Exposé (Sally Harrington, #1)

by Laura Van Wormer

Verity and I have been having an affair. For a long a time. For over two years.

"Afternoon?" I say, taking a step back. "Where do you meet her in the afternoon?"

"Two years?" I cry, slamming my hand on the counter. Then I lower my voice, glowering. "You've been sleeping with her for two years and waited to tell me until now? After pretending that you've been so tragically alone?"

"Look, we haven't known each other that long—I'm falling in love with you," Spencer says, sounding a little desperate. "And I think Verity suspects." "So what?" I demand. "So—" He can't seem to come up with an answer. So I get my purse and get the hell out of Dodge. I drive back to Castleford in some kind of shock.

"What the heck is that?" I say aloud, coming up the stairs. Sitting in front of the door is a large hunk of concrete and brick, with a metal cable coming out of one side. Now what? I wonder if in my absence part of the basement’s started to fall apart. Scotty and I pick our way around the thing and go inside.

I think of Spencer and feel the wind leave my sails. But he hasn't slept with Verity since, I remind myself.

After all, I have a feature article to write for Expectations. I have to get ready to meet with my boss tomorrow, the woman my lover has been having an affair with for over two years.

I know I love Doug like a lifelong friend. I know I like sex with him. I know I am utterly enthralled with that idiot Spencer, and feel as though I have discovered a whole other kind of person I wasn't sure existed. I also know that I will very likely end up losing both men, because the whole situation is so indicative of what my mother has been trying to tell me—that I have to grow up.

You must grow up, Mother's voice says. It is not good that adolescent behavior makes you feel comfortable. Oh, pooh, Mother, I think as I take Doug's hand to thank him. A short while later, we are hugging at the front door. And then he is gone and I am crying again, this time with Scotty trying to lick the tears away.

"That's why I didn't tell you. I knew you wouldn't. And I knew I had only a small window to get through to you, that you had a man in your life. Verity told me that, and I knew you'd be back in Connecticut, and that night we went to the theater and we talked and talked—remember? How we talked about everything that night and how we both knew, we just knew, there was something big going on between us, something that needed to be explored, and I'm not talking about sex—" "But that's what we did, didn't we?" I say, trying to remind myself of reality as I quickly pull myself out of the dream of that first night, for that first night had been magical, there had been a connection between us. We had discovered we were intellectually similar, that our hobbies and tastes and interests were similar, that our disasters in relationships had been similar, too, and that our dedication to work was unhealthy, in ways, and that our moods, that all-or-nothing kind of attitude, was not good...

“He still loves you." Dejectedly Pete looks to the ground again. “If Mom hadn't died, everything would be okay."

To actually see the house, though, is proving a little more difficult than I thought as I drive around Cornwall. It's on a private drive that stretches at least a mile back into the hills. At the end of it, as if that is not remote enough, an unassuming gravel drive begins, which trails back even farther into the woods. I know it is the Cochran-Darenbrook house because I recognize Jackson's sense of humor on a small sign next to the drive that reads Reckless Manor.

I bounce up the drive, ascending the hill, thinking you'd have to have a four-wheel-drive vehicle in the winter to make it. I wind this way and that, finally coming onto a small clearing. At first I think I am looking at the caretaker's cottage, but since this is the end of the road I quickly realize that this is the house. It is a simple, weathered, cedar-shingled home with a porch on two sides, a peaked roof, a large stone chimney and large windows that look old-fashioned, but up close I discover are those very expensive new ones. A navy blue Mercedes sports coupe is sitting near the house.

Stop it, I tell myself. "Is everything all right?" Verity says, ducking her head a little, as if to see through my eyes into my soul.

Verity stops in her tracks and turns around. "Really? Frightened? What a curious word to choose."

Damn it! What did he say? Something about the fact if Verity knew, she would want to hurt me?

"What Cassy would do," I say, "and I'm including this in the piece, is that she would have dinner with, for example, her boss at WST. And they would be romantic dinners, sort of. Like he would take her to a secluded table at the Russian Tea Room, the Carlyle or Le Cirque. It was as if she would consent to pretending he was something special to her, when, in fact, it would be more a father-daughter relationship than anything."

