by Jayne Blue
***
Three months earlier …
“You’re sending me where?” Wes’s father, Rush Thompson, was a self-made billionaire, and at 80 years old he was sharp as ever. But this suggestion, order, assignment, banishment – whatever it was – proved the old man was losing it, Wes thought; dementia had set in overnight.
“You’re going to go get your hands dirty at my first business, WLUV-TV.”
“Where again? Wisconsin?” Wes unbuttoned his suit jacket as he walked towards the window and glared at one of the many tall bookcases in the room, “From the time I was eighteen, I’ve done everything your company needed. As far as getting my hands dirty, I hardly think I’m wet behind the ears.”
It was true. He helped take his father’s holdings in Michigan nationwide, then worldwide. They’d turned a few media properties into a billion-dollar hedge fund. Since finishing his finance degree, he’d worked every day to build on what his father started. Hell, he’d burned through a marriage doing it. And now, at 45 – just when he was ready to take his dad’s place at the top – he was being sent to the minor leagues.
“Not Wisconsin, Michigan! Grand City. I grew up just outside there... it’s beautiful. It’s no backwater, though; I hear Grand City has all the things your refined tastes are used to.” Rush and Wes sat in the study. Books were piled everywhere, and a fire roared, like always, in the fireplace. Rush Thompson lived more like a college professor than a corporate raider. He was a student first, a conqueror next, an investor last.
And WLUV was the place that started it all for him. Thompson Broadcasting turned into Thompson Media, which turned into Thompson-Hardaway, Inc. A conglomerate with a portfolio from ice cream shops to microchips.
“I’ve got three sons. And you’ve all learned this business from the top down.” Rush’s deep voice had gotten gravely in his old age, perhaps a result of his daily cigar.
“I think you owe us a bit of credit for doing everything we could – everything you asked – to turn it into what it is.”
“I do. But I have a decision to make. I have to decide what to do with Thompson-Hardaway after I’m gone. All three of you would make fine CEO’s, but don’t forget we’ve got the Hardaway heirs out there,” Rush said. They owned a lesser percentage, but what his father said was true. The Hardaway siblings had some claim to the top job.
“I’m assigning you and your brothers each a few tasks. I want to see how you do. No interference from me. At the end of the year, I’ll decide what I want to do.”
“Is this some sort of test? I won’t compete with Sloan and Max.” Wes loved his brothers. They were competitive with each other but not cutthroat. Their father had brought them up as a team.
“No, it’s not a competition. In fact, all of the businesses need help. We need to take a good look and decide whether to save, sell, or shut down these losers. To be honest, I’m entrusting my favorite business to you. WLUV has a place in my heart.” Wes’s dad lost focus on the conversation and seemed to be rolling something around in his memory.
Wes interrupted his father’s revelry, “You first saw mom there. I get it.”
“Yes, among other things...” he started to drift away again, but snapped himself back into the study, and looked hard at his son, “Listen. You’ve been pretty ruthless since…well, since your marriage collapsed. I’m worried about you. You don’t enjoy very much.”
The tabloids had nicknamed Wes’s father “The Happy Billionaire.” He had a twinkle in his eye that couldn’t be extinguished.
“Dad, no one is as lucky as you, to find someone like mom. And yes, I’m ruthless. But how else do you think we have the majority stake over the Hardaways?”
“No accident, son, you’re right. I’m proud of that brain you have—your strategy, your loyalty, your knack for numbers.” He stood up and walked to the sideboard, reaching for a scotch glass, “You need a change, though, and you don’t even know it. A change of social circle, a challenge, a change of scenery, plus it will help me make some decisions.” He poured while he spoke, and after taking a sip, he stared out the window a few moments before adding, “I think I know who you and your brothers are. But I also think I robbed you.”
“What?” Wes rubbed his forehead. His dad was giving him a headache.
