Drive Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “There’s you!” ENG Joanna pokes me in the ribs, jabbing me out of my reverie. “You look hot, sister.”

  I almost missed my part of Liz Whittemore’s story. I know it says—because I wrote it—“Channel 3’s Charlie McNally broke this case wide open, confronting and outwitting the alleged killer as he threatened to make her his next victim.”

  Now I’m seeing myself, in high definition, wearing my crimson blazer, black turtleneck and trademark red lipstick, and showing almost no grayish-brown roots. The lighting works. I catch just the tail end of my sound bite.

  “Bexter officials have assured me they are replacing all the money frightened parents paid to the disgraced Harrison Ebling. What’s more, Liz, The Services executive director, Joan Covino, told me she’s certain no other information was taken from her organization’s files.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “What?” Joanna says. “You’re great.”

  “Private joke,” I say, waving her off. I’ve just realized. I’m talking on television. And standing here in ENG Receive. I’m officially in two places at one time.

  “Franklin, come on. Smile. You, too, Charlie,” Maysie calls out. Her face is hidden behind her camera viewfinder, but her voice sounds upbeat.

  Franklin and I are standing arm in arm, posing for photos, unintentionally dressed alike in black down vests, big turtlenecks and striped scarves. My scarf is new, the old one having met its fiery, alcohol-soaked demise a few weeks ago in the Head’s living room. We’re on the front steps of Josh’s house. Our house. The movers are still packing up my condo. What used to be my condo. According to the closing documents, starting tomorrow it will belong to ENG Joanna and J. T. Shaw. Who, we all finally discovered, had some secrets of their own.

  It’s not the best time to take a picture of Franklin and me. My eyes are puffy from crying. Franklin’s eyes are red, too, though he insists it’s from too much champagne. But it’s the last time we’ll all be together like this.

  “Come on, say cheese. Or say something. You guys look like you’re losing your best friends.” Maysie takes the camera down from in front of her face. I can see she’s on the verge of tears, too. “I guess that’s the problem, huh? You really are.”

  “Cheese,” Franklin says. His voice is quiet. And glum. And almost a whisper.

  “Cheese,” I say at exactly the same time. My “cheese” comes out sounding like goodbye.

  Baby Maddee, swaddled in a thick yellow blanket and cradled in Penny’s arms, chooses that very instant to burst into a howling wail.

  Which makes all the rest of us—except for a bewildered Penny—explode into laughter.

  “Got it!” Maysie says as the camera flashes.

  “Come on, you all,” Josh says. “This is not the end. It’s a beginning, right?”

  Franklin and I look at each other. Uncertain and unhappy.

  “Drive time to New York is what, maybe four hours?” Josh steps behind us, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “You two will see each other all the time. And Franklin will be back for the wedding, of course.”

  Maysie’s camera flashes again.

  “Good one!” Maysie calls out. “Now, Penny, you and Maddee get in the picture.”

  Penny’s almost-too-big pink plaid boots clunk up the two steps. She stands in front of us. Maddee is snuffling, but her crying has stopped.

  “I suppose Josh is right,” I say reluctantly. I’m still looking at the camera. Which is easier than looking at my dear Franklin. Stephen will be here any minute to pick him up. Then he’ll be off to the rest of his life. And so will I. Just the way it’s supposed to work.

  “Smile!” Maysie commands. And the camera flashes.

  “We’ll be doing the ‘open recalls in rental cars’ story together for the network, right?” Franklin says. His arm goes tighter across my shoulders. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, because I still can’t face him.

  “Now one of Charlie and Franklin,” Maysie yells. “Josh, Penny, stand over by the car.”

  “Kevin says since you broke it, you should be our Boston correspondent,” Franklin continues. “So we’ll still be a team, Charlotte.”

  That does it.

  “No one else—” I can barely get the words out, and I bury my face in Franklin’s black nylon shoulder. “No one else…calls me Charlotte. And now you’re leaving.”

  Franklin’s arms go around me, tight. I realize he’s never really hugged me before. I can feel my tears arrive, unstoppable, and I let them come. We’ve conquered broken equipment and absurd deadlines, pursued obstinate sources and impossible stories. We’ve read each other’s minds. We’ve changed laws and changed lives. And both of us almost got killed doing it.

  We’ve learned to trust each other. We’ve learned to love each other. And now, it’s come to an end.

  “Honey?” I feel Josh touch me on the shoulder. “Stephen’s here. Franklin has to go.”

  I wipe my eyes, blotching my red leather gloves, and reluctantly pull away.

  “I’ll miss you, Franko,” I say. I blink, feeling the tears clinging to my eyelashes, and try for a watery smile. “Can I have your Rolodex?”

  Josh holds out a hand to Franklin, then changes his mind. He wraps Franklin in a bear hug, just for a second.

