Talk of the Town

by Sherrill Bodine

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Fans of New York Times bestselling authors Carly Phillips, Jennifer Probst and Julie James will fall in love with Sherrill Bodine! GOSSIP QUEEN DETHRONED! Darlings, what a to-do at the Daily Mail today! After fifteen years as Chicago's gossip guru, Rebecca Covington has been demoted from divulger of secrets for the city's elite to headlining recipes in the Home and Food section. Apparently, a touchy senator is threatening legal action for Rebecca's latest extramarital scoop. But Windy City rumor has it that new CEO and dreamy Pierce Brosnan look-alike David Sumner downgraded Rebecca in favor of fresher, younger blood on the social beat. Industry insiders expect Rebecca to fight her denouement, and inquiring minds have already seen the feisty maven trading quips and searing glances wtih her arresting new boss. Rebecca swears she'll reclaim her shining star status, but can the dishy diva even cook? And how can she ignore David's arousing effect on her sensibilities? Don't miss a trick, darlings. Sparks are going to fly.

Release date: November 7, 2008

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter 1

Some Monday mornings start out so well.

The cab Rebecca stepped into had her picture advertising “Rebecca Covington’s World,”in the Chicago Daily Mail, plastered across the back of the front seat.

She squinted at the ad. How long had it been since she’d done a new press photo? Her blond hair was so much lighter and shorter now . . . her face thinner . . . older.

“You’re lookin’ good, Miss Covington. Wife loves your columns,” shouted the delightful cabdriver.

Before she looked up at the charming man, she remembered to widen her eyes to smooth out the dreaded lines on her forehead, just as Harry had instructed.

“Thank you,” she cooed to the cabbie. “You’ve made my day.” Of course, she gave him a huge tip when she alighted in front of the Chicago Daily Mail building.

Feeling wonderful, and looking forward to seeing Pauline Alper, BFF since they bonded over their divorces only two years apart and shed enough tears together to raise the water level in Lake Michigan, Rebecca swished through the doors and into the small lobby.

Pauline looked up from behind the reception desk, saw Rebecca, burst into loud sobs, and buried her wet face in two fistfuls of pink Kleenex.

Shocked by Pauline’s tears instead of her usual warm welcome, Rebecca rushed across the lobby to offer her shoulder to cry upon. “Pauline, tell me everything.”

Instead of being comforted, Pauline jumped up, crying even louder, and ran to the “For Staff Only” restroom.

Her heart pounding, terrified at what could be so wrong, Rebecca raced after Pauline and stood outside the locked stall. “Sweetheart, it isn’t your girls, is it?” The thought of any harm coming to Pauline’s daughters, Patty and Polly, caused tears to burn in her eyes.

“No,” came Pauline’s muffled reply, followed by a cacophony of fresh sobs.

Weak with relief, Rebecca collapsed against the cool metal door. “Thank God! Then whatever it is can be fixed. I saw you with the box of pink Kleenex on your desk. You didn’t try that ridiculous Kleenex diet and become violently ill, did you?”

“No,” Pauline hiccupped.

“Good. Then please come out so I can help you. You’re crying so hard you really will make yourself sick.”

“I can’t stop . . . I’m . . . so . . . so . . . sad,” Pauline wailed between sobs.

“Sweetheart, you’re hyperventilating!” Rebecca’s voice rose in alarm. She’d never forgotten the day Pauline fainted in her living room after a bout of prolonged crying over the divorce wars. “Please stop.”

“I . . . can’t . . . ,” Pauline gasped.

Drastic action must be taken.

“Keep breathing, sweetheart!” Rebecca kicked off her black Brian Atwood stilettos. Hiked up her black Carolina Herrera skirt until the top of her pantyhose showed. Not caring if the expensive Wolford fishnets got bigger holes, she dropped to her hands and knees onto the cold, hard, black and white tile floor. “Pauline, keep breathing and tell me what’s wrong,” she called through the opening at the bottom of the stall.

An instant later, from beneath the door Pauline peered back, her green eyes swollen nearly shut from weeping. “Rebecca, get up! That’s . . . your . . . favorite designer outfit. You’ll . . . you’ll . . . ruin . . . ruin your beautiful clothes,” she sobbed anew.

