It’s not pretty. I read the entire thing twice because the first time I’m too angry to absorb everything. This article doesn’t just revel in the Cunninghams’ financial troubles. It hints at deep-rooted family issues, illegal business transactions, and the sort of ridiculous activities you only ever see on soap operas. The late Wentworth Cunningham gets the worst of it, but the article speculates about Calder’s involvement as well. One anonymous “source” claims that Calder tried in vain to keep his father out of trouble, while another “friend” voice reminds me.
I pick up the magazine and hurl it against the wall.
Where the hell do they get all of this? I only hope that Calder has more sense than I do and doesn’t let himself read this garbage.
But maybe it’s not all trash. I remember, quite vividly, what he told me in his car: I was just hoping I had time to sort a few things out before the press started hounding me. What things? When Calder told me about his situation, he said that his father had made some poor financial decisions. But what if it was something far shadier than a few bad investments? What if the late Wentworth Cunningham had been caught up in something illegal? I think of the strange, secretive phone calls I’ve seen Calder take. What is he up to?
Calder’s proud, and I suspect he’d do a lot to protect the memory of his father—not to mention his family name. How far would he go to bury this scandal?
I don’t know what’s going on, but I know this tabloid storm can’t be easy on him. We haven’t talked since our date on Saturday, but I pull out my phone and shoot him a text.
How are you?
He doesn’t respond right away, so I get back to work. The reply finally comes through just when I’m about to force myself to stop for some lunch.
I have to leave town on business for a couple of days. Dinner when I get back on Thursday?
He’s leaving town on business. Is that code for “I have family things to take care of” or “I need to get away from this mess”? It takes all of my willpower to refrain from asking him for further details. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can be patient and respect his desire for a little privacy.
Sure, I reply. Dinner on Thursday. Can’t wait.
Still, the whole situation gnaws at me. As I nibble at my peanut butter sandwich, I find myself clicking through the gossip sites on my computer. I don’t let myself read any of the articles—just the headlines. But tha nipples and crotch somethingpat’s enough to make me sick to my stomach. A lot of people have latched on to the idea that the late Wentworth Cunningham was involved in something shady, but no one seems to know exactly what—drug hustling? Gambling? Some sort of pyramid scheme?
I force myself to click away before my temper explodes.
The phone on my desk rings as I’m dumping my half-eaten sandwich crusts into the garbage.
“Frazer Center for the Arts,” I say cheerfully into the receiver. “Lily speaking.”
“Lily! Just who I was hoping to speak to. It’s Asher Julian from the Intown Voice. We spoke last week.”
Crap. I was supposed to call him back this morning.
“Of course,” I say, hoping I sound less scattered than I feel. “Mr. Julian. Forgive me for not getting back to you earlier. I’ve been swamped today.”
“Asher,” he corrects. “And I hope this isn’t a bad time. Should I call back?”
“No, I have a few minutes. Fire away.” I don’t want to do anything to compromise this article.
“Great. I imagine you know what I’m going to ask you.”
I frown, confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”
“The news about the Cunninghams.”
Oh. I should have seen that coming.
“Do you have any comments?” Asher prompts. “How do you feel about your situation, now that you know the truth?”
I want to defend Calder, explain that the “truth” portrayed in the magazines might not reflect what really happened. But I have a feeling that if I even hint at the fact that I know more than the general media, I’ve lost.
“There are so many differentdecided we’d wait to have sex.it10 stories out there right now,” I say, “that I’m not sure we know the truth just yet. Either way, it doesn’t affect the Center. We’ve learned to stand on our own two feet.”
“That’s a very diplomatic answer.”
“It’s an honest answer.”
He laughs. “I must say, I admire you more and more every time we speak. Most people are all too eager to spill their dirty secrets for a few minutes of fame.”
“Some people don’t have secrets to spill.”
“And now you’re just being coy. Everyone has secrets, Lily.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m sure you have a few stashed away. A girl like you has a hard time staying out of trouble.”
I’m not sure whether I’m insulted or intrigued. “What do you mean by that?”
He lets out another laugh. “A few years in this industry and you learn to how to read people. But don’t worry—I know better than to press a woman to reveal her mysteries. I just wanted to see if you had anything to share now that the Cunningham situation has become national news.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I say. “But hopefully it doesn’t affect the article. You’re writing a piece about the Center, not the Cunninghams. Unless I’m confused?”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he responds. “Of course. But every story needs a good villain.”
“There isn’t always a villain.”
“But most of the time there is, if it’s a story worth telling. I understand your desire to appear sensitive and tactful in this situation. The last thing you want is for anything you say to reflect poorly on the Frazer Center. But I assure you, Lily, you’ll win more people over if you embrace your role as the victim. It’s the truth, isn’t it? The Frazer Center has suffered because of the Cunninghams’ irresponsibility. Trust me, people love rallying behind a sympathetic cause.”
“The Frazer Center isn’t a victim of anything but this economy,” I say. “And we’re doing everything we can to change that. Isn’t that enough of a story for you?”
My growing annoyance only seems to amuse him.
“Forgive me. I should’ve known my usual tactics wouldn’t work on you. But I hope you don’t blame me too much for trying.”