The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

who enjoyed a good slab of pie. He probably liked cheddar folded into the crust of an apple pie. The senator from Vermont always served cheddar crust apple pie—all from his home state—at special gatherings for his staff. It was legendary.

After making an unpleasant story about his daughter hazing sorority pledges go away, I always received an invite to those gatherings.

I did in my past life.

That senator forgot my name weeks ago. Even if his daughter was caught on tape making a pledge choke on a strap-on again, he wouldn't call me. No one was calling me, not even the think tank I'd mentioned to my mother. My scandal made me radioactive and I was nowhere near the half-life of my toxicity to fix anyone else's.

The pies looked ready so I pulled them out to cool. Linden would like these. He'd do it grudgingly but he'd do it.

I returned to the front window, glancing toward his driveway to confirm he hadn't circled back for some reason. A lucky chainsaw or…whatever arborists used. Finding the driveway empty, I swung my tote bag over my shoulder and hefted my laundry basket. I'd come back for the pies after I'd showered and the wash was running.

While rolling out dough, I'd decided I'd only use Linden's shower. There was a perfectly good laundromat nearby. But going to the laundromat and sitting there through the wash and dry cycles would eat into my day, and I'd decided I was very, very busy handling Midge's affairs. Too busy to sit in a hard plastic chair and scroll through emails that seemed to take a cherry pitter to my soul.

There was the hate mail. The people hopped up on contempt and condemnation because I'd joked about the senator's digestive distress. I should know better and I was a whore and they hoped I died. Some even offered to help me with the last one.

There were the late-night talk show requests. Those bookers did not stop. They wanted me to spill tea and shit-talk all of Washington, and basically turn myself into a precious little dancing monkey who didn't care if she ever got a job again.

There were the interview requests from across the print journalism spectrum. People, Us Weekly, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post. All the Georgia papers. They wanted an act of contrition or a tell-all, and nothing in between. And print was desperately unforgiving. Everyone thought television edited with a hatchet but that was print.

The broadcast journalists came at me hard. They promised to let me tell my story and offered to paint me as a staffer forced to work in a hostile environment, but I knew better. Those stories were only meant for individuals needing to save face after stepping in problematic mud. They didn't work on people who'd stepped in the mud, tracked it through the house, and found themselves disowned on television. Besides, the only time a woman could sit for one of those interviews was after she'd been fucked over and fired or forced out, and now had a book or documentary on the fuck-over to promote. I had neither.

Yet cable news hosts, the source of this scandal, were the worst of them. They didn't say it in their emails but it was clear they wanted me to unleash on live television again. They wanted the same unfiltered, insider info I accidentally blabbed when I should've been talking about states closing polling locations and making it harder for people to vote.

For every thirty messages I had from the media, I had one vague response from my contacts at consulting or lobbying firms, or political action committees.

If I had to guess, my inquiries were handled something like this: "Jasper-Anne Cleary? She's one helluva campaign strategist. But isn't she the one who went on TV and complained about Timbrooks? And said he had no chance of placing in the primaries? Hmm. No thanks. Whatever she's asking, we can't answer. No turncoats on this team. Send the thanks-but-no-thanks."

Radioactive was a dark place to be.

I'd run the numbers enough times to know I could manage six months without a paycheck before dipping into that retirement account if I held my expenses to the barest minimum, never, ever got sick, and continuously sublet my D.C. apartment for a slight bit more than my rent.

Saving two dollars a week on the laundromat wasn't big money but there was no reason to sniff at small money. Same with forgoing a gym membership for showers. It wasn't like I was going to exercise there anyway. Stomp-walking in heels used to get my heart rate up. Now, I sparred with my hot, husky neighbor.

As I stepped through the door off his extremely enviable deck, my gaze immediately landed on the kitchen counter that haunted my unfulfilling dreams. Things could've gone much differently if I hadn't chosen that moment to drop that bomb.

And Linden wasn't going to let me forget that moment because he'd left a notepad propped up against a fruit bowl, Jasper scrawled in big, blocky letters across the top in case I had any doubts about where he wanted my attention.

"Mmhmm. This is great. Not passive-aggressive at all." I set my basket on the table and grabbed the notepad.

Jasper.

The bathroom is through the door directly behind you and the laundry is in the basement. The door is on the other side of the bedroom. Help yourself to the supplies, or anything else you need. I'll be out from ten to four tomorrow. The door will be open. Don't even think about baking another biohazard. Poisoning is not neighborly.

–L

"You'll have a new tune after you try my pies," I muttered.

Since I wanted to get in and out long before Linden arrived home, I dropped the notepad and headed toward the basement. Unlike mine, it smelled clean and dry. A metal shelving structure running the length of the far wall held tidy rows of boxes and tools. Everything was so precise and not at all fungal. I