“Sweetheart, I will get up. But you’re really scaring me.” Rebecca held Pauline’s red-rimmed eyes in a steady gaze. “Remember our pledge to always be there for each other. This is one of those moments, but this bathroom floor is no place to have a heart-to-heart. Please splash gallons of cold water on your face and come to my office. I’ll shut the door, bring out the chocolate like always, and we’ll talk for as long as you need. Promise you’ll come up with me.”

Pauline heaved a long, ragged sigh and nodded. “I promise. Oh, please don’t . . . hurt yourself getting up.”

“I’m fine,” Rebecca lied while struggling to her feet. Ignoring the little twinges of pain in her abused knees, she slid back into her shoes. She washed her hands for a good five minutes, all the while staring at the locked stall door, willing it to open. When that didn’t work she called through it again. “Are you all right? I’m sure I have enough Leonidas chocolates to handle this emergency. Ready to go up, sweetheart?”

“Not yet . . . please go on . . . I promise . . . I’ll be there . . . soon,” Pauline called back in a soft, breathless voice.

Rebecca hated to leave, but she sensed Pauline wanted a little privacy. “All right. I’ll be in my office waiting for you.”

Knowing Pauline would keep her promise, Rebecca climbed up the short flight of stairs to the Daily Mail offices. On the wide landing, the din of voices and noise from the newsroom seeped through the closed glass double doors. Even now in the throes of such powerful angst over Pauline, Rebecca felt a wave of gratitude for having escaped from there so long ago. In the newsroom she’d been just another reporter. She loved being Rebecca Covington, Chicago’s most notorious gossip columnist. She loved that she belonged in the quiet executive hallway. Now, if she was having a really bad day, she could shut her door and hide for a few minutes to perfect her confident front for the world.

Her stilettos clicked musically on the tile floor as she hurried to her office, where she’d hide Pauline for as long as it took to calm her down and find out what was wrong. At the end of the short hall, Tim Porter’s secretary, Maybella, glanced up from her desk and quickly looked back down, but not before Rebecca spied a smirk on her glossy fuchsia lips.

Something is up.

When Tim stepped out of his office and planted himself in front of her, she knew from the stricken look on his face that something wasn’t just up. Something was drastically wrong.

“No!” Rebecca gasped, clasping her alligator bag to her heaving bosom. “Not you, too! What’s happened?”

Gently, he ushered her into his office. “Sit down, Rebecca. I have something to tell you.”

The aura of doom surrounding him could mean only one thing. She flung herself into the chair before her knees buckled from the shock. “Tim, I can’t believe you’ve been fired! You’re the finest managing editor in the newspaper business. How could they do this? You have two boys in college and a wife making a life’s work of restoring your crumbling mansion in Lake Forest.” Devastated for him, she leaned forward to clasp his hand. “How can I help?”

He took a file from his tidy desk and laid it on her lap. “Sign these papers.”

She flipped open the file and squinted down at the small, blurry print. She tried holding the papers at arm’s length to read. “Darling, if it’s that you want me to cosign for a loan, I must tell you my credit isn’t any better than yours.”

“Here, try these,” he said, holding out a pair of reading glasses from his own shirt pocket.

She placed the glasses on her nose, and the letters loomed larger before her eyes.

An unpleasant numbness, like when she slept on her leg wrong, spread through every limb. “These are termination papers. With my name on them.” Not believing her eyes, refusing to accept it, she kept staring at him. “Is this some kind of joke?”

His face turned a deep crimson. “Damn it, Rebecca. It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have run the blind item about that politician. Didn’t you double-check your sources? Who was it?”

A rush of scalding anger brought feeling back into her body. Tim didn’t need to know that the paper’s very own security guard, who moonlighted at several Gold Coast condos, was her most reliable source. Until now. She couldn’t believe he had gotten it so wrong this time. Something wasn’t ringing true. “You know I never divulge my sources!” she snapped, not liking where this was going.

“Well, you might have to divulge it this time in court,” he snapped back. “The item struck a nerve with our junior senator, who is damn well connected. He’s been in California for weeks trying to reconcile with his wife. He hasn’t been anywhere near any Gold Coast condo. He’s threatening to sue.”

