“Hayden, it’s not your fault you were coulrophobic. Besides, you were great at the administrative stuff. The business really needed that. Mom couldn’t handle it by herself anymore.”
Hayden sighed. In the last year, since she’d finally admitted she was deathly afraid of clowns, she’d felt so guilty, but thankful to be included.
Mack squeezed her hand. “You’ll find your purpose. I guarantee it. God won’t let you down.”
With a collective sigh, they both leaned back into the bench and took in the expansive night sky that could only be seen from outside the city limits. Mack chuckled. “So you want to know what Mitch is going to do?”
“He told you?”
“He told us after you left the room. He’s working for a company called Ditch Witch.”
“Ditch Witch? That sounds weird. Mitch at Ditch Witch.”
“He’ll be one of their managers.”
Hayden sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “So that’s the secret to finding your life purpose. It has to rhyme with your first name.” She leaned her head on Mack’s shoulder. “This family is safe. I don’t want to leave it.”
Mack stroked her hair. “I know. It’s scary to think about. If we could all have Mitch’s confidence, right?”
“What in the world am I going to do out there, Mack? What kind of difference can I make?”
“Mitch is right. Mom and Dad equipped us. We just have to remember what we were taught, and we’ll be just fine.”
Hayden didn’t know the world beyond children’s birthday parties and company picnics. She’d seen only glimpses, and that had been fine with her.
Mack laughed. “Remember what Dad used to say any time we complained about change? ‘Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.”’
Chapter 2
Five years later
Hugo Talley had told his doctor that he was fairly sure the antianxiety medication he was on was not working anymore. “My body has gotten used to it,” he complained. The doctor, a woman who looked better suited for the fashion industry, explained that was not possible. When Hugo replied, “Well, it’s not working,” the doctor had the audacity to suggest that the stress in his life had increased.
“I’m in the news business.” Hugo wanted to shout it, but he didn’t. That was how he knew the Blue Pill wasn’t working well anymore. He was a few insults away from screaming at a woman half his age. “If people would stop drinking and driving, stealing cars, abusing their spouses, and being, in general, regular idiots, I wouldn’t have to take this at all.”
The doctor sent him home with orders to get his stress under control.
Now, sitting at his desk, Hugo popped the pill in his mouth and waited. And waited. Nothing. No difference. He’d seen the commercials on television. Being in the television business himself, he knew about all the smoke and mirrors. He’d still fallen prey to idea that he, too, could be smiling and bike riding, and holding the hand of a gray-haired woman with the face of a thirty-year-old, enjoying life with no sexual side effects and only a slight risk of a seizure, stroke, or death. His job was more likely to kill him than this little Blue Pill.
“Come on, kick in,” he muttered. He looked at the shiny brass name plate on his desk—facing him, not the door. It read “Hugo Talley, Executive Producer.” Executive. What he wouldn’t give to be a good, old-fashioned, everyday news producer again. But with the pay he had now.
He wondered why he had an office at all. It was a square box with a fake wooden door and an all-glass wall that served no purpose at all. The former executive producer, who’d died of a heart attack last January, thought a glass wall was a good idea so he could keep an eye on everything. But in reality, it served only to keep a hundred pairs of eyes on him.
He guzzled more water, hoping to get that tiny pill dissolved. That was the other mystery, why the color of the pill was so important in the commercial. “Are you on the Blue Pill yet?” it asked. Maybe he should be on the Red Pill. Or the Purple Pill.
Hugo hunched over his desk, trying to look like he was too busy to be disturbed. He’d learned long ago in this all-seeing office that if he looked even the least bit unoccupied, one person behind a pair of those hundreds of eyes would feel the need to come in and occupy him.
It had not been a good afternoon. The news meeting had gone poorly, and Chad Arbus, Hugo’s boss and the station news director, had made sure everyone knew how unhappy he was about it. But Chad was unhappy in general, and there were times that Hugo had actually thought about slipping one of his Blue Pills into Chad’s coffee.
