Despite everything, I laugh.
“These no-good reporters, hiding in bushes and making up stories. They’re all a bunch of vultures!” Mama declares. “Why won’t they leave you be?”
I stare up at the ceiling from my reclined position on the couch, still in my plaid pajamas. “Because people keep buying magazines and visiting their sites and making them lots of money.” People like Mama. There was no fight, no questioning when I denied every shred of that article about me and my wanton summer. Mama lapped it up. I think she’s happy to peddle that version—that it’s a media-fabricated story to sell copies—to Greenbank, whether she believes me or not, and I’m happy to let her.
But Ben Shaw isn’t any ordinary “hide in the bushes to get the shot” creep. Dyson called back within an hour with a full dossier. He has worked at reputable papers in New York, Chicago, and Boston. At one point, he was considered an up-and-coming star in the news world. The only problem? Ben Shaw himself isn’t reputable. He got caught faking details. Another time, he created an anonymous source. Soon, there wasn’t a single respectable paper that would buy his stories.
Lucky for him, the gossip magazine he sold to doesn’t value integrity as much as money, and scandal sells as fast as bottled water on a hundred-degree day.
The biggest piece to this puzzle that Superstar Dyson uncovered for us is that Ben Shaw and Roshana Mafi went to journalism school together and are well acquainted. There are several pictures on each other’s social media of them out to dinner with friends in recent years.
“Is there anything Henry can do about it?” my dad asks. I can almost see my parents hunkered over the kitchen table, the phone parked in front of them, my voice carrying over the speaker.
“He and his people are doing everything he can.” Dyson flew to Chicago and tracked Corbin down. Five minutes into questioning, he squealed on everyone—Mark and himself, for taking and storing pictures on their phones that they sold to Ben; Andy, for approaching them within days of Henry and me going public, after Roshana hunted him down; and Tillie, who was more than happy to share as many sordid rumors as she could gather on me.
Dyson is working on their dismissal paperwork from Wolf as we speak.
As for Roshana, I’m not sure what Henry has in mind for her, but he’s cooking up something and I doubt it will taste good.
Right now, though, he’s leaning over the kitchen counter in a fitted white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, listening as Violet walks him through her knit hat business plan. She’s worked on it all day, headphones on to drown out the commotion. Plates of half-eaten meals litter the counter behind them. Occasionally, one of them reaches for a french fry.
“Listen, Mama, I should go.” A dark, gloomy sky looms outside. Ronan will be here soon.
“Of course, Abigail. You go and get a good night’s rest. This will all blow over soon. Next news cycle.”
“Thank you.” At least I don’t have to deal with her judgment on top of everyone else’s.
“And when you’re feelin’ up to it, you and Henry need to come over for dinner again.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure when that’ll be.” How much begging will it take to convince Henry to subject himself to Mama again?
“Soon, hopefully! We can talk all about this barn reception Henry suggested. You know, after the wedding, for the Greenbank folks.”
I frown at Henry’s back. “Right. That.” What?
“Get some sleep, baby girl. Love you.”
“Love you too. Both of you.” We end the call. “Hey, Henry?”
“Yeah?” he hollers.
“Why does my mother think we’re having a reception in the barn?”
“Because I suggested it when I called her yesterday.”
My mouth drops. “You called her?” And she answered?
“I did. Figured a peace offering might make her a bit more amiable.”
To be a fly on the wall during that conversation. How many times did Mama bring the lord’s name into it? Regardless, it must have gone well. “That was actually … smart.” She gets what she wants without derailing our plans.
“That’s why he makes the big bucks,” Violet cuts in, air-quoting big bucks.
Henry spares a smirk her way before peering over his shoulder at me. He’s still on Barcelona time. He must be exhausted.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
“Thank me later,” he mouths back, his blue eyes dragging over my body, reminding me that it’s been five days since I felt him inside me.