Private Scandals

might have been wise.
    She certainly had taken a walk to the playing field with him on that cool, clear night. And she had laughed as he’d rushed over the grass, tackling invisible opponents. She’d even laughed when he’d tackled her. But the story didn’t say that she’d stopped laughing very quickly. There was no mention of fear, of outrage, of sobbing.
    In Jamie’s recollection she hadn’t fought. She hadn’t screamed. In his version he hadn’t left her alone, her clothes torn, her body bruised. He didn’t say how she’d wept on that chilly grass, her spirit shattered and her innocence violently stolen.
    “Well.” Deanna brushed a tear from her cheek. “He hasn’t changed his story over the years. Maybe he’s embellished it a little more, but that’s to be expected.”
    “I think we should contact Legal.” It took all of Fran’s control to speak calmly. “You should sue Jamie Thomas and the paper for libel, Dee. You’re not going to let him get away with it.”
    “I let him get away with a lot worse, didn’t I?” Very neatly, very deliberately, she folded the paper, then tucked it into her purse. “Cassie, please clear my schedule after the NOW meeting. I know it may cause some problems.”
    “No problem,” Cassie said instantly. “I’ll take care of it.”
    “Cancel everything,” Fran told her.
    “No, I can do what I have to do.” Deanna picked up her sweater. However steady her voice, her movements, her eyes were devastated.
    “Then I’ll go with you. You’re not going home alone.”
    “I’m not going home at all. There’s someone I need to talk to. I’ll be fine.” She squeezed Fran’s arm. “Really. I’ll see you Monday.”
    “Damn it, Dee, let me help.”
    “You always have. I really have to do this one thing alone. I’ll call you.”
     
    She didn’t expect the explanation to be easy. But she hadn’t known she would find herself sitting in the driveway beside Finn’s beautiful old house, fighting for the courage to walk up and knock on the door.
    She sat watching the bare limbs of the spreading maples tremble in the high March wind. She wanted to watch the strong, white sunlight flash and gleam off the tall, graceful windows, and glint off the tiny flecks of mica in the weathered stone.
    Such a sturdy old house, she thought, with its curving gables and arrow-straight chimneys. It looked like a dependable place, a haven against storms and wind. She wondered if he’d chosen to give himself some personal calm away from the chaos of his work.
    She wondered if it would offer her any.
    Bracing herself, she stepped from the car, walked along the walkway of stones and stepped up onto the covered porch he’d had painted a deep, glossy blue.
    There was a brass knocker in the shape of an Irish harp. She stared at it a long time before she knocked.
    “Deanna.” He smiled, holding out a hand in welcome. “It’s a little early for dinner, but I can fix you a late lunch.”
    “I need to talk to you.”
    “So you said.” He let his hand drop when she didn’t take it, then closed the door. “You look pale.” Hell, he thought, she looked as fragile as glass. “Why don’t you sit down?”
    “I’d like to sit.” She followed him into the first room off the hallway.
    Her first distracted glimpse of the room simply registered man. No frills, no flounces, just sturdy, dignified old pieces that murmured of easy wealth and masculine taste. She chose a high-backed chair in front of the fire that burned low. The warmth was comforting.
    Without asking, he walked to a curved cabinet and chose a decanter of brandy. Whatever was preying on her mind went deep enough to make her withdraw.
    “Drink this first, then tell me what’s on your mind.”
    She sipped, then started to speak.
    “Finish it,” he interrupted impatiently. “I’ve seen wounded soldiers with more color than you have right now.”
    She sipped again, more deeply, and felt the heat fight with the ice shivering in her stomach. “There’s something I want to show you.” She opened her bag, took out the paper. “You should read this first.”
    He glanced down. “I’ve already seen it.” In a gesture of disdain, he tossed it aside. “You’ve got more sense than to let that kind of tripe get to you.”
    “Did you read it?”
    “I stopped reading poorly written fiction when I was ten.”
    “Read it now,” Deanna insisted. “Please.”
    He studied her another minute, concerned and confused.