Verity escorts me to the front door. "When this article is published, Sally," she says, "you are going to be a big name overnight. To keep you," she adds, smiling, opening the door, "I'll have no choice but to offer you a contract. As a matter of fact, I've got a draft of such a contract for you sitting on my desk right now. One hundred twenty thousand for four personality profiles next year." A contract?

The only thing I understand about therapy is that I need it. Sometimes I feel like the tapes have been running in my head for so long I'm incapable of thinking for myself when it comes to Michael. Phoebe says I'm not supposed to keep a journal for her, but for me, even though all I want to do is forget. Okay, me, here's your journal. Let it work miracles! Somehow. Please.

There's nothing wrong with being friends. Phoebe agrees. But something tells me that no good can become of it, that behind that facade there is a vulnerable young woman who shouldn't be dragged into this mess called my life. Michael's run up over ten thousand already on the American Express card. Thank God she made me get my name off the account after Sam said something about it. It's strange how someone so young can know so much. She says her grandfather drank and she knows how her grandmother handled it.

Last night I missed Henry so much I slept in his bed. It is so lonely here without him. And Mike. But then I think about the American Express card and I think to hell with him. This house is so empty. She called tonight and we talked for a long time. She made me feel better. I've got to talk to Phoebe about it. Mike's brother called to see if it was true that I'd thrown him out. I said yes. He said he thought it was a good thing, that either Michael will get help or die in an accident. Sam says I should change the locks on the door. I don't think it's necessary. He's not even in New York. We talk every night now. I look forward to her calls. Tonight she asked me if I had many friends. Women friends. I said I have some family friends in the country, but in the city I'm so busy. I told her that Rosanne was a friend, and so was Chi Chi. I guess that says something, that my so called friends are people who work for me.

I feel so confused. I want Michael to come back—and I don't want him to come back. I would like her to come over for dinner. Or maybe I could go over there. At least do something other than talk on the phone every day, but I'm scared, too. It's so stupid, because I'm not the least bit attracted to her, and yet, part of me must be, I think. I can tell she still feels something for me, but it doesn't upset me. To the contrary, I feel deeply flattered. Henry called this morning and said Michael showed up at camp. That he had been drinking but didn't make a scene or anything. I bet it was far worse than Henry let on. He did say Mike missed me so much, and was miserable, and Henry told him all he had to do was get some help and he could come home. I wish it was that easy. Now that he's gone, part of me dreads having to deal with his moods again, and he doesn't have a job anymore. If for one second I thought Michael would go to AA like Sam, I'd feel differently.

I met her for dinner tonight. It was a quick meal near the station and it was very strange. It's one thing to talk to someone all the time on the telephone, but it's another when you see them in person. I felt so strange. I had trouble looking at her. She talked on like nothing in the world was unusual. I wish I knew what was going on with me. Everything seems out of whack. I feel almost happy that Mike is gone. Phoebe says not to worry about it, but I have to, I have a family to keep together. It's not Henry's mess, it's ours, and we owe it to him to get our act together. Or maybe we should just end it. I just don't know anymore. She gave me a quick hug at the cab, after dinner. I looked at her and I nearly died because I almost kissed her, like I would Mike. You know, a see-you-later kiss.

Who am I kidding, this is trouble and I know it. Maybe I should just give this journal to Phoebe to read. I had her over for dinner tonight after work. I could barely eat, I was so nervous. I can't believe what is going on with me, I don't understand it. But I feel it, I definitely feel it. I am drawn to her. And I know she is drawn to me. But I didn't do anything. I couldn't even go near her when she left, and I think she knew that. I wanted her to leave but I didn't want her to leave. When she got home she called and we ended up talking nonsense for an hour, but didn't care—I don't want her to think I don't care.

