Drive Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  He flutters a wave and turns back to his call. I head into territory unknown.

  “Have a seat,” Kevin says, waving me to his navy-and-burgundy tweed couch. He crosses to the office door. And closes it.

  I sit. I worry. Something major is about to happen. Kevin’s door always stays open.

  Half of the news director’s attention is always tuned to the clamor of pagers, beepers, Nextels and police radios buzzing and squawking at the four-person assignment desk just outside his office. If Kevin closes his door, he closes out the rest of the world. And news directors can’t afford to do that. Unless it’s something really—I don’t have words for how big it has to be.

  Kevin sits down beside me. Unheard of. The walls close in as I struggle to predict the future. Whatever he’s going to tell me has got to be life changing. For someone. But what if it’s not me? What if it’s Kevin’s life that’s changing? Maybe he’s dying?

  No.

  Maybe he’s quitting.

  My fear evaporates as my instinct kicks in. Sometimes I just know things. And I’ve learned to trust those times.

  Kevin is quitting. It’s not my job at Channel 3 that’s ending. It’s his.

  Maybe.

  I shift around to face him, trying to organize my legs and choose an expression.

  Kevin adjusts his sleek tie of the day, this one covered with the tiniest of greyhounds, nose to tail. The greyhounds match his perfectly tailored gray pin-striped suit. Which matches his graying but salon-sleek buzz cut.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Charlie.” Kevin stops. Clears his throat. “Bottom line. Big picture. I’ve been offered a new job. In market one. New York.”

  I flutter a hand to my chest, then reach out to touch his arm. He’s quitting. I knew it. “Well, that’s—congratulations, Kev—”

  “And that’s not all,” Kevin continues, ignoring my reaction. “I’ll be helming the news division of a new cable network. It’ll be the antithesis of everything that’s now on local TV. It’ll be all journalism, all the time. The depth of public TV, the production values of MTV, the nose for news of Murrow. No cute titles. No more pandering feature stories about puppies and pandas.”

  “News nirvana, sounds like,” I say, smiling. “Really, Kevin, congratulations. We’ll miss you. I haven’t heard of this, though. What’s it called?”

  “No name yet. Rollout’s not till May. This point, it’s all confidential.” Kevin raises an eyebrow, conspiratorial. “I trust you, Charlie, as always, to protect your source. And keep this news to yourself. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Oh, of course, I—of course.” My brain is churning, projecting my own future. The average life span of a local news director is about eighteen months. Kevin lasted a bit longer than most. Who’ll be my new boss? A man? A woman? Someone better? Worse? I’ll certainly have to prove myself all over again. And that makes me suddenly weary of the endless game. Maybe I should quit, too. Be a wife and a mother. Be my own boss. I steal a comforting glance at my ring, twist the stone to the back so Kevin doesn’t notice it yet. Maybe this is a sign. No more TV news for me. Maybe it is my life that’s changing.

  Kevin’s up from the couch, headed back to his desk. He turns, leaning against the blond wood.

  In the silence, I hear the electronic hum from the bank of television monitors flickering silently on his floor-to-ceiling shelves. The muted buzz of the newsroom.

  “Charlie? I want you to come with me. Move to the Big Apple. Be my senior investigative reporter. It’s the big dance, kiddo. And I’m your ticket to the job of a lifetime.”

  New York. Network television. Senior investigative reporter. As good as it gets.

  The diamond ring on my finger suddenly weighs a million pounds.

  I trudge up the two flights of stairs leading back to my office. My dreams have just come true. Journalism prayers answered. And yet, it would all be so much easier if I could go hide under my desk. Job of a lifetime, huh? Just when I thought I had my lifetime in order.

  I promised Kevin I would give him my answer as soon as the February book is over. Yes. Or no. Stay. Or go.

  I trudge a few more steps, regretting my cantilevered heels, yearning for coffee. I can’t discuss this with Franklin, since I’ve been ordered not to tell him about it. And that’s not really fair, since if I move to New York, his job will also change. And he should have some time to plan his own future.

  I also can’t tell Franklin about the Bexter phone calls. I can’t tell Kevin, either. And that’s not really fair, since kids might be in danger.

