Karen Young - Private Lives

They were approaching the restaurant, which had half a dozen umbrella-covered tables set outside. She stopped and looked about, caught in full sunshine. Her hair was an incredible color, he thought, not red, but a dark auburn and shot through with rich fiery highlights. Thick and lustrous, it fell to her shoulders, wanting to curl in Houston’s humid air—going its own untamed way. He preferred her looking natural and feminine, as she did now in jeans and soft T-shirt. As for those green eyes…A man could learn to love the look of a woman like Liz.

“Liz—” He stopped her as she started inside. She turned, giving him a questioning look. “After this is over, would you have dinner with me? Could we get to know each other better without all the complications of Austin…and everything else?”

“I…don’t know.” She frowned.

“Are you seeing somebody?”

“No. It’s just—” Shaking her head, she looked sort of frantically at the traffic. “I’m really not interested in…that.”

He smiled, a half tilt of his mouth, knowing the risk he took teasing her. “Don’t tell me Austin’s tacky accusations were right after all?”

“Austin’s—” She looked confused a second or two before she understood. “Oh, that Gina and I—” She stopped, giving a soft laugh. “No, his accusations were probably a fantasy in his own mind. He’s just that sick.” She glanced at the door. “Are we having lunch or not?”

She hadn’t promised to go out with him, but he hadn’t been completely shot down, either, he thought. He felt hopeful. “Want to sit outside?”

Also available from MIRA Books and KAREN YOUNG

FULL CIRCLE

GOOD GIRLS

IN CONFIDENCE

www.mirabooks.co.uk

I’m grateful to several people for advice, information and moral support in the writing of this book. To Metsy Hingle for the idea and a long list of other favors. To Emilie Richards for being a sensitive and insightful sounding board when I needed it most. To my daughter, Alison Simmons, who is tireless and patient with me in avenues of my career that do not include sitting at my computer and writing. To Jon Salem for his canny grasp of the workings of the publishing world, and the world at large, and his willingness to share it with me. To my nephew, Mike Farris, for the boat stuff. And finally, to my editor, Valerie Gray, with thanks for her astute suggestions and attention to detail.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

“Lizzie. What’s wrong? You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I don’t believe this, Louie.” Elizabeth Walker’s attention was riveted on an article in the Sunday newspaper. Her picture was front and center in the article, but it was the content of the piece that dismayed her. “You remember that reporter from the Houston Chronicle who interviewed me a couple of weeks ago?”

“After a bit of pressure from your publisher?” Louie Christian broke a piece off his bagel and tossed it from the gazebo to his dog, Archie, who caught it with a quick snap of his teeth. “Is the article in the paper today?”

“It’s the front page feature in the ‘Lifestyle’ section.”

Louie leaned over to see for himself. “Nice photo. You look very professional sitting at your computer.”

Elizabeth’s response was a disgruntled snort. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed. Listen to this.” She moved her coffee cup aside and spread the paper flat on the low table across from Louie. Grimacing, she read aloud, “‘Houston author Elizabeth Walker, winner of the prestigious Newbery Award for children’s books, leads an almost reclusive life. Repeated attempts to interview her were unsuccessful. It was only after her publisher intervened that Walker, an auburn-haired beauty who looks more like a runway model than an author of sensitive stories for children, reluctantly agreed to the interview at her home in the exclusive Memorial area. Consequently, her reluctance had this reporter’s nose aquiver. Deeper research revealed a very interesting history quite apart from her life as a writer. Walker, it seems, is the daughter of Matthew Scurlock Walker, a judge who was once a powerful political figure in Houston legal circles. After his death in a mysterious house fire twenty-five years ago, Walker left behind three daughters. Elizabeth, the eldest, was five years old at the time. Having no other relatives, her two younger siblings were adopted, but Elizabeth landed in the care of the state of Texas, then spent the remainder of her childhood in and out of various foster homes.”’

Elizabeth stood up abruptly and began to pace. “What possible relevance does any of this have on my career, Louie?”

“None, specifically, but you’ll have to admit it adds spice to the reporter’s article.”

Bending, she swept up the article. “I suppose this part is also titillating,” she said, snapping out the page smartly. “‘According to sources, Walker has had no relationship with her siblings since their adoption. She has not seen them since the night of the fire.’ How does he know that, Louie?”

“Deeper research, I suppose.”

She muttered something unintelligible and tossed the paper aside. Moving to the steps of the gazebo, she looked out, tears blurring her vision. “What’s missing from the reporter’s story is that my sisters’ adoptive parents never made the slightest effort to contact me.”

Behind her, Louie picked up the paper and scanned the article. “You can’t let something like this upset you, Lizzie. Your success makes you an interesting person to the public at large. The reporter struck it lucky when he researched a little deeper and discovered your past to be a bit extraordinary.”

“I feel violated, Louie. It’s almost like…rape.” She closed her eyes and took a deep, unsteady breath.

Louie sighed, knowing her well enough to leave it alone for now.

But Elizabeth wasn’t ready to leave it. “It’s no wonder the media is suffering from a reputation only slightly better than used car salesmen,” she said bitterly, turning to face him. “I’m amazed at my own naiveté, Louie. The questions he asked were so benign, such as, ‘How do you get your ideas?’ and ‘How difficult was it to get published?’ and ‘What made you choose to write books for children rather than adult fiction?’ And I actually thought that was what the article would be about.”

“He appears to cover that, too,” Louie said, still reading.

She turned and looked at him, then after a beat, she managed a short laugh. “I’m overreacting, right?”

Louie put the paper down. “I wouldn’t say that, since he’s opened your life to the world, but your editor and your agent would probably remind you that any publicity, favorable or otherwise, is good.”

She made a disgusted sound and picked up her cup. She could always trust Louie to spin even the most awful experience in a positive light. She knew that he understood her reaction to the reporter’s insensitive exposé of her history, knew that to her it was like pouring salt in a wound that had never quite healed. Still knowing all that, he wouldn’t let her wallow in self-pity. She studied him over the rim of her cup with affection. At seventy-one, his white beard gave him a distinguished air even though she’d noticed he’d begun to stoop a bit. She wondered if she could persuade him to have a full physical.