Twenty-two
“Okay you two.” McPherson glared at Cassie and Sheila over his half glasses. “What’s going on?”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” Sheila replied as she walked calmly into McPherson’s office and sat down in one of the chairs facing him. Cassie took the other, though with less confidence. The grungy corner office was flooded with sunlight, accentuating the dirty windows and the dried-up spider plant on the windowsill.
Though McPherson was a perfectionist when it came to all things video, he barely saw the actual world around him. He would scream bloody murder if a Breaking News segment was ten seconds too long, throw a temper tantrum if some obscure fact was misstated on the show, and yet his own office was utter chaos. He could never remember the names of his secretaries, and he ran through them as he once went through cartons of unfiltered Camels. Many blamed his irascible humor on the fact that—after many decades of smoking—he had finally given up cigarettes the year before. Sheila, who’d worked with him in one capacity or another for nearly ten years, knew differently. Mac had been born dour and demanding. He was always prepared for the worst. And though many people, including Magnus, considered him one of the best executive producers in the business, he was convinced that any day, at any moment, he was going to be fired.
“Jesus, Mac,” Sheila said, pushing aside a stack of books so that she could cross her leg, “why don’t you tell Judy to get in here and clean this mess up?”
“Judy?”
“Your new secretary,” Sheila replied.
“What’s the point?” McPherson said, sighing, “she’ll be gone in a day or two. I doubt I’ll be around much longer myself. Not the way things are going. What the fuck are you two up to?”
“Can you be more specific?” Sheila demanded, meeting his sardonic gaze with perfect equanimity. “Are we just supposed to deduce from your rather vulgar accusations what you’re referring to?”
“Don’t you dare sass me,” McPherson said, glowering at her. “You know perfectly well I mean this Haas business. Political bio crap. I was almost beginning to think the two of you had a modicum of talent, a smidgen of investigative flair. And what do you come up with? Senator Haas. Not even a dirt-digging expedition. Just your typical puff pastry pastiche. Christ, Sheila, this is the kind of thing Miranda would have done. In fact, come to think of it, I remember her telling me she had something like this in mind. There were even some notes around here…” He began to pick up stacks of papers and files, then put them down again. “Somewhere.”
“Exactly,” Cassie cut in with a glance at Sheila. Cassie still hadn’t told her friend who exactly was implicated by Miranda’s disk. “She mentioned something about it to me, as well. That’s why I talked Sheila into helping me out with it. As a sort of homage—”
“To Miranda?” McPherson’s bushy, ginger-colored eyebrows shot up. He turned his faded blue gaze on Sheila. “You in on this homage routine or you have a reason of your own? Magnus wants it done to help his friend the Senator out of a tight squeeze. You realize, Cassie, don’t you, that Haas is under some fire at the moment?”
“Yes. And we’ll touch on that.”
“But lightly, right?” McPherson shook his head sadly. “Once you lie down with the lions, friends, it’s very hard to get up unscathed. Our competitors are going to take some real mean swipes at you if you go soft on Haas. Now, your Bronx school board piece. That’s good investigative reporting. Did you know the Mayor’s office has already asked for a screening tape? They’re going to have to work overtime on spin control after it airs on Thursday night.”
“We’re proud of it, too, Mac,” Sheila assured him. “And we’re going to do a terrific job on this Haas piece. We’re going to really surprise you.”
“Magnus expects a certain kind of program here, Sheila,” McPherson warned her. “I really don’t want any surprises if it means upsetting the man. So please, don’t do me any favors. I just want a straight-ahead competent job. I’m giving you a mobile unit and your own team back in the studio.” McPherson turned to Cassie. “I understand you’ll be making your on-camera debut with this one. Ever been in front before?”
“No, not really … not at all,” she concluded, meeting McPherson’s withering stare. “But I can do it. I know I can.”
“Yeah, sure.” He sighed, his gaze moving from Cassie to Sheila to Cassie again. “I just wish someone would tell me what the fuck is really going on.”
Jason decided on impulse to leave a day early and surprise Cassie. It was not the kind of thing he usually did, and his London office was thrown into a tizzy.
“But, Mr. Darin, we had a breakfast meeting scheduled with you and the new Undersecretary of Commerce. Surely you’ll not wish to break that?”
“Sorry,” Jason replied, staring out the window at the rainswept sidewalk clotted with brightly colored umbrellas. It had poured every day he’d been here. He usually didn’t notice the weather, rarely let such external circumstances affect his mood. But he’d grown irritated with this damp, foggy city and its overly correct denizens. Jason had learned over the years that despite their beautiful manners, the English could be as shrewd and grasping as any of their colonial counterparts. He never seemed able to relax totally in London, he reminded himself, as he turned from the window to face his impeccably groomed male secretary. Especially this trip, when he found his thoughts wandering in the middle of the most intense negotiations. When his body ached to be elsewhere. Cassie.
“I’m sorry, Evan,” he said, trying to sound more convincing. “I’ll call his office directly if you like and personally extend my apologies. Something’s come up at home … I’ve got to get back.” Though he really didn’t. He was letting a whim dictate his schedule. Or was it more than the impulse to surprise? In fact, something had bothered him about the way Cassie sounded the last few times they had talked on the phone. It was as if someone were standing beside her, listening in. Her tone had lost all sense of intimacy.
