Talk of the Town
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Sherrill Bodine
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Melody Cassen
Cover photo by Gen Nishino/Getty
Book design by Giorgetta Bell McRee
Forever
Hachette Book Group
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Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-54329-3
First eBook Edition: December 2008
Contents
IT’S GOOD FOR THE SOUL
“Don’t worry about confessing. You’d be surprised what people have told me. Remember, it used to be my job to get people to tell me their deepest, darkest secrets. . . .”
He winced. “Ouch!”
“No. No. I didn’t mean it that way.” She didn’t want to think about the Daily Mail. She didn’t want to remember she’d once thought of him as the-evil-boss-from-hell. She didn’t want to remember she’d once planned to do whatever it took to get back her job. Tonight she wanted it to be just Rebecca and David, with no expectations. No promises. Just the honesty of desire beating between them.
She touched his thigh and their eyes met. She shifted closer, reacting to the invitation on his face. “Let’s agree, David. Tonight, nothing about the Daily Mail will taint the celebration.”
“Daily Mail? Never heard of it . . .”
I dedicate this book with loving gratitude
to Chicago’s real queen of gossip, Ann Gerber,
who, with great wit, so generously shared her expertise.
I literally could not have written this without you,
my dear friend.
I love you, Chicago!
The entire city and the vast number of people who make it such a great place to live inspire me.
Special thanks must go—
to my husband, John, who continues to be the hero of my story in Chicago, just as he has been in all the varied places we have cohabitated with our charming children
to my critique group—Cheryl Jefferson, Jude Mandell, Patricia Rosemoor, and Rosemary Paulas—for gently but firmly suggesting how I could make this book better and patting me on the head when I obeyed their orders
to Susanna Homan of “Susanna’s Night Out” in the
Chicago Sun-Times,
for telling me all her war stories
to my literary agent, Danielle Egan-Miller, for welcoming me back into the fold and insisting I write about life in my favorite city.
P.S. I’m also quite fond of New York City. I especially adore Grand Central Publishing for wanting me to write books for them, and I
adore
my editor, Michele Bidelspach, for refusing to accept anything except my best work; obviously, we’re a perfect match—we’re the same diminutive height, and we both love
Project Runway
and chocolate!
THE CHICAGO DAILY MAIL WEDNESDAY EDITION
Rebecca Covington’s World
Darlings, you know I tell you absolutely everything! This bit of diet news is so bizarre that at first I threw it in the wastebasket. But hey—I promised you. The newest, sickest diet is the Last Hope Diet. You drink only Diet Coke and eat Kleenex. Yes, eat Kleenex! Does it have fiber? Don’t even think about it.
Catty Comments
Sshh . . . it’s a secret,
but
. . .
Who is the high-profile, wealthy, this-close-to-ruining-his-career, married politician who has been seen ringing the chimes of a hot lady friend in a Gold Coast high-rise? He pretends he’s a pizza delivery guy and carries the big quilted heating bag. What might it contain? Diamonds? Pearls? Perhaps even a giant pepperoni pizza? Although he wears dark sunglasses and a cap pulled over his thick locks,
nothing
can disguise his killer smile. Or those oh-so-kissable lips.
S
ome Monday mornings start out so well.
The cab Rebecca stepped into had her picture advertising “Rebecca Covington’s World,”
in the
Chicago Daily Mail,
plastered across the back of the front seat.
She squinted at the ad. How long had it been since she’d done a new press photo? Her blond hair was so much lighter and shorter now . . . her face thinner . . .
older.
“You’re lookin’ good, Miss Covington. Wife loves your columns,” shouted the delightful cabdriver.
Before she looked up at the charming man, she remembered to widen her eyes to smooth out the dreaded lines on her forehead, just as Harry had instructed.
“Thank you,” she cooed to the cabbie. “You’ve made my day.” Of course, she gave him a huge tip when she alighted in front of the Chicago Daily Mail building.
Feeling wonderful, and looking forward to seeing Pauline Alper, BFF since they bonded over their divorces only two years apart and shed enough tears together to raise the water level in Lake Michigan, Rebecca swished through the doors and into the small lobby.
Pauline looked up from behind the reception desk, saw Rebecca, burst into loud sobs, and buried her wet face in two fistfuls of pink Kleenex.
Shocked by Pauline’s tears instead of her usual warm welcome, Rebecca rushed across the lobby to offer her shoulder to cry upon. “Pauline, tell me everything.”
Instead of being comforted, Pauline jumped up, crying even louder, and ran to the “For Staff Only” restroom.
Her heart pounding, terrified at what could be so wrong, Rebecca raced after Pauline and stood outside the locked stall. “Sweetheart, it isn’t your girls, is it?” The thought of any harm coming to Pauline’s daughters, Patty and Polly, caused tears to burn in her eyes.
“No,” came Pauline’s muffled reply, followed by a cacophony of fresh sobs.
Weak with relief, Rebecca collapsed against the cool metal door. “Thank God! Then whatever it is can be fixed. I saw you with the box of pink Kleenex on your desk. You didn’t try that ridiculous Kleenex diet and become violently ill, did you?”
“No,” Pauline hiccupped.
“Good. Then please come out so I can help you. You’re crying so hard you really will make yourself sick.”