  How many secrets can one person have?

  I shake my head, focusing. I don’t have to decide anything right now. Franklin will think I was in the bathroom and won’t ask any questions. Tonight at dinner, I can pump Josh for more information about Bexter.

  When I tell Josh about the New York offer, he’ll—

  I stop, hand clutching the banister, three steps from the top.

  Kevin ordered me not to tell anyone. And I agreed. Does “anyone” mean Josh?

  “You’ve got to love valet parking,” I say, sliding out into the snowy night. A navy-jacketed doorman, umbrella popped, is waiting to shelter us to the entrance of the Paramount Hotel. Huge marble lions, sphinxlike, stand sentinel in front of cut-glass and polished-brass revolving doors. Inside is old-world Boston—chandeliers and brocade settees and gold braid and burnished oak paneling, budget-shattering bouquets towering on curvy antique tables. The city’s most elegant place for a wedding. I’d confided the possibility to my mother, who, for perhaps the first time in our lives, agreed I might have a good idea.

  “How long will you be?” A twenty-something in a navy slicker slides past Josh into the driver’s seat. The back of his jacket says Beacon Valet. He slams the door, rolls down the window and clicks down the gearshift. “Overnight? Or just dinner?”

  “Dinner,” Josh replies. He barely gets the words out before the valet steers the blue sedan into Boston’s Back Bay murk.

  The maître d’ of the Brasserie flickers recognition as we approach her desk. Elegant in a navy suit, an updo and pearls, she says something into a silver-and-white phone before turning to greet us.

  “Miss McNally, the Brasserie is delighted to welcome you.” There’s a trace of the Caribbean in her voice. Her name tag says LaVinia. She gestures us to follow her through the crowded restaurant, winding our way past white tablecloths, crystal decanters of wine and shimmering candelabra. “Your table is ready, of course. And Miss Tolliver is on her way.”

  A silver bucket of champagne, dripping with condensation, is displayed on an ornate pewter stand next to our table. I look at Josh, surprised. I’d made the reservations for our tomorrow-our-engagement-goes-public dinner, but I did not order champagne. And who is Miss Tolliver?

  Josh pulls out my chair. I’d specified dinner for two. But this is a table for four.

  I’m juggling the unexpected champagne, the hovering maître d’ and the mysterious Miss Tolliver when another glossy navy-suited woman arrives. She’s carrying a sleek briefcase and holding a bulging Filofax and hefty expensive-looking pen.

  “Renata Tolliver, the Paramount’s wedding consultant.” LaVinia performs the introductions, then returns to her post.

  I look at Josh, questioning, but he’s shaking hands with the newcomer.

  The consultant smiles at him, then me, then Josh again. She’s my mother’s age, just as well preserved and even more professional. Chunky gold earrings, conservative pearls. Her platinum hair is snipped into a flawless bob, which swings effortlessly as she motions to a nearby waiter. She points him to the champagne. Instant hostess. Instantly in charge.

  “Champagne with the hotel’s compliments, Miss McNally,” she says. “Your fiancé called me, thinking you might be interested in having a brief chat before dinner. As I’m certain you know, Paramount weddings are the crème de la crème.”

  We’re each handed a crystal flute, and Miss Tolliver raises hers in our direction. “T
o your own wonderful ceremony. We would be delighted to arrange the most perfect Paramount event for the two of you.”

  I’m still flummoxed. My Josh? Made an appointment with a wedding consultant? I take a wary sip. I’m so not buying that.

  “Your mother called. I happened to mention our dinner here tonight. The rest is history,” Josh says. He touches a quick kiss to the top of my head, then pulls out his own chair. “She who must be obeyed.”

  Twenty minutes later, champagne half-gone and Josh still looking amused, Miss Tolliver is winding up the sales pitch for her vision of our wedding: the Paramount Platinum Package. My first wedding, twenty-five years ago, was the City Hall Package: fluorescent lighting and flowers from the vendor outside the Government Center subway stop. Sweet Baby James and I didn’t last a year. Now, I’m struggling to stay skeptical, but every luscious photograph of pink-peony garlands and intricate butter-cream frosting exposes some long-forgotten, deep-seated wedding fantasy. I know I should want to elope or do something simple. But I feel more like simply signing on the dotted line.