But surely he’d just been imagining it, he told himself as he sorted through the morning’s mail. He’d become far too sensitive lately. Cassie’s doing. Within a few short weeks of falling in love with her, she’d managed to strip away his emotional armor. He now felt exposed and vulnerable. Two nights before, he’d gone with business associates to the opera for a rather pedestrian performance of Carmen. He was horrified to find himself crying through the final tragic—and in this case, not even particularly well-sung—scene. He knew that everyone thought he’d been mourning Miranda.
In fact, he tried not to think of her. These days, that was easy. With that almost extrasensory perception that love often brings, Jason felt Cassie’s presence everywhere. He made it through his days by trying to imagine her beside him. In the taxi in from Heathrow. Sitting across from him in a little Italian restaurant in Soho. Alone at night, in his spacious corner suite at the Royalton, he found himself seeing his world through her eyes. She would think Harold such a pompous ass, Jason would tell himself as he listened to his Scottish architect go on about his plans for the underground garage in the office complex they were building in Bayshead. Or: she’d tell him to say something conciliatory to Evan because he looked so crestfallen.
“Good work on the Bristol contracts, by the way,” he told his secretary as he started to sign the letters Evan had positioned before him on the desk. “I don’t think we would have gotten that zoning approval without your efforts.”
“Thank you, sir.” It was impossible to tell from Evan’s tone if the compliment had mollified him at all. Damn the British with their stiff upper lips, Jason thought, you never knew what they were really feeling. He longed for Cassie’s honesty. The openness of her smile. What was it in her voice that had worried him? Or was it all in his imagination?
He was so impatient to be on his way that he barely glanced at the letters he signed. He was at the airport an hour earlier than necessary and managed to catch a delayed flight that landed at Ken
nedy a few minutes past ten o’clock.
He took a taxi in from the airport, fighting back a rising tide of anxiety during the whole ride. There was no reason to think anything was wrong, and yet, the closer he got to home, the more sure he was that his life was once again spinning out of control. The night air was thick with heat and exhaust, the low cloud cover lit with an unnatural-looking pink—like cotton candy. As he paid the taxi driver, he realized that he was sweating heavily, and the bills he handled were damp and warm.
The side windows of the town house were dark, but as he let himself in the front door he saw light coming from the library. He dropped his two bags in the foyer and quietly followed the noise of the television down the hall. The late news from the Magnus network flickered on the screen, casting an eerie pall across the two figures asleep on the couch. He gathered his daughter in his arms and carried her up to bed without waking her.
“Cassie,” he said, coming back downstairs and sitting beside her. He studied her face. She was dreaming, her eyelids fluttering, her lips forming silent words. He leaned toward her, gently brushing her hair off her temple. Her skin felt sticky, almost feverish.
“Hey, I’m home,” he said, gently shaking her shoulder. “Surprise.”
Her eyes flashed open. For a second she stared up at him, terrified, still trapped in unconsciousness, struggling to escape. Then she saw him. And she screamed.
Twenty-three
Jason read the New York Times review aloud at the breakfast table the next morning after Heather had left for school: “‘Breaking News Toughens Up. Known of late for its sensationalist supermarket-tabloidlike stories and celebrity interviews, tonight’s Breaking News segment called “Spare the Child” comes as a welcome surprise. With investigative honesty and a hard-hitting style, the piece offers a look at a scandal-ridden high school in the Bronx. Although P.S. 196 has been extensively covered in the print press and on evening news broadcasts, Breaking News takes us into the battered playgrounds and stripped-down schoolrooms to talk to the true victims of this continuing urban crime: the kids. The result is a powerfully moving portrait of the lives of these deprived young people, most of whom come from broken homes, many of whom see little hope in their future. Sensitively directed and beautifully produced, “Spare the Child” is first-rate journalism, a piece that not only forces us to face a certain truth, but also provokes us into wanting to change it. If this is the direction Breaking News intends to take in the future, I say lead on.’
“Well, congratulations.”
“I don’t believe it. Here, I need to read it myself,” Cassie said, reaching for the newspaper. As she buried herself in its pages she realized that she had found just one more place to hide from Jason. She’d been avoiding him in one way or another since his unexpected return. It was ironic: before, it was she who was constantly urging him to talk, open up. Now their roles were reversed.
“Cassie, quiet, shh—what in the world were you dreaming?” he’d said, pulling her to him the night before. He had no idea yet that her nightmare was still continuing, though she sat rigid and unyielding in his arms.
“I don’t remember,” she lied, fighting the desire to relax and be held. He smelled so familiar. He felt so warm and strong. She longed to close her eyes and forget everything she suspected, but she couldn’t. Almost every night now, Cassie woke from the same terrible dream: she wasn’t just drowning, somebody was pushing her underwater, holding her down. That person, she now realized, was Jason.
“Sometimes it’s better to talk about nightmares,” Jason told her gently. “What was it? You can tell me…” He started to kiss her temple, run his hands through her hair.
