The Truth About Harry

“You know, I particularly liked the bit about the villagers harboring Harry and his wounded navigator after he dragged him from their burning plane.”

“Thanks a lot. Anyhow, never in my wildest dreams did I expect the thing to appear.”

“Of course not.” Phoebe laughed, then did a double take. “Are you telling me you submitted it to the Copy Desk and counted on them to realize it was a joke?”

“To my utter amazement, all Dan Jankowski did was change a semicolon to a period. Did you ever notice the way Dan hates semicolons?”

Phoebe eyed her gravely.

Lauren held up her hand. “I know, I know. It was a stupid thing to do. But how was I to know that the story would run, that it would get picked up by the wire services and somehow find its way to television?” She breathed in deeply. “Do you think I should throw myself on Ray’s mercy and hope that in his heart of hearts he’ll find a way to forgive me?”

“Lauren, get real. Ray doesn’t have a heart.” Phoebe paused. “Have you ever thought about becoming a salesperson in the shoe department at Wanamaker’s?” As an old-time Philadelphian, Phoebe still referred to the department store in the grand building on Market by its original name—steadfastly refusing to let Lord & Taylor pass her lips. “I could really use the discount.”

“Phoebe! This is my career we’re talking about.”

Actually, it was more like her life’s dream—not the part about working for the Sentinel necessarily, but being a reporter. Ever since Lauren could remember, she had been hooked on journalism. She salivated over the way the headlines screamed the news. Marveled at the quotes that the writers could get important people to say. Was awestruck by the emotions the photos could elicit. Even the smell of the newsprint and the way the ink came off on her fingers inspired Lauren with a sensory glee that she couldn’t explain—certainly not to her mother, who naturally thought Lauren should join the family dry cleaning business and certainly not break off her engagement to a handsome local boy who had a guaranteed income of seventy thousand as an accounts manager at Jefferson Memorial Hospital.

“Just think, he could probably use his influence to get you a private room at a lower rate when you have your first baby,” her mother liked to say. This from the woman who saved used rubber bands on the kitchen doorknob.

Well, despite her mother’s protests, Lauren had pulled the plug on the whole rosy picture—the baby, the private hospital room and the wedding.

The decision had been made easy when she found her fiancé, the no-good creep Johnny Budworth, doing the deed with Agnes Iolites, their greatly overpriced wedding planner. But that wasn’t the only thing that had tipped the scales. You see, Lauren had already wised up to the fact that Johnny never understood what turned her on—and she wasn’t just talking about sex, though sex was part of it. Over the course of their relationship, Lauren had seriously wondered if halftime during a televised Eagles game really was the most romantic moment to indulge in intercourse.

No, it was more than about sex. And if she had to put her finger on the one thing that summed up their different outlooks on life it would be that Johnny never read her articles, never read the Sentinel—never read any newspaper for that matter. “I listen to news radio, babe. What more do I need to know?” he’d say, and then add, “You know, maybe you should go wash your hands. The ink from the paper leaves smudges on the white leather couch my Aunt Dotty gave me.”

Yeah, it was more than a career for Lauren—it was a dream of doing something special, making a difference, regardless of leaving smudges. The Sentinel might not be the end-all-be-all, but it was on the road to better things.

Phoebe placed a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “Listen, if I were you, I’d just stay quiet. Who knows? There’s a good chance that this whole thing will blow over and no one will ever know. Besides, it’s not like the story ran with a byline, and Ray’s not about to voluntarily give you any credit.”

Lauren was tempted to tell Phoebe she’d split an infinitive, but decided now was probably not a good time. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’ll all blow over like yesterday’s news.” And maybe she’d grow another four inches.

Lauren squared her shoulders. “So, shall we go back and see the rest of the dog and pony show?”

Phoebe nodded, and they slipped out of the closet—so to speak.

“I am especially pleased that the Sentinel is able to have yet another scoop,” Lauren heard Ray announce when they got back to the large lobby. “And with that in mind, it is my great pleasure that I am able to introduce to you today—”

Lauren went up on her tiptoes and strained to see the front of the room.

“Sebastian Alberti.”

“Who?” Lauren looked to Phoebe who had abandoned her customary sangfroid and was violently fanning herself.

“The grandson of Philadelphia’s own hero, Harry Nord,” Ray declared.