  Miss Tolliver pulls a glossy white folder from her briefcase, points her pen to the embossed Paramount lion on the cover.

  “My card is enclosed. Here are suggested menus. Flower arrangements. Tablecloth swatches. Photographs of cakes. The Platinum Package, as your mother suggests. And she says to tell you—” Miss Tolliver pauses, purses her lips “—well, I don’t understand it, but she says to do this.”

  She holds up two fingers in the peace sign. “Is that right?” she asks.

  “Mother is pulling out all the stops,” I say. Even long-distance, she can never quite let go. “That’s our sign that means ‘the two of us, in it together.’”

  “She seems to love you very much,” Miss Tolliver says. She hands me the folder and stands to leave.

  “She loves that I’m getting married,” I reply.

  “So do I,” Josh says. He holds up his glass, saluting me.

  So do I, I think. So do I.

  “I can’t believe she gave us samples of wedding cake to take home.” I’m clutching my white wedding folder and two beribboned boxes of cake and psyching myself up for the big moment. And it’s not just about our wedding.

  “I can. The woman’s a wedding machine and your mother is relentless,” Josh says, teasing. “Much as we love her.”

  We peer through the front doors of the hotel, waiting for the parking valet to return. Josh had nothing new to report about Bexter, no more menacing phone calls. No matter how creatively I inquired, it seemed as if he’s really told me everything he knows. Which gets me nowhere.

  There was no time during dinner when it felt right to bring up New York. We promised each other no secrets. I’m determined to keep my promise, but I refuse to pull another all-nighter discussing our future. So during the car ride home it is. Fifteen minutes, Boston to Brookline, and I’m dropping the bombshell. Life is suddenly very complicated.

  “There’s the valet with our car.” Josh points outside. “Finally.”

  We race through the snow, past the marble lions and into the car. The doors slam.

  Here we go.

  “So I have news,” I say as we pull away from the hotel. Trying to keep my tone light. “Guess what Kevin told me today?”

  “He’s quitting,” Josh says. He punches a few buttons on the dashboard radio, tuning it away from raucously grating sports talk. “Who changed the station? Anyway, I predict he’s giving up TV to become a used-car salesman. Why not use his skills where he can really—”

  “Yeah, well, funny. But yes, Mr. Clairvoyant. He’s quitting.” I adjust the boxes in my lap, hoping it won’t be the only time I get wedding cake, and turn to Josh. I hadn’t planned to say it this way, but it’s kind of ironically sweet. “Can you keep a secret?”

  It took five minutes to tell Josh about my New York offer. And almost every minute after that, he’s been silent.

  “Let me think” was his only reaction. In TV news, we often have to make split-second decisions. And when it’s not necessary to decide instantly, we debate the pros and cons until the very last minute. With Josh, I’m still trying to learn his rhythm and not be afraid of quiet. The comfortable jazz from the radio disappears. Chatty voices from some talk show now make his silence more profound. But I can wait. And it won’t be long. We’re almost there.

  We turn onto Bexter Academy Drive. Penny will be asleep, Annie waiting up for us. Josh will leave to drive her home. Here we go.

  The porch light is on as we pull up to the curb. Josh turns the key and unbuckles his seat belt. As I’m trying to read his expression, the ceiling lights click off. We’re in the darkness, snowfall ending, a few final flakes disappearing as they hit the hood of the car.

  “Victoria left Penny and me because of her job.” Josh is staring out the windshield. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

  I grab his hand. One box of wedding cake tumbles to the floor. “No. No. No, no, no. We just need to talk about it. I don’t even know what I want to do. It’s just—sudden. And big. And I wasn’t supposed to tell you. And maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  My chest tightens. This is new territory for me. Am I already lost?

  “Maybe I should have worked it all out by myself,” I continue. “But we promised, right? No secrets?”

  “Sweetheart, I can’t ask you to give up your dreams. You’ve wanted this for your entire career.” Josh looks at me, as if he’s trying to smile. Then he shakes his head. “I adore you. You know that. But you know Penny and I can’t move to New York.”

