Sweet Love (13 page)

“Julie?” The voice at the other end is a woman’s, thick with emotion.

Oh, God. It’s Rhonda herself. “Rhonda,” I say, not knowing where to start. “I’m so, so sorry. I had hope.”

“Me too.”

“I’ve been putting myself in your shoes all day and I can’t imagine how you’re holding up. I know how close you and Amy were.”

What follows is the most wrenching sound in the universe, a mother breaking down over her dead child. “It’s been . . .” She catches herself and gulps. “I wouldn’t have had Ray call you except that . . . these lies. It’s so painful, Julie. The pain. The pain is overwhelming. Every part of me hurts.”

Closing my eyes, I wish I were anywhere but here right now. I want to help Rhonda and yet I can’t. I’m
forbidden.
Even so, I ask, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Make her stop.” Rhonda’s breath rattles as she tries to compose herself. “Make her stop saying that about me and Amy. I never would have laid a finger on her. She was my
baby
, Julie. I carried her for nine months. I sewed her dress-up clothes. I stayed up all night with her when she was sick. Julie . . . she was my best friend!”

No. No. I can’t listen to any more of this. It’s hitting too close to home. “Rhonda, I’m coming over,” I hear myself say. “I don’t know if there’s anything I can do, but I’m coming over.”

“Okay,” Rhonda says, though it’s not really a confirmation. It’s more like a declaration of surrender. “Okay.”

We hang up and I find Mom already assembling the cobbler without me, dotting the peaches with dough balls in place of a fancy rolled-out pastry like D’Ours’s. The bottle of balsamic vinegar—D’Ours’s secret ingredient—is on the counter still sealed.

“But I haven’t added the vinegar yet.”

Mom wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Thank heavens. When I read that on the recipe I figured it must have been a mistake. Who adds vinegar to cobbler? Cinnamon. Sugar. A squeeze of lemon, perhaps. But not vinegar. That’s for salads.”

Ugh. This is going to be the same ol’, same ol’. Right off the back of the Bisquick box.

“Anyway, I couldn’t wait for you,” she says, popping it in the oven. “You might have been on the phone forever.”

“Why the rush? It’s only for Em and she won’t get off work until eleven.”

“Because if you’re going to go over to Rhonda Michak’s then you can’t go empty-handed. You’ve got to bring something, Julie. And to make you feel better, I’ll go with you, too, for support.”

My mother and I and a cobbler are going to join the side of Rhonda Michak in her fresh battle with my news station and a colleague who sits two desks away from mine.

Clearly, I’m about to cross a very dangerous line.

Chapter Ten

—CORIOLANUS, ACT II, SCENE 2

What a horrible night!

It wasn’t just finding Rhonda so overcome with despair she couldn’t lift her head off the couch. It was also that Ray chose me to be the target of his boiling anger and frustration. As I stood trapped in his cramped kitchen awkwardly holding my cobbler, he went off on the useless news media, cursing it for exploiting, not helping, Amy and being positively worthless when it came to finding her killer—at large now for nine months.

“There are two tragedies,” he kept saying. “Two tragedies. Some creep killed Amy, but it was you people who killed Rhonda. Look at her! Look at her! She’s dead.”

Indeed, I had to agree. Rhonda wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t living, either. It was an awful thought to think the people I worked with and for had had a hand in that.

There was nothing I could do, no way to reply, no way to escape even, since around us crowded equally angry friends and family. Meanwhile, a throng of news media was camped on the lawn, their idling white satellite trucks filling the air with fumes, their blinding klieg lights and constant chatter invading Rhonda’s front windows.

Why don’t you take your rage out on them?
I wanted to tell Ray. I’m one of the good guys. Why me?

Instead, when he was done and his face began subsiding from a fiery red to a moist pink and the onlookers began to slink away, I handed him the cobbler and said, “Here. It’s all I had to bring,” and went outside to find Mom and Valerie.

