by Hunt, Angela
“My column goes first,” she said, holding him in a direct gaze. “The TV show has to air after my series finishes—the next day, I think. Not everyone reads the paper first thing in the morning.”
Howard shook his head. “No can do—that’s too much lead time, and we’ll look foolish covering day-old news. Tell you what, we’ll compromise. Our TV special will air during prime time on July fourth. That gives your readers almost an entire day to read the scoop, and we’ll capture the evening audience. Sound fair?”
Peyton nodded wordlessly.
Howard scribbled something else on his notepad. “In the meantime, our people will be working in the background and beside you, recording video footage and editing it in New York. And you can trust me—not a single bit of news will leak until after you’ve made the announcement in your column.”
“Nobody works beside me.” Her abrupt tone made a dozen heads jerk upright. Glancing around the table, Peyton explained: “These interviews aren’t exactly comfortable for me or my subjects. The first one went well, but I don’t know what I’m going to encounter from this point on. So no cameras go with me, nobody goes along for the interview. You can follow behind me, but I do the interviews alone.”
Adam Howard’s jaw jutted forward. For a moment she thought he might object, then he relaxed and lifted a hand. “Okay. We’ll send Julie in for follow-ups. I think she’d prefer that anyway.” He looked around the table. “Anyone else have any questions for Ms. MacGruder?” When no one spoke, he turned to Peyton. “Anything else you want to know before we settle this?”
Peyton sat silently, examining the situation from various perspectives. Why not accept their offer? Their work shouldn’t affect her column. A television special would reach far more people than even a syndicated column, and her readers would probably enjoy reliving the experience in a televised special. She looked at DiSalvo for guidance, but he wore a blank expression. Nora Chilton, on the other hand, looked faintly resentful.
“I’d like to take a little walk to think this through,” she said, leaning forward. “Anybody mind if I take five minutes?”
DiSalvo glanced at Howard, who only shrugged.
“You go right ahead, Peyton,” DiSalvo said, nodding. “Let us work out the details in the deal. If the Times is going to share you with seven hundred other papers, we’re going to want to look at this syndication contract.”
Peyton breathed easier out in the hall. She walked to the ladies’ room—white marble, no less, from the floor to the countertops—then leaned on the counter and stared at her reflection in the huge mirror. Her wide eyes dominated a face that had grown wider with age—and a few extra pounds. Tufts of hair jutted from her head like random solar flares. Her complexion was far too pale for a native Floridian’s.
No wonder Julie St. Claire didn’t want her on television.
She wasn’t cut from the same cloth as these television people, but when else would she walk into a deal like this one? Through a quirk of destiny, she had been handed a story with amazing appeal. Everyone saw the potential, and she wasn’t surprised everybody wanted to cash in on it.
Why not accept this offer? She wasn’t doing anything unethical or divulging any secrets. If any of the upcoming subjects asked to remain anonymous, she’d promise to keep their identities hidden. The TV people would have to make and keep their own promises, but she’d seen enough blacked-out interviews to know anonymity shouldn’t be a problem.
If she joined the team, she wouldn’t have to worry about Julie St. Claire rushing ahead of the story. This might be the perfect way to cage that eager beaver until Peyton had finished the series. So why not sign on and deliver the goods?
If she had goods to deliver. She glanced at her watch. Time was slipping away, and she still had to arrange an interview with Taylor Crowe. If she couldn’t do that, maybe there was no point in continuing the discussion.
She walked to the receptionist’s desk, asked to borrow the phone, then punched in Mandi’s extension. “Any luck on finding prospect number two?”
Mandi groaned. “Yes, unfortunately. I did what you said and found her mother, who was thrilled to tell me where her daughter lives. She wouldn’t give me the phone number.”
“As long as you have an address, that’s good.”
“Not really. Her mom didn’t mind telling me, because you can’t exactly drive to number two’s house. She might as well be a zillion miles away.”
Peyton slumped. “So where does she live? Mars?”
