Lass Small - Whatever Comes

The rows of pictures from Amabel’s bulletin board were used for the magazine cover. All those row on row, almost identical pictures of Sean Morant walking with different women—except for the last, bottom, right-hand corner. There the picture showed a similar shot of Sean, but next to him was a female shadow and on the feminine outline was written: Who’s next?

With that cover, the article inside the magazine was superfluous. The cover said it all.

* * *

When the time came, Jamie had a preview copy and he called Mab. “Shame on you. Do you think our boy will be pleased?”

“He should have given me the interview.”

Thoughtfully Jamie chided her, “This is a cheap shot, my love—you singled out one small segment of his life, and you exploited him. That’s too bad.” Jamie tsked, enjoying himself.

Mab didn’t laugh. “He can give me the interview, and I will correct any mis...conceptions. I interviewed all those women, and it was a bloody bore, they were that alike, but I wrote exactly what they said. That is an honest report.”

Jamie’s voice was soft. “You are heartless, love, I feel very sad about you. Why don’t you come with me to Big Sur? I believe I can still save you.”

“Lay off.”

“I have to get on before I can lay off.”

“Jamie, you are a bore.”

“Ah, but I’m not vicious.”

Mab retorted, “That article was not vicious. It was only the facts.”

Jamie agreed, “Chosen, and applied with great care and skill. You do know you will now have difficulty in getting interviews? Stars have felt safe with you. Now they will wonder.”

“You are exaggerating and you know it. You enjoy needling people. No one has any cause to worry about an interview with me.” Mab was very serious. “I’m sorry the truth is distasteful to Mr. Morant. He should choose his company more carefully.”

“He will. He will.”

* * *

In the wealth of news constantly being printed, the article and cover picture of Sean Morant was no big deal. It wasn’t received with cries of delight or outrage beyond those intimately concerned. Among those, interested reactions to the article were varied. Her publisher, Simon Quint, called from New York and said in his parsimonious way, “I was surprised by the article. The cover was brilliant. You should have left it at that. But the man is deeper and wider and more complex than you made him appear.”

Wally said it was one of her poorer jobs and she shouldn’t put it in the portfolio.

Her mother wouldn’t speak to her at all.

But her father eyed her solemnly and chided, “You really weren’t very kind to that man. If I didn’t know your professionalism, I’d find myself wondering if you’re fighting a secret, jealous passion for the man.”

“Passion!” All Mab could do was sputter over how ridiculous that was!

However, she did get a trite thank-you note from Wanda Moore on stationery printed with voluptuous bunnies.

Mab didn’t get a thank-you call from Sean Morant. She really hadn’t expected one.

When Jamie Milrose walked into his agency office the next day, his secretary said, “There’s someone waiting for you. He didn’t give a name, but he called you Sarge, so I let him wait in your office.”

“No kidding.” Jamie paused to relish the moment. There were very few who were still in touch, after the U.S. sojourn in Nam, who knew of his change in name, job and total character revamp. Those few were all cherished friends. Who would it be?

All the survivors in his group were forty-some-odd. They had been able to put Nam behind them. They were now spread out, very involved in their lives, established. They saw each other seldom but with great pleasure. Jamie opened the door with anticipation...and he drew a complete blank.

Jamie stared at the man sitting at his desk. The man looked up from the Wall Street Journal and greeted him, “Good morning, Milrose.”

Jamie couldn’t recall ever seeing him before in his life...then he walked closer and inquired, uncertainly, “Sean?” Jamie’s business with Sean had been conducted by mail and occasional phone calls from someone of the group. Jamie had met Sean once.

The lazy, husky voice was casual. “I believe it has been mentioned that, off the stage, I’m to be called Tris Roald?” With automatic courtesy, Tris rose and moved away from Jamie’s desk to stand with his back to the window.

Prickly, Jamie thought as he raised his brows. It said something for Jamie that he didn’t need to immediately sit in the chair of authority at the desk; he stood also and smiled in his non-army sergeant personality as he explained, “Forgive me. You have to realize I hear ‘Sean Morant’ all day, half the night and worse on concert tours. Had you ever been in Nam, you’d understand about brainwashing.”

“I was fifteen when that war ended.”

Tris’s control and power were there. Jamie could feel it. Tris was a man who ran his own life. “Fifteen was young,” Jamie conceded. “Then you can’t know how it could be to hear something endlessly and be swayed?”

With droll humor, Tris denied that. “I have a mother who was an army sergeant in the Korean War. She was a strong disciplinarian.”

“Was she now.” Jamie laughed. “I have to meet her. We can exchange stories.”

“I believe you would have the edge. Her war was an accepted one.”

“Ah, yes.” Jamie’s voice was soft and his liking for Sean began. “How did you know I was a sergeant?”

“I research my people quite thoroughly.” As he did everything.

Jamie nodded once before he asked, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” And his eyes twinkled.

“Did you clear that article and cover layout in Adam’s Roots? ”

“No, of course not.” Jamie’s voice was conciliatory. He knew with Tris’s words that the man was irritated.

The soft, husky voice suggested, “Tell me about Amabel Clayton.”

“An interesting experience for any man, she—”

“What do you mean by that?”

Jamie shook his head once. “Not your first impression. She looks like a man’s summer idyll, but she’s a staunch women’s righter. She’s also a damned good reporter. No one calls her Amabel...she’s called Clayton or Mab. On occasion it’s Mad Mab. She has asked for interviews, along with every other conceivable publication that can possibly call itself legit, and of course, as per instructions, I’ve turned her down—every time—although I did give her the publicity handouts.”

The roughened voice was grim. “She’s taken revenge? Just because I wouldn’t give her an interview?”

“I doubt the article was her idea. Wallace Michaels is her boss and he does push for what’s current. And not being able to see you, she was free to handle it any way she wanted.” Jamie added coaxingly, “We could tell her about those women.”

“I don’t owe anyone any explanation.” The mild tone was deceiving. Tris meant just that. The glint of yellow fire was in his brown eyes even with his back to the light. “I don’t like being labeled a womanizer.”

“The article will offend a few people—your mother, you, some of your good friends—but the great majority won’t be affected.” Jamie was practical about it. “This is ‘typical’ Rock Star stuff. It won’t harm you. It might cause irritation, with an increase in panting groupies, but that can be handled. No problem. This is a one-day sensation. In a week, it’ll fade away. I promise.”

“I would like a close look at her. I would like to talk with the kind of woman who could be so judgmental.”

“An...interview?” Jamie was startled.

“No. Anonymously.”