Ragged Rainbows. Linda Miller Lael

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      Chapter Three

      “Tell me about Shay Kendall,” Mitch said evenly, and his hand trembled a little as he poured coffee from the restaurant carafe into Ivy’s cup.

      Ivy grinned and lifted the steaming brew to her lips. “Are you this subtle with stool pigeons and talkative members of the Klan?”

      “Dammit,” Mitch retorted with terse impatience, “don’t say things like that.”

      “Sorry,” Ivy whispered, her eyes sparkling.

      Mitch sat back in the vinyl booth. The small downtown restaurant was full of office workers and housewives with loud little kids demanding ice cream; after a second night in that cavernous house of his, he found the hubbub refreshing. “I asked about Ms. Kendall.”

      Ivy shrugged. “Very nice person. Terrific mother. Good office manager. Didn’t you find out anything last night? You said you had dinner with Shay.”

      Mitch’s jaw tightened, relaxed again. “She was married,” he prompted.

      Ivy looked very uncomfortable. “That was a long time ago. I’ve never met the guy.”

      Mitch sipped his coffee in a leisurely way and took his time before saying, “But you know all about him, don’t you? You’re Shay’s friend.”

      “Her best friend,” Ivy confirmed with an element of pride that said a great deal about Shay all by itself. A second later her blue eyes shifted from Mitch’s face to the sidewalk just on the other side of the window and her shoulders slumped a little. “I don’t like talking about Shay’s private life. It seems…it seems disloyal.”

      He sighed. “I suppose it is,” he agreed.

      Ivy’s eyes widened as a waitress arrived with club sandwiches, set the plates down and left. “Mitch, you wouldn’t—you’re not planning to write a book about Rosamond Dallas, are you?”

      Mitch recalled his telephone conversation with his agent that morning and sorely regretted mentioning that the house he’d just bought had once belonged to the movie star. Ivan had jumped right on that bit of information, reminding Mitch that he was under contract for one more book and pointing out that a biography of Ms. Dallas, authorized or not, would sell faster than the presses could turn out new copies.

      He braced both arms against the edge of the table and leaned toward his sister, glaring. “Why would I, a mild-mannered venture capitalist, want to write a book?”

      Ivy was subdued by the reprimand, but her eyes were suspicious. “Okay, okay, I shouldn’t have put it quite that way.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you writing about Shay’s mother or not?”

      Mitch rolled his eyes. “Dammit, I don’t know,” he lied. The truth was that he had already agreed to do the book. Rosamond Dallas’s whereabouts, long a mystery to the world in general, were now known, thanks to the thoughtless remark he’d made to Ivan. Mitch knew without being told that if he didn’t undertake the project, his agent would send another writer to do it, and unless he missed his guess, that writer would be Lucetta White, a barracuda in Gucci.

      Lucetta was no lover of truth, and she made it a practice to ruin at least three careers and a marriage every day before breakfast, just to stay in top form. If she got hold of Rosamond’s story, the result would be a vicious disaster of a book that would ride the major best-seller lists for months.

      “Shay’s husband was a coach or a teacher or something,” Ivy said, jolting Mitch back to reality. “He was a lot older than she was, too. Anyway, he embezzled a small fortune from a high school in Cedar Landing, that’s a little place just over the state line, in Oregon.”

      “And?”

      “And Shay was pregnant at the time. She found out at her baby shower, if you can believe it. Somebody just walked in and said, ‘guess what?’”

      “My God.”

      “There was another woman involved, naturally.”

      Mitch was making mental notes; he would wait until later to ask his sister what had prompted her to divulge all this information. For the moment, he didn’t want to chance breaking the flow. “Does anybody know where they are, Shay’s ex-husband and this woman, I mean?”

      Ivy shrugged. “Nobody cares except the police. Shay received divorce papers from somewhere in Mexico a few weeks after he left, but that was over six years ago. The creep could be anyplace by now.”

      “Who was the other woman?”

      “Are you ready for this? It was the local librarian. Everybody thought she was so prim and proper and she turned out to be a mud wrestler at heart.”

      If it hadn’t been for an aching sense of the humiliation Shay must have suffered over the incident, Mitch would have laughed at Ivy’s description of the librarian. “Appearances are deceiving,” he said.

      “Are they, Mitch?” Ivy countered immediately. “I hope not, because when I look at you, I see a person I can trust.”

      “Why did you tell me about Shay’s past, Ivy? You were dead set against it a minute ago.”

      Ivy lifted her chin and began methodically removing frilled toothpicks from the sections of her sandwich. “I just thought you should know why she’s…why she’s shy.”

      Mitch wondered if “shy” was the proper word to describe Shay Kendall. Even though she’d wept in his arms the night before, on the bench of a rickety backyard picnic table, he sensed that she had a steel core. She was clearly a survivor. Hadn’t she picked herself up after what must have been a devastating blow, found herself a good job, supported herself and her son? “Didn’t Rosamond do anything to help Shay after Kendall took off with his mud wrestler?”

      Ivy stopped chewing and swallowed, her eyes snapping. “She didn’t lift a finger. Shay makes excuses for her, but I think the illustrious Ms. Dallas must have been an egotistical, self-centered bitch.”

      Mitch considered that a distinct possibility, but he decided to reserve judgment until he had the facts.

      After they had eaten their club sandwiches, СКАЧАТЬ