me.”
When she turned, Marti immediately looked away. Good, Leigh thought. Guilt. She said, “I need this job, Marti. You can’t possibly know how much I need this job.”
“And I need Roberta. She’s already promised to come and I’m not about to disappoint her. She jumped at the chance when she heard where she’d be staying. You won’t lose your job, Leigh. Just help me out here. It will all be very quiet and nice and then she’ll be gone.”
“She’ll recognize me. We met once, back when she was still writing a column for the Hartford Courant and I was still a reporter. Years ago.”
“And if she does recognize you, we’ll just tell her the story that you’re telling everyone else: You’re getting his papers ready for the historical society.”
“That’s not good enough. She’ll talk. There’s no way that she won’t spread the word about who she discovered hiding out under an assumed name in Pepin, Minnesota.”
“We’ll ask her not to. I bet she’d understand.”
“Are you kidding? To someone like her, someone like me is lower than pond scum. Trust me, Marti. I know what she’ll think, I know what she’ll say, I know what she’ll do because it’s exactly what I’d have done before…” Leigh sat back down. “Screw you, Marti. Screw you big time.” She rubbed her brow. “And if I say no to your little scheme?”
“I call who I need to call and say a few words about the vice president’s ghostwriter and her professional past. He’ll have to sack you. No one will ever publish a piece of nonfiction that you’ve written.”
“Blackmail.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose your friends down at the bar know. Dee, and the lovely librarian? The gorgeous boy you took home?”
“No one but me, Leigh. It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I’d spread it around.”
“How did you put it all together? From seeing me at that funeral?”
Marti went to the other room, got her bag, and brought it back to the kitchen. She flipped the flap and pulled out a newspaper folded in half. “When I first saw you two years ago I had no idea who you were, other than Timmy’s rumored afternoon delight. My mother died in May, and I had to move Dad into assisted living. When I was clearing out the house I came across newspaper clippings she’d kept. She was good at that. My father once raised the largest pumpkin in Pennsylvania. One October day it was front page news. So was another story. That one didn’t catch my interest right away; busted journalists are really only interesting to other journalists, I suspect. But the picture grabbed me. I recognized you from seeing you at the funeral. By the time I found this, word had gotten around that there was someone coming to help the Veep with his new book. Didn’t take much to put it together.”
Leigh didn’t bother to take the paper, so Marti read the headline. “‘Pulitzer-winning columnist admits fabricating details.’ Nancy Taylor Lee. Was that a hard name to give up?”
“The name was the least of it.”
“I want this, Leigh Burton.”
Leigh picked up the spoon rest. “The girl gave this to her mother?”
“Yes.”
“What book did you say it was in? First? Fifth? The eighty-eighth?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It should matter.” She waved the spoon rest. “You know why?”
“Tell me,” Marti said.
“It’s someone’s life you’re digging up, passing around, and looking at. This was an object of affection, it was real, a gift from a girl to her mother. It’s not a goddam fetish.”
“Three nights, Leigh. That’s all she’ll be staying.” Marti shouldered her bag. “Come on down to Dee’s.”
“I have work to do. Please leave.”
“But we have our deal?”
Leigh nodded, eyes still fixed on the small yellow spoon rest in her hand. “A deal.”
9.
How could she have been so stupid? Leigh set the spoon rest down and cleared the table. C oq au vin into the trash, dishes into the sink, Scotch back to the
When she turned, Marti immediately looked away. Good, Leigh thought. Guilt. She said, “I need this job, Marti. You can’t possibly know how much I need this job.”
“And I need Roberta. She’s already promised to come and I’m not about to disappoint her. She jumped at the chance when she heard where she’d be staying. You won’t lose your job, Leigh. Just help me out here. It will all be very quiet and nice and then she’ll be gone.”
“She’ll recognize me. We met once, back when she was still writing a column for the Hartford Courant and I was still a reporter. Years ago.”
“And if she does recognize you, we’ll just tell her the story that you’re telling everyone else: You’re getting his papers ready for the historical society.”
“That’s not good enough. She’ll talk. There’s no way that she won’t spread the word about who she discovered hiding out under an assumed name in Pepin, Minnesota.”
“We’ll ask her not to. I bet she’d understand.”
“Are you kidding? To someone like her, someone like me is lower than pond scum. Trust me, Marti. I know what she’ll think, I know what she’ll say, I know what she’ll do because it’s exactly what I’d have done before…” Leigh sat back down. “Screw you, Marti. Screw you big time.” She rubbed her brow. “And if I say no to your little scheme?”
“I call who I need to call and say a few words about the vice president’s ghostwriter and her professional past. He’ll have to sack you. No one will ever publish a piece of nonfiction that you’ve written.”
“Blackmail.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose your friends down at the bar know. Dee, and the lovely librarian? The gorgeous boy you took home?”
“No one but me, Leigh. It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I’d spread it around.”
“How did you put it all together? From seeing me at that funeral?”
Marti went to the other room, got her bag, and brought it back to the kitchen. She flipped the flap and pulled out a newspaper folded in half. “When I first saw you two years ago I had no idea who you were, other than Timmy’s rumored afternoon delight. My mother died in May, and I had to move Dad into assisted living. When I was clearing out the house I came across newspaper clippings she’d kept. She was good at that. My father once raised the largest pumpkin in Pennsylvania. One October day it was front page news. So was another story. That one didn’t catch my interest right away; busted journalists are really only interesting to other journalists, I suspect. But the picture grabbed me. I recognized you from seeing you at the funeral. By the time I found this, word had gotten around that there was someone coming to help the Veep with his new book. Didn’t take much to put it together.”
Leigh didn’t bother to take the paper, so Marti read the headline. “‘Pulitzer-winning columnist admits fabricating details.’ Nancy Taylor Lee. Was that a hard name to give up?”
“The name was the least of it.”
“I want this, Leigh Burton.”
Leigh picked up the spoon rest. “The girl gave this to her mother?”
“Yes.”
“What book did you say it was in? First? Fifth? The eighty-eighth?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It should matter.” She waved the spoon rest. “You know why?”
“Tell me,” Marti said.
“It’s someone’s life you’re digging up, passing around, and looking at. This was an object of affection, it was real, a gift from a girl to her mother. It’s not a goddam fetish.”
“Three nights, Leigh. That’s all she’ll be staying.” Marti shouldered her bag. “Come on down to Dee’s.”
“I have work to do. Please leave.”
“But we have our deal?”
Leigh nodded, eyes still fixed on the small yellow spoon rest in her hand. “A deal.”
9.
How could she have been so stupid? Leigh set the spoon rest down and cleared the table. C oq au vin into the trash, dishes into the sink, Scotch back to the
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