The Other Woman

3

Kenna Wilkes opened the maroon-lacquered front door while the doorbell chimes still echoed through the front hall. On the expansive wooden porch stood the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Elegant. Regal. Silver hair, expensive suit.

Holy shit.

She fussed with her skinny white T-shirt, tucking it into the low-slung waistband of her new jeans, then looked up into those flinty eyes. Governor Owen Lassiter. Former governor.

Over his shoulder, she could see his entourage. A guy wearing khakis and a green LASSITER FOR SENATE button on his oxford shirt hovered behind the candidate, clutching a metal clipboard. A sleek black car was parked at the end of the driveway, headlights on. A blue and silver van with an enormous crimson 11 painted on the side idled across the street.

“Kenna Wilkes? We’d like you to meet Governor Owen Lassiter,” the young man was saying, as if announcing a state occasion. “He’s-”

“Running for the Senate, as you may have heard, Mrs. Wilkes.” Lassiter’s voice, interrupting his campaign aide, came across honey and steel.

Kenna hesitated, then took his hand.

“It’s my Tuesday tour,” Lassiter said. “Hoping to meet registered voters who are still making up their minds.”

He looked at her as if she were the only voter in Deverton.

Kenna had tied her tumbling blond hair away from her face with a thin white satin ribbon. Used a hint of pink lip gloss, a blush of color on her cheeks. Tanned skin peeked between her T-shirt and jeans. Her hand was still in Lassiter’s.

“If you have a few minutes, Mrs. Wilkes, perhaps we can answer your questions about our goals for this state and for this country. Unlike the negativity and fearmongering of the Gable campaign, we want to be a force for good down in D.C.” Lassiter squeezed her hand gently, a gesture she’d find patronizing if she weren’t so fascinated. “With your help, of course.”

She hadn’t been prepared for this. His charisma. His power. She’d been told he’d arrive this afternoon, between three and four, as part of his “Lassiter for Your Neighborhood” meet and greet. She’d seen the candidate on television. But no screen was big enough to contain him.

“Who dis?” Four-year-old Jimmy, Tonka dump truck in one hand and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in the other, toddled into the entryway, then rested his head against Kenna’s thigh.

“He must be the only one in Massachusetts who doesn’t know,” Kenna said, laughing. She took back her hand to tousle Jimmy’s dark curls. She had to get herself and this situation under control. “Still, Jimmy’s only four. Back when you were governor, of course, he wasn’t born yet.”

“Hey, gunner,” Lassiter said. He leaned down, close to both of them. “I’m Owen. Pretty nice truck you got there.”

Kenna breathed a hint of citrus and spice. When he looked up at her, she couldn’t read his expression.

“You’re lucky, Mrs. Wilkes. My wife, Moira, and I don’t have kids.”

Lucky? Not exactly how I’d have described it. She turned on a welcoming smile. “Would you like to come in? It’s not like you’re a stranger.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilkes,” Lassiter said. “We won’t stay long.”

“Kenna,” she said.

“Kenna,” he acknowledged. He turned to his aide. “Trevor? We’ll be-” He looked at Kenna, confirming. “-fifteen minutes?”

Trevor raised the clipboard, apparently a signal to an unseen person in the black SUV. The headlights clicked off. But the door of the Channel 11 van slid open. Kenna could see bare legs and black high heels emerging from the passenger side.

“Mrs. Wilkes?” Trevor said. “Channel Eleven is tracking the campaign today. Would it be all right if they came in?”

Not a chance. “I’d rather not. If it’s not a problem? I’m not really comfortable having our picture taken.” Kenna made fluttery gestures at her hair and jeans.

“No television.” Lassiter frowned briefly at the aide, who performed an exaggerated thumbs-down at the news van. The stiletto-clad legs swung back in; the door slammed. “We’ll talk privately. The two of us.”

His expression softened. “And Jimmy.” Lassiter paused at the sound of Trevor’s jangling cell phone.

“Hold on,” the aide said into the phone. “Governor? Your schedule. Maitland’s found another problem with-”

“Tell Rory I said to deal with it. No more interruptions.”

And he stepped inside.

“See her, Alex? Right there. The tall twenty-something in the red coat.” As if dealing a hand of solitaire, Jane placed the glossy photos on the city editor’s cluttered desk. She stabbed a finger at the fuzzy crimson image. “I found that woman in at least five of the recent photos Archive Gus gave us. I’ve been down in the archive room most of the day, looking for more. Every time she’s behind the rope line, but right in front of the crowd. Look. Down in Cohasset. Up in Lawrence. Way out in Worcester.”

Jane looked at Alex, checking for signs he was buying her pitch. Funny to be on the same team with him, instead of battling for sound bites. Wonder why he was never a TV reporter. Those shoulders. Those cobalt eyes. All that hair. She reached out a hand, trying to persuade him, almost touching his jacket.

“I’m telling you, Alex, it looks like she’s-”

“She’s another Lassiter groupie.” Alex shook his head, dismissive. “Or some political activist. Wants a job in D.C. Wants Lassiter to vote for the omnibus bill. It’s an election. Everyone wants something.”

“But what if there’s something between them? Look at the Cohasset shot. See how she’s looking at him? That’s-” Jane paused, analyzing the photo. “-it’s lust. What can I tell you?”

“She is hot.” Alex yanked off his glasses, held the photo under his desk lamp. His wide gold wedding band glinted in the light. “No mistaking that.”

No mistaking? Was that some sort of crack? She didn’t make mistakes, damn it.

Jane held up a different photo. “Who would wear this slinky getup outside? In October? She’s at least thirty years younger than Lassiter. And she sticks out like high beam headlights. You think she’s just doing her civic duty?”

“You can be a knockout and still be a political activist, Ryland.” Alex slid the photos into a pile, tamped down the edges, handed them to her. “These were to give you a sense of the campaign. Not to send you into reporter fantasy land.”

“Two little words,” Jane said, tucking the photos into her tote bag. “Monica Lewinsky.”

“Three little words,” Alex replied. “Leave it alone.”

“But-”

“Jane. Listen to your editor. Don’t go near this in print. This close to the election, it’s ethical quicksand. And if he’s having an affair? It’s hardly even news. They all do it.”

“But-” But Alex was ignoring her, swiping pages on his iPhone and almost turning his back. Dismissed. Fine. She had listened to him, exactly as he asked. But if “they all do it”? That simply confirmed there was a story. She was determined to find it.