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“Well, hello there, Mr. O’Neill. What can I do for you?”
I smiled at the woman’s Southern peach accent. Janet ran that office like it was D-day every day, but she never broke a sweat. “I need a favor.”
“I specialize in favors.”
I laughed, feeling better every moment. I had control again and control felt good. Right. “I know you do. Can you send an invitation to that casino fundraiser you’re throwing on Saturday to Jim Blackwell at the Gazette?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. O’Neill. This morning’s article in the paper didn’t make him any friends around here.”
“Here neither, Janet, trust me. But I want his to see there’s nothing to hide. He can ask all the questions he has, make all the accusations he wants in plain view.”
“Ah—you’re keeping your friends close but your enemies closer?”
“Now you’re quoting The Godfather, Janet?” I asked. “Is there any way I can get you to come work for me?”
Janet laughed. “No sir, but maybe we could get you to come work for us.”
“Not likely, Janet. Sorry.”
“Well, it’s worth a shot. I’ll send an invite out right now.”
“Thank you,” I said and hung up.
I dialed the Gazette myself and was routed by machine to Blackwell’s voice mail.
“Stop harassing innocent women, Blackwell,” I said. “Makes you look desperate. You have questions? Want to talk? Fine. I’ll talk. Call my office.”
I hung up, and riding a serious upswing in adrenaline, I dialed Zoe’s number.
“Hello?” A woman answered on the second ring, but it wasn’t Zoe.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Zoe.”
“Who is calling?”
“Carter O’N—”
I jerked the phone away from my ear, but I could still hear the blistering tirade loud and clear. “Ma’am,” I said when she stopped to catch her breath. “Ma’am—”
“Don’t you ma’am me, boy,” she said and I blinked. Only Margot called me boy, and I guessed she was the only one with the right. “This is Penny, Zoe’s mother, and I have spent the last twelve hours trying to comfort a hysterical pregnant woman.”
Guilt squeezed my brain. “I just want to talk to her.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” she asked, and the truth felt like stepping into an ice bath.
I’m making it right, I thought, resolve a bright light in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I think after today the press will stay away from her.”
“Bully for you, Carter O’Neill. If it weren’t for you they would never have been following her in the first place.”
I bit my tongue against the need to remind her about Zoe standing up on a chair accusing me of being the father of her baby, but I knew a protective mama when I was forced to talk to her.
“Penny, if you could please tell her I’m on the phone so that she can decide whether or not to talk to me.”
“Her decision would be no if she was here, but she’s not.”
“Where is she?”
“Working. Trying to make an honest living.”
“Jimmie Simpson?” I asked, knowing she worked at several community centers around the city.
“Figure it out yourself, smart man,” she said then hung up.
I stood, stretching my neck like a boxer going back in the ring for another round.
Suddenly, my office felt too small, the air too stale. Instead of asking Gloria to make another call I decided to take a walk.
But before I left, I called Amanda.
“Let’s get a press conference set up,” I said.
“Why?”
“I want to announce I’m running for mayor.”
“Before Christmas?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s more like the Carter I know. I’m on it.”
I disconnected, feeling better than I had in months.
I left my office and headed down two floors to the parks and rec department in the hopes I could convince someone there to break a few HR rules and tell me where Zoe was teaching today.
Because now I had a reason to see her, and nothing was going to stop me.
ZOE
“Three is better than one,” I said, trying to force optimism upon Phillip, and a little bit myself, but Phillip wasn’t having any of it.
It was our first free Wednesday after-school class, and things weren’t quite starting the way I’d hoped.
“Well, that one’s just here for the snack,” he said, pointing to a six-foot teenager in the corner doing his best to eat the whole bag of chips I’d left out. “I told you, you shouldn’t have said there were snacks.”
“Then we only would have had two people,” I said.
One teenager was here for the snacks, another had clearly been dragged here by her grandmother, and now, said grandmother was sitting in front of the doors, a knitting barricade.
But the third one was a young girl who was working some booty-shaking moves in the mirror. Not much talent, but lots and lots of enthusiasm.
“We can work with that,” I said. “I mean lots of enthusiasm is better than a little talent, right?”
Phillip didn’t answer; his eyes were on my face. I knew what he saw, the dark circles under my eyes and the strain around my mouth.
