found a smile. “I’m good. I’ve done the bulk of the work.”
He slowly stood, forcing her gaze to follow the rise of his hard-packed body until she found herself looking into his eyes. Her pulse quickened. She swallowed and took a half step back.
“I’ll keep you in the loop,” he said.
The deep timbre of his voice swung like a metronome in her stomach. “Great.” She turned away, headed to her cubicle, and realized that her heart was pounding.
“This could be big. It is big,” Zoie said while she sipped on her margarita.
Miranda crunched on a nacho loaded with guacamole and cheddar cheese. “Hmm,” she mumbled and chewed. “So you don’t have a problem handing your work over to Brian?”
“Of course I do. But this assignment is bigger and has teeth.”
Miranda turned her focus from their shared plate of nachos and directed her full attention on Zoie.
“Since when have you been about destroying someone, especially another woman?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?” She stared until Zoie shifted in her seat.
“This is not about destroying. It’s about uncovering. There’s a difference. This woman’s win could very well shift the balance of political power in Albany. Should she be there? What are her beliefs, her policies, her allies, and her vision? Those are the things I want to find out and things the voting public needs to know.”
Miranda reached for another nacho. “Okay. As long as you’re clear. I know how you can get when you sink your teeth into something. This poor woman has no idea what she’s in for.”
Zoie chuckled, then sipped her drink. “Got a call from Rose.”
“Is everything okay?”
Zoie waved her hand in dismissal. “You know my mother—always the alarmist. She left a message saying that Nana wasn’t well and that I need to come home.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I can’t. Not now.”
“Why the hell not? It’s your grandmother.”
“I know that. But—”
“Don’t tell me it’s that fucking job, Z.”
Zoie glanced away and focused on the dissolving foam in her glass. Bit by bit, the white froth became consumed by liquid until the foam was gone.
“There’s more to life than work.”
“We’ve had this conversation, Randi.”
“Apparently, I was talking to myself.” She tsked in disgust. “I don’t believe you.”
Zoie jerked forward. The tips of her fingers clenched the table. “And why not, Randi?” she challenged. “What has home ever done for me? A mother who tried to suck the life out of me, and two aunts who can’t decide whom they dislike most—me, my mother, or each other. And Nana . . .” Her taut expression eased. She pushed out a breath. “There’s only so much one person can do in a den of vipers.”
“Zoie! That’s your family,” Miranda said, her voice rising.
Zoie slowly shook her head. “You come from this big ole happy family that actually enjoys being around each other. My family portrait is next to the diagnosis of dysfunctional.” She finished off her drink, then craned her neck in search of the waitress.
“It’s been almost ten years, Z.” She reached across the table. “People change, mellow with age,” she added with a soft smile. She squeezed Zoie’s fingers.
Zoie’s throat clenched. “But the hurts, the slights, the suffocation—I had some time to let all that scab over. Ya know.” She looked into the eyes of her friend. “Going back is like picking the scab. I don’t think I’m healed underneath.” A tear slid down her cheek. She sniffed hard.
“Listen to me.” Miranda leaned across the table so that their heads almost touched. “You’ve lived in the biggest, baddest city in the world. You pushed yourself through grad school, landed a job in your field, and made a name for yourself in the industry. No one can take that from you—not your overbearing mother or the wicked aunties. Go see your Nana,” she said softly.
Zoie dabbed the corner of her eye with the knuckle of her finger.
The waitress stopped at their table as if cued from the wings of the stage, ready to take their orders, giving Zoie a momentary reprieve.
As usual, Miranda had the waitress explain each item and how it was prepared. The infuriating habit had lost its punch with Zoie ages ago. Zoie would generally bury her head in her menu until Miranda was finished and then smile apologetically to the wait staff on her dear friend’s behalf.
She and Miranda met in college. Zoie majored in journalism, and Miranda went after a business degree, which she parlayed into a plum position with the Port Authority, and now she oversaw operations at Kennedy and LaGuardia airports.
Miranda was right, Zoie thought, as Miranda prattled on. She’d put plenty of time and distance between herself and her family. She was stronger now.
“And for you, ma’am?” the cool-as-a-cucumber waitress asked.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” she stuttered, jerked from her musing. “Umm, I’ll have the roasted chicken and grilled vegetables . . . and another margarita.”
“Right away.” She scooped up the menus and moved away as stealthily as she’d appeared.
Zoie nursed the ice from her glass.
“How are things between you and Brian?”
Zoie blinked several times. How did they segue to Brian? That was one of Miranda’s other talents—changing subjects without warning. “There’s nothing ‘between us,’ ” she said, making air quotes. “Our working relationship is fine, if that’s what you mean.”
“I still think you could have worked things out.” She snapped a white linen napkin open and spread it ceremoniously on her lap.
“Why does it have to be me who has to work things out?” she asked two octaves above her normal range. “What about him?”
Miranda’s hazel eyes darted around the room. “Because you’re the pain-in-the-ass stubborn one, that’s why.”
“With friends like you, Randi . . . I swear.”
“Would you rather I be the kind of friend who kisses your ass even when you’re wrong?”
“Yes, damnit!
They burst out in laughter.
“You’re crazy,” Miranda said over her chuckles.
The waitress returned with their drinks. “Enjoy,” she said and hurried off.
Zoie lifted her glass. “To truth.”
Miranda tapped her glass against Zoie’s. “That’s all there is.”
Twelve hours had passed since she’d listened to her mother’s message. With work, the shock of her new assignment, and her standing after-work meet-up with Miranda, she’d been able to relegate the words to the back of her mind and tamp down the guilt that niggled at her conscience. She simply had not had the time. That’s what she told herself.
Now, however, in the aloneness of her one-bedroom condo, there was no escape. Rose’s words echoed, that sinking feeling resurfaced, and the fear that she’d successfully ignored demanded her attention.
A glass of wine first. A shower next. Yes, wine and a shower. Then she would call. Nothing was going to change.
She almost felt like herself by the time she’d finished off her wine and let the waters beat against her skin. Down the drain her worries went, along with her anxieties. She was fortified now.
Inhaling a breath of resolve, she sat on the side of her bed and picked up her cell phone from the nightstand. She swiped the screen and tapped in her password. Her heart thundered. Three messages from her mother. She didn’t want to listen to the chastising, the questioning, the guilt trip that Rose would surely send her on.
Zoie tapped in the number to the family home in New Orleans, held her breath, and waited.
“Hello . . .”
The sound of her mother’s voice drew her all the way back to the days that she longed to forget, but never could.
“Mom, you left me several messages. I’m sorry I was—”
“She’s gone.”
The jigsaw puzzle of words made no sense. They didn’t fit together.
“What are you saying? What do you mean? Gone where?”
“About an hour ago,” her mother said, her voice flat and empty as if siphoned of whatever emotion she had left. “I suppose if you’re not too busy you can come home for the services.”
“Mom . . . Nana . . .”
“I have to go. The reverend is here.”
Click.
She couldn’t breathe; her heart raced and her thoughts spun. A rush of raw anguish rose up from the depths of her soul and escaped. The keen of a wounded animal vibrated in the room, bounced off walls, and slammed back into her, knocking her to her knees.
Pain became a swirling vortex that stole her breath, shredded her heart, and whipped her around until she was weak and spent.
Come home.
“Oh God, oh God, what have I done? Nana! . . .”
She curled into a ball on the floor and wept.