She was unlocking the kitchen door with the key Kurstin had given her when a woman with a remote mike and a man with a videocam on his shoulder rushed at her out of nowhere. Hayley nearly dropped the backpack containing the lunch she had packed as the mike was thrust in her face.
"Mrs. Prescott!" the woman said peremptorily. "How do you feel now that the execution is only a few short weeks away?"
Hayley gathered her wits about her. "This is private property," she said coldly, shoving the mike away. She turned the key in the lock and opened the door, then turned back to them. "Go away or I will summon the police."
"Tell us your feelings on—"
"I am not bluffing. If you are not gone by the time I close this door, I will call the sheriff and have you arrested for trespassing. I think you will find small town courts to be much less tolerant of this sort of harassment than the slap on the wrist you're accustomed to receiving in metropolitan areas." She stepped inside and slammed the door closed behind her. Leaning back against it, she fought to catch her breath as she her heartbeat thumped in her ears.
When she looked out the window they were gone, but the small measure of relaxation she had gained was lost. Damn them. Damn them all to hell. She sat at the breakfast bar and waited for Patsy to arrive.
She hoped it said something about her resiliency that she had managed to forget this stomach-lurching sensation of being ambushed. It was like having a cockroach unexpectedly scuttle out of the woodwork and run across your foot, and to her utter horror her first inclination was to call Jon-Michael.
She did not, of course. But it made her realize how big a buffer Jon-Michael's presence had been between her and the Fourth Estate since the hounds from hell hit town. Journalists never crowded into her personal space or stuck their microphones in her face when she was with him. She was not sure why, really. Much as she liked his build, he hardly possessed one of those huge, pumped-up bodies that intimidated by sheer bulk alone. There was something about him, though, that gave the reporters pause. Perhaps it was his aggressiveness. Or the fact that he was heir to the town's richest man. If an Olivet broke their cameras or stomped them to a pulp, they could not be certain it wouldn't simply be swept under the carpet in good old-fashioned small-town tradition.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, she buried her face in her hands. And here she had thought pretending she still lived on the Olivet estate would be her big excitement of the day. She didn’t have the energy to wade through a mess of explanations to Patsy when she barely understood the adventuresome-sex-is-a-good-enough-excuse for moving in with Jon-Michael herself. So she had taken the easy way out and arranged to meet her old schoolmate here.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Hearing another car pull into the drive, Hayley climbed off the stool. Patsy was early, and for once her predictability was welcome.
Backpack in hand, she met her old schoolmate at the front door. "Hi." She stepped out onto the steps and pulled the door closed behind her. "Ready to go?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess." Patsy looked over her shoulder. "Hayley, there are journalists at the end of the drive."
"I figured as much. I ran them off the property, but I cannot do a thing about public domain."
"God, it was awful. They practically climbed on the hood of my car and yelled all sorts of personal questions."
"They can be a pain," Hayley agreed dryly, thinking, Welcome to my world. "That is why I thought we would take the rowboat and go over to Mavis Point, rather than drive. That sound okay to you?"
"Sure. I guess so."
"Good. I've got lunch." Hayley hefted the backpack. "Do you need help with the bow and arrow stuff?"
Patsy did not and soon they were arranging their gear in the bow of the rowboat and pushing off from the dock. Hayley rowed while her old high school friend sat on the aft seat and talked excitedly about her experience with the press.
All too soon, however, Patsy turned the force of her attention on how Hayley felt about the journalists’ constant intrusion in her life. And the afternoon began to head south.
For God’s sake. I would think Hayley might at least try to put herself out a little for an old friend. Is that truly so much to ask? After all, I am merely attempting to make her life easier.
"It is extremely unsettling, watching all these journalists run around Gravers Bend, turning everything upside down." I watch Hayley pull on the oars with even strokes. The boat shoots across Lake Meredith's glass-like surface, rapidly approaching Mavis Point. "Don't you find it so?"
"Yes." Hayley raises her gaze for a moment, her expression indecipherable. "I do."
Thinking of the way the media is disturbing Graver’s Bend’s placid routines sets my stomach churning. And that is before I was personally exposed to how distressing they can be. "I wish they would leave, but I don't suppose that is going to happen." Draping my wrist over the transom of the wooden boat, I trail my fingertips in the cool water.
"No, it is definitely not going to happen," Hayley agrees.
I hate them, I think with sudden bitter passion. But I immediately bring myself up short. Hate is such an unproductive emotion, not to mention just plain wrong. I must not hate.
Small wakes stream out from my fingers and I concentrate on them, noting how pretty they are, how serene. I take several deep, calming breaths until I have myself under control again, then chat with deliberate aimlessness as I fill Hayley in on the gossip of people with whom we had both gone to school.
We reach the shore, and I help Hayley pull the boat above the waterline. Several times I attempt to reintroduce the journalists into the conversation, but somehow Hayley always manages to deflect the subject onto something else. She does it throughout our picnic lunch and continues to do so as I show her how to use the bow and arrow.
"They are everywhere I turn," I complain at one point.
Hayley merely says, “Hmm,” and her smile is maddeningly noncommittal.
I refuse to be discouraged. "It must be particularly aggravating for you,” I say determinedly, “since you are the reason they are here. Do they always hang out at Bluey’s the way they did the other night?"
"Pretty much." Hayley nocks her arrow and takes a bead on the target I had pinned to the tree. The arrow wobbles in her grasp and barely clears the bow when she looses the draw string. "Damn. Show me again how you're supposed to balance the thing on this little doohickey."
I demonstrate the technique once more. Then I draw a deep breath, gird my loins and say with determined cheer, "I have just been struck by a brilliant idea."
There is an instant of dead silence and I narrow my eyes. Well, really. Hayley has not even bothered to glance in my direction. Would it kill her to demonstrate the tiniest bit of interest? I forged on despite the lukewarm reception to my opening volley. "I will be your new public relations liaison."
Hayley lowers the bow and turns to look at her. "Excuse me?"
"I will run interference between you and the media," I elaborate. The idea of dealing with all the outsiders responsible for disrupting my town's placid rhythms makes my stomach churn. At the same time, I know I can handle the responsibility brilliantly.