The Other Woman (2 page)

“I have to give you a six-month tryout,” Alex interrupted, gesturing “upstairs” with his notepad. “Fifth floor says that’s the deal. Are you with us?”

Jane managed a network-quality smile. Even if “network” was no longer in her future.

“You got yourself a newspaper reporter,” Jane said. She looked square into the city editor’s eyes, telegraphing she was not only the right choice to cover the election and share a desk with Tuck, whoever that was, but a valuable addition to his staff as well. One who did not make mistakes.

His eyes, however, were trained on the screen of his iPhone.

“Alex?” she said. If he dissed her on day one, she had low hopes for the teamwork he promised. But, facts be faced, her hopes were fairly low to begin with. She was still navigating the raw stages of grief over her dismissal from Channel 11.

It had been a while since her heart was broken.

Jane had avoided all the good-byes. She’d gone to the station one last time, after midnight. Packed her videotapes, Rolodex, fan mail, and three gilt-shiny award statues; stashed the cartons in the musty basement of her Brookline brownstone. The next two weeks she’d wrapped herself in one of Mom’s afghans, parked herself in a corner of her curvy leather couch, and stared at her television. A screen no longer her domain.

She hadn’t gone outside the apartment. Hadn’t answered e-mail or the phone. A couple of times, drank a little too much wine.

Dad had been brusque when she called to tell him. “You must have done
something
wrong,” he’d said. It was okay. Even after all these years, Jane knew he was still missing Mom. She was, too.

Mrs. Washburn from downstairs had appeared with the mail, bearing her famous mac and cheese, Jane’s favorite. Little Eli, the super’s starstruck eight-year-old, tried to lure her, as always, into an Xbox marathon. Steve and Margery, once her producer and photographer, sent white tulips, with a note saying, “Television sucks,” and suggesting beer.

“Television sucks” made her laugh. For about one second.

Week three of unemployment, she’d had enough. She had clicked off the television, cleared out the stack of empty pizza boxes, and popped open the résumé on her laptop. The next day she rolled up the blinds in her living room, dragged the unread newspapers to the curb, and had her TV-length hair—the stylist called it walnut brown—cut spiky-short. She savagely organized all four closets in her apartment and dumped her on-air blazers in a charity bin. She’d listened to every one of her voice mail messages, and one was Jake. With a lead on a job at the
Register.

And now she had an offer. Such as it was.

“Sorry, Jane, had to answer that text. So? Can you start tomorrow?” Clicking off his blinking screen, Alex tucked the iPhone into a pocket of his tweedy jacket. He’d been promoted from senior political reporter to city editor in time for the
Register
’s geared-up election coverage. Once Jane’s toughest competition, Alex Wyatt—“Hot Alex,” as Amy persisted in calling him—was about to become her superior.

Jane couldn’t ignore the irony. The up-and-coming Jane Ryland, award-winning investigative reporter. Crashed on the fast track and blew it at age thirty-two. Possibly a new land speed record for failure. Her smile still in place, she pretended she hadn’t noticed her potential new boss had ignored her.

“You got yourself a reporter,” Jane said again. Now she just had to prove it.

2

“You want what?” Jane struggled to keep her voice even. Day two of the new Jane, only nine fifteen on Tuesday morning, and her vow to be upbeat was taking a beating. Alex, leaning against his chaos of a desk and offering her a bulging file folder, was asking the impossible.

Find Moira Kelly Lassiter?
How?

An hour earlier, Jane had bought a subway fare card at the Riverside T station, then grabbed a soggy cup of coffee from the instantly inquisitive guy at Java Jim’s.

“Aren’t you—?” he’d begun, his eyes calculating.

“No.” She’d almost burst into tears.
Not anymore.
It seemed like everyone was looking at her. They all knew who she was from TV. And now they all thought she’d made a mistake.

“You are too!” he’d yelled after her. “You cut all your hair off, but you’re the one who…”

But she was through the turnstile and into her new life. Through the newly opened door. She glanced skyward, at Mom.
Gotcha.

Unfolding the
Register
as the train racketed through Brookline’s yellowing maple trees and plunged into the subway underground, Jane tried to keep her elbows from poking the sleeping commuter beside her. Bridge Killer stuff, of course, on the front page.
Wonder if Jake—?
She wished she could call him. Get the scoop.

