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“Did you see today’s paper?” Celeste Devry’s tone was disapproving. That wasn’t unusual.
Marilyn wilted with relief, then tried to focus on her mother’s question. “I haven’t seen the day.”
“Don’t be smart, Marilyn.”
The green digits of the radio alarm clock beside the phone read three-twelve. On Sunday morning. Was her mother kidding?
Marilyn closed her eyes. “What are you doing up? It’s after midnight over there.”
She refused to believe her mother was already dressed with her hair perfectly arranged and cosmetics flawlessly applied. At this hour, that was too much to expect, even for Celeste Devry.
“Have you seen the article in the New York Horn about Rick?”
Marilyn opened her eyes and frowned toward the ceiling in the dark. “You live in San Francisco. How did you get a copy of the New York Horn?” Why would she get a copy of the New York Horn?
“We don’t get that paper. We read the article online. It was posted at three A.M. THAT’S MIDNIGHT OUR TIME.”
“That’s three A.M. MY TIME, MOTHER.”
“After the media reported that whole bar-hopping business with Rick last month, your father and I got one of those Google message alert services for Rick’s name.”
Her mother had to be kidding.
Marilyn closed her eyes again. “I’m not interested in what the media have to say about my husband.”
The article couldn’t be that bad. The Monarchs had won the game in Miami last night. Warrick was coming home this morning. Her heart leapt with anticipation—then stilled. He was returning to Brooklyn, but not to their home. She’d moved back in and he’d offered to make other living arrangements. Where would he stay?
“You should be concerned.” Celeste’s tone carried a bite. “They’re blaming you for Rick’s poor performance Thursday night.”
Marilyn’s eyes shot open. She sat up in her king-sized bed. “How am I at fault?”
“They’re saying your separation is a distraction for him.” Celeste made a tutting sound. “This is outrageous, Marilyn. The media are speculating on your marriage. This can’t be allowed to continue.”
Marilyn pinched the bridge of her nose. “We can’t stop them. The press will print whatever they want, whenever they want, regardless of whether it’s true.”
“These personal attacks aren’t hurting only you. They’re damaging the Devry name. We can’t allow these smears to our reputation to go unchallenged.” Celeste spoke with increasing anger.
“They aren’t attacking you, Mother. They’re aiming at me.”
“You’re a Devry. By targeting you, they’re attacking the whole family.”
Her mother was trying to make her feel guilty. It was working. “I’m sorry you feel that the entire family is under assault. But I’m afraid there isn’t anything we can do to prevent the media from writing these stories.”
Celeste’s sigh was dramatic in its weight. “Your father and I warned you that marrying Rick was a mistake. What is a ‘professional athlete’? He plays a game for a living, for pity’s sake. How can he be expected to take anything seriously?”
Marilyn bristled at the attack against her husband. “This isn’t Rick’s fault. He didn’t ask the press to badger him.”
“He should take responsibility for his own shortcomings instead of trying to blame you. He plays basketball. All he has to do is put a ball through a basket. How hard could that be?”
Celeste Margot Whittingly Devry had probably never touched a basketball in her entire life. What qualified her to judge Warrick or his career?
Marilyn drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Is
Rick quoted as blaming me for having a bad game?”
“How am I supposed to know what he said?” Her mother’s response was indignant.
Marilyn held on to her patience. “You read the article. I doubt he said anything about me. Rick doesn’t want the media discussing his personal life any more than I do.”