Mom seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself among the grief junkies. She was intensely chatting with some reporter as I pushed through the crowd to find Valerie primping for her next shot.

“Julie? What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, keeping her lips parted so as not to smudge her latest coat of gloss.

“I wish it had been you instead of me in there with Ray five minutes ago. I just got an earful about what we’ve done to Rhonda.”

She cocked her head in that way of hers and, totally missing the point, said, “What were you doing with Ray Schmuler? This is my story.”

“I wasn’t there as a reporter. I was there as a human being. You might want to try it sometime.” Then I huffed off, got Mom, and sped away.

Later that night, after Em got off work from Brigham’s, she and I made another cobbler using the leftover peaches. As so often happens with cooking, we settled into a rhythmic conversation about my decision to go to Rhonda’s even though it violated WBOS’s conflict-of-interest policy. This led to a debate about when rules should be followed and when conscience dictates they must be ignored—a subject about which most teenagers can go on endlessly.

As Em rolled out the pastry and I tossed the peaches with sugar and D’Ours’s touch of balsamic vinegar, I decided with satisfaction that this was one of those rare moments when I was really parenting—not by lecturing, but by modeling. Em was proud of me for my choice and there’s something about your children’s pride that’s better than all the promotions and pay raises in the world.

Well, depending on how big the raise. Let’s be real.

This is on my mind, life choices, as I climb the stairs of the Davis Square T station and find Max the homeless man waiting for me at the door. Bummer.

“Ready for the rest of ‘Tintern Abbey’?” he asks.

My temptation is to throw him a buck and get out as fast as possible, but an inner voice urges me to humor him. “Sure, Max. Why not?”

We go outside to the clear summer morning and Max starts right where he left off:

“Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves ’Mid groves and copses.”

Listening to Max’s perfect dictation and resonating voice, I find myself wishing I were in a green, bucolic Welsh valley dotted with thatched-roof cottages instead of heading off to a stress-filled, windowless newsroom. How nice and peaceful that would be. How delightfully refreshing.

“Ahh, it’s getting to you, isn’t it?” Max says, his eyes twinkling. “That’s what I’m going for, a life like that. A life of repose.”

I give him a Tupperware container of the peach cobbler I’d intended for Arnie, along with a ten-dollar bill. “Take care, Max. You may be right.”

At work, I hand Dolores the other slice of cobbler, to smooth her ruffled feathers.

“I’ll put my name on it,” she says, pulling out a black Sharpie, “and put it in the refrigerator for lunch. I already brought dessert, but so what.”

“Yeah, so what.” Arnie’s gonna kill me. Luckily, his office is dark. “Where’s our beloved leader this morning, anyway?”

Dolores points upward with the Sharpie, pantomime for Owen’s lair. “Handling the daily crisis. Another day, another fire.”

Glad to be off Arnie’s radar, I head to my desk, ready to put in a decent morning’s work going over the campaign finance reports from yesterday, separating new donors from old, tracing individuals to corporations and trying to determine who’s switched their financial support. The fun just never ends when you’re a glamorous TV journalist.

Valerie’s computer monitor is off, which means she’s hasn’t come to work yet—not unusual for reporters who’ve put in late hours the night before. I expect she won’t be in until noon, thank God. I can’t imagine my young protégé’s too pleased with me after last night. Not that I’m regretting anything.

First, however, a dose of procrastination as I flip through the
Boston Globe
. Two paragraphs into their story about Amy’s murder and the phone rings. It’s a woman screaming hysterically.

“Can you hear me?”
Tap. Tap. Bang.
“How’s this? Is this better?”

It’s Liza calling from the outskirts of Bucharest or some such former Communist hellhole. I repeatedly say yes, that I can hear her fine, but it’s pointless. She keeps hitting the phone against something and cursing the local telephone company. My ears might never be the same.

Finally, she hangs up and calls again, so clear, she could be on the other side of the newsroom. “I’ve been dying to know,” she says. “How did it go with my beloved Chef Rene?”

