Unrevealed

from four to twelve — posing like urban royalty in their Denver mansion and in their Telluride vacation home. Jane recalled the title of that pictorial: “Master of the (PR) House.” It was framed over a shot of Craig leaning against his Bentley, arms crossed and staring intensely at the camera. Craig Gardner was a marketing alchemist, turning his clients’ endeavors into gold and making himself a millionaire many times over. But all that had to be pushed aside when Jane sat across from Courtney M. at the weekly AA meeting.
    And when Courtney M. told the group why she drank, it was obvious to Jane that everyone in that tiny basement room listened with more interest. It didn’t matter that the woman who sat on the folding chair had a back story equally traumatic or that the guy squashed into the center of the couch with bad springs had gone to jail for nearly killing a child when he drove drunk. Courtney Gardner was a
celebrity in the room, and when she spoke, people leaned closer to hear every tortured word.
    But when Courtney saw Jane at the annual fundraiser or in public, she always made a point of approaching Jane and making a connection. It might have only been a few minutes of conversation, but it was meaningful and genuine each and every time. Maybe it was her lilting Texas drawl that took its time spilling from her lips, each word so clearly enunciated, it seemed to occupy its own zip code. Or perhaps it was the sincere way Courtney would hold Jane’s hand or touch her shoulder in a compassionate manner. When Courtney would inevitably say, “If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know,” Jane knew it came from her heart.
    So, ironically, there she was seated at a bar with the woman, with Courtney asking Jane if there was anything she could do to help her.
    The bartender delivered the martini and turned to Jane. “What would you like?” he asked with that same established reluctance laced through his voice.
    Jane looked at him and swallowed hard. “You got a sparkling water and lime juice?”
    The bartender glanced at Courtney and then back to Jane. “Yeah,” he offered without moving.
    “Well, okay.” Jane waited but he still didn’t move a muscle. “ I’ll take it .”
    He shot another guarded glance at Courtney before walking to the other end of the bar to prepare Jane’s order.
    When he was out of earshot, Courtney leaned closer to Jane. “Good for you, Jane. You stayed strong. Don’t mind him. He’s been acting like that toward me all night since I came in here. He’s a squirrelly fellow. I think he’s been in trouble with the law.” She took a dainty sip of her
martini. “Does he look familiar to you? Criminally speaking, of course.”
    Jane glanced at the bartender. She caught a slight shake of his right hand as he poured the sparkling water into Jane’s glass. “Never seen him before.” She peered up at the flatscreen TV in the corner of the bar. An infomercial played, typical fare for nearly 2:00 a.m. It was programming that took full advantage of insomniacs’ pattern of purchasing items they would never buy if they were fully alert.
    “I asked him to change the channel when I arrived. He had the Channel 9 late news on.” Courtney took another genteel sip of her drink. “Cynthia Naylor was reporting from the location of a grisly crime scene.…” Jane looked at Courtney. “I noticed that the bartender got quite tense at that point, so I asked him to please change the channel.” Another swig of the martini disappeared, this time less precise. “ Cynthia Naylor . That muddle-mouthed, no-talent bimbo. Humph! Naylor . I just realized the irony of her last name. I do wonder how many men have nailed her?” She twisted her mouth into an unattractive smirk. “She thought she actually had the ability to steal Craig away from me. Poor little delusional bitch. Mark my words, Jane, she’s destined for the glory dump of mid-market daytime-news anchoring.”
    Jane wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, so she just dove in headfirst, tact be damned. “If you don’t mind me asking, Courtney, when did you fall off the wagon?”
    “Would you believe me if I told you it was tonight?” She took a healthy swig, as if to button her statement.
    Jane studied Courtney’s haggard face. “Really?”
    Courtney picked at the red nail polish on her thumb. “Hand to God. It’s not like I didn’t think about it a gajillion times before now. And it’s not like I