“The World,” Mandi explained, her voice dropping to a rough whisper. “It’s a ship that travels from port to port, all over, um, the world. Mama doesn’t know where it is anchored right now. Her daughter likes her privacy and she seems pretty intent upon keeping it.”
Peyton stood still, her hopes deflating like a leaky balloon. If Taylor Crowe was truly incommunicado, how could she continue the series? She could always interview the remaining candidate, Tanner Ford, but that would require a trip to Gainesville . . .
The muscles of her throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “Thanks, Mandi.” She tried to keep her heart calm and still. “I’ll think about what we should do and let you know when I’ve figured it out.”
She hung up, thanked the receptionist, then turned away and crossed her arms, dreading her return to the meeting. Howard’s offer might evaporate if she couldn’t finish the story, and with Taylor Crowe literally out to sea, it might not be possible to continue.
She began a slow walk back down the hall. But . . . maybe this new team could still save the day. After all, Adam Howard owned nearly the whole planet, and The World had to be somewhere. A man like Howard would have a private jet, connections, and maybe even enough pull in the entertainment world to get her the interview . . .
She hurried forward and stepped back into the conference room, feeling as if her dazed wits had renewed themselves. “Gentlemen.” She smiled around the room, then settled her gaze on Adam Howard. “We have an agreement. But—”
“Great,” Howard interrupted. “We’ll take you to syndication beginning with Sunday’s column, and in return you’ll promise to share everything—the note, the leads, and the results of your interviews. We’d also like you to get signed releases from all the principals so Julie can go in and do the follow-ups.”
“I’ll share everything—when I’m finished.” Peyton layered a note of steel into her voice. “You can talk to any prospect after I’ve had my interview, but not before. My columns will give your people plenty of material to work with, but I have to protect my edge.” She sent a tight smile around the table. “I’m sure you understand.”
“We do.” Howard stood to shake her hand again, and DiSalvo beamed like a proud father.
“We’re all agreed on this end,” DiSalvo said as she took her seat. “I’m sure you’ll want to go over the contract with a lawyer or your agent—”
As if she had one.
“—but everything looks in order. You’ll go national with Sunday’s column, and the WNN news team will go to work on the Heart Healer’s prime-time special.”
She forced a smile. “I’m sorry, but there is one other matter. I will agree to your terms, but I’m going to need some help.” She shifted her gaze from DiSalvo to Howard. “I’ve located two other candidates for the note, but one of them is proving almost impossible to reach. I need to interview her tomorrow, and then I’ll need a late deadline—as late as you can give me and still make the Sunday paper.”
Howard’s eyes went bright with the stimulation of challenge. “What’s the problem?”
“We know where our next prospect lives,” she answered, not willing to disparage her research abilities, “but our next subject is a celebrity in her own right. She doesn’t like publicity and she lives aboard a boat.”
DiSalvo’s brow shot up. “This is great. She lives on a yacht?”
Shaking her head, Peyton said, “It’s a ship called The World, and it’s out to port somewhere.”
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nbsp; “Her name.” Impatience edged Howard’s voice. “We can’t help if we don’t know the name.”
Peyton suppressed a sigh. “Taylor Crowe. She’s a songwriter.”
Several brows furrowed, but a stocky man opposite Howard snapped his fingers. “No problem, she’s one of ours. She’s in the stable of writers for our TruBlood division. Best of all”—he flashed a toothy grin around the room—“she’s under contract for another five years.”
Howard brought his finger to his chin. “Can we get her to do an interview?”
“She’ll be thrilled,” the stocky man said. “We pay her to be thrilled.”
Resting his cheek on his hand, Howard smiled at Peyton. “Problem solved, Ms. MacGruder. Just tell us when you want to go, and we’ll arrange everything.”
A little breathless, Peyton looked at Nora Chilton. “I should leave as soon as possible. But I’ll need to know about the word count and deadline—”
“Five o’clock tomorrow,” Nora said, her voice icy.