This is so Liza. “You’re thousands of miles away in Romania and you’re calling to ask about Chef Rene?”

“Of course! This isn’t a passing fling, Julie. This is the real deal. Did you put in a good word for me‚ or what?”

Okay, now I feel really bad because I dropped the ball on the D’Ours front. To cover, I go on about how handsome he is and oh what personality.

“I know, right?” Liza sounds as if she’s eating while on the phone. Then again, she’s always eating. “At first he comes off as a little prick with his fussy French ways. But then, after a couple of conversations, he really loosens up a bit.”

How many conversations, exactly, has she had with him? I ask.

“Two. One in the hallway and one on the sidewalk, but they were great! Best ever. We talked about food and wine and pairings. We have so much in common.”

That’s a surprise considering D’Ours is a snob about American cuisine, of which Liza is the shortcut queen. “And he knows that you’re the famous writer of the Hot Haute series?”

“No way. I figured I’d let him fall for me first and then, when he’s gotten to where he thinks I’m all out of intrigue, I’ll totally impress him by revealing my vast oeuvre.”

Usually, at that point in a relationship, Liza reveals other vast parts about her, so this is a switch. She must really like the guy.

“How’s it going with Michael?”

When I relay Michael’s line about me not following my heart, she lets out another screech. “I’ve been telling you that for years. Julie, quit this job because it’s eating away at your soul. But do you listen to me, your best friend?
Nooo.
Then some man says the exact same thing and suddenly your life is changed.”

I have to shift in my chair. “A peach cobbler does not a life change make.”

“It’s not the cobbler. See, that’s what people don’t get about food. It’s never the food, it’s the love that goes into making it. That’s what’s important.”

When she finally gets off, it’s eleven-thirty. I better get to work if I want to pitch this campaign finance report story to Arnie by our two p.m. meeting. Not exactly A-slot material, but that’s okay. Can’t be murders and five-alarm house fires every day.

And yet Valerie’s still not in. Interesting.

At noon, I’m crunching the numbers, finance reports tossed all over the place, a calculator in my lap and a spreadsheet on my computer, when Raldo stops by looking for a lunch companion.

“Can’t get a sandwich with you today,” I say, trying to reconcile two conflicting donor reports. “These numbers don’t make any sense at all.”

“I give you credit for having enough guts to show your face,” he says, towering over me. “I’d never expected you to sink so low. A little rivalry among colleagues can be healthy, but to intentionally cut her off at the knees and ridicule her in the press? She must be mortified.”

I look up, baffled, to find Raldo wearing a rare sneer. “What are you talking about?”

“As if you don’t know. You’ve got the paper right in front of you.” And he thumbs through the
Globe
on my desk, turning to the jump of the Amy Michak murder. The jump I didn’t get to because of Liza’s phone call.

There, in a breakout sidebar, is a short article only three paragraphs long, headlined:

With one eye open, I scan it quickly, like that will lessen the pain.

Whew. That’s not
too
bad. And the article’s almost over, except for this last line:

My mother!

Folding the newspaper and shoving it in the trash, I tell Raldo it was no big deal. “In fact, Valerie got off easy. I was the one who got the tongue-lashing from Ray.”

“Don’t tell it to me,” Raldo says, pointing past my shoulder. “Tell it to him.”

Which is when I spin around to find Arnie shaking his head and gleefully waving a pink slip.

“Peach cobbler,” he says. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“You know, Julie,” Owen begins, rolling up his French blue shirtsleeves, “I’m all for bribes. I’ve got no problem paying for a story as long as no one finds out. But . . . dessert? That, I don’t get.”

“Your ethics are very impressive, Owen. However, the peach cobbler was a condolence offering, not a bribe,” I say, trying not to leave sweat marks on the fine English leather of his wing chair. We are in his sixth-floor wing, with its regulation billiard table and views overlooking the Cambridge skyline. “My visit to Rhonda’s was purely personal and everything said was off the record.”