“You watch. You’re going to love working with people, lifting up the hood and seeing what makes a small business run. You’re going to want to fix it if you can. We’ve all been looking at spreadsheets for too long.” He took a generous sip from his glass, “That’s what I robbed you of, the guts of it, the way a company works… or doesn’t. You’ve been on the phone or in a plane too long. Why don’t you stay on the ground and roll up your sleeves for a while? Even if you come back after a year and can’t salvage it, you’ll be a better man for knowing what it takes.”
Wes didn’t have an answer. The old man’s mind was made up.
“You leave tomorrow.”
“I get the sense you’re telling me to get lost, dad.”
“No. It’s the opposite. You know I love you. But you and your brothers need to find something, and you all need different things right now…I’m interested to see just what it is, for each one of you.
The man was nothing if not decisive. Wes hugged his dad and walked out. Apparently he was headed to Bum Fuck, Michigan, also known as WLUV-TV in Grand City.
***
Present day…
Wes was three months into his exile at WLUV and so far nothing about the place looked promising. He’d spent plenty of time unraveling the books, but he had no idea how to fix the mess that was on the air each night.
November ratings were in the toilet as usual, even after Wes put some money into billboards. WLUV was still a dismal third place, where it had been for fifteen years. The poor performance meant they had to sell advertising at rock-bottom prices. A recipe for profitability wasn’t even on the horizon.
Wes looked over the ratings book again. He knew how to balance the budget and cut some fat, but how was he supposed to bring the station out of the 1980s? His few months at WLUV had pretty much convinced him he’d be selling it when his time was up. Most of his work day was spent lining up prospects for that eventuality.
Rush would be quizzing him on what steps he’d taken to try to save the station, so he’d have to go through the motions and at least attempt to rehabilitate the place. That meant hiring the best news consulting firm in the country, American News Consulting and Research. They were effective, even if expensive, but if his father questioned what he’d done to fix WLUV, the consulting firm would be his answer.
He called out to Mrs. King, his 200-year-old secretary who’d been at the station since the beginning, “Mrs. King, make sure that Bernie greets the consultant and brings him up here.”
He heard wrinkled fingers on a hunt-and-peck expedition on the computer.
“Mrs. King?” He wasn’t sure she could hear anything.
“Yes sir, I’ll tell Bernie to bring the consultant person here to you,” she yelled back to his office.
Wes put his head in his hands. For some reason, he didn’t have the heart to force Mrs. King into retirement. She was eligible for sure, 50 years of service. She was in her seventies and had no ability to use any modern office software. Even the facsimile machine was too complicated for her. But she did a good job answering regular phones and taking messages for him, he’d give her that.
And to be fair, what she lacked in technological know-how she made up in bakery skills. She brought baked goods to the office for holidays that only she knew existed and had a “Happy Birthday” sign in the lobby for whichever of the station’s 100 or so employees was celebrating that day. She also knew to whisper the names of the employees into his ear—even if she did it too loudly since she could hardly hear. Other than that, he had no idea what Mrs. King actually did in her 50 years at WLUV. He made a mental note to ask his dad the next time they talked.
Bernie Manfred was another old-timer, a new
sman who’d had every job in the station at every other station in Grand City. Wes wondered what the consultant would think of this mixed bag of employees. Working at WLUV was either the start of a person’s news career or the end of it. Either way, the ax was going to fall for some of them.
This firm, American News Consulting and Research, was known to suggest drastic measures and, from what he could see, WLUV needed it. He did not have a soft spot for lost causes. If the experts thought it was time to fire, cut, or close up, Wes had no problem with it. Still, he resolved to make sure the old-timers had a soft landing with good retirement packages. He put in a call to Thompson-Hardaway’s main offices to get the wheels in motion for anyone with 15 years or more at WLUV.
Chapter Two
Macy decided it was important for news organizations to see what a professional network broadcaster looked like close up. She maintained her whip-it thin figure mainly because she’d lost her appetite for food last year during her humiliating fiasco with Phil, and it hadn’t returned. There was an upside to heartbreak, apparently: she could slide into a size 6 black designer business suit without too much trouble, despite being 5’6”.
