Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance) (21 page)

Chapter 27

Deanna desperately wanted to ask
Carson if he felt the same growing sense of father/daughter relationship that she felt, if he loved her as much as he loved Bethany. But she couldn’t, so instead she simply said in hip-hop language, “Carson, you nuclear.”

“I’m nuclear?” he repeated, snickering. “As in bomb?”

“As in H-bomb!” She emphasized with her fingers, forming the letter H.

“Well, if I’m an H-bomb, then you must be what J-J Evans would say, ‘dy-no-mite!’” He gave a good imitation of the sitcom character.

She responded with a goofy smirk. “That’s so corny.”

“Why is it corny? H-bomb is similar to TNT, isn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, boy.”

“What’re you ‘oh, boying’ about? You know I’m right.” He scooted himself away from the breakfast table, walked up to her and tickled her side.

Deanna was extremely ticklish, and she shrieked with laughter.

“I’m right—aren’t I?” He tickled her harder.

“Carson, stop!” she yelled.

“Say I’m right, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Deanna’s cheeks were beginning to ache from laughing so hard. “Please, Carson, stop!” she begged. When he denied her request, she was forced to agree. “Okay, I give in—you’re right, Carson—you’re right!” she shouted.

When he finally released her, he raised his teacup and gave himself a victory toast. “Cheers,” he said, taking two sips before returning it to the saucer.

As the last few giggles faded away and she regained her self-control, Deanna straightened her shirt and smoothed the few strands of hair that had pulled loose from her ponytail.

“So what are we going to do tonight?” she asked, watching as he ate a croissant and finished his tea. Since it was a Friday and Cindy was on a bus
iness trip hoping to get additional money for her research project, Deanna figured she and Carson would do something fun together that weekend.

“I told Bethany I’d help her with a school project and then we’d watch a video and roast marshmallows in the fireplace. CJ will be at a Boy Scouts’ camping trip this weekend.”

Deanna couldn’t conceal her disappointment.

“Will you be all right on your own?”

“Sure,” she said, trying to sound cheery. “I’m mature and responsible enough to babysit myself. I just won’t have as much fun without you as I’d have with you. But I’ll be just fine. I hope you and Bethany have fun, though.”

“So what will you be doing with yourself this evening?”

“Oh, the usual—gossiping on the phone with my friends.” She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost time for her carpool ride to arrive at the corner. She slung the strap of her book bag over her shoulder, kissed Carson on the cheek, and wished him a good day at the office. “I’ll probably be asleep when you get home, so I’ll see you in the morning.” She waved as Carson put his index and middle fingers together and touched his forehead in a quick, stiff salute.

Her smile changed to a scowl as she exited the front door. Bethany can eat dirt and die for all I care, she thought.

* * *

Mr. Gallup’s American history class was boring as usual. Deanna couldn’t figure out why she needed to know what had happened during the Civil War era. What does something that happened nearly a hundred fifty years ago have to do with me? she thought. She’d rather read about the Civil rights era, which affected her more closely.

Mr. Gallup called on a boy named Dolan Jam
ison to begin reading the chapter. Even though this was a seventh-grade class, Dolan read at the fifth-grade level. He stumbled over any word with more than seven letters, which frustrated and annoyed Deanna. “The American Civil War (1861–1865) was a major war between the United States (the “Union”) . . .”

Deanna began to doodle in her notebook as her own thoughts traveled in another direction. Not the past but the present and the future. Her future.

Why can’t Carson have a conversation without bringing up Bethany? Everything is always about Bethany. Why can’t just once, everything be about Deanna? And poor CJ. He doesn’t get the attention he deserves either because Miss Whiny Pants hogs it all!

Maybe I could get Bethany to eat an arsenic-laced powdered donut. Then it would be just me and Carson, but I’d make sure CJ got his share of atte
ntion, and you can bet he wouldn’t get more than me. I’d be the center of Carson’s world. Pretty soon, he’d forget he’d ever had a daughter named Bethany. I’d shower him with so much love that he’d wish I were his real daughter.

