Talk of the Town (8 page)
Hiding a smile, Kate coughed carefully into her palm.
Watching the happily calculating look on Tim’s face, and the carefully controlled blankness on Shannon’s, Rebecca felt mild hysteria tickle her throat.
“Excellent idea! After all, we’re all on the same team. Take care of it, Shannon,” Tim ordered like he’d thought of the plan himself.
“You know I will, Tim.” Shannon nodded and managed a slight smile toward Pauline. “Would you please contact IU for me so I can get all the details for my column?” Her soft, wispy voice couldn’t quite cover a sharp edge of annoyance. “And . . . um . . . congratulations, Rebecca.”
The tickle of hysteria in her throat changed course to become a nauseating twinge of fear in her stomach.
The horror of cooking in public, Shannon exposing my silly secret by digging into records at IU, and David Sumner arriving early in town are the final straws. It can’t get any worse.
Feeling
this
ill brought back memories of a particularly nasty “commode-hugging” episode she’d suffered through in her mildly misspent youth. As Walton Julius, the most fascinating older man in Chicago, had taught her, there was only one surefire cure for a queasy stomach after a rowdy night of fun or, in her present case, gut-curdling stress.
To hell with the calories.
All day she downed can after can of sugar-rich, caffeine-infused,
real
Coke. She sat at her desk burping as discreetly and politely as possible until finally, midafternoon, her stomach stopped roiling and her blood sugar spiked. While experiencing this momentary burst of false optimism, she rationalized both looming horrors.
She had two weeks to plot with Harry before the potentially disastrous cooking event and the inevitable meeting with David Sumner. The only way to make it all less catastrophic was to have Harry at her side. She called the Culinary Institute to request that he be her celebrity chef assistant, and after she was given the pleased approval she called Harry to plead her case and beg for his help. He was in surgery, so she left the message on his voice mail.
Her other little problem drove her down the steps to find Pauline. They’d protected each other for years, but lately it seemed their personal crises had multiplied. Even though she
always
vehemently squashed any office gossip about Pauline deliberately getting the switchboard lines crossed—gossip that explained why she was so well informed—Rebecca
knew
Pauline would have the answer she needed.
“Did Shannon call IU?” Rebecca whispered.
A grimace of disgust crossed Pauline’s pretty round face. “I don’t know! She used her cell. She’s already gone for the day.” Pauline leaned closer, her red curls falling into her eyes. “She’ll have to write something nice about you, since Mr. Porter told her to. Right? Or should we be worried?”
“Not to worry. I’m just curious.” Rebecca blew a kiss and hurried back to her desk, before Pauline saw her slight edge of panic. Pauline had enough to worry about, being a single mom with two energetic little girls.
Rebecca sat mulling over the silly lie that had started her journalistic career. Once or twice she’d thought about how embarrassing it might be if anyone found out she’d lied about her age, but she rationalized that no one cared enough about such things to dig into records.
If the truth had been revealed any other time in the last fifteen years she would have laughed it off and been charmingly contrite. But given her newly vulnerable state, it loomed like the cannon shot that would knock down her facade, completely exposing her to the world.
Maybe if she knew if Shannon cared enough to dig up that cannonball she could shore up her defenses. She called IU to thank the alumni director for the coming honor.
She was told someone from the
Chicago Daily Mail
had already spoken to the director before she left this afternoon on a two-week vacation.
Her intuition warned her this was not good news, but her common sense told her there was nothing more she could do about it until she accosted Shannon tomorrow.
The next morning Pauline brought both of them Giant Gulps from the deli.
“What else can I do to help you?” Pauline whispered. “I haven’t been able to find out anything about Shannon’s column. Except that she’s running a picture of someone in her bra and thong dancing on a bar.”
“Charming.” Rebecca shook her head and started gulping Coke. “Honestly, I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Okay, if you say so.” With a wave, Pauline drifted back to the switchboard.
After devouring twenty ounces of caffeine, Rebecca pushed herself up and walked past her old office. She peered in. Shannon wasn’t there. The computer beckoned to her, so she stepped inside the door.
