Page 115 of Hello, Summer
Ten minutes later, Lillian strolled over and dropped a fax on her desk. “This just came,” she said.
“We’ve got a fax machine?” Conley asked, impressed.
“Mm-hmm.”
The document had a letterhead from Alexandra Watters, press secretary for the Vanessa Robinette for Congress Campaign.
Today, in our nation’s capital, a widow mourned and saluted the memory of her beloved husband, the honorable U.S. Representative C. Symmes Robinette, in a ceremony attended by his colleagues from the House and Senate, along with the vice president, First Lady, and hundreds of everyday citizens whose lives were bettered by this dedicated public servant.
But in a deliberately cruel and outrageous action, Mrs. Robinette’s estranged son chose this day to sabotage his recently widowed mother.
That Charlie Robinette would choose to exploit what should be a private family matter in such a way speaks volumes about his own character, or lack thereof.
Vanessa Robinette vehemently denies these baseless allegations. In the meantime, she looks forward to launching a vigorous congressional campaign that will bring her issue-focused message to the voters of the Thirty-fifth District, whom she served alongside her husband of thirty-four years.
The final version of Conley’s story ran to nearly thirty column inches. Grayson had arranged to buy photos of the Washington service, with Vanessa shaking hands with the president, standing beside the flag-draped casket, and she’d designed theBeacon’sfront page with the cell phone photo of Charlie Robinette’s press conference right beside the photo of the widow Robinette.
As soon as her copy had been edited, she called Selena Kwan in Atlanta.
“I saw the piece that ran on the wire earlier today. This story is absolutely nuts,” Selena said. “If I’d known the son was gonna accuse the widow of trying to kill his dad, I would have sent a camera crew down there.”
“Nobody had any idea he was going to do this. The CBS reporter said he just happened to be nearby doing another story when his editorcalled and diverted him over to Silver Bay, just in case. This came completely out of left field,” Conley told her. “I just filed my piece for the paper. I’ve got a strong denial from Vanessa, not to mention a lawsuit threat, confirmation from the state that ‘an unnamed family member’ has filed a complaint—although they won’t comment on an investigation until it’s completed—and some juicy quotes from Symmes’s neighbor and one of his oldest friends.”
“Define ‘juicy,’” Selena said.
“The neighbor, who also happens to be Charlie’s new campaign chairman, Miles Schoendienst, said that Symmes referred to Vanessa as ‘the warden.’ He said the last time he saw Symmes was a month ago, when Symmes ‘escaped’ while Vanessa was out of the house. I asked if he was ‘surprised’ that Vanessa brought Symmes home to Silver Bay instead of letting the docs at Walter Reed continue his care and his response was ‘God, yes.’ That day Symmes snuck over to see him, Schoendienst said it pained him to see how weak Symmes was.”
“Okay, can you send me your story that you just filed? And your video of the son’s press conference today?”
“I will.”
“Great. I finally got the okay for your contract. I just emailed it to you. Sign it and send it back, and we’ll get you on the books.”
Conley felt a flutter of excitement, like a racehorse that had finally been let out of her stall.
But by midnight that night, with the office quiet, every ounce of energy was drained from her body. She tucked her laptop into her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and prepared to lock up the office before her long drive out to the beach. She only hoped she could stay awake.
The night air felt cooler, less humid as she walked outside to the Subaru. She tossed her backpack in the passenger seat and started the car. On a whim, she drove slowly around the square. The Confederate soldier on the memorial statue was lit up and a solitary pigeon perched on his shoulder. On the flagpole beside the courthouse, the American flag hung limply, at half-mast, while the Florida state flag fluttered below it. She found herself slowing in front of Kelly’s Drugs and realized, to her own chagrin, thatshe’d been hoping maybe she’d glimpse Skelly inside, flicking off the lights and closing up shop, as she’d just done.
As tired as she was, Conley realized, she craved companionship, craved the sensation of talking over the day’s events, sharing her minor frustrations and semi-major victories. She missed having somebody to talk to. But only the neon Kelly’s Drugs sign was still lit up.
42
At midnight, Buddy began his own routine of packing up. Since he’d worked two shifts already, Neal had left it up to him about whether to work the overnight. Ever since that harrowing caller, Pooh Bear, the dude from Detroit, his nerves had left him jittery and anxious.
He needed to get out of the station, to clear his mind, think, and reassess his situation. He’d landed in this fly-speck burg in the Florida Panhandle because it was a place where nothing ever happened. And that had been true until a week ago, when Symmes Robinette’s car had flipped and burst into flames. The death of the congressman and the ensuing circus was shining a national spotlight on Silver Bay.
Was it time to pack up and move on? He hoped not. After six years, he’d grown fond of this place.
Just before he left, he cued up the tape of one of his “Best of Buddy” programs.
As he was pulling the Corvette onto Main Street, he spotted the blue Subaru as it idled in front of the drugstore. He recognized the car and the driver. Conley Hawkins, the hotshot reporter who’d moved to Silver Bay under her own set of mysterious circumstances. She was the competition, and he should have resented her. Instead, he admired her gumption and her drive. She reminded him of himself, back when he was young and hungry and burning up with ambition. Before Detroit.
Half a block before she reached the drugstore, he saw the black Ford pickup slide onto the street, keeping back a little, right until the moment when she slowed to a near stop. The driver braked, then held back until he was a few car lengths behind.
Buddy recognized the truck and the driver, although he didn’t know the guy’s name.
He’d seen the driver quite a few times, saw him walking into the Waffle House late at night, flirting with the waitresses, loitering in a booth while he idly stared down at his phone. He’d spotted him again earlier in the day, hanging around the shadows of the courthouse square, during the press conference. Now he was back, apparently following Conley Hawkins.
