Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 Read Online Free PDF Page A

for me.
    â€œWhy?” I took a bite of steak, found it tasteless and knew the fault lay with me. Was my immediate distaste for this woman equally invalid?
    â€œOh, if you do the glossy, skin-deep stuff, you’ll do all right. There’s plenty of that kind of information around. ‘Intrepid Belle Ericcson, prize-winning writer, accomplished pilot, generous philanthropist.’” The descriptive phrase, intoned in a deep, smooth voice, was an uncanny mimicry of a television announcer’s soulful spiel. “Easier than making pie crust. I can do it in my sleep.”
    My quick, visceral response was anger. Who the hell did she think she was? And where did she get off, implying I would write fluff. My face hardened. My hand tightened onmy glass of iced tea. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was the deep desperate need to discover what this woman knew, but I took a breath and replayed the words in my mind and caught the subtext.
    Maybe, just maybe…
    â€œYou think Belle’s public persona is phony?” I cut another piece of meat, tried to make it look as though I were eating. But I didn’t care about food. Everything, all the everyday, ordinary actions were distractions, impediments. Yes, I would eat enough. And sleep. Dress and smile. Create conversation. But the goal—What happened to Richard? Why did Richard die?—thudded feverishly in my mind like incessant jungle drums.
    â€œI did a piece on her for the Sunday section. It was like wrapping up a Christmas present—lots of tinsel, stars, stickers. Gorgeous bow. But when you open the box, there’s nothing there.” Dissatisfaction glittered in her eyes.
    I shook my head when the waiter offered more wine. He filled Lou’s glass. She took a greedy gulp as he moved away. It was she who’d chosen the wine, at my invitation, selecting an expensive French Chardonnay. And a very expensive entree, quail in white wine. I’d chosen mesquite-smoked tenderloin. I couldn’t come to Texas and not eat beef.
    But expense didn’t matter now. My last-minute plane tickets to Dallas and on to Hawaii were absurdly expensive even with the helpful senior discount. I don’t like to waste money and I wasn’t on anyone’s expense account.
    But money be damned.
    The world be damned.
    I was in Texas because I had to be. I was going to Hawaii. I would do what I had to do, go where I had to go.
    Lou finished the glass, looked regretfully for the waiter.
    I had myself well under control now. “You think there’s more—or less—than meets the eye of the reader in stories about Belle?”
    Lou took a last bite of quail, glanced again at her empty wineglass.
    I caught the waiter’s attention. More wine. An order for dessert, though nothing appealed to me.
    â€œIt’s like fireworks,” Lou said thoughtfully, holding the wineglass so that a stream of sunshine touched it with gold. “What’s left after the hard, hot, bright glare? Twisted, dark pieces of wire, burned cardboard, a nasty smell. You know what I think?” She leaned her elbows on the table. Her bright, sardonic, weary gaze held mine. “I think there’s a story there, all right. It’s so perfect on the surface: brilliant and beautiful woman reporter with a fascinating family, three children of her own from her marriage to a gifted artist; widowhood; remarriage to a hard-charging newspaperman with his own three kids; melded family, high-society kids who provide appealing feature copy with lots of jokes and entertaining escapades. Sheesh. But I saw them in action here for cinco years and sometimes they didn’t have on their party faces. I’d like to have been at Belle’s Highland Park mansion when it was just family. Her third husband is a hell of a lot younger than she is. And CeeCee, the beautiful director of the Ericcson Foundation—now doesn’t that sound like stellar Junior League? But she