48
I was manning the phones the following morning somewhat nervously. My deadline for resignation had passed with no word from Larry. But the photocopied pages from the motel—no mimeograph for such an important document—were in an envelope in my handbag to be delivered to my lawyer on my lunch break. Stuart kept several additional copies in a locked file cabinet in the office and said he had brought one home. We were armed, if clumsily, against whatever political weaponry Larry chose to launch at us.
But that morning was quiet—relatively speaking. The phones still rang incessantly, but now it was all people seeking Michael out for quotes and speaking engagements. In fact, when a civic center in Laurel asked for him to come out for an evening, finding a free time slot was difficult. He was booked most nights until the election in one capacity or another.
Which was a great sign. The race was heating up, and people wanted to be informed about their choices.
It didn’t hurt that he was young and attractive either, I thought as I watched him shake hands with a reporter from the Montgomery Sentinel . They had started a weekly series in which they asked each candidate a few of the same questions and contrasted their answers.
I left for Greg’s office at midday, and he was thrilled with the evidence from the motel. “A lot of people use fake names there,” Greg said. “You’re sure this is his handwriting?” I confirmed that it was. Greg shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He grinned at me. “He won’t underestimate you again, that’s for sure.”
“You do your job well and he won’t have a chance,” I said.
“It would have been great if you could get one of the girls to talk, but this will do.” He glanced at a calendar on his desk. “We’ve got six weeks to go until the hearing. The photographs of you and Michael aren’t great obviously, but a public street is a very different situation from checking into a motel with someone.” His expression turned more serious. “Do try to keep your hands—and mouths—off each other until the divorce is finalized though, okay?”
I agreed and left to return to the office, hungry but unwilling to waste the time on picking up lunch when there was so much work to be done.
When I reached my desk, however, a wrapped sandwich from Hofberg’s Deli was sitting there, my usual order scrawled across the butcher paper in grease pencil.
I looked up at Stuart, who was taking the last bite of his own pastrami sandwich, and held the sandwich up at him questioningly.
“Wasn’t sure you’d have time to get lunch,” he said. “Besides, you don’t want to go in there today. Two kids got into a fight with condiments, and there’s mustard everywhere.”
The reporter from the Washington Post called a little after 3:00 p.m.
Claire’s classes ended at noon on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, so she came in at one and was back on the phones. Paul had driven her, and I was watching the two of them with great interest to see what might be happening when they weren’t in the office.
“Yes,” Claire was saying. “Can I tell him what this is regarding?”
She listened, then gestured for me and held her hand over the receiver. “ Washington Post ,” she whispered. “They want a quote from Michael on something.”
I could feel the color draining from my face. “Did they say what about?”
She shook her head.
It could be something else, I thought. Or for the endorsement piece.
But it was only September. They’d endorse a candidate in late October.
“Wait a minute and then transfer them,” I said.
I walked toward Michael’s office, feeling like I was moving through water. The door was open, so I didn’t knock. “Claire is about to transfer a reporter from the Post through,” I said.
“Great. Do you think it’s the endorsement?” He looked up at me, his smile fading as he took in my face. “Oh.”
“They didn’t say,” I said.
Michael nodded, then came around his desk. He guided me to a chair and shut his office door just as his phone rang.
“Michael Landau,” he said. He listened for what felt like an eternity. “I see. No, I don’t have any comment on that.”
I waved my arms wildly to get his attention.
“Hang on just a moment, please,” he said and covered the mouthpiece. He mouthed the word What? to me.
“Is it about us?” He nodded. “You have to comment.”
He held the receiver further away, his hand still over the mouthpiece. “What do you want me to say?”
I tried to come up with the right words, but I was frozen. This was all my fault, and the wrong statement would ruin everything and everyone’s trust in Michael.
Finally Michael brought the receiver back to his mouth. “Sorry about that. Yes, the kiss happened. We were celebrating a campaign victory and got carried away. Little too much champagne at your boss’s house. We both immediately regretted it and mutually expressed that nothing like that will ever happen again as we have enormous respect for one another professionally, but no romantic feelings toward each other.” He listened again. “No, that was the only time anything like that ever happened and the only time it will.” Another pause while I heard only the tiny humming sound of the reporter’s voice over my heartbeat. “Mrs. Diamond is currently separated from her husband and will be divorced by the end of October. I did not know her prior to June, when she came to work for me after she was already separated from her husband, and our relationship has been strictly professional other than that one indiscretion.” More nasal humming. “My record speaks for itself. And I think the fact that I have a female campaign manager is evidence enough of the strong respect I have for women both in and out of the office.” The reporter spoke again. “I can get her,” Michael said. “It’s not like she’s sitting in my office.” He laughed. “Give me a minute—she may be on another call.”
He held the phone out to me, but I shook my head. He held it out again and mouthed, You can do this. I took the receiver, but he mouthed, Wait, then got up, opened his office door, closed it again loudly, and then said, “Just answer honestly. I already told him what happened.”
Uncertainly, but buoyed by his belief in me, I held the phone to my ear. “Beverly Diamond,” I said.
“Mrs. Diamond,” the reporter said. “James Peyton with the Washington Post . I wanted to ask you a few questions regarding your relationship with Mr. Landau.”
I couldn’t explain what snapped. Maybe it was being referred to by the name Larry had used to sign his women into the motel. Maybe it was the fact that he asked me about Michael instead of asking what happened. Or maybe I was just tired of everything being about a man.
“How about asking about my relationship with my soon-to-be ex-husband instead? He’s the reason you have this story in the first place.”
I could hear a pencil scratching on paper. “Sure,” he said. “Tell me about that.”
I began with walking in on him and Linda, though I didn’t name her. And I explained how Larry’s threats led to me working for Michael.
“And the affair?”
“Larry’s?”
“No, yours.”
I stood up and started pacing with the phone receiver, the cord pulling me back when I went too far. “Now you listen here,” I said. “There’s no affair. There was a single, celebratory kiss. Did you track down the woman from that photo in Times Square when the war ended to ask if she was having an affair with the soldier who kissed her? No. The only reason you think there’s an affair is because Larry told you there was.”
“Your husband didn’t give us a quote.”
I stopped pacing. “What do you mean he didn’t give you a quote?”
“The photographs were sent to us from Sam Gibson’s office, but Mr. Diamond refused to comment.”
I cursed him in my head. What kind of trick was this? Why wouldn’t he comment but try to get Michael to?
I didn’t know the answer.
What I did know was that I wasn’t letting him win.
“Sam got the photographs because Larry hired a private investigator to try to blackmail me. He brought the pictures to me first and said if I didn’t quit the campaign, he would use them both to get the kids in the divorce and to make sure Michael lost. And off the record? Why don’t you look into that girl who supposedly had Tom Stanton’s baby six years ago? I doubt you’ll find that child on any school enrollment records.”
The reporter let out a low whistle. “That’s quite the allegation.”
“And I said it was off the record. Try doing your job instead of just printing what Sam Gibson’s campaign tells you to.” I hung up the phone.
“Beverly!” Michael said.
“What? I’m sick and tired of this, and someone needs to know the truth.”
He chuckled in surprise. “I think a whole lot of people are about to know the truth,” he said.
“Good.”
“You didn’t mention the Colonial Manor.”
“It slipped my mind,” I admitted. “But why play all my cards now when he just has time to find a way around it in court?”
Michael shook his head. “Remind me never to make you mad.”
I smirked at him as I went to the door. “Remind yourself,” I said. “I’m a campaign manager, not your secretary.”
I could hear him laughing behind me as I went back to my desk.