“So what?” She shrugged, relief making her smile. Now she was on safe, familiar ground. “The last time someone threatened to sue, circulation skyrocketed and I received a generous bonus. Tim, darling, you know I’m the queen of naughty gossip in Chicago. That’s what sells papers. That’s what you pay me to do.”

“Not anymore.”

She felt the earth shift beneath her in a strange, silent shudder. It started at her toes and rushed up to her brain, just as it had ten years ago when she’d gone home sick from work and walked into her condo to find her husband, Peter, in their bed performing oral sex on his young executive assistant.

Then, like now, every sense deserted her except sight.

She saw Tim’s lips moving, but no sound reached her.

She closed her eyes, believing that when she opened them it would all turn out to be a terrible nightmare.

But it didn’t work this time, either.

“Rebecca, did you hear me?” She heard Tim shout as his beady eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Your position has been filled by Shannon Forrester from the women’s page.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous!” she shouted back, all her senses restored to full furious force. “I’m the gossip columnist for the Daily Mail. It’s been my identity for fifteen years. I’m not giving it up to anyone!”

Tim shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, but you don’t have a choice. The blind item fiasco in your column brought it to a head faster than I wanted. Regardless of how we feel, there are changes coming under the new owner. He has evaluated the staff and feels Shannon will keep up with the youth market and bring a fresh perspective to the paper. Younger. Sassier. Sexier.”

Not caring how many wrinkles she made in her face, Rebecca sneered at him in disgust. “It’s ridiculous to think no one over forty has sexy, sassy fun! What is going on? I asked you if the rumors were true about the paper being bought and you told me no. How could you lie to me?”

Tim recoiled. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss anything but your termination.”

Wounded to her core by his cavalier treatment, tears choked the back of her throat. She rose majestically onto her wobbly legs. “I’d always hoped that should the worst happen, I’d built relationships along the way so my friends would stand by me.”

Tim slumped down onto the edge of his desk. “Rebecca, give me a break. My job could be on the line if you don’t cooperate.”

His dejected voice and posture caused her to feel a flicker of pity. She doused it with righteous indignation. “I won’t be discarded like last year’s fashion mistake, Tim. This is blatant age discrimination. I have two more years left on my contract. I’m not leaving without a fight. I’m calling my lawyer.” Becoming more furious by the second, she made the ultimate threat. “Then I’m calling Charlie Bartholomew at the Chicago Journal and Courier.”

At mention of Charlie, all color drained from Tim’s face. The nasty rivalry between the two papers was the stuff of urban legend. It had sucked dry more than one managing editor.

“Rebecca, you’re trying to kill me,” he groaned. “I can’t afford a messy legal battle with you right on the heels of the takeover. It’s bad PR for all of us. God knows what that bastard Charlie might do if he gets wind of this too soon. He could screw up this deal. He’d like nothing better.”

She lifted her chin in defiance and glared at him. “Then give me my column back.”

“I can’t do that. But I’ve been authorized to offer you another job.” He stood and slid his fingers around his shirt collar to loosen it. Perspiration glistened on his wide, red forehead above his suddenly glassy-looking eyes. “Your salary will remain the same for the duration of your contract. However, the only place for you on the paper is writing a twice-weekly recipe column for the Home and Food section.”

Her blood felt like it was freezing in her veins and she hid her trembling hands in her lap. She’d felt this same icy helplessness in her condo bedroom, when she realized her identity as Peter’s wife was erased. Hollow with pain from yet another rejection, she’d turned on her heels and quietly walked out the door. Sometimes she fantasized about what she should have done all those years ago. She should have screamed or thrown a shoe at her miserable cheating husband. Better yet, she should have pulled out every follicle of hair she’d paid to have transplanted along his receding hairline. The moment of truth was at hand. Had she learned nothing? Would she allow herself to be replaced by a younger woman again?

Anger and pride roared through her in one loud answer. No! This time I’ll dig in my stilettos and fight for what I want. “I accept the job.”

Tim sighed like a balloon deflating. “Thank you, Rebecca. You’ll be working under Kate Carmichael. She’s a good egg.”