I can see it now. Carson taking me to my junior prom. Carson taking me on vacations. Carson and me going to the movies. Carson and me shopping at the mall. Carson teaching me how to drive. Carson and me roasting marshmallows. No, on second thought, I’d better not do that one ’cause it could bring back memories of Bethany.

A burst of laughter from the whole class cut into her thoughts.

Mr. Gallup was looking straight at her. “I said, ‘Deanna, are you still with us?’”

“Um, what?” Deanna whispered.

“Will you read the next paragraph, please?” Mr. Gallup requested.

She looked around at her classmates, hoping someone would give her a hint where to begin reading, but no one did. They just laughed harder.

Frustrated and furious, Deanna thought
, Even in school, Bethany tortures me. That does it! The girl has got to go!

Chapter 28

Waiting her turn in the
twenty-items-or-less line at the supermarket, Cindy picked up a local business magazine, the Atlanta Ledger, to pass the time. The cover photo of local bankers involved in a merger transformed itself in her imagination to a shot of Katharine embracing Carson. She frowned in annoyance.

The cashier’s friendly hand gesture shook Cindy from her thoughts. An idea struck her and she hurried out of the store, leaving the non-purchased groceries on the counter.

She drove to the headquarters of a local monthly newspaper with a small circulation and confronted the editor, who was standing beside his assistant’s desk, giving instructions. She knew him by sight, having seen his photo once or twice.

“Mr. Jenkins,” she said, “you may not want to hear any criticism, but I’m going to give it to you, anyway. Your paper is boring.”

He turned red in the face. “That’s your opinion, Ms.— ”

“Lo—uh, Ludlow,” she lied. “You’re absolutely right—it’s my opinion—but it seems to be everyone else’s opinion too. You write well, but you’re saying the same thing over and over. People don’t want to read how businesses and the government are co
rrupt—they already know that. You have to give them a scandal, and I think I have one for you. Are you interested?”

“Am I interested? Are you kidding?” Come back to my office.”

He led her to a small back room and shut the door.

“Have a seat,” he said, and she sat on the worn sofa as he took his place behind a scuffed wooden desk nearly covered with piles of paper.

She glanced at the dirty window overlooking an old and obviously inoperable railroad track. It was completely bare, without even venetian blinds to cover its nakedness.

“Well,” she said, “you can’t be accused of ove
rdecorating.”

He laughed. A short, red-faced man with thick bushy eyebrows and a double chin, wore wire-framed glasses with magnifying lenses. He had barely three strands of hair on the top of his bald head.

“Now what’s the scandal, Ms.—?”

“Ludlow,” Cindy repeated. “You’ve heard of Carson O’Connor haven’t you?”

“The sports columnist? Of course.” He looked ready to burst with anticipation.

“Well,” Cindy dragged, “Mr. O’Connor has pe
rsonally informed me that he’s filing for a divorce; that his wife accused him of having a pornography addiction, and that she had breast and buttocks implants to save her marriage and pander to his sexual desires.

“In addition, Mr. Jenkins, Mrs. O’Connor is paying for the surgeries by accepting money under the table from little-known athletes, promising that her husband will give them national publi
city.”

Mr. Jenkins stared in stunned silence.

“What? Are you afraid of printing the story? Afraid of being shut down?”

“There’s not much to shut down. My paper would do a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn from a business publication to a gossip magazine,” he said. “I guess it could be worth the gamble. But you’ll have to get some proof.”

“I think I can give you enough information to do the trick—copies of official documents like a divorce decree and plastic surgery records, the works.” She wasn’t worried about providing medical records. She’d just make them up. “But one other thing.”

Mr. Jenkins raised his eyebrows.

“I want the article to be signed under the pseudonym W. Freeman.”

“No problem,” Mr. Jenkins said, shrugging. “You have the right to anonymity, but what’s in it for you?”

“Let’s just say having the satisfaction of seeing a friend get what she deserves.” She grinned wickedly.

* * *

The June edition of the paper literally made history. Mr. Jenkins went to the Labor Agency and had hired delivery boys to stock the paper in the vending bins all over the city. By eleven in the morning, the edition had sold out.