  Okay, statistics guys. Maybe you’re on to something. But I’m not going down without giving it my best shot. And maybe my dreams are changing.

  “Drive time to New York is only about three hours,” I say, testing this prospect. I’m still clutching Josh’s hand. “If I drive fast. And you know I do. I could commute, live here on weekends, New York during the week. When school’s back in session, your schedule is just as crazy as mine. It would hardly be different from the way it is now.”

  Josh picks up the box of cake from the floor and hands it to me. “We’d better go in,” he says.

  The bluestone walkway to the front door is lined with graying piles of shoveled snow. We leave footprints in the newly fallen white. Through the front curtains, I see Annie’s gauzy image and the flicker of the television.

  “It’s more like four hours of drive time,” Josh says. “But we’ll do what we have to do.”

  “Honey, I—” I see something. A piece of paper taped to the glass of the storm door.

  Josh gets there first. In two more steps, I see the message, too.

  I recognize Penny’s artwork. Nine-year-old primitive, but instantly understandable. A bride, billowing veil and extravagant skirt. She’s holding hands with the top-hatted groom. Next to the Crayola couple, a beaming flower girl (or maybe junior bridesmaid), enormous pink dress, masses of curlicues around her skirt. And scattered across the page, dozens of red hearts, flying through the awkward drawing like happy butterflies.

  “Looks like the votes are in,” Josh says. He snaps down the drawing with one hand and reaches toward the doorknob with the other. “From Penny, at least.”

  And from me, too, I want to say. I know our future is together. I’m just not sure how. Everything good is happening at the same time.

  One hand still on the knob, Josh turns to me, his face softening as he holds up the drawing. “She’s never been so happy. I’ve never been so happy. So, there’s a bump in the road. And I’m sure there’ll be more. But we’ll ride them out, sweetheart. Together.”

  I hold up the boxes. “Piece of cake,” I say.

  I hope I’m right.

  Chapter Four

  “I f he’s such a hotshot, why isn’t he still in Beirut, or wherever he was? Whoa, look at me. Even after Max and Molly, I still can’t believe this. This is like—three basketballs’ worth of baby.”

  Maysie takes a sip of her morning tea, standing s
ideways in front of the mirror of the fourth-floor ladies’ room. She’s scrutinizing her alarmingly pregnant profile and chattering nonstop, as usual. Just back late last night from covering Super Bowl preparations in Dallas and soon to give birth to her third child, she’s the only woman who works in Channel 3’s all-sports radio station, so she’s been able to commandeer the fourth-floor ladies’ room as her exclusive salon. It’s also a private spot where we can share our scoops without fear of interruption. And this morning I’ve got the biggest one yet.

  “Mays?”

  “And you’re going out on these undercover shoots with him? Are you sure you can trust him? I mean, like, do you know whether he got fired? Or flipped out? Or some unimaginably hideous other thing that he’s keeping a big secret? Somehow? On the other hand, he’s truly hot. Those cheekbones alone…” She eyes me appraisingly. “Think he’s single?”

  I’m standing with my hands behind my back, leaning against the door, carefully hiding my ring. Maysie and Matthew Green are Mr. and Mrs. Suburban Married Bliss, and for years, Mays has indefatigably analyzed every available single man for what she calls his “Charlie potential.” Margaret Isobel DeRosiers Green has been my cheerleader and confidante through a succession of unsuitable suitors who turned out to be either too attracted to my success or too intimidated by it. When Bride’s Magazine started appearing in my mail a few months ago, it could only have come from Mom or Maysie. Maysie confessed. She’s a top-notch reporter, tough and knowledgeable as any guy in the sports trenches. But I’m about to spring some real breaking news. As soon as she stops talking.

  “Mays?”

  “Still, why would he give up the network to come to Boston and work with you?” She’s tucking her brown hair into the usual ponytail and yanking on a Celtics cap. “No offense, Brenda, but I mean, who wouldn’t want to work at the network if they could? And hey, you’re still guest-hosting my Wixie show, right?”