“Hello, gorgeous,” he said. John Dale Fox. The collar of his coat flipped up. His hair was slicked back. Makeup caked his skin. “I heard they might make you a regular.”
“Was it you?” I asked.
“Maybe. Depends. Was it good?”
“Spooking me into giving you an interview? Threatening me? A fax? Really? And then you just happen to show up here? It won’t work.” I was overtired. I had slept only ninety minutes. Maybe I’d hallucinated the whole thing.Does your husband know?
“Really, I have no—”
“And doessheknow? Your wife?” I asked. Halley once swore all you needed to do to bed a man was touch his thigh to signal interest, like Hitchcock’s strangers tapping shoes on a train. The first night it happened, John Dale stopped by the green room to check on me after the fund drive ended. I acted first. I touched his thigh.My closest friends call me J.D., he’d said, and moments later we were kissing. Men are not that difficult.
“I could tell her,” I said.
“Cliché, don’t you think?” he asked. “The wounded mistress.”
“‘Call me J.D. Only my closest friends call me J.D.,’” I said.
“My close friends do call me J.D. I mean, look, it’s like this: When a guy goes out to a bar, do you think he’s looking for the most attractivewoman he can find? No. He’s looking for the most attractiveflawedwoman. The hottest woman will be a pain in the ass; she can afford to be choosy. It’s the hot chicks with flaws who are the real prize. I think it’s game theory, or something.”
“So I’m a hot chickwith a flaw?” I was seething, but at the same time I wondered what my flaw was—what weakness John Dale might have perceived in me. I thought the whole thing had been my idea. I touched his thigh! Exhaust trailed from my car’s tailpipe, and I could hear what Wyatt would say about atmospheric pollution. He was principled, the kind of man who’d never cheat. Other cars were pulling into the parking lot now. Their headlights washed over John Dale. He had a mole on his cheek, colored taupe from foundation.
“What I’m saying is this: Flaws aren’t inherently bad. They’re ratings gold. Viewers love to believe they hold the power of forgiveness. It’s the story of redemption. Look at Noah’s Ark.”
“Suddenly you’re quoting scripture?”
“Did you see the lastInquisitor? Twenty Jane Does now. A huge class-action lawsuit is coming. I mean, holy shit, Nona. You were the Earthshine Girl. You need to speak out. Defend these women or something.”
“Itwasyou.”
“At least acknowledge them. That’s all they want. The Tuttles own this town. The Jane Does just want to know you’re on their side.”
“Look at you, the moral mayor. Reverend J.D. himself.”
“The Tuttles won’t talk. Bertie Tuttle is ancient. She’ll be dead before this thing goes to trial, and now her granddaughter swallowed a bottle of—”
“Halley,” I said. I felt sick. I heard car doors slamming, footsteps on concrete. The sky was lightening into an overcast morning, and already the protesters were beginning to line up. I could make out their yellow visors and the rectangular shapes of their signs. “They’re grieving.”
“Even the media wouldn’t stoop that low,” John Dale said. “But it’s not a good look for the family. Now those women are blaming the Earthshine Girl. They’re coming foryou, Nona.” I could see Halley’shandwriting.For you, Nona.I wondered when she’d written it. For how long had she kept her own plans a secret?
“I don’t know anything,” I said, and even though I didn’t, not really, the words sat heavy inside me, like a lie. I knew Halley well enough to know she didn’t trust Bertie Tuttle. I knew Halley well enough to know she’d felt what she left me was important, especially if she’d kept it in a safe-deposit box.
“A detail. Something that seemed off. You’ve got to know something. You’ve been friends with the family for years.”
“Bertie’s hardy. She might outlive us all.”
“That interview—come on. Let’s do it. You and me. Who can deny our on-air chemistry?” He opened my car door, then stepped aside.
The first evening we slept together—I hate calling it that because we didn’t sleep; sleep requires greater intimacy than what we did—we’d cohosted the WLAX Action 13 News annual Christmas in July Fund Drive to support the local children’s hospital. My agent encouraged me to do it, said it’d be good for myrecognition value. They had me wear elf ears, a curved hat, and a shiny sequined vest with a Christmas tree on it. In the final segment, the director asked me to hold a five-month-old baby—not a patient, but the infant daughter of the meteorologist. They thought the shot would be tender and authentic.
When John Dale set the baby in my arms, the baby’s demeanor shifted. By which I mean, the child screamed. The entire live segment. The entire time I held her. To deliver my lines, I had to raise my voice, which made me sound angry. The baby, in her fit of temper, tugged off one of my felt ears. I was elfish Van Gogh.
“I’m going to be late,” I said.
“So it’s a maybe?” John Dale said. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. That was your flaw—you couldn’t see it.”
“You never even called me,” I said.
“You wanted me to?”