“Rebecca, are you looking for our Shannon?” Tim’s nosy secretary, Maybella, shouted from the end of the hall.
Damn!
Rebecca poked her head back out and smiled. “Yes. I’ll just wait in here until she gets back.”
“No. Come back later. You’ll have a long wait. Shannon’s in Mr. Porter’s office on a conference call with Mr. Sumner.” The little note of pleasure was unmistakable in Maybella’s voice.
When I get this office back, no more chocolates for you.
Rebecca shrugged. “I’ll catch Shannon later.” She strolled away, feeling Maybella’s cold eyes boring into her back all the way down the hall.
Rebecca forced herself to work at her lonely, pathetic desk until she glanced at her watch and decided enough time had passed and she could stroll over to the executive offices again.
Waiting like a vulture, Maybella never took her eyes off Rebecca. “They’re still in that important meeting,” she drawled. “Can I take a message? Shannon’s a real busy little lady.”
“No, I’ll be back.” She stalked away, frustration burning a hole straight through her stomach. Back at her desk, she called Pauline. “Does Maybella
ever
leave?”
“Only for Starbucks venti double carmel frappaccino with extra whipped cream. Do we need her to go for one soon? I have a break in twenty minutes.” Pauline giggled. “It’s her turn to treat.”
“Perfect. I owe you.” Waiting, Rebecca read her recipe column over and over again until she could recite every ingredient and word by heart. Disgusted with herself, she marched into Kate’s cubbyhole-size office and placed it on the desk. “I added a gossip note this week. I think you’ll like it.”
Looking up from the computer screen, Kate poked her wire-rim glasses higher on her nose. “Let’s take a look.” As she read the column, she burst out laughing. “This is hilarious. Did it really happen?”
“I was there,” Rebecca admitted.
“Amazing! Wednesday’s edition should be interesting. I’m almost finished with our section.” Kate looked back down at the computer screen.
Not wanting to hamper Kate meeting her deadline, Rebecca backed out of the office.
Time to discover if Shannon is meeting her deadline.
As Pauline promised, Maybella had deserted her desk for a Starbucks run. Tim’s office was dark. Rebecca sidled up to Shannon’s door to find her typing madly.
I’ve never seen her look so happy. Dear heaven, what is she writing?
Rebecca’s gaze darted around the office looking for something,
anything,
that would give her an excuse to barge in. Her gaze fell on the poster of the Chicago skyline she’d bought when she first moved to this office.
Perfect.
She rapped on the doorframe. “Hello!”
Shannon glanced up and all but threw herself in front of the computer screen. “What do you want?”
Shannon’s bark gave Rebecca pause, but the need to know what was coming drove her on. She gestured toward the print. “I just realized I left my print of the skyline in here when I moved out. I’ll just take it back now.” She stepped closer to the desk to take a look. Leaning forward, she squinted at the computer screen.
“Stay right there!” Shannon reached for the phone, shifting her body strategically to block the screen completely. “I need to check with housekeeping first to make sure it belongs to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Shannon. Trust me, it’s mine.” Rebecca inched closer.
“Stay back!” Shannon repeated. “As I was saying, I will call to make sure the print belongs to you. If it was in the office originally, then it belongs to the office, which means it now belongs to me. It’s despicable to take things that don’t belong to you.”
Shannon clenched her jaw, and loathing shot out of her limpid eyes.
If looks could kill I’d be drawn and quartered.
“Are you all right?” Rebecca asked and stepped closer. True, she had hoped to catch a glimpse of what Shannon was writing, but this girl looked so flushed and agitated, Rebecca honestly feared for her health.
“Why don’t you go away? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Shannon’s trembling lips twisted in such a nasty smile Rebecca fell back one step. “I have two and one-half pages to get out. You still remember what a real column is like, don’t you?”
Rebecca thrust up her chin. “This is the second time you’ve told me to get lost. You know, the third time I might start getting offended.”
“A threat, Rebecca?” Shannon mocked.
Odd, Rebecca’s laugh sounded genuine to her own ears, although her insides quivered with rage. “No,
darling,
it’s a promise.” Her dignity shaken, she forced herself to stroll slowly out.
