The Truth Hurts by Nancy Pickard Read Free Book Online

be doing that—I certainly hope so—but I’ll also be talking privately to my prosecutor. I want some advice about what to do—if anything—about this Paulie Barnes, who has disturbed my life like a tornado dropping down from a cloudless sky.
    But once I’ve told him everything, my prosecutor’s best advice turns out to be, “Let’s take the kids and go to the Keys for the weekend, Marie. I’ve got a friend with a condo on Key Largo that I can rent if it’s empty, I think I can manage to leave work a little early, we can scoop up the kids from their schools, and all drive down together.”
    “That’s a fabulous idea, Franklin.” I am, in fact, overjoyed at the idea of a weekend trip, a minivacation, and an escape from the fallout from the tabloid article. At the same time, I’m a little unnerved by the prospect of a weekend with his children, though I don’t say so. If we do this, it will be our first time for such intense togetherness. “But I have to . . . I want to . . . pick up my car from the shop tomorrow, and it won’t be ready until late afternoon. Why don’t you take the kids and I’ll meet you down there?”
    “Deal. Nobody will be able to find us. We can talk.” There’s a pause and then he sounds as if he has moved his mouth closer to the phone. “We just won’t be able to do much else.”
    “With the kids there, you mean?” I laugh a little. “How do parents ever manage to have sex after the kids are born?”
    “I’ll show you,” he whispers into the mouthpiece, sending sexual electricity shooting through me, and pushing an involuntary little moan out of my mouth. Neither of us speaks. The silence is erotic. I’m really sorry to have to bring our conversation back around to a less sexy topic. A little huskily, I say, “What about the tabloid story, Franklin?”
    “What about it?” he asks, sounding a little hoarse, himself.
    “Aren’t you upset?”
    “After I got over my initial reaction, no.” He has backed away from the mouthpiece of his telephone and is sounding businesslike again. “I don’t think it’s worth getting upset over. Hell, you’ve had reviews that said worse things about you than that did, Marie. And I’ve got political opponents who say things about me that make tabloids look like church newsletters.”
    I have to smile, albeit wryly. It’s true, what he says.
    “Well, then what about this Barnes person, Franklin?”
    “In the first place, that’s probably not his real name—”
    “Oh, right.” I feel like smacking my forehead again. “Duh.”
    Franklin chuckles. “In the second place, he hasn’t done anything illegal. And in the third place, fuck him.”
    This time I’m the one who bursts out laughing, not only from the tension-relieving surprise of hearing Franklin say that, but also because he and I so obviously think just alike.
    Take that, Paulie Barnes, whoever you are!

    While I’m at the phone I check for messages, wondering if there is a reaction from anyone else yet. I think The Insider only went on sale today, but I know the mainstream media check the “tabs” for leads on stories. Ever since the National Enquirer broke the news about one of the Clinton sex scandals, and they turned out to be dead-on with their reporting, nobody has dared to ignore or disdain the tabloids to quite the same degree as before.
    Sure enough, there’s a message waiting for me from the publicist assigned to me at Hudson House, my longtime hardcover and paperback publisher.
    “Hi, Marie!” Over the phone, Connie Dellum sounds even younger than she is; her voice has a high, lilting cheerleader quality that normally I find endearing, although maybe I wouldn’t if she weren’t also as efficient as she is young. But this morning that trilling voice sounds wildly inappropriate, though that’s not her fault. On my voice mail, Connie enthuses: “I don’t know what’s going on all of a sudden, but I just got into the office and there are messages from