Do You Want to Know a Secret? (24 page)

Maybe she wanted
him to know. She hadn’t destroyed the letter. Win came across it, tucked inside her journal. The journal she kept hidden at the back of that enormous closet of hers. The journal he had made a practice of reading to keep tabs on her.

The letter was written on a sheet ripped from a yellow legal pad. In scrawling handwriting, Bill Kendall had begun in a businesslike way and then, halfway through, the tone changed:

I have AIDS.

You have been exposed. I’m so very, very sorry, my darling.

You have most likely exposed Win, a fact I don’t even like to contemplate. The odds are in his favor, though.

Win closed his eyes and groaned.
Kendall’s letter continued:

I can’t face life with AIDS and have no curiosity in learning what dying from AIDS is like.

I also know about Heller’s arrangement with Pete Carlson. Exposing their connection would be satisfying. Especially since Carlson has been base enough to try to blackmail me into giving up the anchor chair, in return for his keeping quiet about my AIDS. That connection would sink Win’s chances for the White House. I have no problem with that, except that I don’t ever want to hurt you.

I’ve been writing a book for the last two years or so. It’s all stream-of-consciousness at this point, and I had every intention of staying alive until I finished it. But I’ve been diagnosed with a runaway cancer, so “my story” will probably never get told.

I don’t want to be
the
story, not
this
story, anyway. Professionally, I am probably bowing out of one of the biggest stories of my time. It can be argued that I am taking the coward’s way out. If I chose to go on, I think I’d feel duty-bound to report that Win has been exposed. Ironically, had I not been part of the story, I might have decided to keep quiet about the exposure and just wait and see the whole thing played out.

Privacy. What little we’ve had would be completely destroyed. Everything precious between us would be cheapened and dragged through the mud. I am not going to close my life, or leave you, in disgrace.

I never meant to cause you any harm. I love you, Joy.

It was signed “B.” And there was a postscript, urging Joy to get the mole on her upper thigh checked out.

Nauseated, Win put the letter back in the journal.

Where was the bastard’s book now?

Chapter 46

In May, the
month of the Blessed Virgin, Father Alec liked to spend extra time in the Lady Chapel. Located behind the main altar, it was the most popular and most visited chapel in the cathedral.

Today, the young priest sat and studied the three chandeliers suspended from the chapel’s vaulted ceiling. All hand-cut crystal. They must have cost a pretty penny. At one point in his life, Father Alec had questioned the validity of the Catholic penchant for ornate and expensive decorations in their houses of worship. After all, weren’t there more humanitarian destinations for Church funds? He had finally decided that the rococo adornments had their purpose. They were scene-setters, creating a mood of solemnity, awe and power.

A middle-aged woman entered the chapel, walked up to the altar, knelt down and bowed her head. Another one. God, there were so many. Day after day they came, all with variations on a few basic themes. A death, sickness, estrangement from a loved one, economic worries, disappointment with the cards dealt, fear of the unknown. They came looking for strength, direction and peace of mind. Some found what they were looking for, others were too overwhelmed by their agony to find consolation.

The priest’s thoughts turned to Bill Kendall. The letter from the attorney’s office had come today. One hundred thousand dollars! Father Alec smiled wryly, remembering one of their conversations.

They had been sitting in his office. Kendall had admired an Italian tapestry hanging on the wall behind the desk.

“Not bad. I’m glad to see the Church pays for the appropriate accouterments for a promising young cleric’s office.”

Father Alec smiled sheepishly. “That doesn’t belong to the Church. It’s mine. I bought it when I was studying in Rome.”

“What happened to poverty?”

“That’s a common misconception. Not all priests take a vow of poverty. Obedience, yes. Celibacy, always. Poverty, no. I’ve got the outstanding Visa bills to prove it.”

They had both laughed, mercifully forgetting for a few moments why they were sitting there.

One hundred thousand dollars. That was damned generous of you, Bill. After reading his copy of the will, Father Alec knew well that Bill Kendall had been generous to quite a few people. In addition to Louise and William Kendall, he recognized the name of Range Bullock, having met him the day of the funeral. Bullock had been understandably preoccupied, barely acknowledging their introduction. Bullock would soon be a hundred thousand dollars richer also. So would Bill’s psychiatrist and his secretary.

