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“I’ll see what I can do.” Concern deepens the lines on Hugh’s face. “But I can’t promise she won’t try to run it elsewhere.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” My gratitude belies the sick feeling building in my stomach.
“It’ll be alright, Penny.” Hugh’s gruff voice affirms that he’s on my side. I stand and walk toward the door, knowing that he’s a good man and will have my back. I also know he won’t want any unwanted attention directed at his newsroom. He’ll do his best to make this go away.
I shoot Hugh a grateful smile. And then, emboldened by Clarissa McArthur’s no-fear attitude, I straighten my shoulders and stride out of Hugh’s office, determined not to let Maisie destroy everything I’ve worked so hard for.
Linc
Afew days of relentless rain means there has been little progress on the outside repairs. So when the sun breaks out midweek, I make the most of the fine weather. An early morning run through town to get the endorphins flowing, followed by a cup of coffee on the front porch, is the perfect start to the day. There’s nothing better than greeting the day as the first rays of sunshine breach the horizon. People who sleep late miss the best part of the day. It’s such a peaceful and almost sacred time while the rest of the world is still.
I’m well behind the work on Gran’s house, but thankful the past few days have been productive to write. Gran kept me fed and watered as I spent hours at my desk. I appreciate that she recognizes when I’m in the zone and gives me space. I finally had something to send to Piper, who’s now collating some promotional material and teasers to post on social media. Now to finish the book, so I can meet the deadline.
Music plays through my headphones and a river of sweat trickles down my back as I run a paintbrush over a length of siding. Sawdust is littered across the dewy grass and clings to my arms like a second skin. There’s something relaxing about painting. The smooth, rhythmical motion lures me into a sense of comfort, and rids my mind of the angst about my work-in-progress.
A tap on my shoulder makes me jump and I grab the paint pot to stop it from tipping over. I turn to find Gran, holding a tablet in her hands, looking as though someone died or is pretty close to it.
I remove my headphones, leaving them around my neck. “Is everything okay?” I shoot her a curious glance, wondering what’s so important that she’s come outside, still wearing her bathrobe and slippers. She rarely ventures out of the house unless she’s properly dressed with her hair done. This must be important.
“I think you need to see this.” She turns the tablet to face me, pointing to the screen at an article on a lifestyle blog. Something I would not normally read. Now that she’s retired, Gran loves her gossip columns and keeping up with celebrities, and I wonder which of her favorites is in the news. Or have died.
I skim the headline, and then a name jumps out at me.Penelope Reilly.My stomach plummets with each word I read. There, in black and white, with a few colorful photographs thrown in for effect, is evidence of Penny’s affair with Tripp Hammond.
According to the article, she pursued Tripp, a married father of two, to advance her career.A burgeoning reporter, hungry for success, it was a selfish move by a driven woman with stars in her eyes.The words outline how Penny started a relationship with the well-known entertainment reporter; her actions tearing a family apart.
To complete the heartbreaking story, there’s a photograph of Tripp’s wife and children leaving a grocery story—a typical paparazzi shot capturing the emotion of a woman whose husband has abandoned her for a newer model.
A breath whooshes out of me. Along with my flourishing feelings toward Penny. “Wow.” I’m lost for words. Penny. Tripp. It’s hard to fathom.
“It’s sensationalism at its finest, Linc. How much of it’s true, and how much is hogwash…” She shrugs, sympathy carved into her fine features. It’s a wonder Gran doesn’t havemodelon her illustrious career portfolio, given her fine bone structure and classic good looks.
I only shake my head. Because even if, as she says, some of it’s hogwash, there has to be an element of truth in there somewhere. A news story doesn’t just get made up without a seed of fact being planted.
“You don’t know all the facts,” Gran says. “Remember, benefit of the doubt. Innocent before proven guilty.”
“She looks pretty guilty to me.” I grab the paintbrush and nod toward the photo of Tripp and Penny dressed to the nines, heads together, looking cozy at some fancy event.
“Perhaps you ought to talk to her before you go jumping to conclusions,” Gran says softly, placing a hand on my arm to still my movements. “An honest conversation hurt no one.”
I only grunt in reply. How will I do that?Hey, Penny. Is it true you’re a homewrecker? Is it true you had an affair with a married man to further your career?Yeah. No, thanks. That’s not my jam. If any part of this is true, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be involved with a woman like that.
Gran levels a pointed glare at me before shaking her head and walking away. My heart clenches in my chest as I revisit the words painting Penny as a homewrecker. It’s easy to see how she could lure a married man away from his wife. With auburn hair, reminiscent of a crisp fall day, eyes that shimmer like the ocean, and a melodious laugh like a bubbling brook, she easily draws people in. Including me, it seems.
A heavy sigh builds in my chest as I rinse out the paintbrush and hang it on a hook to dry. I tidy up my work and head inside with a cloud of despondency hanging over me. I’m a fairly easy-going guy. Forgiving. But this thing with Penny has knocked me. I would never have picked her as the type to go after a married man. But I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, she’s a reporter, and reporters are known for their lack of morals to grab a story.
After a quick shower, I settle at my desk and read over my work. Bittersweet memories slam into me as the romance unfolds on my laptop screen. Penny is the inspiration for this story, but now that I know what she’s capable of, I hit another wall.
My fingers hover over the delete button. As tempting as it is to erase the words and memories, I stop and rest my head in my hands. What I’ve written is good, and I don’t want to let one moment of impulsivity destroy everything I’ve worked on for the past few weeks. With a deadline looming, I can’t afford to start over. I’ll just have to push through my conflicted thoughts and shock and disappointment, and write.
Something’s better than nothing. It may not be the result my fans want or expect, but not every book has to be a success. Do I really care if this book doesn’t make theUSA Today Bestsellerlist? Probably not the best attitude to have, but it’s all I’ve got. I feel like my previous success has been a fluke, and this book will just prove it.
With too many distractions stealing my concentration, I put on my headphones and slip out the back door. A walk along the river might be just what I need to clear my head and put my disappointment about Penny behind me.
Penny
“Hello?” I call out after no one answers my knock. I turn the door handle to the grand Victorian and step inside. Clarissa told me to make myself at home while she makes a quick trip into town. There’s no sign of Linc or Clarissa as I walk through the entrance to the living room, the site of our previous interviews. It’s weird being in someone else’s house when they’re not home, and it’s not something I would normally do, because it feels like I’m invading their personal space.
I set my messenger bag on the sofa and step over to the bookcase, running my finger along the spines of the book collection. There’s an eclectic collection of books in a variety of different genres. Suspense, drama, women’s fiction, romance. True-crime, historical, war. Clarissa is an avid reader.
