Maybe I’m just a masochist because now, even now, I want to know the truth behind those shadows in Calder’s eyes. I want to know the name of the weight he’s been carrying. I’m probably being stupid and sentimental, but I want to understand him—truly, deeply understand him—even as another part of me wants to hunt him down and punch him in the face.
He might have sent the painting as some twisted parting gift, but that understanding will be my parting gift to him.
* * *
Asher Julian stops by on Friday.
I’m working at my desk when Dad pops in, the boyish reporter in tow. “Look who I have here!”
“Your father’s just finished showing me the Benjamin Ludlam piece,” Asher says. “It’s remarkable. And from a mystery donor, I hear.”
“Never a dull moment around here,” Dad says with a smile.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Asher says. “But I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stick my head in and see if you could spare a few minutes.”
“Did you speak with your editor?”
He gives that charming dimpled grin. “It took some convincing, but I think I’ve worn her down to a nice compromise.”
“Compromise?” Dad says. “What are you talking about?”
Asher smiles at my dad. “My editor wanted to capitalize on the whole Cunningham bonanza by playing up that angle of your story. But Lily says you guys don’t have much information to contribute on that front.”
“What sort of information do you need?” my dad says. “I still have that first letter he sent us stashed somewhere. You know, the one breaking the pledge contract.”
“I’d love to see it,” Asher says.
I stand up. “Dad, is that really a good idea? We want this article to come off as friendly, optimistic—not bitter and angry.”
Asher cuts in before my dad can respond. “As I tried to tell your daughter, sir, I think the Frazer Center might earn more sympathy and attention if we tie your hardships to the Cunningham family. I only wish to explore the truth.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad, honey,” Dad says. “There’s no harm in voice reminds me. Oh, that Asher is a sneaky bastard. There’s no way for me to argue without having to explain why I’m trying to protect Calder—because I find that I still want to protect him, even after everything.
Dad runs off to find the letter Calder’s lawyers sent all those months ago—the one that started it all—while Asher walks toward my desk.
“I thought you said your editor approved another angle?” I say. “Why are you still pursuing the Cunningham matter?”
He shrugs. “If your father still has the letter, it’s worth a look.” He glances up at me, and his smile drops. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” I say quickly. Gah, am I that obvious? “Just a little stressed today.”
“You’re always stressed when I talk to you,” he says. “Maybe you should give yourself a little break.”
“I’m fine. There’s just always a lot to do around here.”
He leans across my desk and flashes me a flirtatious smile. “Come on. It’s Friday afternoon. What do you say to skipping out of here early and letting me take you to dinner?”
Dinner. Oh. Oh, no.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t—”
“Boyfriend?”
My cheeks go hot. But it’s best to just tell the truth and get it over with. “Not currently. But I’m not really in a place where I’m comfortable dating right now.”
“Recent breakup, huh?” He shoots me a sympathetic look.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, hoping that settles the matter.
But he’s studying me, and after a minute he says, “You still care for him. A lot.” voice reminds me. I blink. “What?”
“I told you that I’m pretty good at reading people. And you, Lily Frazer, might as well be writing depressing love sonnets on a cliff somewhere.”
“Excuse me?”
“Deny it if you want,” he says, settling into the chair in front of my desk. “I think it’s sweet. If a bit disappointing for me personally.”
I’m not really comfortable discussing this with him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Julian. Do you have any other questions for me about the Center?”
He nods and pulls out his digital recorder. “Just a few.”
By the time my dad returns with the letter, Asher and I have been chatting for a good ten minutes, and I’m just starting to feel comfortable again. In fact, he doesn’t bring up Calder or the Cunningham family to either myself or my dad for the entire rest of the interview.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Asher Julian knows a lot more than he’s letting on. About me. About the Center. About Calder—especially Calder. If he and I were alone, I might even risk asking him about all the Cunningham rumors floating around. He’s pretty astute, and I have no doubt that he’s good at separating the truth from the fiction in his line of work.
But I don’t. It’s too dangerous. The minute I press too hard is the minute I give everything away. So I smile and nod and answer questions with as much grace and intelligence as I can muster under the circumstances. Asher departs with a smile on his face, promising us that the story will appear in next week’s issue of Intown Voice.
Dad struts around beaming for an hour after Asher leaves.
“This is just what we need,” he says. “Some good local press will definitely spark things around here. Isn’t it exciting?”
I want to agree. I want to think that this article will be our saving grace, the one bright spot in an otherwise hellish week.
But maybe it
’s precisely because this has been a hellish week that I can’t bring myself to believe it.
CHAPTER NINE
There are two options when the world feels like it’s exploding around you: throw a pity party and cry yourself to sleep, or call up your girlfriends and booze the night away. I choose the latter option. I call up Morgan and practically beg her to go out for drinks. Fortunately, her fiancé Mark is working late tonight, so she’s more than willing to help me drown my frustrations in some whiskey. I give her only one condition: that we talk about neither work nor men all night.
I end up getting sloshed, of course.
I leave my car at the bar and take a cab home, and even then it’s a miracle I make it up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. I fumble with my keys at the door, dropping them twice before I manage to get the damned thing unlocked.