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21
Mia
Beacon Hill
Boston, Massachusetts
Wednesday morning
On her cab ride from the Constitution Inn to Boston’s Beacon Hill’s famed Louisburg Square, Mia read a comment to her blog from a reader who wrote that reducing the time to appeal the death penalty to three years before the fatal injection would certainly reduce the murder rate. He didn’t understand why everyone didn’t realize this. Idiots, all who didn’t agree. Mia grinned, posted her reply thanking the reader, and sat back. She was content to let the readers take over, which they always did. In Milo’s opinion, her lack of making pronouncements was why her blog was so popular.
She opened Kali’s landing page and studied a photo of the woman she was about to interview, Pamela Raines Barrett, Alex Harrington’s fiancée. She was standing beside her desk in her office, her arms crossed over her Armani jacket, looking elegantly thin. Her fine-boned face, while not beautiful, was compelling. Mia scrolled to the Facebook page of Belinda Raines Barrett, Pamela’s younger sister, only nineteen, obviously a latecomer to the family. Bless her gregarious teenage heart, she’d posted a good dozen photos of Alex Harrington. Only one of them was of Alex with her big sister Pamela, but there were at least a dozen recent photos of herself with him, at dances, sailing, at a clambake in Nantucket. Was there infatuation in her pretty brown eyes when they focused on Alex? And she had posted some photos of Alex and Kent together, golfing, swimming, sailing. Whatever Alex did, the young Belinda seemed to want a picture of it. One photo showed Alex and Kent gaming, both absorbed, unaware anyone was taking their picture.
Mia closed down Kali’s landing site and wondered if Kali liked meatloaf.
Her taxi pulled up in front of a town house set in a long row of town houses, all of them much the same, red brick with white trim, all very old. Even in the tail end of winter, on a frigid overcast Wednesday, the neighborhood looked locked in time, a revered row of monuments announcing to the world the social standing of the occupants. For the Bostonian elite, Louisburg Square was the address. Mia paid her Roxbury driver who’d entertained her with nonstop commentary on the fate of the Red Sox this upcoming season.
Pamela had asked to meet Mia here rather than at her office on Newbury Street, and of course Mia knew why. Ms. Pamela wanted to impress her, intimidate her, make her understand she was dealing with power—and she’d best tread carefully, respectfully. Fine by Mia; she’d always wanted to see the inside of one of these testaments to old Boston wealth and, naturally, good breeding.
She was met at the front door not by a butler or a maid, but by Pamela Raines Barrett herself. Alex Harrington had obviously called his fiancée, told her this was an important interview, and Pam didn’t want to appear a snob. She looked very stylish in another black Armani suit, a white-as-snow turtleneck sweater under the jacket, three-inch Louboutin heels on her narrow feet. Her dark hair was loose, worn around her shoulders, lovely really, pulled back from her face by two golden barrettes.
Mia knew Pam was examining her thoroughly as well, all in a split second, a skill all women seemed to share. Then she smiled, a lovely welcoming smile, showing perfect white teeth.
“Ms. Briscoe? I’m Pamela Barrett. Please come in.”
They shook hands and Mia stepped into a rather small entrance hall displaying an antique table with gorgeous winter mums in a blue colonial vase, an equally old mirror above it, and a single ladder-back chair. For those waiting for an audience? Pamela laid Mia’s coat and scarf neatly on the chair and showed her into a living room that made Mia catch her breath, as it was meant to. The walls were painted a vivid dark red, the intricate moldings a stark white. The room wasn’t large, but neither was it overloaded with antiques. It was sparsely furnished, minimalist even, reflecting Pamela’s decorating style. Artful splashes of color brightened the room, making it warm and welcoming. Mia wondered how deep the town house went, with how many livable floors. She would like to see the kitchen and bathrooms. She wondered how many times they’d been redesigned and updated, certainly a few since the town house was built back in the time of the Colonial Ark, or thereabouts.
“Your home is lovely.”
“Thank you. My grandmother deeded this house to me because she knew I’d tend it, keep it fresh and loved.” Pam waved a graceful hand, her seven-carat engagement ring shimmering even in the soft light. “Please sit down. You like your coffee black, I know.” She poured, without waiting for an answer, from a silver Georgian pot Paul Revere himself might have fashioned, into impossibly fragile-looking porcelain cups Queen Charlotte herself might have used more than two centuries before.
Mia merely raised an eyebrow.
Pamela laughed. “Alex told me you like your coffee straight. He’s very observant. He was pleased you wanted to come to Boston to meet with me but he did warn me you’d probably try to pry all sorts of secrets about him out of me.” She laughed again as she passed Mia her coffee. “Of course I’ve read your blogs, Ms. Briscoe. I find you—” She paused.
“Too far to the left? Too far to the right? Too conventional?”
Pamela smiled, waved Mia’s words away. “No, I think you’re courageous, actually. You take on some topics most people avoid, topics that reflect how polarized the country’s become, and you offer compromises you obviously know won’t please either side. That’s brave.”
“Believe it or not,” Mia said, sipping her sinfully rich coffee, “there are many more people in the center than you might think. It’s only they never say much, and that’s a pity. I try to give them a forum where they can be comfortable saying what they think. It’s a pity more centrists don’t take part; it’s usually those to the far left or the far right to chime in with their opinions they believe are solid gold.”
“Alex agrees with you about that,” Pam said smoothly, an excellent segue. Again, Mia was impressed.
“He wants to remind New Yorkers they have common goals—the city’s welfare, its education and job opportunities, and finding the golden compromise between public safety and personal freedom.”
Mia nodded, pretended to type silently on her iPad.
Canned, but Pam spoke fluently. “Tell me, Ms. Barrett, how did you and Alex meet?”
“Please, call me Pamela, and I’ll call you Mia, is that all right?”
“Certainly.”
“How we met—now there’s a story. I was six years old, Alex was eight, I think, and we both wanted to play quarterback on the same team in a neighborhood pickup football game. I recall he picked me up and threw me like a football at his friend Kent, who dropped me. I sprained my wrist. Things didn’t improve between us for a very long time.” She laughed.
“That’s a good one. Readers will like that story. It shows, too, that Kent and Alex have been friends since childhood. They’re still close. I assume you forgave his throwing you when you were six?”
“Yes, I did, but not until we were teenagers. I even forgave Kent for dropping me. He’s smart, fun, and a better gamer than Alex, although Alex hates to admit it, claims before he got out of practice because he has to work so hard, he could beat Kent with only one good eye.” She grinned, shook her head. “As you know, they went to school together from Bennington Prep through Harvard. I respect what Kent’s doing, expanding his family’s legacy. He’s as committed as Alex to what he does. As I’m sure you’ve seen for yourself, Alex is an outstanding leader, always thoughtful in his decisions, always praises his staff for a job well done, freely gives credit when it’s due. His people are loyal to him for that, they respect him.”