But anxiety wasn’t really young Chad’s problem. The problem with Chad was that he was a jerk. He was probably born a jerk. He probably soiled his diapers at all the worst places and times, just to see his mother have to try to clean it all up. That was the kind of man Chad was, and Chad was half the reason Hugo needed the Blue Pill.
The other half was Gilda Braun. Gilda was an icon. She’d been doing the news for thirty-five years. There was even a statue of her at the airport. Gilda was the reason that every nursing home within the station’s viewing area watched News Channel 7. Channel 7 couldn’t boast about much, but it could boast that it was the most-watched news channel among the geriatric population. Unfortunately, even their voice-over guy couldn’t make that sound favorable.
Instead, they boasted about their hard work. “News Channel 7… Working Around the Clock to Bring You the News.” Their logo was a clock, an indication that any time the news was appropriate, they would have the news. So there was the morning show, which lasted two hours, until the national morning show came on. Then there was an hourlong noon show, a four-thirty, a five, a six, a six-thirty, and the Big Daddy, the “tenner” as they called it.
And that was where Gilda came in. She’d been the ten o’clock news anchor since Hugo was a teenager and before Chad was even born. And she had a lot of clout.
Hugo’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice on his speaker phone. “Hugo, in my office now.” Chad hung up, and Hugo could only assume Chad knew he was in his office because he could see him. Hugo sighed and slouched toward his door and into the hallway. It irritated him that Chad continued to call him Hugo. Maybe Hugo was old-fashioned, but there were things that he expected. He called superiors and co-workers Mr. and Ms., and expected to be called the same. And he dressed up for work, complete with a tie and pressed slacks. Chad, on the other hand, was on a first-name basis with everyone and thought buttoning two of the four buttons on his polo was dressing up. Hugo had even witnessed him wear a cotton shirt tucked in only at the belt buckle to a board meeting before. It was hideous.
Hugo held his ground on it, though, and continued to dress in a way that suited his idealism. And as much as it wounded him on every occasion that it occurred, Hugo addressed his thirty-three-year-old boss as Mr. Arbus. It was just the way things were supposed to be done, even if he was the only one doing it. That’s what his father had taught him, and his father, with great pride, had been a live truck operator for fifteen years. His father was dedicated and loyal and apparently a dying breed. Live truck operators these days stayed around for about three months.
Never once did Hugo see his father leave the house without a tie on.
He knew what to expect as he came closer to Chad’s corner office, which had a glass wall too, except with a view of the city, not the newsroom. It was too big to call a window, Hugo thought. Ten pictures of Chad with various celebrities hung neatly on one wall.
Hugo knew Chad was going to rant. It was what Chad liked to do. He never really had any suggestions or solutions, but he certainly loved to point out one problem after another.
He was a man of small stature, barely over five foot three, but his demeanor was fierce, and when he grimaced and bared his teeth, his face turned blood red and the premature bald spot on the peak of his scalp turned white. He also liked to pound his fist a lot, and Hugo once thought that perhaps he learned all of his leadership te
chniques from a comic strip, because that’s what he looked like most of the time…a cartoon. His big, googly eyes, tiny ears, casual polos, and slicked-back pony-tail didn’t help matters. Hugo hated that ponytail.
Not that Chad Arbus was a complete monster. He was also a shrewd businessman. He knew the important times when his googly eyes should take on a more wise and astute nature. But Hugo would bet an entire bottle of the Blue Pill that he would not see anything wise or astute now.
Opening the door to Chad’s office, Hugo greeted the younger man with a taut smile and took a seat that wasn’t offered. Chad turned away and looked out his window, the sun highlighting his pale skin.
“Hugo,” he said, “I am not going to settle for another disastrous sweeps week.” He turned, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “We can’t fall into last place. Not again.”
“We’ve got a lot of things lined up for sweeps week. We’ve planned a segment on five ways to reduce your risk of choking while dining out. And a week-long series on the ten deadliest backyard dangers, plus—”
Chad held up his hands. “Hugo,” he said mildly, his big eyelids drooping a bit like he was about to tell an inside joke, “we both know what the problem is.” He turned back to the window again. “Who the problem is.”
