An Accidental Woman by Barbara Delinsky Read Free Book Online Page B

“Well, it’s our Heather who’s in custody, but it can’t be our Heather who did that.” She paused, thinking of the rapport she and Heather had, the sense that they felt things other people didn’t. “Can it?”
    â€œNo. Absolutely not. We know Heather. I mean, we don’t spend Tuesday nights talking about the weather. We talk about private things. We talk about intimate things. She couldn’t hide something like that from us.”
    Poppy was trying to remember stories Heather had told about her childhood, but she could think of none. Heather was always more of a listener on Tuesday nights. She listened and asked questions—insightful questions that always got the others to talk more.
    â€œWe don’t really know all that much about her,” Poppy said quietly. “It’s just that Heather’s not a violent sort.”
    â€œIt’s just,” Sigrid echoed archly, “that someone’s up to no good. Someone in the press must have been pissed at us last fall. This is tit for tat.”
    â€œJohn says no.”
    â€œThe news said that someone who was here last fall tipped off the cold case squad. Okay, so maybe John’s right. Maybe it isn’t revenge. But someone was looking at things he wasn’t supposed to be looking at.”
    â€œCome on, Sigrid. They look at the crowd. Heather was in the crowd.”
    â€œActually, not,” Sigrid pointed out. “She wasn’t milling around when the cameras were here. Missy had chicken pox. Remember?”
    Now that she mentioned it, Poppy did remember. Heather hadn’t ventured any farther from home that week than the pediatrician’s office and the general store. Poppy herself had given Heather a blow-by-blow of all that she’d missed.
    Except someone hadn’t missed as much as Heather had. Someone had seen a face, imagined a similarity, and thrown a wonderful woman’s life in limbo. Poppy wanted to know who that person was.

Chapter Three

Standing near the large leather sofa that dominated the living room in his New Jersey townhouse, Griffin Hughes held the phone to his ear. On the other end was Prentiss Hayden, once the most powerful member of the United States Senate, now in his eighties and retired to his farm in Virginia. Griffin was ghostwriting Hayden’s biography and had run into a glitch.
    â€œI don’t want it mentioned,” Hayden insisted.
    â€œBut it’s part of your story,” Griffin argued gently. One didn’t argue any other way with a man of Hayden’s age and accomplishments, much less with a man one respected greatly, as Griffin did this one. They simply disagreed on the extent of disclosure. “No one will think less of you for having had a child out of wedlock. You took full responsibility. You gave that child everything you gave the rest of your children. Do the others know about him?”
    â€œIn my family, yes, but the public doesn’t. I’m not of your generation, Griffin. I can’t rub this in the noses of my contemporaries, and that’s who’s going to read this book, y’know—old farts like me.”
    â€œYou’re wrong there, sir,” Griffin cautioned. “There’s a whole younger generation that wants to know how it was done—”
    â€œDone in the good old days?” Hayden cut in. “Yes, well, we didn’t talk about these things in the good old days. We talked about honorable debate and gentlemen’s agreements. We were civil men. Why, I remember . . .”
    Griffin listened to the memory, but he’d heard it before. Idly, he picked up the television remote, turned it in his hand, clicked on the set, but it was a minute of surfing before he caught something of interest. It was a breaking story from Concord, New Hampshire. Careful to offer Hayden a thoughtful “Uh-huh” at appropriate times, he listened to the news with growing interest, so much