Just as the Red Sea parted for Moses, so too the bodies in the lobby miraculously opened up, and for the first time Lauren got a good look. At Ray. No, forget Ray. At the man standing next to Ray.

She was stunned. No wonder Phoebe had gone gaga. Men like that simply didn’t live in Philly. They didn’t even visit Philly. They certainly didn’t walk through the front door of the Sentinel’s lobby.

And nothing against Phoebe’s judgment, but Sean Connery, even younger and with hair, couldn’t hold a candle to the man in front. Tall, with broad shoulders and a trim build, Sebastian Alberti wore his charcoal-gray suit as if it were made for him. Lauren peered more closely—it was probably made for him. Still, even though he looked perfectly at home in Savile Row tailoring, he was definitely no wimpy clotheshorse. Not when his confident posture managed to simultaneously radiate ease and tension.

And that face. Lauren shook her head. Face was too prissy a word. His collection of chiseled features—the prominent cheekbones and square jaw—his raven-black hair, deep-set eyes and slashing eyebrows. No question about it, the whole package spelled B-A-D. Hot bad. Hot, HOT bad.

With some coaxing, Sebastian Alberti stepped to the microphone and smiled. At which point his features altered perceptibly, and a collective sigh could be heard from among the female members of the audience and even some of the guys, though not the boys from production. Right in front of their eyes, Mr. Bad Boy was transformed into Mr. Bad Boy With A Heart.

Lauren would have succumbed then and there along with all the others duly affected in the room. Would have—except for one glaring problem. Harry Nord, real or otherwise, didn’t have a grandson.

Sebastian Alberti—or the heartthrob claiming to be Sebastian Alberti—leaned into the microphone and ducked his head down, just like someone not used to talking in front of an audience. Lauren could feel the tension as all the mothering types held themselves back from going up and adjusting the angle of the mike just so.

“I’m honored to be here today. Thank you, Ray.” He nodded politely, and Ray lifted a hand and pretended to be humble. “I never thought anyone would write about my grandfather that way.” Unlike Double-O-Seven and his Scottish burr, Harry’s supposed grandson spoke in a subtle southern drawl. But it definitely contained a license to kill. Hearts, that is.

“My late mother, a product of war-torn Italy—” a chorus of “oohs” chimed in here “—would have been so pleased that her father was finally recognized, given his generosity to her small village. Babbo, as I always called him, never talked about his past. ‘True giving,’ he always said, ‘should be anonymous.’”

There was a chorus of “amens.”

“It’s like watching a revivalist minister in an Armani suit,” Lauren said out of the side of her mouth.

“Well, I could easily become a convert,” Phoebe nearly panted.

“So, given how difficult it must have been to unearth this story—”

“Not that difficult,” Lauren whispered.

“I find myself just wanting one thing—”

Lauren saw Donna Drinkwater instinctively step forward.

“And that’s to meet the intrepid reporter who uncovered my babbo’s story.” He lifted his chin and scanned the crowd. His eyes quickly honed in on the back corner of the room, the back corner where Lauren was crushing her foam cup and trying to look even smaller than she already was.

Phoebe coughed. “Tell you what. As long as we’re making things up, how about I be you? For him, I’m ready and willing to be totally screwed.”

2

“CAN YOU BELIEVE RAY didn’t announce the guy’s name until the very end? Talk about burying the lead!” Lauren complained into the mirror of the ladies’ room. She had to lean to the right because the notice to buy Tupperware from Elaine in Accounting was taped smack in the middle of the glass.

“Forget Ray’s journalistic failings.” Phoebe rummaged through a small Fendi pouch containing makeup. “You’re on the verge of possibly being fired. There are far bigger issues to worry about. Apricot or pink?”

Lauren looked at the two tubes in Phoebe’s hand. “You criticize me for discussing journalistic competence when you’re debating the merits of lip gloss?”

“This is not simply a matter of lip gloss. We’re talking about your image as you’re about to face Ray and Harry Nord’s grandson.”

“Phoebe, how many times do I have to tell you? Harry Nord never had a grandson.”

“Are you sure?”

Lauren nodded. “According to the press release from the funeral parlor, the real Harry Nord had no family survivors.”

“Well, the fake one—the one you invented—appears to have acquired one, and, trust me and my little heart, which is still going pitter-patter, he is very real.”