Epilogue. Stephanie
EPILOGUE
Stephanie
Five Months Later
How does one go about writing a press release announcing flavored milk? That was my dilemma. The Midwest Dairy Association had a new flavor—mint caramel—that was being unveiled at the Wisconsin State Fair, and I had been assigned to write the release. It was still odd to me to be on the other side of the public relations machine. Instead of receiving hundreds of press releases each day, I was sending them, hoping to catch the eye of a news manager who would assign a reporter or a photojournalist to do a story about whatever it was we were pushing.
Sighing, I tried to think of a punchy way to sell the milk story to local TV stations. “Moooo-ving on Up: New Milk Coming to the State Fair!” was my current headline, but I wasn’t convinced it was the winner. Leaning back in my chair, I was looking at the ceiling to think when my desk phone rang.
“Stephanie? There’s a Mr. McCarthy here to see you,” Julia, the receptionist, said.
Mr. McCarthy? Who was that? My mind tried to flip to various people I had been meeting with recently on different projects. Our little PR firm could be hired by just about anyone to help spread their word. Maybe Mr. McCarthy was with the Wienermobile, another account we had just secured. The giant hot-dog-shaped vehicle would drive around the state during summer months, encouraging people to buy Oscar Mayer products. Sighing, I stood up, thinking of ways I might need to market a hot dog on wheels as well as flavored milk.
This was the only job I could find after leaving Channel 3. I was the woman who had lied to her station, and I was still blackballed in news circles. Even our local community college wouldn’t hire me to teach writing, citing their ethics code. So I’d landed here, in a strip mall between a Taco Bell and a party supply store. Our building looked more like a tax-prep place than a PR firm; we had cubicles, not offices. But it paid the bills and kept me close to Robert and within a four-hour drive of Evan. My reunion with friends and family had been incredible, but I was still trying to make amends with the people I loved.
Walking to our tiny lobby, I saw a tall guy with slicked-back hair leaning against one wall.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the real Stephanie Monroe… and in the flesh,” he said with a grin, stepping forward and looking me up and down. I couldn’t help but notice how white his teeth were. “Trent McCarthy. I trust that name rings a bell for you.”
Holy crap, this was the guy Jasmine had framed.
My mind scrambled. What was he doing here , in Madison? I’d heard he was let out of jail, innocent of all charges, but his station in Atlanta refused to take him back, saying he had violated their code of conduct in other ways.
“Hello…” I said hesitantly. “Nice to meet you. Can I help you with something?”
“You sure can, let’s sit down and talk,” he said. “I already asked your receptionist here… Julia… lovely name… if there are any available conference rooms, and she told me there were, so let’s hit it.”
He winked at Julia, who blushed. Putting his hand on my elbow, he began to steer me as if he were leading the way instead of the other way around. I shook him off. We walked to the conference room, and I sat down as far across the table from him as I could get.
“You know you’re even prettier than the fake Stephanie! It’s too bad we didn’t really meet at the conference,” he said, and I could feel my skin begin to crawl. I had read plenty of things about the way he acted toward “me” in San Diego and the way he was with women in general.
“Why are you here?” I asked, wanting to cut to the chase.
“Because I have the best idea in the world. I know you’re going to love it. Get ready for this… I think we need to go in on a partnership.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, trying to maintain a calm face.
“A partnership. Listen, Steph, you got screwed out of this whole deal, and so did I. And now you’re working here, and I can’t find a job. It’s bullshit. So I decided we should write a book together and make a million bucks each. What a story we have to tell, right? I was thinking you could be the writer, and I’ll tell you everything that happened at the conference and after. That psycho bitch Jasmine tried to pull one over on me. And she tried to kill you. People will want to read our story. We’ll go 50–50. I flew up to meet you in person and figured we could get started right away.”
He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, beaming. I was so shocked that I couldn’t even form words, and I just stared at him. Writing a book was the last thing I wanted to do. Writing one with him would be worse. And then there was his grand proposal: 50–50 when I would be the one doing all of the writing.
I found my voice and tried to be polite but firm. “Thank you for thinking of me, Trent, but I will pass. I have no interest in retelling this story.”
“You’re kidding, right?” he asked, taking his hands off his head and sitting up straight in his chair.
“I’m not kidding, I want to move on. I don’t want to relive what happened. You go ahead and write one if you’d like.”
“It wouldn’t be the same without you ,” he said. “Two former news directors who got the short end of the stick but came back swinging. It’s an American tale of redemption. People will love it. Come on, Steph.”
It bothered me that he had called me “Steph” twice already as if we were old friends. I could feel my jaw tensing.
“I need to go back to work now,” I said. “Thank you for the offer, but my final answer is no.”
His eyes narrowed, and one of his hands balled into a fist.
“So I came all this way for nothing?”
“It appears that way. I didn’t ask you to fly to Madison.”
“Tell me why you won’t do this, Stephanie Monroe. You don’t need the money? I don’t believe that with you working in a shithole like this. What are you writing—press releases about some new toilet paper brand? This can’t be what you want in life, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be the kind of place I land either. We have an escape route: a book. And I think we’d be fun partners. I’m in if you’re in.”
My insides were burning. This guy was repulsive.
“I’m not in. Julia will see you to the door,” I said, standing up. His face was turning red, and he started thumping his balled fist on the table.
“But why, Steph, why? Tell me why you won’t do this with me.” His voice was a mix of desperation and anger.
If he wanted one more reason, he was going to get it. I put my hands on the table, leaning forward as I gave him a long, hard stare.
“Because you’re a bastard, and bastards can’t win.”