That night at home, Rebecca set the timer on her treadmill for ten miles and stuck in a DVD of
The Thomas Crown Affair.
The pounding soundtrack caused her to quicken her pace on the treadmill. The thrill of the first robbery brought images of stealing every copy of Wednesday’s edition racing through her head. If she didn’t steal
all
the papers, then she could take just the pages with Shannon’s column, which might or might not expose Rebecca’s embarrassing secret without her consent.
This is crazy. I need endorphins.
She ate ten pieces of Leonidas’ fabulous chocolates, even the raspberry ones she didn’t like, while she watched the hot love scenes between Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo
.
She loved this movie because Pierce had an age-appropriate leading lady. And she looked damn good.
The goal of still looking fabulous in her forties usually kept her from late-night snacking. Lately, she had
no
willpower. She yanked open the refrigerator looking for her stash of bleu cheese and grapes to fill the gaping stress ache in her stomach.
She knew she shouldn’t do yoga on a full stomach but pulled out old tapes anyway.
I’ll think happy, positive thoughts.
The dead man’s pose always put her right to sleep. But tonight her mind raced with horrible humiliating scenarios. Shannon and a faceless David Sumner were evil puppeteers, pulling her strings, making her dance around in a bra and thong.
It must have been something I ate.
She glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. Four a.m. Only an hour and a half until the first edition hot off the press landed in the lobby—and she would be there.
CHICAGO DAILY MAIL WEDNESDAY FOOD
BAJA CHICKEN
8 boned chicken breasts
Salt and pepper to taste
1½ cloves garlic crushed
4 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons tarragon vinegar
1 cup dry sherry
Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper. Crush garlic into oil and vinegar in a skillet. Sauté chicken pieces until golden brown, turning frequently. Remove. Place in a baking dish. Pour sherry over pieces and place in 350-degree oven for 10 minutes.
A Note from Rebecca Covington
Darlings, please don’t ever experiment with these skinless, boneless chicken breasts like a certain embarrassed divorcée chose to do. For a totally organic push-up bra, she shoved chicken breasts in her low-cut formal gown and went off to a black tie at one of our most posh hotels. After three drinks, she was dancing so gleefully one chicken breast popped out and tumbled onto the dance floor.
A woman slipped on it and fell, and her escort picked up the meat and screamed. He thought she’d lost a body part.
Enjoy!
Xo Rebecca
O
n Wednesday at five twenty-nine a.m., Rebecca pushed through the
Daily Mail
doors. She stopped, stunned by dread. Pauline and Kate were at the reception desk, reading today’s edition.
Pauline lifted her head, her face so pale her freckles stood out across her nose and cheeks. “Oh, Rebecca, I’m so sorry.”
Kate squared her shoulders. “Yesterday Pauline told me you were concerned about Shannon’s column. We agreed to meet here to get the earliest edition.” She held out the paper.
Rebecca forced herself to take it. The bright lights in the lobby provided enough illumination so she didn’t require glasses to peer down at Shannon’s two-page spread plus pictures.
Right below Shannon’s smiling picture and her byline, “Shannon Shares with Her Friends,” Rebecca’s name jumped off the page in bold letters.
Everyone in town (yours truly included) constantly raves about how fabulous
Rebecca Covington
looks for 39. Well, get ready to heap on even more accolades! Our Rebecca actually turns 45 next month! We all agree she looks closer to 35, which is why she can still date all those 30-something hunks. I’m sure all those undergrads will make her the belle of the ball at the Indiana University alumni gathering where she will be honored. Remember, Rebecca, those hunks you chase after better be over eighteen or they’re jailbait!
Rebecca couldn’t move. Couldn’t lift her eyes off the paper. Only her fierce pride kept her standing. It wasn’t her true age being exposed that caused her entire body to cramp up in a ball. It was the ugly dig about younger men. It slashed at old scars from Peter dumping her for a nineteen-year-old. All the old weakness and vulnerability came rushing back. She’d never forgotten the horrible desperation that drove her to date young guys so she could say to Peter, “See, you bastard, twenty-year-olds want me, too!”