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Delores Watkins sauntered into her star reporter’s office and tossed a newspaper down on his desk with a plop. She tilted her head, put one hand on her hip, and drawled: “Do you mind telling me why I had to see this in some other newspaper? I thought this was your signature story, wonder boy!”
Brad Williams had a phone to his ear, but he swiveled in his chair and picked up the paper. It was a copy of the Lancaster Farmer’s Friend, the tiny community paper from Serenity, Pennsylvania. The headline read: Local Girl Center of $1.6 Million Lawsuit.
Brad frowned and spoke hurriedly into his phone. “I have to go. I’ll call you back.” He pushed the mic arm up and scanned the story.
“Somebody’s suing Jemima King?” He looked up into Delores’ ironic brown eyes and snapped his fingers at her. “I know who it is – it’s that guy who was trying to buy the letter off her! Am I right?”
“Congratulations, Sherlock,” Delores replied dryly. “It’s the second graf down.”
“What is this – this morning’s edition? Has anybody else seen this yet?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I do know this: if you’d been following the story, instead of romancing my secretary, we would’ve been first with this, instead of playing catch up.”
Brad set his mouth as if he was preparing a reply, but Delores didn’t give him time to deliver it. “You and this other guy were both there at the girl’s house, on the same day, weren’t you?” she demanded.
“That’s right.”
“Perfect. I want you to go back out and re-establish contact with the Amish girl. Let her think you’ll testify on her behalf at the trial. It’ll make her more likely to talk to you. I want an exclusive for the Ledger.”
Strong, conflicting emotions swirled in Brad’s chest, but he smashed them down. Delores, of all people, must never suspect that he had feelings.
He put on a cynical expression and raised his brows incredulously. “You do remember that the last time I was out there, her father ripped the door off my truck?”
“It was the Ledger’s truck, and I could hardly forget,” Delores replied dryly. “But you could be really useful to that girl right now if you testify. It might persuade her to talk to you. Anyway, I want you back out there tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
Brad pulled his hands over his face and sighed heavily. Delores smirked and added: “Tell Sheila she’ll just have to live without you for a week or two.”
On that depressing note, she turned and left.
Brad sat there, with his hands over his face, for at least five minutes after. The thought of going back to Lancaster County was not a welcome one, and not even primarily because he might be murdered there.
He’d never expected to go back. He’d never expected to even see the Duchess again. In fact, he’d arranged his life around his deep belief that he would never, ever see her again.
Going back now would be messy. Very, very messy.
In the first place, Sheila would be upset because he’d be going away for two weeks at least, and she wouldn’t be able to go with him.
Although, if he was really honest with himself, some alone time might be kind of refreshing. Sheila was high maintenance.
But as for trip itself – he was in trouble. The thought of going back to Lancaster County, of facing the Duchess again after the way they had parted, and everything that had happened since –
Messy. Unpleasant. Uber challenging. He was going to have to be at the very top of his game if he hoped to get Jemima King to talk to him again. Because after everything that had happened—she probably hated him.
Any return there was fraught with danger. Her father, who beyond all doubt wanted to kill him. That boyfriend of hers, or maybe more than one, who’d probably want to fight him. But most of all, above everything – the Duchess herself. She had almost supernatural power. Power to make him destroy himself. Power to make him do crazy things, things he’d never dream of doing in cold blood.
Without even trying. Without even knowing that she was doing it.
He shuddered. That that was the really scary part. She was unconsciously hypnotic, like a force of nature. Like one of those sirens from Greek mythology.
All she had to do was look at him.
He groaned and pulled his hands over his face. Facing her again was going to be like leaning over the edge of a cliff, and praying that the wind didn’t blow.
But so far, right up to that very hour, his luck with the Duchess had been nothing but bad.
Brad opened the door to O’Malley’s Restaurant and strolled into the lobby. He and Sheila had gotten into the habit of having dinner there together after work. He noticed that Sheila was already there, in their usual booth. He braced himself, because when she found out he was leaving it wasn’t going to be a happy evening.
She scooted over to let him slide into the seat. “Want a bite of my appetizer?” she asked, holding up a nacho.
“Please.”
She handed it to him, and he took a bite. Sheila snuggled in close and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“How was work today? You must’ve been busy because you stayed holed up in your office. You didn’t even call me.”
He turned his eyes to her smiling face. He might as well get it over with.
“Ah – about that, Sheila. Delores has decided to send me back out to the boonies for a follow up to the Washington letter story. I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks, starting tomorrow.”
Sheila pulled back. Her voice sounded stung. “A couple of weeks? What am I supposed to do in town all alone?”
Brad took a deep breath and switched his face to its reassurance setting. “I know, Sheila, but it won’t be too long. Can’t say no to my boss, after all,” he shrugged, smiling. “I have to eat.”
She straightened suddenly. “Delores could send me, too!”
“Oh, well now, I wish that were possible,” he chuckled, “but Delores might have something to say about that. You’re her right arm.”
“No, I could ask her!” Sheila countered. Her eyes had taken on the determined look that told him she was already planning their agenda.
“Ah, hah now Sheila, I’d just love to have you work the story with me, but it isn’t going to work out this time. It’s a work trip, not play. We’ll do something when I get back, I promise.”
Sheila snapped back to the present with shocking suddenness. She pinched his cheek, and then slapped it smartly.
“Don’t patronize me, you scheming rodent,” she said sweetly, and the conversation ended abruptly.
That night, Brad lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. He was thinking that he should probably lie to Sheila about which hotel he was using because he was really looking forward to a little solitude.
He bit his lip. Sheila was on the high side of average in his young experience: pretty, fairly smart, self-interested, and hunting for a husband, though she knew better than to admit it. He’d grown fond of her because they were alike.
He considered himself the high side of average, too. He was good looking, fairly smart, self-interested, and absolutely not planning on marriage, though he, too, knew better than to admit it.
They suited one another. They got along, they liked one another, and neither of them was fooled by the other’s nonsense. In short – they had a pleasant, mutually beneficial understanding.
He found that he really didn’t want to do anything to mess that up.
He reached over to the nightstand, shook a cigarette out of the pack, and lit one up. He lay there, blowing gentle spouts of smoke toward the ceiling, until well past midnight.
