From Herring to Eternity (27 page)
Oh
, my
word
.
“
Meshugenah
,” I said patiently.
“Right.
Mishooguhnuh
. That’s what it was.”
It wasn’t “my” word. It didn’t belong to “you people.” But I was too tired to educate him. I just smiled politely, with my eyes closed so I didn’t have to look at him. I opened them in time to see him get up slowly, pushing off his knees like my father used to do. I saw the old man in Grant’s future just then. The thought of being with one of those rigid, self-absorbed males brought back the smell of manurine.
Detective Egan had returned by now. She came over and shook my hand.
“That was really fine work,” she beamed. “We should do lunch one day.”
“Stop by the deli,” I said. “It’ll be my treat.” She smiled and her eyes lingered as she left. I couldn’t tell if I’d just been complimented, hit on, or both. I didn’t care.
It all felt good.
Chapter 27
The next morning, there was a new me looking back at myself from the mirror. She was proud, pleased, and relieved. She was eager to start the day.
I was up at my usual time feeling surprisingly rested. Losing a burden or two or three will do that, I guess. I did my morning routine, peeked out and saw the cops outside—along with Candy Sommerton’s van, which did not surprise me—and resolved to start things fresh. Not fresh as in “give Grant another chance,” but as in “stop trying to direct my life.” I was going to take things as they came.
Candy hustled toward me, hauling her dragon-tail cameraman, as I walked to my car.
“Gwen—I know we haven’t seen eye to eye on things, but you
have
to believe me: I want to tell this story. Your story. Is it true, what I read in the police report?”
I stopped and smiled at the camera. “I’ll tell you what, Candy. Why don’t you try this. Try not ambushing me for once. Come to the deli later, after lunch rush, and I’ll talk to you then.”
She jerked like a doll who’d just been wound up with a key. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Exclusively?”
I made a face and held up my cell phone. There were over a dozen calls, three of them from Robert Reid at the
National
. One of them—the only voice mail I’d listened to—was from Reynold Sterne. He called to say that Kamala Moon had told him what she’d done and he wanted to tell me he was sorry. He said he wouldn’t take any action until he talked to me but added that, going forward, they would take a much more sensitive approach to my needs; and they would not enforce the original agreement without my cooperation. That made me happy, too.
“I don’t know who else wants to plaster me across the news,” the new me told Candy, “but how about this: I promise I’ll talk to you first.”
“For real?”
I nodded.
Candy hesitated but quickly agreed. She had to realize that calling this into the station would get her primo air time on the evening broadcast.
For the first time ever, she thanked me. We left as BFFs. That actually felt kind of good, too. It was better than wanting to tear off her head and stuff it like derma.
The cops stayed behind and I found another pair waiting for me at the deli. They were plainclothes, sitting at a table, but Thom introduced them before giving me a big, shake-you-back-and-forth hug. Luke, Raylene, A.J., and Newt lined up like autograph-seekers on the red carpet to embrace me as well. We only had a half-hour to opening, a crowd was already starting to gather, and they knew better than to ask for details while there was work to be done.
Before we left the huddle, there was one thing I needed to say to them.
“This has been a week of anniversaries,” I said. “One of them really, really good. The year that I’ve been here would have been godawful without all of you. I thank you all, I love you all, and I’m really looking forward to the next one.”
We all had a good little cry through our smiles. Then I clapped twice and we went off to do our jobs.
There was one word I didn’t tell them as I watched them go. I’m not sure they would have understood, not being any of “you people.” But, then, it only mattered to me.
It was pride.
For the first time in my life, I, Gwen Katz, was
kvelling
.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Jeff Rovin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-75828199-9
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: August 2013
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8200-2
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8200-1
First Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2013
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