“She’s also a Pulitzer Prize winner and a real professional.” With a last disdainful look at Tim, who deserved every drop of her disgust, she swung away to the door, determined to let no one see how much this blow had stunned her. “I’ll clean out my office and move to the Home section.”

“Rebecca . . .” His voice stopped her, but her fierce pride wouldn’t let her give him the courtesy of looking back.

“Shannon has already moved into your office.”

Rebecca took a deep, steadying breath to calm her raging anger so he wouldn’t see it. Then she glanced over her shoulder to smile sweetly at him. “Only temporarily, Tim. Only temporarily.”

With her head held high, and ignoring Tim’s smirking secretary, who had never been one of her fans, Rebecca forced herself to stroll slowly toward the brown cardboard box with her personal mementos sticking out the top. It was sitting forlornly outside her former office.

She couldn’t believe how badly she’d misjudged Shannon’s ambitions. Rebecca had believed her when she confessed her goal was to be a serious journalist. She’d even helped Shannon with a few in-depth features on society in Chicago and commiserated with her when one of Shannon’s pet goldfish had been found belly-up in the small aquarium she kept on her desk.

Rebecca gazed into her beloved sanctuary, ready to confront Shannon, but she was hidden by the high-backed, ergonomically correct chair, which was turned away from the open door.

Everything else appeared the same. The much-coveted window, the oversized desk, and the large-screen computer monitor. But now next to the computer where her silver canister of Leonidas chocolates should be, there was a tiny aquarium with two goldfish and, beside it, a clear glass plate of edamame.

She’d always admired how Shannon embraced healthy eating, and she vowed every morning she would do the same, until inevitably she gave in to her passion for a chocolate-filled croissant. Now it seemed ridiculous to prefer soybeans to chocolate. Shannon would need those endorphins to survive Chicago’s society beat.

Rebecca shook her head to clear it of the very thought of someone else doing her job. Shannon would quickly realize she didn’t have the life experience to write Rebecca’s column, and so would the mysterious, obviously ignorant, new owner. Then Rebecca would be right back where she belonged.

The chair swiveled around and there was Shannon, dead-black hair falling straight around her pale oval face. Did Rebecca see surprise in her slightly bulgy blue eyes?

“Rebecca, I didn’t know you were here,” Shannon gasped in her soft, saccharine voice and made the little movement with her mouth that somehow always made her appear sympathetic.

Now that she knew Shannon was such a backstabber, Rebecca wouldn’t be surprised if the girl practiced the expression in front of a mirror. The ugly thought that Shannon could have had something to do with the false lead flit across her mind.

“Shannon, I’m amazed that you’d settle for this position. I wouldn’t think it was serious enough for you.”

A self-satisfied smile curving her lips, Shannon shrugged. “Circumstances change. I don’t know what else to say, except good-bye and best of luck to you.”

If her iron will to always appear in control hadn’t clamped down like a vise, Rebecca would have given in to her burning desire to toss Shannon’s skinny butt out of her chair. Instead, she smiled back so hard her face ached. “No need to say good-bye. I’ll be right through the newsroom and around the corner in the Home and Food section.”

Hoping her calm facade was still in place, Rebecca swept up the box and turned to walk away. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Shannon hastily picking up the phone. If she was calling Tim or the mysterious new owner so they could plot their next move to get rid of her, they should save their breaths.

Let them do their worst—this time I’m not going anywhere.

She held her box of office treasures like a shield. On top, the picture of her with Harrison Ford, taken when he was in town shooting The Fugitive, stared back at her.

So we both looked a little younger in those days. But damn it, we still look good today. If I wasn’t in the media where they judge my age in dog years, I’d be considered in my prime.

She felt a remarkable connection with her aging hero. Both their careers might be down at the moment, but certainly they weren’t finished.

With a vow to win whatever battles with Shannon and The-New-Evil-Boss-from-Hell lay ahead, she clutched the picture of Harrison to her breasts, pushed open the glass double doors to the newsroom, and walked defiantly back into chaos.



Chapter 2




On the ball field in Ellen Sumner Park, Juan Cortez’s leadoff was too aggressive at second base. “Back a step, buddy, back a step,” David Sumner muttered to himself while pacing in front of his Little League team.