  “Thanks for taking care of her,” he says.

  “She took care of me,” Franklin says.

  “Smile!” Maysie says.

  And as we all turn toward her, the camera flashes one final time.

  “That’s the last box, ma’am.” A jumpsuited Hercules, one of the Dan’s Vans burly, bulked-up moving crew, waves a muscled arm toward Josh’s front door.

  Our front door, I correct myself again. I’ve spent the last three hours directing traffic, watching brown corrugated boxes filled with my life’s accumulations carried out of a silver moving van and into my new life. Franklin left yesterday. Now, stationed on Josh’s front porch—our front porch—it seems the last of my transformation to suburban bride-to-be is almost complete.

  “It’s all inside? Nothing left in the truck?”

  “Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. We put the boxes where you marked ’em.” He looks me up and down, taking in the ripped knees of my jeans and the cutoff sleeves of my fraying Bexter sweatshirt.

  “The closet and bedroom are pretty full. You’re gonna have to get rid of some of those clothes boxes before you can get in the room. I’ll get the guys. And we’re out of here.”

  He dusts his hands on the rear of his jumpsuit, then heads back inside.

  “So that’s that,” I say out loud.

  “What’s what?” Josh, smiling, comes through the open door. “You talking to yourself again?”

  “Get used to it,” I say. “One of my many deep secrets you have not yet learned.”

  Josh stands behind me, his body pressed against mine, his chin resting on the top of my head. “I know all I need to know about you,” he whispers.

  We’re silent for a moment, looking through the open door. Penny scampers by, then Botox, tail held high, pretending she’s not following her.

  “The movers are done,” I say, leaning into Josh. I can feel his heart beating, his breath in my hair. “I’m all yours, Professor Gelston. There’s nothing else to lug inside.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Josh says.

  I turn to face him. “Wrong?”

  “Absolutely wrong,” he says. “There’s definitely one more thing that needs to go inside.”

  I feel my feet leave the ground as I’m scooped into his arms.

  “You,” he says. And we step across the threshold.

  Epilogue

  “T here she is. Middle of the back row. She’s gotten so tall!”

  I point to Penny, who’s jockeying with her classmates for position on the steep steps of Main Hall. The Bexter photographer has finally arranged the fourth graders in some semblance of order. After a few false starts resulting from two-fingered rabbit ears, funny faces and
a whole row of tongues sticking out, Penny’s first BEX photo is on the verge of taking its place in Bexter history.

  “She did so well this year,” Josh says. “I wasn’t quite sure how she would handle it. A new school in the middle of the year. You. Being away from her mother for the first time. But look at her. She’s a happy girl.”

  Penny’s laughing, then whispering something behind her hand, into the ear of the little girl next to her. In one motion, they both throw a kiss, big drama, then dissolve into giggles.

  “I’m happy, too,” I say.

  The photographer comes out from behind her camera, long blond ponytail swinging, hands on hips. “Listen. No kissing. No funny faces. This is the BEX. You can deal with me. Or I’m going for the Head.”

  The fourth graders go silent. The photographer goes back to her camera.

  Awards Day at Bexter. Josh and I are arm in arm, in Bexter sweatshirts and blue jeans and Red Sox caps, standing in a crowd of parents all watching the rambunctious students and reveling in the April sunshine.

  “Charlie?”

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. There are Wen and Fiona Dulles. Holding hands.

  “We’re waiting for Tal’s and Lexie’s photos,” Wen says, gesturing toward the steps. “But we wanted to tell you—”

  He stops, and looks down at his wife. “Go ahead, honey,” he says.

  I almost can picture them thirty years younger. In love and with the whole world ahead of them.

  “I told Wen about my daughter,” Fee says. She puts one hand on my arm, clutching hard. “And now, Joan Covino is helping us contact her. We’re thinking, we’ll let her know we’d like to meet her. Let her decide what she wants. If she wants. You know? Thank you, Charlie. For giving me back my heart.”

  “I—well, that’s lovely,” I say. “But I’m not sure it was me who—”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Wen interrupts. His voice is still gruff, but his eyes are soft. “You certainly know how to keep a secret.”

  “He’s right,” Josh whispers as the couple walks away. “But no more secrets, right?”

  The daffodils are already in full golden bloom. The legendary Bexter tulips, hundreds of them, are beginning to reveal their colors. In a few weeks, the campus gardens will be bursting and glorious. The birds are back, noisily, and the trees are green again. It was a scary winter. And now all that is over.

  I’ve promised myself I won’t spend one moment of this day worrying about my sweeps story for May. The newly hired news director assures me she’s “green-light-go” for my investigation into Boston’s burgeoning movie industry. But I’m not so sure. And my new producer, Franklin’s replacement, finally arrives next week. I okayed the hire. But I’m not so sure. Still, I’m not going to spend one moment of this Saturday worrying about that.