Peyton felt the corner of her mouth droop as she shifted her gaze to DiSalvo. Nora could do better than five; they often left space open for theater critics who filed much later.
“Ten P.M., but let’s not make a habit of this, okay?” DiSalvo looked at Peyton, amusement in his eyes. “And take as many words as you need. You write tight; I’m not worried about you wandering down rabbit trails.”
“We’ll arrange the transportation.” Howard gestured to his stocky associate. “Carl, you set things up for Ms. MacGruder, and see that the writer—what’s her name, Crowe?—is ready to talk. Have a camera crew ready to go, too.”
“No cameras.” Peyton raised her voice, satisfied with the resulting silence. “No cameras at all until after I’m done.”
“They’re not for Julie; they’re for you,” Howard said. “People will want to know what you looked like as you went about this search.”
“No cameras,” Peyton repeated, her voice clipped. “None for me, ever.”
Adam Howard cast a questioning look at DiSalvo, then waved in surrender. “We’ll play by your rules. No problem.”
Peyton thanked him, then stood and murmured that she’d better get to work. The man called Carl promised to phone her with travel arrangements, and the one named Frank promised to messenger a syndication agreement as soon as possible.
As she closed the door and moved back down the silent hallway, Peyton took deep breaths to calm her hammering heart. In a few hours, once she’d signed the contract, her column would belong to Adam Howard . . . and seven hundred newspapers.
She frowned as she pressed the elevator button. It had all happened too fast. She should have been overjoyed, but her stomach churned and tightened into a knot as fear brushed the edge of her mind. She felt strangely like a woman who’d sold her favorite child into slavery.
TWELVE
SATURDAY, JUNE 30
With a copy of the syndication agreement safely in the hands of her newly hired lawyer, Peyton sat aboard WNN’s private jet and tried to keep a level head. Though most newspaper reporters prided themselves on being grittier and less pampered than their television counterparts, she had to admit that working the other side of the street had its perks. Howard Features had arranged for a limo to pick her up at 6:00 A.M. and deliver her to a private hangar at TIA. The private jet was taking her to Boston, where Taylor Crowe’s floating home, The World, would be anchored for the months of June and July. Apparently the ship’s residents wanted an opportunity to enjoy summer sailing in the Northeast.
After draining a chilled can of diet soda provided by her own personal flight attendant, Peyton stretched out her legs in the empty cabin, assured the young woman that she didn’t want anything else, then patted her briefcase. The leather attaché was a last-minute loan from Mandi, who’d insisted that Peyton could not visit a very important person like Taylor Crowe with a scuffed backpack over her shoulder. In Mandi’s soft new briefcase (a gift, the girl confessed, from her father, who was convinced she would become the next Anna Quindlen) Peyton had packed her digital recorder, a copy of the note, her steno pad, and her laptop.
She’d have to write the story on the flight back to Tampa in order to meet her deadline, but she suspected she’d have it in well before ten o’clock—maybe even before five. Frank Myers, president of Howard Features Syndicate, had assured her his top papers would reserve prime space for her debut column.
“Lord, help me make it a good one,” she whispered, then chuckled because her exclamation sounded suspiciously like a prayer. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d attempted to pray—unless she counted the time she got a flat tire at 2:00 A.M. in one of the most crime-ridden areas of Tampa. Her cell phone wouldn’t work, she had no idea how to change a tire, and she’d never quite figured out how to rouse friends from bed in the middle of the night via mental telepathy.
She’d prayed that night, tentatively but sincerely, and a little later a couple of pierced and tattooed teenage boys emerged from the shadows and offered to change her tire for five bucks—each. Nodding like a wary squirrel, she agreed, then nearly fainted when they changed the tire, took the money, and disappeared into the night.
But this situation was nothing like that one. Her experience today would be safe and swift and maybe only a little painful—probably far more painful for Ms. Crowe than for Peyton.