Father Alec considered what a compliment he had been paid, finding his name among Bill’s loved ones. The priest thought back to their many conversations, how Bill Kendall had been so open, so candid about his life. The priest noticed that one “particular” loved one’s name was missing from the bequests.

But a dying man would never subject the woman he loved to such public scrutiny. The scandal to her husband would end his career.

Did she know? Father Alec had tried to convince the anchorman to tell her. Had Bill told the wife of Senator Haines Wingard that he had AIDS?

The troubled middle-aged woman got up from her knees and made the sign of the cross before turning from the altar. Father Alec looked up at her face. A definite survivor. But Father Alec was beginning to distrust his own instincts. After all, he had thought Bill Kendall to be a survivor, too.

Chapter 47

The messenger placed
the flowers on Jean’s desk. It was the type of arrangement she had ordered on Bill’s behalf for other people many times. Though Jean was extremely practical and careful with her own salary checks, she did enjoy an extravagance once in a while. The white roses, lilies and lilacs in the beautifully woven basket qualified.

Jean opened the small pale blue envelope that bore the mark of a well-known East Side florist. If anyone had been watching they would have seen the secretary’s eyebrows rise in surprise as she read the inscription on the card.

“In appreciation. Range Bullock.”

Range, though always courteous, hardly spoke to her. Of course he always said hello and asked politely how she was whenever he came to the office to see Bill, but unlike most of the people visiting Bill, Range hadn’t tried to engage her in conversation. Others went out of their way to make Jean a friend. They knew that being on the good side of the big man’s secretary was a smart place to be. Jean had always suspected that Range Bullock hadn’t cared if he was on her good side or not. He and Bill were tight and Range was secure in that knowledge.

Jean closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the fragrance of the flowers. He couldn’t have known that lilacs were her favorites. She smiled with pleasure.

Rather than call him, she decided to walk down to the Fishbowl and thank him in person. Range was sitting alone at his desk as Jean knocked cautiously on the open door.

“Come in, come in.” The executive producer waved his arm toward a chair.

Jean took the offered seat, placing herself gingerly on the edge of the chair, making it clear that she did not intend to make it a lengthy visit. She was uncomfortable with this man, with all men, really. Except for Bill.

“I just wanted to thank you. The flowers are beautiful.”

Range fiddled with the tack on his silk tie. He looked uncertain for a moment as he considered what he wanted to say and Jean found herself wondering why she had been so intimidated by this guy. Clearing his throat, he began.

“I can only imagine how hard it’s been for you, Jean. As I’m sure you know, Bill valued you very much. He always said he didn’t know what he would do without you.”

Jean nodded silently, biting the corner of her lip.

“Anyway, last night when I got the letter about Bill’s will, the letter you must have gotten, too . . .”

Jean nodded in affirmation.

“And I was going over in my mind what has happened, and I got to thinking about you and what you must be going through. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate everything that you did for Bill. I feel certain that Bill would agree wholeheartedly if I told you that I sent them on his behalf as well as mine.”

That did it. Jean’s tears began to flow.

Range walked out from behind his desk, took out a snowy, freshly pressed handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Jean. He pulled a chair next to hers and sat patiently as she cried brokenly.

“I think it’s fair to say that you and I miss him the most around here,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes. He understood.

“I miss him so much,” Jean said. “He was so good to me. And I keep feeling that there must have been something that I could have done, something that I could have said, something that I should have picked up on. I feel so guilty. I should have protected him.” She blew her nose.

“Jean, everyone knows what good care you took of Bill. Yelena Gregory herself was commenting on it just last night. Please, don’t do this to yourself. I know you miss him, I know that there is a big, gaping hole where Bill should be, but you’ve got to look to the future. Have you given any thought to what you want to do next?”

“I don’t know what to do now,” Jean sniffed. “I can’t stand watching life go on around here with others coasting right in to fill Bill’s shoes. It’s tough to watch Pete Carlson sit in Bill’s chair, see Eliza Blake doing Bill’s favorite assignments. I’ve been offered a job in the KEY corporate offices, but that isn’t the news division and that’s what I know best. Yet sometimes I think maybe it would be a good idea to start somewhere totally new. Somewhere where everything doesn’t remind me of Bill. I’m very confused.”

She had stopped crying and was considering aloud her options. She leaned toward her newfound ally and whispered, “I’m thinking of leaving KEY altogether.”