Hugo didn’t know what else to do, so he rose, went to the door, and shut it. The click seemed to be Chad’s cue to talk freely. “She’s ruining us!”
Biting his lip, Hugo couldn’t think of a thing to say for or against Gilda. Everyone at Channel 7 knew that Gilda’s departure was long overdue—everyone but Gilda—yet there were so many complexities to the matter that there didn’t seem to be a plausible solution. Channel 7 owned about seventy percent of the market in the sixty-five and over crowd. The problem was, they owned about nineteen percent in the twenty-five to thirty-four crowd. And even less in the other demographics. The only way to get the younger crowd to tune in was to bring in younger talent, which they’d done by hiring Tate Franklin, who looked like Tom Cruise’s better-looking brother, as coanchor. Though Tate came with a lot of nearly unbearable idiosyncrasies, he was still a young-looking face. The trouble was the two anchors were so mismatched, you almost expected Gilda to call Tate “dear” on air occasionally. She’d actually patted his hand once.
Hugo decided to get comfortable. The Blue Pill was kicking in. Finally. And he figured if he sat really still for about fifteen minutes, Chad would rant and then let him get back to work.
Chad, in completely predictable fashion, pulled out two eight-by-ten glossy photos from a folder, holding them up in each hand for Hugo to look at, which he did, pretending interest, as if he hadn’t seen them a thousand times.
The left photo showed Grace Johnson and Robert Kelly from Channel 3 News. They looked like they could be twins—both had dark brown hair, olive skin, and dark eyes. They were a striking news duo that Channel 3 hired about four years ago and paid big bucks to keep. That’s why Channel 3 was number one.
In his right hand Chad held a photo of Channel 10’s Jennifer Wallace and Patrick Buckley, or Barbie and Ken, as Hugo liked to refer to them. Jennifer, a striking blonde whose teeth glowed white enough to rival a solar flare, landed the job two years ago. Soon after, they hired Patrick, whose news-do (hair specifically cut to part and feather backward, signaling a conservative maturity) had propelled him farther than his ability to anchor. Yet these two continued to climb the ratings ladder and were giving Channel 3 a run for its money.
Chad dropped the photos to his desk. “I’ve given this woman every opportunity to retire with dignity. The problem is, she’s completely out of touch with the reality of a midlevel market. It’s not about experience and tenure. It’s about hot-looking anchors and cutting-edge, breaking news feeds.” Chad fell into his plush leather chair and shook his head. “There’s only one solution I can think of, and you’re the man to carry it out.”
“Me, sir?” This caught Hugo’s attention because Chad was not one for offering solutions or handing out compliments. Hugo sat a little taller in his chair. It wasn’t really a logical question, since he hadn’t even heard the proposed solution, but something about it made him feel uncomfortable.
“Hugo, you’re a very calm person. Unnaturally calm, really. That’s one thing I’ve noticed about you. And it takes a supremely calm person to be the executive producer of a news station and the ten o’clock producer. I’ve never doubted you for a single day.”
“Oh,” Hugo said. “Uh, thank you, Mr. Arbus.”
“And it’s going to take someone with nerves of steel to solve this problem.” Chad leaned forward, placing his short arms on his desk and folding his petite fingers together.
Hugo felt himself tremble a little.
“Wh—? Uh, what are you suggesting I do?”
“You are going to have to convince Gilda she needs Botox.”
Pre-Blue Pill days, this would’ve made his heart flutter. And even though his heart was not fluttering, his head knew his heart should be, which caused him to panic, but with no real physical signs to confirm it.
“Excuse me?”
“Botox. I hear it works wonders. If she gives you grief about it, tell her it’s that or the knife.”
Hugo wasn’t completely sure if Chad was referring to a cosmetic surgeon’s knife or a hit man’s.
Chad growled as he studied Hugo’s expression, whatever it was. “Well, tell her we’ll pay for it. But it’s coming out of her wardrobe allowance.”