I'll see her at the awards dinner. That will be strange. I hope people won't be too hard on Michael. He certainly won't be there to defend himself. If WWKK gets anything, I wonder if anyone will thank him. There I was, waiting in bed for the phone to ring. She called. I want to see her. I mean, I really want to see her. I know what that means, but I've decided not to analyze it. I like being with her and that's it. She is doing so well in New York it's almost alarming. And yet it seems very natural to her—no swollen head, not even much of an acknowledgment of the sensation she is causing. All she seems to care about is how I am, what I am thinking about. I think about her all the time now. I don't know what I want. But then maybe I do. Phoebe, you are not much help! She only asks if I think having feelings for another woman is more acceptable than having feelings for another man. In other words, do I think an affair with a woman doesn't count.

I can't believe I can even write that. Feelings for another woman. Yes, that's what they are. And there's more. I know I am attracted to her. Physically. I had her over for dinner again. Nothing happened, of course. I'm beginning to think she won't let anything happen. We just talked about Michael and I sautéed some vegetables in garlic and olive oil, and made some bread and tossed a salad. It was pretty good. She loves all the old movies and collects a lot of Garbo, Lombard, Hepburn, et cetera. She'd never seen Now Voyager and so I rented it and it was great, as always, although I felt depressed after. I am married, mother of one child. What am I doing? I had some wine. She doesn't really drink, she says. I did, anyway, because I was nervous. Scared, I suppose is more like it. Not of her. Of me. Michael's in town, I hear, but I don't know where. Part of me wants him in a rehab, part of me wants him dead, I get so angry. He told the bank manager I stole all his money.

Long conversation with Henry. What an incredible young man. He has a counselor out there who had problems with someone drinking. Henry's giving me a pep talk! Hang tough, Mom, he says. Don't let him come back. Thought about flying out and surprising Henry, but can't do it right now. Stopped at sidewalk table on Seventh Avenue and bought t-shirt because I don't want to feel so old. Is forty-one old? I used to think so. Now I feel like life may be starting. Me in a t-shirt! Found Michael in the apartment yesterday. He chased me. Got to awards dinner shaking mess and got ovation for Electronika story. Felt so strange. Drank too much, saw her— I can't even write what happened. It's too new. I don't know what I'm doing but I think I'm glad I've done it.

Who am I kidding? It was wonderful! I was scared to death and she made love to me like no one ever really has. There. I said it. Now, can I admit that to Phoebe? I don't know, but I don't want to think about it, I just want to enjoy it. It's as though she sees someone in me that I thought had died years ago. Last night she came here and we went into the guest room. I kept thinking I should have changed the locks like Sam said, half expecting Michael to come home. I'm too old for this, I keep thinking, and yet nothing seems to faze my body. I don't know what she has unlocked in me but I feel as though I have never had sex before. I feel starved. I do love her, but I worry about what is to happen because I don't think this is going to last the way she hopes, although she has not said anything. She is too smart. I am thinking about men. Sexually.

What am I doing? If I am going to sleep with her, I have to focus on her. Henry's coming home next week. Michael is heaven knows where and I'm not sure I care. I'm beginning to see that she is thinking we'll just go on and I will go over to her place after Henry’s back. I don't know how I'll feel. I realized how tired I was at work this morning. I guess my body's starting to come back to terra firma, hinting I cannot run around like this day and night. Still, how can I do without her? Her support, her affection? How can I ever replace it? The idea of going back to that old existence is unbearable. Sleeping with her is a small price to pay for such comfort and support. What am I saying?

Strange to be carrying on this way and entertain the thought that neither of us is really gay, but we simply found each other during an emotional crossroads. I don't feel gay. I don't think I'm in love with her, either. Not that way. Not the way I should be if I am. (Have I ever been in love???)

She cannot lead a gay life. She must know this. I'm scared to ask her what she is thinking. Every time I get near the topic, she only sighs, kisses me and says all she cares about is how happy she is in that moment.

How the hell did Verity get this? I dig into my briefcase to find the chronology I've constructed of Cassy's life. I find the period before Michael Cochran went into rehab, when Cassy helped Sam Wyatt with the Electronika International story.