At home plate, Pedro got fisted with an inside fastball that blooped over the first baseman’s head and down the right-field line. Short on power but long on speed, he legged it into a double.

Juan did a header into third base, and David cheered along with the team when the umpire yelled, “Safe!”

David’s cell phone vibrated against his thigh and he yanked it out of his pocket. “This better be good, Louise. We’re down two in the bottom of the seventh.”

“David, it’s Tim Porter. Your secretary gave me this number when I told her it was important.”

“Make it quick.” David made a mental note to let Tim know this time was only for the kids he coached. Only half listening to Tim, David watched little Miguellia place the helmet over her regular hat because it was too big for her.

“Rebecca Covington took the job in the Home section. There won’t be an age discrimination suit.” Tim finally had his attention.

David felt a jolt of relief, and then it was lost in his concern for Miguellia, head down, dragging the bat behind her, moving toward home plate.

He tried to focus on Tim for one minute. “Rebecca Covington has pride. She won’t give up her column that easily. She’ll take the money for a while, but this isn’t over. Keep me informed. Thanks. Gotta go.”

David watched Miguellia take a warm-up swing. He ached inside, as it looked as though the bat was swinging her. After digging in, Miguellia took a wild hack with everything she had, missing the ball by a foot when the pitch was over her head.

David signaled the umpire for a time-out and motioned Miguellia off to the side, where no one else could hear them. He knelt and smiled at her. “How you doing?”

“Coach, we need a home run to win,” Miguellia said, eyes downcast.

“Don’t try to win the game in one swing. Just try to make good contact. That’s all we need, and you can do it.”

When he saw a grin spread over Miguellia’s tiny face, David stood and gave her a gentle pat on top of her helmet. “Go get it.”

Among the sprinkling of parents watching from around the field, David saw Miguellia’s dad give him a thumbs-up. Beyond the spectators, kids and adults were playing in the Boundless Playground, accessible to all regardless of their special challenges.

He knew Ellen would have loved this park that he’d funded and named in her honor. He could almost hear her voice cheering on little Miguellia . . . just like sometimes he could still hear and feel her cheering him on.


Chaos!


Stepping inside the newsroom doors, Rebecca was hit by a tidal wave of ringing phones, scraping chairs, rustling papers, shouted curses, and murmuring voices. She swayed to a halt and stared down the room, lined on both sides by dozens of cluttered desks.

It all blurred together, except for the central aisle, which appeared to be narrowing dangerously into a black hole right before her eyes.


I can’t go back here!


She gave herself a mental kick in the butt.


Stop whining, you coward. Remember who you are.


She took two deep yoga breaths, silently chanting the mantra she’d lived by since her tenth birthday, when she looked up the word narcissistic, after she heard her granny shouting it at her parents.


It wasn’t my fault my parents were so self-absorbed I lived more at Granny’s than with them.


Another breath and the mantra she’d added later.


It wasn’t my fault Peter turned out to be such a jerk.


One last deep yoga breath for her new mantra.


I will not be defeated by an ambitious girl or a new boss who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.


She vowed to save herself like she’d always done and show a brave face to the world, in the hopes that the facade would fool both them and herself into believing it.

Rose Murphy, a young writer from Tempo, glanced up over the pile of papers on her desk, which was crowned by a sign that read “Creative Minds Are Seldom Tidy,” and saw Rebecca. Rose’s shy smile but frankly curious stare left Rebecca no choice. If she wished to maintain her dignity, she would glide gracefully forward, like heroines always did.

Head held high, stomach sucked in, she smiled gently at all who gazed up at her and kept walking. The corner that led to the small alcove housing the Home section loomed only a few feet ahead.

Just as she turned it, Joe Richards, the ancient, irreverent sports columnist, raised his Cubs-baseball-cap-clad head from his chest, where he habitually napped the day away, and bellowed after her, “Give ’em hell, Becca!”

Rebecca could have wept over Joe’s show of support, but she caught sight of Pauline and Kate, her new boss, waiting beside an empty desk. The last thing she wanted was for Pauline to start hyperventilating again. Her face was still the same shade as her natural brilliant red hair.

A rush of protective love for Pauline, like older sisters surely must feel for younger siblings, strengt. . .