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Authors: Beth Harbison
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couldn’t live in one of those houses without a lot of money, and if there was one thing Helene had learned over the past decade, it was that people with money weren’t always that great to live with.
“Were you going to tell me about your incident at the store?” Jim asked, still so casual, she had to wonder what he really knew.
Helene’s heart pounded its panic in rapid Morse code. “Oh, good God, I’d forgotten about that,” she lied. “Would you believe those people actually thought I was trying to steal a pair of shoes?”
He gave her a sidelong glance that made her blood run cold. “Was this before or after we spoke about your credit cards?”
“Oh, it was after,” she said, matching his cold look with a frigid tone. “That’s why I was going to the car to get some cash. I guess I was just so distracted by my husband’s power play with me that I left the shoes on.” Her face burned as hot as it had when that alarm had first gone off. She was grateful that it was dark in the car. “The stupid thing is that I left a more expensive pair of shoes behind, so obviously I was coming right back.” She hated to call the store personnel stupid for catching her, but in this life, it was kill or be killed. “Moron,” she muttered contemptuously.
“I thought there had to be a logical explanation,” Jim said, sounding relieved. “I’ll be sure my press secretary has the facts, just in case.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “But I have to say, when I first heard about it, I was afraid your past…Well, you know…”
Son of a bitch. Yeah, she knew.
He was afraid everyone else would figure out what he already knew: that she wasn’t good enough for him.
Helene noticed that a photographer—there were always at least a few around these events—who had been outside the Rossi party also showed up at the Lindhofers’. Which was odd, because these parties made news only if there was no other big news to be made. Usually one or two photos were stuffed into the “Style Watch” section of The Washington Post, and occasionally, if a party was good enough or if a movie star showed up to promote some cause or other, the photos would appear in Vanity Fair .
Likewise, if an intern turned up dead in the C&O canal or ended up with a politician’s DNA on her dress, the archives of these party shots were sometimes used, but generally they went the route of all E-level celebrity photos and ended up in the trash.
So to see the same photographer at two events on the same night was odd. Stranger still was the fact that he was fairly good-looking in a bland, blond sort of way, something that couldn’t be said with a straight face about most of them.
Therefore when he approached Helene after a couple of hours of boredom and a couple more glasses of chardonnay, she felt momentarily flattered.
“Mrs. Zaharis,” he said, nodding.
She raised an eyebrow. “You are—?”
“Gerald Parks.”
“Mr. Parks.” She extended her hand, knowing she was approaching drunk but allowing herself to enjoy just a moment of light flirtation. “You’re a photographer.”
“Yes, I am.” He held up his camera and pushed the button, sending a quick flash her way.
She blinked, and his silhouette floated eerily in front of her for a moment. Had he meant that to be obnoxious or flattering? Given the miserable week she’d had, she opted to believe it was the latter. “Can’t you find something more interesting to photograph than me?”
“Actually, Mrs. Zaharis, I find you very interesting.”
She plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress. “Then perhaps you don’t get out enough.”
Whatever Gerald Parks was going to say in response to that was interrupted by the appearance of Jim.
He hooked his arm around Helene, bringing to mind a vise. “Sweetheart.” He kissed her cheek, scratching her with the beginnings of a beard. In public now, they were the picture of marital bliss.
“Were you going to tell me about your incident at the store?” Jim asked, still so casual, she had to wonder what he really knew.
Helene’s heart pounded its panic in rapid Morse code. “Oh, good God, I’d forgotten about that,” she lied. “Would you believe those people actually thought I was trying to steal a pair of shoes?”
He gave her a sidelong glance that made her blood run cold. “Was this before or after we spoke about your credit cards?”
“Oh, it was after,” she said, matching his cold look with a frigid tone. “That’s why I was going to the car to get some cash. I guess I was just so distracted by my husband’s power play with me that I left the shoes on.” Her face burned as hot as it had when that alarm had first gone off. She was grateful that it was dark in the car. “The stupid thing is that I left a more expensive pair of shoes behind, so obviously I was coming right back.” She hated to call the store personnel stupid for catching her, but in this life, it was kill or be killed. “Moron,” she muttered contemptuously.
“I thought there had to be a logical explanation,” Jim said, sounding relieved. “I’ll be sure my press secretary has the facts, just in case.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “But I have to say, when I first heard about it, I was afraid your past…Well, you know…”
Son of a bitch. Yeah, she knew.
He was afraid everyone else would figure out what he already knew: that she wasn’t good enough for him.
Helene noticed that a photographer—there were always at least a few around these events—who had been outside the Rossi party also showed up at the Lindhofers’. Which was odd, because these parties made news only if there was no other big news to be made. Usually one or two photos were stuffed into the “Style Watch” section of The Washington Post, and occasionally, if a party was good enough or if a movie star showed up to promote some cause or other, the photos would appear in Vanity Fair .
Likewise, if an intern turned up dead in the C&O canal or ended up with a politician’s DNA on her dress, the archives of these party shots were sometimes used, but generally they went the route of all E-level celebrity photos and ended up in the trash.
So to see the same photographer at two events on the same night was odd. Stranger still was the fact that he was fairly good-looking in a bland, blond sort of way, something that couldn’t be said with a straight face about most of them.
Therefore when he approached Helene after a couple of hours of boredom and a couple more glasses of chardonnay, she felt momentarily flattered.
“Mrs. Zaharis,” he said, nodding.
She raised an eyebrow. “You are—?”
“Gerald Parks.”
“Mr. Parks.” She extended her hand, knowing she was approaching drunk but allowing herself to enjoy just a moment of light flirtation. “You’re a photographer.”
“Yes, I am.” He held up his camera and pushed the button, sending a quick flash her way.
She blinked, and his silhouette floated eerily in front of her for a moment. Had he meant that to be obnoxious or flattering? Given the miserable week she’d had, she opted to believe it was the latter. “Can’t you find something more interesting to photograph than me?”
“Actually, Mrs. Zaharis, I find you very interesting.”
She plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress. “Then perhaps you don’t get out enough.”
Whatever Gerald Parks was going to say in response to that was interrupted by the appearance of Jim.
He hooked his arm around Helene, bringing to mind a vise. “Sweetheart.” He kissed her cheek, scratching her with the beginnings of a beard. In public now, they were the picture of marital bliss.
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