Rosanne herself opens the door (I'm now half expecting her to have a housekeeper), and since I had pictured an older, heavyset woman, I am very surprised to find a short, trim, Italian-American woman with long dark hair, large brown eyes and very effectively applied makeup. She is wearing designer jeans and a flattering t-Shirt that has Leonardo DiCaprio's picture on it.

I should say so, I think, looking out at the view. On the other hand, the woman in the picture looks like she's in her eighties and I should imagine having some young people in the house in New York City is a comfort. I know Rosanne works exclusively for Cassy and Jackson now; I wonder if Mrs. Goldblum was ever a client?

"I'm sorry, what I mean is—" She is a mesmerizing kind of person. Those eyes, that smile, the energy. The power. I can see what attracted Cassy. "You're right, the murderer decided it would be better to do it somewhere other than Long Island, where people might immediately assume it was connected to his toxic-waste disposal business."

"So," I say, "why don't we just start off with how you first met Cassy." I hope my voice does not betray me; I am so nervous. This whole thing is too big for me. Verity, the journal, DBS, Expectations, the whole thing.

"Well, she was at a competing station, so we became friendly," the anchorwoman says. "For example, I sat in a booth at Cassy's neighborhood block party." She laughs. "The things we do for publicity."

I write it all down, nodding. "Kind and gentle are two words almost everyone has used."

Now what? "She was pretty angry," I offer. Alexandra nods once, as much as to say, yes, that sounds like the same Bonnie.

Alexandra takes a deep breath, shaking her head. Then she curls forward, placing her elbow on her knee and resting her chin in the palm of her hand. "If there is a living example of goodness and integrity, it is Cassy Cochran. You may quote me on that. In regard to my personal life—and I'm glad you have that tape running—I must caution you, Sally, when it comes to that little square of ten minutes I call my private life, I am fiercely private and voraciously protective." Then she straightens back up.

"We did a dry run of my format for the newscast and I think it was Jessica who suggested we change the name of it to, Snooziola City and the Narcoleptic Sandbaggers.

We go on to discuss the history of DBS and Alexandra happily recounts every step of the way—how Jackson approached her, how she knew Cassy was the one to oversee the development of the news division and then The Jessica Wright Show, and then the entire network. She talks straight for almost forty minutes.

"Don't let this assignment change you," she nearly whispers. "It's not worth it. I know the money and the excitement is alluring, but understand that with Expectations you are no longer covering the news, you are trying to make it. It's a distinction you need to think about." She stands up and claps her hands once, like a teammate might after a huddle. "But who am I to tell you what to do with your life?" She extends her hand. "Good luck."

"That piece of debris. You knew it was from the high school, you knew it was from where your father died. And you knew how much it would upset me." She covers her mouth with her hand as tears fill her eyes again. "If you wanted to cause trouble—"

"But I've got to do something, Buddy. I can't sit around. If I can find Pete, I can at least ask him if he knows anything about—" "Do nothing!" Buddy roars. "Do as I say, Sally, I'm begging you. Go home, better yet, pack your bag and get the hell out of Castleford until I tell you. Your presence is only a liability."

"Why?" he nearly yells. "Why do you think? Because I love you and we have to talk this out!"

I put a call into mom's cheapo-hotel line and I am in luck. If I check in tonight, I can get two nights at a cheapo hotel with all the rest of the hookers in town. Unfortunately I have lost my taste for less-than-great hotels and decide to try to use my status as a writer for Expectations. I get the manager of the Claremont on the phone. I explain my situation to him and promise a plug for the hotel in my piece, how would that be? He's says they don't need any plugs, but he'll let me have a room for $150 a night instead of $260.

"If you had just told me about some woman," I complained, "you didn't have to tell me who, just that there was someone—"

I sleep in. Then I breakfast in bed while reading the Times and the Wall Street Journal and watching CNN. I tell the housekeeper I do not need maid service today. I am trying to steel myself for this phone call.

She hesitates for a fraction of a second. "Has something happened, Sally? Is there anything I can do?" she asks. And then I realize she's wondering if I'm all right.