  Or about the wedding. Or about the dress photos and invitation designs Mom keeps sending. Miss Tolliver is now on my speed dial.

  “Charlie Mac!” Penny’s trotting toward us, plaid skirt swinging, carrying something in both hands. A present? A small flat box, white, and tied with a thin white ribbon. She hands it to me. “I’m supposed to give this to you. It’s from that lady.” Penny turns, pointing.

  “What lady? A Bexter lady?” I say, following Penny’s finger. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “She’s gone, I guess,” Penny says. Unconcerned. She grabs Josh’s hand, tugging. “Come on, Daddo. Time for the teachers’ picture. You need to get in the front.”

  “Be right back,” Josh says, following his daughter. Our daughter. “Duty calls.”

  I pull one end of the white ribbon, then lift the lid from the box. I look around again, wondering what “lady” gave it to Penny. And why. But there’s no one.

  Inside, a fold of white tissue paper. On top of that, a tiny white enclosure card. I lift the stiff paper, reading the message, written in careful script and in black ink.

  Thank you for what you’ve done for Bexter, and for Dorothy. I trust she’d want you to understand. Because you know how to keep a secret. Look in the back. With gratitude, Mildred Wirt.

  Look in the back? I turn the card over, but the back is blank.

  I lift one side of the tissue paper, then the other. Inside is a photograph in a sterling-silver frame. I lift the photograph from the box. It’s an infant, a tiny baby, wrapped in some kind of blanket, face almost covered.

  I know this baby. This looks like a copy of one of the photographs I saw on Dorothy’s desk, in her study, the day I found the fundraising report.

  Look in the back?

  Putting the box on the grass, I turn the photo over, and slide the frayed velvet backing from the frame. Underneath is a folded piece of paper.

  I look up again, searching for Millie. But there’s only throngs of kids and masses of daffodils and Bexter’s historic campus.

  I unfold the paper. It’s also a copy, lined with creases, and the lettering is fading. It’s a birth certificate, typed on an old typewriter. The heading says “The Services.”

  The date is 1950.

  Mother’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Father’s name: Not given. Child’s name: TBA.

  I stare at the paper. The puzzle pieces of three lives, no, many more than three, rearrange and shuffle and settle into tragedy. Love and mistakes, loss and revenge. And secrets.

  Standing in the sun, possibly in the same blossoming garden young Dorothy might have enjoyed so many years ago, I slowly refold the paper. I tuck it in against the photo. And slide the velvet backing back into place.

  I hold the photo close. Like a baby.

  “I’ll keep your secret, Dorothy,” I whisper. “I know you’d want me to.”

  Acknowledgments

  Unending gratitude to:

  Ann Leslie Tuttle, my brilliant, wise and gracious editor; Charles Griemsman, patient and droll, king of deadlines. To the remarkable team at MIRA, Tara Gavin, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Valerie Gray. The inspirational Donna Hayes. Your unerring judgment and unfailing support make this an extraordinary experience.

  Kristin Nelson, the most remarkable agent and friend.

  Francesca Coltrera, my astonishingly skilled independent editor, who lets me believe all the good ideas are mine.

  The artistry and savvy of Madeira James, Charlie Anctil, Judy Spagnola, Patrick O’Malley, Jeanne Devlin and Nancy Berland.

  The firefighters at the Newton Fire Department. The savvy mechanics, including Howard Tarnower, at the Pretty Good Garage. The experts at Carfax. The expertise, guidance and friendship of Dr. D. P. Lyle and Lee Lofland.

  The inspiration of David Morrell, Mary Jane Clark, Jim Huang, Marianne Mancusi, Suzanne Brockmann, Carla Neggers, Gayle Lynds, Liz Berry and Sue Grafton.

  The posse at Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America.

  My amazing blog sisters. At Jungle Red Writers: Jan Brogan, Hallie Ephron, Roberta Isleib, Rosemary Harris and Rhys Bowen. At Femmes Fatales: Charlaine Harris, Dana Cameron, Kris Neri, Mary Saums, Toni Kelner and Donna Andrews.

  My dear friends Amy Isaac, Mary Schwager and Katherine Hall Page; and my darling sister Nancy Landman.

  Mom—Mrs. McNally is not you, except for the wonderful parts. Dad—who loves every moment of this.

  And of course Jonathan, who never complained about all the pizza.

  http://www.hankphillippiryan.com

  http://www.jungleredwriters.com

  http://www.femmesfatales.typepad.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-4764-6

  DRIVE TIME

  Copyright © 2010 by Hank Phillippi Ryan.

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  This is a work of fiction. N
ames, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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