Whatever Comes

While she remembered the cameraman outside the Hilton, she became vividly aware of the fact that Tris was Sean Morant. He’d deliberately set it up. She remembered the way he’d ruffled his hair, taken off his tie and shrugged out of his suit coat. And she remembered his talk about appearances being deceiving, and honor—and revenge.

Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord. But this time Sean had helped.

He had his revenge. It was too bad he wasn’t there to witness it. All the kinds of comments and smiles sent Amabel’s way that weren’t particularly nice.

Jealous women smiled and their eyes were sly. But the men! It was as if Sean’s revenge gave each of them a little triumph over her.

He’d been so charming. So attentive...as he’d set her up for his revenge. She remembered her body’s reaction to his and how aware even her skin had been of him. It hadn’t been attraction; it had been a warning!

* * *

She endured. The magazine was distributed, and she had more copies of that picture than she’d ever dreamed when she’d wished for just one. They couldn’t just have the glee of the sassy cover and a poke at Adam’s Roots. No, there was a story.

Their interviews were with people on the street. Instead of replying to the interviewer’s question, most asked, “Who’s she?” And one said, “Not up to his usual standards.”

That hurt. Jamie was quoted as saying, “They’re just good friends.” Of all people, he knew she didn’t even know Sean Morant, whose real name was Tristan Roald.

So it was days before she even considered the courage it had required for Tris to walk into that maelstrom of publicists and reporters just to meet her and set up the photograph.

That had to have been the telephone call he’d made, and he’d timed it, saying he had to leave right then.

How could he have done that to her? What difference did the multipicture cover make to him? Why was he so angry with her that he would take such calculated revenge?

He’d actually been in all those pictures. She had interviewed all those tiresome women.

No one gave her any sympathy. More than one woman ignored the implied relationship, of the pair leaving a hotel, and expressed envy for her having met Sean—however and whatever.

Mab didn’t blab his real name. Although sorely tempted, she considered that sort of backlash as beneath her professionally. But she felt noble about not doing it. And she hated him.

* * *

Tris didn’t feel the satisfaction he’d expected and his conscience twinged. He’d wanted to teach her a lesson but he hadn’t expected such a reaction for her, to her, about her. He suspected he’d been too rough. He could have... Well, it was done.

As with any exposure to public consideration, the incident quickly passed. In a few days it had faded. It was overlaid with all the other things about other people which went on in the rest of the world.

But it festered in Amabel. She spent a lot of time as she argued with a phantom Tris using reason and wide arm gestures.

“What’s going on with you?” Wally asked one day.

She looked up at him. “Nothing.”

Wally frowned at Mab. “You act unhappy. It’s not still that cover, is it?”

“No, of course not.”

“It’s funny, if you look at it right.”

Her responding, “Of course,” was rather dull.

“You don’t sound sincere.”

She gave him a look.

“Are you going to Indy next week?”

“You know I am. What’s the matter, are you running out of things to say?”

“Pretty much.” He bit thoughtfully into his lower lip and watched his feet shift and then he told her, “There’s a concert in Fort Wayne just about that time. I wonder if you’ve ever been to a Rock concert?”

She was cautious. “Rock concert?”

“Since you’re not a devotee, it might make a very interesting viewpoint.”

“Let me guess. It’s Sean’s?”

“Why, by George, it is!” His surprise wasn’t well done.

“Cute. I won’t do it.”

Wally mentioned casually, “I got the ticket from Sean.” He flipped it onto her desk.

She looked at the envelope as if it was a snake.

“It’s sealed. The courier said there’s a note inside. Read it.”

She wouldn’t touch it.

“Mab, you know I’m partial to you. Chris loves you and that by itself would be enough to influence me, but I admire your work and I believe you’re one of my best—”

“What sort of horror are you working up to?”

Wally was chiding. “Now, Mab! Whatever gave—”

“No!”

He waved his arms. “How can you refuse when you don’t even know what I’m going to...suggest?”

“I know what you’re going to suggest! And I will not!”

“Now, Mab, you can do it. This little exchange between US and us could develop into a nice Hope/Crosby kind of humorous conflict. It would be good for circulation. All you have to do is go to Fort Wayne and see the concert. Then you tell us what it’s like. See?”

“Sean’s.” Her look was deadly.

“Well, it just so happens you’ll be in Indianapolis anyway, and he’ll be up in Fort Wayne. It’s only a hundred miles. There are planes and airports out there in the wilds of Indiana and very excellent highways, if you’d want to drive.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Mr. Quint thought it a good idea.”