“Sir, how can I convince Gilda she needs Botox? We can’t even get her to change the way she wears her makeup.” The only time Gilda’s concoction of blue eye shadow, fake eyelashes, bright pink blush, and red lipstick had changed was when her husband died twelve years earlier. She stopped wearing red lipstick, saying she’d worn it for Charles all those years because that was his favorite. She’d moved on to mauve, and occasionally she’d wear a peach color that clashed with every piece of clothing she owned. But it was part of what made Gilda. In the seventies and eighties she was saucy, sassy, and audacious. Now she was just overdone.
Besides that, Gilda had been adamant about avoiding cosmetic procedures to make herself look younger. She felt women should grow old gracefully. She swore she didn’t even color her hair, blaming the strange purple sheen that reflected off the top of her auburn hair on the harsh studio lighting. As she’d grown older in front of the camera over the years, she made reference to her age now and then, joking about it and making lighthearted remarks about the upsides of aging in a way that warmed every senior citizen’s heart. It was a constant reminder to everyone that “their day was coming.”
So while Jennifer Wallace might jump in line for Botox and teeth bleaching, Gilda Braun would just as quickly punch out Hugo just for suggesting it.
Chad said, “Look, Hugo, you’re savvy enough to figure this out. Women love compliments. Say something like, ‘You’re really good-looking for your age. It’s just that we don’t want you to look your age anymore.’” Chad waved his hand in the air as he verbalized the worst thought any woman-fearing man could think. There was a reason Chad Arbus had never married, and it wasn’t that he was married to his job. Even a job like this couldn’t find him attractive.
“Go on,” Chad said, shooing him with hands so small Hugo thought if he squeezed hard enough during a handshake one might just break right off.
“Sir, with all due respect, I’m not certain I’ll be able to convince Gilda of the Botox idea. And you know how she can hold a grudge.”
Chad’s expression reflected that he knew firsthand.
“You’re our last hope.”
“Our last hope before what?”
“Just get it done, Hugo.” Chad’s tone turned deep and serious. “And Hugo? You should be aware that I’ve ordered an independent evaluation of the station. A company is assessing our situation and finding the weak links. I should have the report in a few days. Just thought you should know.”
Hugo stood and walked back to his offi
ce. The Blue Pill was so strange. Physically, he was having none of the symptoms one should have when told a confrontation with Gilda Braun was inevitable. Yet his mind knew that this was a situation that could—and most likely would—ensure bodily harm. His body was numb to the idea, at the moment, and was carrying along like any other day. Maybe the numbness would last through his face-off with Gilda.
He’d begun taking the Blue Pill fifteen months ago, after he rushed himself to the emergency room with chest pains. Two thousand dollars worth of tests had shown it was just stress.
His doctor, whom he’d known since the day she graduated from medical school, said he wasn’t really a good candidate for anxiety medication, as meant for people who had chemical imbalances resulting in uncontrollable anxiety. Hugo explained he was indeed chemically imbalanced, and had been since 1987 when he stopped smoking.
Hugo went on and on about his need for it. He knew to do this because the ten o’clock had just run a news story about doctors who over-prescribe to patients who insist on it.
The doctor relented, but said she would allow it on a temporary basis only, during which time Hugo should work to manage the stress in his life.
That’s when he was promoted to executive producer.
Back in his office, Hugo sat down in his chair, grabbed a pencil, hunched over his desk, and pondered how he would tell Gilda that the deep crease in her brow was causing hundreds of thousands of viewers to change the channel. Was it really true? Was it Gilda’s aging face
“Good morning,” sang a voice as his door opened and his assistant walked in. He couldn’t remember her name, couldn’t even remember if she was a temp or an intern. She’d been around about four weeks, ever since his supposedly permanent assistant, Judith, went on maternity leave for the fifth time in six years. Hugo had to wonder who was working harder, her or her ovaries, but wondering that out loud would probably mean a lawsuit, so he just shut up, sent baby gifts, and tried to cope with each new assistant who replaced her.
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