She’d chosen a red silk blouse with a sharp collar to go underneath. These days she had to dye the hair at her temples because gray hair peeked through what used to be all auburn. Now pushing 40, it took more and more time to look the way she used to. If nothing else, she made sure she wore heels, even in winter. That put her at 5’9.” It was good to be taller than the people she wished to intimidate.
Small markets needed to see how to pull it together, and she was a walking, talking example of what American News Consulting and Research expected. It helped to put the local on-air talent on edge a bit. Her appearance put egos in check. If they understood that she wasn’t just preaching to them, that she herself could step in and do their jobs – blindfolded if need be – a little humility entered the picture and the reporters and anchors were more receptive to her coaching.
The lobby area was staffed by a college-aged kid who looked Macy up and down and then let her stand there with her coat in hand. After buzzing someone named Bernie the girl proceeded to ignore Macy and attend to chewing gum and texting.
Well, Macy thought, best to start with this kid.
“What’s your name?” Macy asked.
“Brittany.” Of course it was.
“Brittany, from now on, when a guest enters the station, you’ll take their coats, offer them coffee or water, and then let them know you can get them anything else they may need. You are WLUV’s first impression, and so far it’s not a good one.”
The girl blinked her eyes as though stung by the words. Then she walked over and took Macy’s coat, “We don’t have coffee brewed, it will be a minute.” Brittany said.
“It’s okay, I don’t need any. My job is to take things up a notch or two around here, and you happen to be the first person I’ve met. I think you’re going to be a fabulous receptionist, but you need to put the gum in the trash and the cell phone down.”
Brittany fled down a hall. Macy figured her coat would be flung on a floor somewhere.
A paunchy, balding man emerged from the same hall, Brittany-in-flight barely registering with him.
“Ms. Green, hello. I’m Bernie Manfred, Executive Producer here.” Bernie extended a hand past his rotund belly.
“Macy, call me Macy.”
“Macy, I was an admirer of your work at WNS. You were the real deal.” People recognized Macy less and less these days; the public memory was short. Usually, it was old-time news people –like Bernie, she figured – who appreciated the hard news and investigations she’d done in her decade at the network.
“Thank you.”
“Now you’re an evil consultant, almost as bad as going into pee-arh.” Bernie laughed as he said it, but really he’d nailed down the general feeling about news consultants— that they were to be hated and distrusted. Macy didn’t expect her arrival to be met with good cheer. She was there to change things and hold some feet to the fire.
“I’m too blunt to be in public relations, which you’ll discover quickly.” She thought she heard a faint groan of pain as Bernie led her up a winding staircase in the center of the lobby to the station’s second floor. Were the stairs hard on his knees, or was it the idea of the consultant picking apart the station that had him groaning? Maybe both, Macy thought.
“The upstairs is sales and management. The first floor is our studio, newsroom, and editing suites. We also do our commercial production in there,” Bernie explained as they walked.
“Ya like the wallpaper? We’ve had the same stuff since 1978.” It was a Brady Bunch orange pattern, but Macy didn’t care about the décor. She cared about the on-air product.
“Hi Mrs. King,” Bernie addressed the secretary outside the owner’s office.
“He’s in there waiting.” Mrs. King didn’t get up but waved them to the office door.
“Mr. Thompson?” Bernie offered a courtesy knock but since the door was ajar he just pushed it open the rest of the way.
Macy tried not to let her jaw drop when she got a look at Wes Thompson. She’d expected a middle-aged, overweight white guy in a crappy suit, or a weak-chinned son-of-a-great-man.
Wes Thompson was none of the above; in fact, he looked more like a well-built George Clooney. His crisp white dress shirt fit perfectly over his muscular shoulders, and it was tailored so it skimmed his trim waist. Thompson threw a distracted smile at Macy as he finished his phone call. Her mouth went dry.
“If you could just get that sorted out, I’ll be in touch in about a week.” He hung up with no further pleasantries. He was used to issuing orders.