Her heart fluttered, tempting her. Maybe one call, briefly, just to—
No way.
She turned the page. Pushed Jake out of her mind. She was focused on a new job, not on an off-limits relationship. Not on the only man in the past year or so—
since Alex
—who’d made her wish that …

No. Work.

Governor Lassiter was up in the polls, according to the
Register
’s latest. Election looming. Lassiter’s wife canceling her schedule again. Gable campaign scrambling. No issues. No depth. The
Register
needed her.

Jane had crossed the busy street in front of the
Register
’s six-story yellow-brick offices and yanked open the heavy glass door, in the throes of a high-speed mental pep talk. Her lawyers promised they’d appeal the verdict. Maybe Sellica would change her mind. Jane would be vindicated. Channel 11 would clamor to take her back.

And tomorrow she’d be extra nice to Java Jim.

Jane had beeped her new ID card through the security reader, waved to the guard at the front desk, punched the elevator button. Punched it again, for punctuation. She’d tackle this newspaper challenge, same way she’d tackled every tough problem. On her own.

Except now, hearing her first assignment—it seemed semi-impossible. She reached up to worry her hair, a left-over-from-J-school nervous habit, but her hair wasn’t there anymore.

“So, Jane?” Alex came from behind his desk, urging the manila file folder toward her. In tasseled loafers, wire-rimmed glasses, and loosened tie, casually attractive, he still seemed more rumpled-preppy street reporter than influential news executive. His wife—having removed him from Boston’s most-eligible-bachelor list—was some corporate honcho. “Here’s the background I had Archive Gus dig out for you. Lots of photos. Think you can find her?”

No,
she wanted to say.
I can’t “find” Moira Kelly Lassiter, because she’s not lost. She’s just—home.
Apparently not wanting to come out. Plus, Alex was assigning her the candidate’s
wife
? Like some foofy society reporter? Hardly destined to make headlines.

“Alex, maybe she’s tired.” Maybe she could gently derail this idea. “Maybe Moira doesn’t like campaigning. Not all political wives are willing to keep standing in the background, staring adoringly at their husbands.” Jane pushed up the sleeves of her black turtleneck, glad that Alex also wore jeans. Newspaper work did have its fashion pluses. “I should look into campaign contributions, or that union thing. The crime bill. Profiling Moira Lassiter seems kind of—puff.”

Alex had started shaking his head before she was halfway through her plea. “My other political reporters are covering those angles. But Moira, seems she’s suddenly off the radar. What if it’s a face-lift? Great story. Maybe rehab? Hell of a story.” Alex ticked the ideas off on his fingers. “Exhausted? Bored? Depressed? Sick? Unhappy? All front-page stuff. You’re with me on this, right?”

“Ah, sure, Alex,” Jane said. She put her hand to her hair, took it down. She was the new kid now, and it was key to be a team player. “I’ll make some calls, sniff around, see what I get.”

“We’ll play it up big.” Alex held up two fingers at a harried-looking man who’d arrived outside his glass-walled office.
Two minutes,
Alex mouthed. He turned back to Jane. “All set?”

“I’ll have to go through Lassiter’s scheduling gorgons. If they say no—”

“That means another door will open, right?” Two red lights flashed on Alex’s desk phone, his intercom buzzed, the man waited in the doorway. “We’re counting on you, Ryland. Find out what’s happened to Moira Kelly Lassiter.”

3

Kenna Wilkes opened the maroon-lacquered front door while the doorbell chimes still echoed through the front hall. On the expansive wooden porch stood the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Elegant. Regal. Silver hair, expensive suit.

Holy shit.

She fussed with her skinny white T-shirt, tucking it into the low-slung waistband of her new jeans, then looked up into those flinty eyes. Governor Owen Lassiter.
Former
governor.

Over his shoulder, she could see his entourage. A guy wearing khakis and a green
LASSITER FOR SENATE
button on his oxford shirt hovered behind the candidate, clutching a metal clipboard. A sleek black car was parked at the end of the driveway, headlights on. A blue and silver van with an enormous crimson
11
painted on the side idled across the street.

“Kenna Wilkes? We’d like you to meet Governor Owen Lassiter,” the young man was saying, as if announcing a state occasion. “He’s—”

“Running for the Senate, as you may have heard, Mrs. Wilkes.” Lassiter’s voice, interrupting his campaign aide, came across honey and steel.