Cindy met Mr. Jenkins at his office that afte
rnoon.

“That was some scandal you gave me!” Mr. Je
nkins said, grinning as he kissed her hand. “Do you realize that I, Maurice Jenkins, have exposed one of the nation’s leading sports journalists and his wife?”

Cindy smiled. “Now don’t get too big a head. You had a little help from me. But still it was quite something.”

“Something? It was fantastic! The paper’s an overnight success! In the next issue, we’ll do a follow-up and I’m going to print forty-thousand—no, fifty thousand copies. I may even get some big-time advertisers. I might even make a profit.”

Cindy laughed. “We make a wonderful team, you and I.” She smoothed the three strands of his hair with her fingertips.  She pulled a copy of the edition from his desk and slid it in the brown envelope she held underneath her arm.  It was already a
ddressed to Katharine O’Connor with a W. Freeman returned address label in the upper left corner. Now all she needed was the appropriate postage affixed to it.

* * *

In his professional circle, the news spread like wildfire, or, rather, like an international epidemic. Magazine and newspaper editors in the United States, Canada, Mexico, and Great Britain picked up the r
eport of Carson O’Connor’s wife’s involvement in a scandal. His popularity and impeccable reputation had now been tainted.

To deal with this crisis, the executive editor-in-chief had called a behind-closed-doors emergency meeting, to include a Board representative.

“And furthermore, I will not tolerate this kind of smut and corruption!” the executive editor shouted, slamming his fist on the mahogany desktop. “The USA Weekly is a respectable publication and has a zero tolerance for any of its employees, and in this case the wife of its employee, engaging in criminal activities! It is the policy of this paper to—”

“Criminal?” Carson interrupted. “Are you calling my wife a criminal, Mr. Ballinger?” His icy formality contrasted with Ballinger’s fury, enabling him to keep his composure despite the intense pressure he was under.

Mr. Parisi, the chairman of the Board of Directors who had introduced Carson at the AJA banquet, now refused to look at him. He sat stiffly in his wingback chair, his fingers tightly covering his mouth and his eyebrows forming a V shape, listening intently.

Mr. Parisi dragged his hand away from his mouth, addressing Ballinger in his baritone voice. “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Lloyd. In this cou
ntry, you’re innocent until proven guilty. You haven’t given Cars an opportunity to state his position. You automatically assumed he was at fault, and you’re ready to sentence him without hearing the evidence. While I appreciate your protection of the integrity of this fine paper, it’s obvious you’ve been out of commission as a reporter awhile.” His eyes met Lloyd Ballinger’s and rested there. “Just because it’s printed, doesn’t mean it’s the truth.” The corners of his lips curved slightly upward. “I believe you learned that in Journalism 101.”
              Ballinger looked at his desk, but nothing in particular.

The representatives from Human Resources, Risk Management, and Executive Management D
epartments made small snickering sounds. Carson kept his lips pressed tightly together, neither feeling nor feigning amusement. His career was at stake, and as far as he was concerned, this meeting was serious business. But he certainly wasn’t going to criticize Mr. Parisi, a Southern gentleman now in his seventies whose presence commanded attention and respect; a retired two-star general who had served with distinction in the United States Marine Corps.

Ballinger, flushed with embarrassment, dropped his head like a schoolboy chastised by the principal.  “Cars,” he whispered, still looking at the desk in front of him. “Uh, Mr. Parisi’s right. I guess I was caught off guard and got carried away. I should’ve known better than to believe that you, of all people, would betray your family and the Weekly. There’s abs
olutely no excuse for my behavior. I, uh, apologize.” He glanced quickly at Carson.

“Sure,” Carson said tersely. He had no intention of forgiving Ballinger until this ordeal was safely over, but he knew better than to antagonize him by saying so.

“Now that we’ve established our priorities,” Mr. Parisi said, “let’s get to the nitty-gritty. Son,” he addressed Carson in a paternal tone, “do you have any idea who this W. Freeman person is?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Do you have any known enemies that would want to slander your name and reputation?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Hm,” Mr. Parisi mumbled. He stroked his whiskers and looked at Ballinger.