“I can’t stop . . . I’m . . . so . . . so . . . sad,” Pauline wailed between sobs.
“Sweetheart, you’re hyperventilating!” Rebecca’s voice rose in alarm. She’d never forgotten the day Pauline fainted in her living room after a bout of prolonged crying over the divorce wars. “Please stop.”
“I . . . can’t . . . ,” Pauline gasped.
Drastic action must be taken.
“Keep breathing, sweetheart!” Rebecca kicked off her black Brian Atwood stilettos. Hiked up her black Carolina Herrera skirt until the top of her pantyhose showed. Not caring if the expensive Wolford fishnets got bigger holes, she dropped to her hands and knees onto the cold, hard, black and white tile floor. “Pauline, keep breathing and tell me what’s wrong,” she called through the opening at the bottom of the stall.
An instant later, from beneath the door Pauline peered back, her green eyes swollen nearly shut from weeping. “Rebecca, get up! That’s . . . your . . . favorite designer outfit. You’ll . . . you’ll . . . ruin . . . ruin your beautiful clothes,” she sobbed anew.
“Sweetheart, I will get up. But you’re really scaring me.” Rebecca held Pauline’s red-rimmed eyes in a steady gaze. “Remember our pledge to always be there for each other. This is one of those moments, but this bathroom floor is no place to have a heart-to-heart. Please splash gallons of cold water on your face and come to my office. I’ll shut the door, bring out the chocolate like always, and we’ll talk for as long as you need. Promise you’ll come up with me.”
Pauline heaved a long, ragged sigh and nodded. “I promise. Oh, please don’t . . . hurt yourself getting up.”
“I’m fine,” Rebecca lied while struggling to her feet. Ignoring the little twinges of pain in her abused knees, she slid back into her shoes. She washed her hands for a good five minutes, all the while staring at the locked stall door, willing it to open. When that didn’t work she called through it again. “Are you all right? I’m sure I have enough Leonidas chocolates to handle this emergency. Ready to go up, sweetheart?”
“Not yet . . . please go on . . . I promise . . . I’ll be there . . . soon,” Pauline called back in a soft, breathless voice.
Rebecca hated to leave, but she sensed Pauline wanted a little privacy. “All right. I’ll be in my office waiting for you.”
Knowing Pauline would keep her promise, Rebecca climbed up the short flight of stairs to the
Daily Mail
offices. On the wide landing, the din of voices and noise from the newsroom seeped through the closed glass double doors. Even now in the throes of such powerful angst over Pauline, Rebecca felt a wave of gratitude for having escaped from there so long ago. In the newsroom she’d been just another reporter. She loved being Rebecca Covington, Chicago’s most notorious gossip columnist. She loved that she belonged in the quiet executive hallway. Now, if she was having a really bad day, she could shut her door and hide for a few minutes to perfect her confident front for the world.
Her stilettos clicked musically on the tile floor as she hurried to her office, where she’d hide Pauline for as long as it took to calm her down and find out what was wrong. At the end of the short hall, Tim Porter’s secretary, Maybella, glanced up from her desk and quickly looked back down, but not before Rebecca spied a smirk on her glossy fuchsia lips.
Something is up.
When Tim stepped out of his office and planted himself in front of her, she knew from the stricken look on his face that something wasn’t just up. Something was drastically wrong.
“No!” Rebecca gasped, clasping her alligator bag to her heaving bosom. “Not you, too! What’s happened?”
Gently, he ushered her into his office. “Sit down, Rebecca. I have something to tell you.”
The aura of doom surrounding him could mean only one thing. She flung herself into the chair before her knees buckled from the shock. “Tim, I can’t
believe
you’ve been fired! You’re the finest managing editor in the newspaper business. How could they do this? You have two boys in college and a wife making a life’s work of restoring your crumbling mansion in Lake Forest.” Devastated for him, she leaned forward to clasp his hand. “How can I help?”
He took a file from his tidy desk and laid it on her lap. “Sign these papers.”
She flipped open the file and squinted down at the small, blurry print. She tried holding the papers at arm’s length to read. “Darling, if it’s that you want me to cosign for a loan, I must tell you my credit isn’t any better than yours.”
“Here, try these,” he said, holding out a pair of reading glasses from his own shirt pocket.
She placed the glasses on her nose, and the letters loomed larger before her eyes.
An unpleasant numbness, like when she slept on her leg wrong, spread through every limb. “These are termination papers. With
my
name on them.” Not believing her eyes, refusing to accept it, she kept staring at him. “Is this some kind of joke
?
”
His face turned a deep crimson. “Damn it, Rebecca. It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have run the blind item about that politician. Didn’t you double-check your sources? Who was it?”
A rush of scalding anger brought feeling back into her body. Tim didn’t need to know that the paper’s very own security guard, who moonlighted at several Gold Coast condos, was her most reliable source. Until now. She couldn’t believe he had gotten it
so
wrong this time. Something wasn’t ringing true. “You know I never divulge my sources!” she snapped, not liking where this was going.
“Well, you might have to divulge it this time in court,” he snapped back. “The item struck a nerve with our junior senator, who is damn well connected. He’s been in California for weeks trying to reconcile with his wife. He hasn’t been anywhere near any Gold Coast condo. He’s threatening to sue.”
