Private Scandals

“It was magical how quickly what I admired became mine. Just for doing the small favor of keeping information to myself.”
    “You started young,” Dan observed. Her voice was only a little slurred, so he added more wine to her glass.
    “I had to. Nobody was going to fight for me. Nobody was going to lift me out of that hellhole I lived in but me. Mama drunk; Daddy off gambling or whoring.”
    “It was tough on you.”
    “It made me tough,” she corrected. “I watched the way people lived, and I saw what I wanted. I found ways to get what I wanted. I improved myself and I broke my back to be the best. No one’s going to take me off the top of the heap, Dan. Certainly not Deanna Reynolds.”
    He tipped her face back for a kiss. “That’s the Angela I know and love.”
    She smiled. Her head felt light, dizzy, her body free. Why, she wondered, had she been so afraid of relaxing with a bottle or two? “Prove it,” she invited, and slipped the robe off her shoulders.

Chapter Twenty-two
    T he snow outside the cabin was fairy-tale white. Rocks and shrubs caused the white covering to heave into mounds and bumps so that it resembled a blanket under which dozens of elves might burrow, waiting for spring. No cloud marred the eerie, icy blue of the sky, and the sun glinted off the glossy bark of trees.
    From the window, Deanna watched Finn and Richard help Aubrey build a snowman. In her bright blue snowsuit, the toddler looked like a little exotic bird who’d lost her way going south. Curling tendrils of hair, as red as a cardinal’s wing, escaped from her cap.
    Beside her the men were giants, bulky in their heavy coats and boots. She watched as Richard showed Aubrey how to pat and mold a snowball. He pointed at Finn, and with a giggle that carried through the glass, Aubrey bounced it lightly off Finn’s knee, but he crumpled convincingly to the ground as if hit by a boulder.
    The dog, the mop-haired mongrel Finn and Deanna had dubbed Cronkite, sent up a din of barks and a shower of snow in his desperation to join the game.
    “Sounds like quite a snowman.” Fran shifted her infant daughter from her right to her left breast. Kelsey latched on, suckling happily.
    “They’ve started a small war,” Deanna reported. “Casualties are light, but it looks to be an extended battle.”
    “You can go out and spend some of that nervous energy. You don’t have to stay in here with me.”
    “No, I like watching. I’m so glad all of you could come up for the weekend.”
    “Since it’s the first free one you’ve had in six weeks, I’m amazed you’d share it.”
    “Getting away with friends is one of those luxuries I’ve had to do without too much.” She sighed a little. There was no use thinking about all the weekends, the holidays, the quiet evenings at home she’d missed. She had what she’d asked for. “I’ve discovered I need things like this to keep me centered.”
    “Glad to help. Richard found the idea of fishing in this weather just primitive and macho enough to pique his interest. As for me”—she stroked her daughter’s cheek as she rocked gently in the chair Finn had hauled in from the porch and scrubbed down for just that purpose—“I was ready to go anywhere. When we get snow this early in November, it’s going to be a long winter.”
    “And not a particularly pleasant one.” Fran was right about the nervous energy, Deanna realized. She could feel it swirling inside—white water in the bloodstream. Deanna turned away from the window to sit on the hearth, where the fire crackled hot and brightly behind her. “I feel like I’ve been under siege, Fran. All this—this tabloid crap about Angela and me brawling in the ladies’ lounge at the Emmys.”
    “Honey, most of that’s died down, and everyone knew it was crap to begin with.”
    “Most everyone.” Restless, she rose again, prowling. “All those sly allegations in the press about her bearing up stoically after I supposedly refused her offer of friendship. Friendship, my butt.” She shoved her hands in her pockets, dragged them out again to gesture. “And that nasty undertone of glee in some of the stories. ‘Talk show divas in cat fight.’ ‘Claws bared in ladies’ room.’ And it was just close enough to the truth to make us both look like idiots. Of course, Lorencouldn’t be happier. The ratings have skyrocketed since the Emmys, and there’s no sign of a downswing. People who couldn’t care less about the content