Ballinger nodded and excused the guests, appa
rently assuming Parisi wanted to speak with Carson in private.

“No, I believe I’ll leave with the rest of them,” Mr. Parisi said. “It’s tee time, and I’m due on the green in two hours.” He walked up to Carson and patted him on the back. “Reporters are going to be crawling over the Weekly like ants at a picnic. Until a more blistering story comes along, that is. When they don’t get anything out of you, they’re likely to come sniffing after your wife for a statement,” Mr. Parisi said. “Keep her protected.”

Carson looked from Mr. Parisi to Ballinger and back again.

“The truth always has a way of revealing itself, son,” Mr. Parisi said.

“Yes, sir,” Carson nodded. “And thank you, sir, for your support.” He stood to shake his hand. Mr. Parisi received it, attaching an encouraging smile and left the room behind the others.

Still looking abashed, Ballinger said, “We’ll contact the paper that published the article and get to the bottom of this. I’ll, uh, I’ll make the call.”

Carson nodded. “If he’s uncooperative, tell him I’ll sue him for slander.”

But it was apparent from Ballinger’s side of the conversation that the publisher or editor, Mr. Jenkins, was being uncooperative.

“What did he say?” Carson asked when Ballinger hung up.

“He says he won’t divulge his sources. He says it’s appropriate to exercise his First Amendment Right to freedom of the press.

As a journalist, Carson knew that Right all too well.

* * *

Carson thought his head would explode. He’d thought long and hard about the article, trying to establish a motive. It was obvious this W. Freeman person knew something about his marital problems. But how? And who is she or he? And why was he or she trying to disgrace him? At least the scandalmonger hadn’t mentioned Cindy.

He toyed with the idea that Katharine could’ve leaked some information just to get back at him. A woman scorned, he thought, but he quickly shook the ridiculous suggestion from his mind. Katharine was too much of a lady to seek revenge. And besides, she lived by the scripture, “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

As much as Carson wanted to call Katharine and talk with her about the article, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea until he found some answers. He considered asking God for direction but the voice in his mind rejected the idea.
You’ve neglected your personal relationship with God, and if you think He’ll hear you now, you’re sadly mistaken. You’d be wasting your time talking to Him.

Carson sighed. The only other person he could turn to was Cindy.

The house was unusually quiet when he entered. No music was coming from the CD player and no televisions were turned on. He called Cindy’s name and then Deanna’s, but received no response.

Maybe Cindy’s in her room asleep, Carson thought. Rushing up the stairs, skipping every other one until he arrived at Cindy’s door, he knocked lightly and called her name again, r
eceiving no answer.

After knocking three times, he decided to turn the knob and open the door quietly in case she was asleep.

He’d only entered her room a few times, and then only to help her hang curtains or to carry her luggage into her room after a business trip. He’d installed a shoe rack in her walk-in closet and helped her attach sheer turquoise draperies around the bedposts of her queen-sized bed. He thought it looked like the sultan’s bed in an Arabian harem, more than a bit much for his taste.

He peeped inside, but she wasn’t there. Just as he was about to close the door, he spotted a photograph lying in plain sight on her nightstand. It looked like a photo of Katharine and someone else. Curious and a bit apprehensive, he scurried over to take a closer look. It was Katharine, all right. Katharine and an unfamiliar man. Beneath it was another photo of Katharine and the same man with their arms around each other. A third photo showed Katharine smiling at the man, whose face was close to hers as if he had just kissed her cheek. He flipped the photo over and read the words, “Katharine and Freeman.”

“What is this?” he shouted. “What’s Cindy doing with pictures of my wife and this—this man?” He stared at the photos, wanting to tear them to pieces. Finally, pulling himself out of his thoughts, he returned the pictures to the nightstand and left the room in a fury.

Then it dawned on him. Freeman was the author of that slanderous article in the
Ledger
. “Freeman and Katharine?” he spoke out. “I don’t believe it! What in heaven’s name is happening? How could my own wife be so cold and calculating?” If someone had told him Katharine was behind it all, he would never have believed it. But now—seeing was believing. And his eyes weren’t deceiving him. But she had.