Kenna hesitated, then took his hand.

“It’s my Tuesday tour,” Lassiter said. “Hoping to meet registered voters who are still making up their minds.”

He looked at her as if she were the only voter in Deverton.

Kenna had tied her tumbling blond hair away from her face with a thin white satin ribbon. Used a hint of pink lip gloss, a blush of color on her cheeks. Tanned skin peeked between her T-shirt and jeans. Her hand was still in Lassiter’s.

“If you have a few minutes, Mrs. Wilkes, perhaps we can answer your questions about our goals for this state and for this country. Unlike the negativity and fearmongering of the Gable campaign, we want to be a force for good down in D.C.” Lassiter squeezed her hand gently, a gesture she’d find patronizing if she weren’t so fascinated. “With your help, of course.”

She hadn’t been prepared for this. His charisma. His power. She’d been told he’d arrive this afternoon, between three and four, as part of his “Lassiter for Your Neighborhood” meet and greet. She’d seen the candidate on television. But no screen was big enough to contain him.

“Who dis?” Four-year-old Jimmy, Tonka dump truck in one hand and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in the other, toddled into the entryway, then rested his head against Kenna’s thigh.

“He must be the only one in Massachusetts who doesn’t know,” Kenna said, laughing. She took back her hand to tousle Jimmy’s dark curls. She had to get herself and this situation under control. “Still, Jimmy’s only four. Back when you were governor, of course, he wasn’t born yet.”

“Hey, gunner,” Lassiter said. He leaned down, close to both of them. “I’m Owen. Pretty nice truck you got there.”

Kenna breathed a hint of citrus and spice. When he looked up at her, she couldn’t read his expression.

“You’re lucky, Mrs. Wilkes. My wife, Moira, and I don’t have kids.”

Lucky? Not exactly how I’d have described it.
She turned on a welcoming smile. “Would you like to come in? It’s not like you’re a stranger.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilkes,” Lassiter said. “We won’t stay long.”

“Kenna,” she said.

“Kenna,” he acknowledged. He turned to his aide. “Trevor? We’ll be—” He looked at Kenna, confirming. “—fifteen minutes?”

Trevor raised the clipboard, apparently a signal to an unseen person in the black SUV. The headlights clicked off. But the door of the Channel 11 van slid open. Kenna could see bare legs and black high heels emerging from the passenger side.

“Mrs. Wilkes?” Trevor said. “Channel Eleven is tracking the campaign today. Would it be all right if they came in?”

Not a chance.
“I’d rather not. If it’s not a problem? I’m not really comfortable having our picture taken.” Kenna made fluttery gestures at her hair and jeans.

“No television.” Lassiter frowned briefly at the aide, who performed an exaggerated thumbs-down at the news van. The stiletto-clad legs swung back in; the door slammed. “We’ll talk privately. The two of us.”

His expression softened. “And Jimmy.” Lassiter paused at the sound of Trevor’s jangling cell phone.

“Hold on,” the aide said into the phone. “Governor? Your schedule. Maitland’s found another problem with—”

“Tell Rory I said to deal with it. No more interruptions.”

And he stepped inside.

*   *   *

“See her, Alex? Right there. The tall twenty-something in the red coat.” As if dealing a hand of solitaire, Jane placed the glossy photos on the city editor’s cluttered desk. She stabbed a finger at the fuzzy crimson image. “I found that woman in at least five of the recent photos Archive Gus gave us. I’ve been down in the archive room most of the day, looking for more. Every time she’s behind the rope line, but right in front of the crowd. Look. Down in Cohasset. Up in Lawrence. Way out in Worcester.”

Jane looked at Alex, checking for signs he was buying her pitch.
Funny to be on the same team with him, instead of battling for sound bites. Wonder why he was never a TV reporter. Those shoulders. Those cobalt eyes. All that hair
. She reached out a hand, trying to persuade him, almost touching his jacket.

“I’m telling you, Alex, it looks like she’s—”

“She’s another Lassiter groupie.” Alex shook his head, dismissive. “Or some political activist. Wants a job in D.C. Wants Lassiter to vote for the omnibus bill. It’s an election. Everyone wants something.”

“But what if there’s something between them? Look at the Cohasset shot. See how she’s looking at him? That’s—” Jane paused, analyzing the photo. “—it’s lust. What can I tell you?”