“Hi there, you’re the consultant?” Thompson stood up and offered her a hand across his desk, locking his gorgeous blue eyes on hers. She would kill for his lush eyelashes. But they were the only soft thing about his face. From his strong jaw to his aquiline nose, Macy was afraid she was staring.
She’d seen thousands of attractive television faces but Wes Thompson’s rugged good looks put them to shame. This man was quite possibly the best-looking man she’d ever seen—but he wasn’t pretty in the slightest, not like Phil. She estimated him at a couple inches over six-foot, since he was a head taller than she was in her intimidating “network heels.”
Macy struggled to put her girlish reaction on lockdown. She had a job to do and mooning over Wes Thompson was not on the WLUV rehab plan. She felt a few flutters and clenches in places she didn’t want to think about while at work, places that had been dormant for months...
Why did she make a point of noticing he had no wedding ring on? The very last thing she needed was a romantic complication in her life. She put her coldest consultant face back on and got to work. She decided it was best to barrel ahead with her plan of attack for WLUV.
“Hi. I’m Macy Green and I’ll be with you for about six weeks. The normal way we operate is to come in and out,” Macy winced internally at her own choice of words. “But since you’ve contracted with us at our gold tier of service, I’m here to help you really get things ready for February sweeps and then throughout the duration, if you like what you see.”
“I’m sure I do,” Wes said.
Macy was pretty sure she was hearing things. Did he just go right for double entendre? “What you see on the air, that is,” she clarified.
Bernie coughed a few times, and she thought she heard him chuckle. This was not going exactly right. She stiffened her spine. Macy’s efforts were always focused on things going exactly right.
“Yes, I told Dave Raynes we’d need the best and that there’s a lot of work to be done here.” Apparently Wes and Dave Raynes, the co-owner of ANCR, were acquainted. Macy reported directly to Raynes; she could not afford to botch this job.
Bernie piped up, “I was going to give her the ten-cent tour.”
“Actually Bernie, I’ve freed up my schedule this afternoon so I’ll do the honors. I’m sure Macy here has a
lot of questions and I know you need to get back to the newsroom.” Wes effectively dismissed Bernie, and Macy thought she saw the older man’s eyebrow lift as he turned to walk out. Even for a washed-up newsman, he didn’t miss much.
“Yep, time to feed the news hole. I’m sure I’ll see you later Macy. I’m at your service, consultant lady.” Bernie waddled out of the office.
A small finger of panic arose as she realized she was now alone with Mr. Wes Thompson. She’d never been so physically affected by another person in her life. It was distracting, and it left her off balance. This is what she got for living the life of a nun for the last year—she had the internal reactions of a teenager when faced with a handsome man.
Edit that, a handsome, sexy man. No, no, a handsome, sexy, muscular… Macy had to force herself to focus. She needed her brain right now and it appeared her libido had taken control of the ship.
Wes walked from behind his desk and towards her. She took a reflexive step back, but he put his hand on the back of her shoulder to gently pivot her focus to the wall of the office. Her nerve endings all jumped in response. What was her problem? She couldn’t really feel his fingertips through her suit coat and her silk blouse, but she swore each finger sent a jolt to her skin. Out of nowhere, and instantly, this man thawed what she’d had packed away in the ice box for ages. Since leaving Phil, she had no interest in any entanglements.
Wes’s light touch moved to her shoulder blade to guide her to where he wanted her to direct her focus. “Here, these pictures on the wall will give you a little bit of history. My dad was the original owner, but things have gone to pot. I’d really like to see if there’s something to salvage here if WLUV can be profitable.”
Macy looked at several framed black and white pictures on the wall. A kid’s clown show, a cooking show, a weatherman doing his forecast outside on a chalkboard, a couple of white guys with giant collars and mustaches… either these were all nostalgic photos from the early days, or they were photos of the cast of Anchor Man. “Great pictures, I can see why the station is important to you and your family.”