Bracing herself for the task ahead, she opened the briefcase and pulled out a folder of biographical information she’d downloaded from the Internet. Taylor Crowe’s father, James, had been fifty-three at the time of his death. An Internet search turned up nothing on his life, and the obit from the New Haven Register offered only the bare facts: James Crowe, of New Haven, Connecticut, died June 13 in Tampa, Florida, a passenger on PanWorld Flight 848. He was a construction superintendent and a German Lutheran. He was survived by his wife, Maria, a daughter, T. Crowe, and buried in Evergreen Cemetery, New Haven.
Peyton shook her head as she mentally filed the information away. James Crowe had probably led a full life. How sad that it had been reduced to a few threadbare lines in a crowded column.
Information about his daughter, Taylor, was far more plentiful. Though neither Taylor Crowe’s name nor her face were readily recognized by the general public, music moguls regularly shouted her praises and recording artists showered her with gifts. She was, according to one magazine profile, an incredible one-woman songwriting machine.
She began writing songs at eighteen, and by the time she reached twenty-one she was ripping out four charts a day, writing as she listened to the radio. One of her songs, “If You Looked My Way,” had been recorded by both Whitney Houston and Faith Hill, then rode the top of the pop and country charts for more than a year. She’d won a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Golden Globe. Four times the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers had named her Songwriter of the Year. Sales of her recorded songs regularly resulted in six-figure royalty checks.
Crowe’s floating home, Peyton learned, was owned by a company known as ResidenSea, builders of a ship billed as history’s first residential ocean liner. The World boasted 110 spacious, fully furnished apartments offering the comfort and convenience of home along with the services and amenities of a luxury resort. According to the sales brochure Peyton pulled from the Web, The World planned to continuously circumnavigate the globe with an itinerary of extended stays for special international events. The small black-and-white photograph pictured a massive boat rising from the water, with six decks visible above the bowline.
Peyton whistled softly. Since apartments aboard The World sold for between two and six million dollars, Taylor Crowe had to be a multimillionaire. Still, a ship seemed a terribly unstable place to call home. Had the builders of The World never heard of the Titanic?
After the plane landed in Boston, the young flight attendant pointed Peyton toward a black limo, which whisked her away from the airport. Once the car arrived at the harbor, the driver radioed information that magicall
y opened an electronic gate, then they drove to a pier bustling with boats and yachts and handsome men in white uniforms.
“The Misty Sea has been chartered to transport guests to and from The World,” the driver said, turning sideways in his seat. “That’s your ferry—the big white boat at the second berth.”
Peyton checked her watch. She still had plenty of time, but if she got held up here at the dock—
“When does he make his next run out to the ship?” she asked, squinting out the windshield. She could see no signs of life aboard the boat.
The driver eased into a smile. “He’s waiting for you. When you’re ready, he’s ready.”
Peyton gulped. This she could get used to . . .
“Thanks.” She opened her door. “Um—should I call you when I’m ready to leave?”
“I’ve been instructed to wait here for you.” The driver pointed to the briefcase in her hand. “If you wait one moment, I’ll get that for you.”
“I can carry it,” Peyton said, her voice flat. No way was she going to play the pampered socialite, not as long as she carried a press pass.
She got out of the car and lowered her head into the wind, moving quickly toward the Misty Sea. As she approached, a pair of men in white uniforms came down the gangplank, then one held her elbow as she crossed.
Five minutes later, she sat in an air-conditioned cabin while the boat churned its way across the harbor. The comfortable cabin had been furnished with cushioned seats and a selection of various magazines on a center table, but the real view lay outside the window. Bracing herself against the boat’s motion, Peyton stood and looked at the huge white ship juxtaposed against a royal blue sea.
Incredible. What must it be like to live aboard a luxury ocean liner?
Within ten minutes, the Misty Sea had pulled up next to The World and a painted steel structure that reminded Peyton of a fire escape, then the polite young men in white assisted her in boarding. More uniformed men loitered on deck, and one came forward to meet her. Holding her briefcase close to her side, she smiled her thanks to the crew of the Misty Sea, then shouted an introduction to the officer who stood before her at attention.