“No.” She pulled away and swung her legs to the floor. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m really pretty shook.”
“Come on, let’s go up,” he said, standing and holding out his hand.
Pleading exhaustion, she’d been able to keep him from her bed, but she knew he sensed something was wrong. With Haas and Magnus it had been easy—almost exhilarating—to pretend to be something she wasn’t. She was able to hide her anger and suspicions behind a professional manner, leaving them no reason to suspect her motives. But with Jason, every move she made seemed patently false. Haas and Magnus had made her nervous, but Jason made her afraid. Each time he touched her, every look he gave her deepened the dread.
“This is great,” she said as she folded the paper. “Mac’s going to be forced to be pleased for once. And Sheila really deserves some praise. I hope you don’t mind, by the way, but I invited the whole crew here tonight to watch the broadcast.”
“Sure, but—didn’t you think I was coming back tonight?”
“I don’t plan the programming, Jason. Breaking News happens to air on Thursday nights.”
He stared at her for a moment, then said, “You sounded just like Miranda then.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, realizing suddenly how she could keep him at bay. It was almost as if Miranda were whispering in her ear: Pretend you’re me, darling. Act ambitious, selfish. Flaunt your success. He’ll be furious, of course. But isn’t that better than being suspicious?
“Just that you don’t sound like yourself, Cassie. And you seem, well, edgy. Is something wrong? Have I done something—or not done something? Tell me. I really hate this feeling.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cassie replied evenly. “Perhaps it’s jet lag, Jason. Everything seems a little unreal after a long flight across the ocean. I’ve got to run. See you tonight. We’ll all come up from work around seven-thirty. Oh, and thanks so much for the jam,” she added, tapping the decorative little jar—one of two dozen—that Jason had brought back with him from London. Then she dropped her napkin on the table and hurried out of the room.
“Mac.” Jason shook the editor’s hand. “Good to see you again. Sounds like a terrific show.”
“Yeah, at least we’ve done one thing we can be proud of,” Mac replied, then added morosely, “it’s going to be hard to beat.”
The rest of the Breaking News crew was gathered around the boxes of take-out pizza, bowls of tossed green salad, and bucket of iced beer that Henrietta had set up on a folding table at the far end of the library. Jason, who vaguely recognized most of the guests, knew only Mac by name. After their initial exchange, Jason could think of nothing further to say, and they stared across the room at the noisy, happy crowd around the buffet for several minutes.
“Beautiful woman, that Cassie,” Mac finally got out. “Of course, no one could touch Miranda when it came to looks. But I’m excited to have Cassie on board.”
“I thought nothing excited you anymore, Mac.” Jason laughed, trying to hide the rush of pride he felt at the editor’s praise. Yes, Cassie was beautiful. He watched her talking animatedly to a short wiry brunette, her blond head bent to listen to the other woman’s words, her mouth set in a tight line of concentration. He regretted the awkward scene between them that morning, and his thoughtless words. He had to remember not to criticize Miranda in front of Cassie, not to show his bitterness or anger.
“Yeah, well, you know we were hit pretty hard by Miranda’s death,” Mac was explaining. Jason turned his attention back to what the editor was saying. “And I know we’re all jumping to conclusions. But, publicity-wise, even I’ve gotta admit it would be great. A coup.”
“I’m sorry, but I lost you somewhere. What would be a coup?”
“Cassie,” Mac replied. “She’ll be hosting her own piece on Senator Haas. And if she can pull it off, between you and me I know Magnus has something more permanent in mind.”
Jason felt his heart go cold. “What’s the Haas thing about? You have an angle on this fund-raising business of Ruthie Nester’s?”
“I only wish.” Mac sighed. “Nah, it’s nothing like that. Unfortunately it’s going to be very flattering. You know, Vance is a big pal of the Senator’s. Personally I’d love to nail th
e son of a bitch. But, hey, I also want to keep my job.”
“This Vance’s idea, then?”
“No, actually, I heard Cassie came up with it. Apparently Miranda left her some notes or something. I’m a little disappointed after this Bronx piece, but it will give her a chance to get her feet wet in front of the camera. I’d say she’s got a future, that gal…”
By the time Breaking News came on, the party was in full swing. Charles had set up all the house television sets—five altogether—around the room, and the crew gathered in front of them to watch weeks of work flicker across the screens for less than an hour.
“Hello, everyone!” A familiar baritone sounded down the hall as the credits for the Bronx segment scrolled up the screen. Dressed in black tie, brandishing a magnum of champagne, Magnus made a grand entrance into the library.
“Who invited him?” Cassie asked under her breath.
“I’m sorry, I saw him in the lobby as I was leaving,” Sheila whispered. “I told you I couldn’t resist him in black tie.”
“Watch yourself,” Cassie warned, seeing the flush of anticipation on Sheila’s face.
“Don’t worry. Like, I’m a big girl now, okay?” But it wasn’t Sheila to whom Magnus presented the champagne or whom he held in an extended embrace.
“My dear, I am so proud,” Magnus said as he finally let Cassie go. “The piece was terrific. And so are you.”
“I hardly did it alone, Vance,” Cassie replied, blushing and taking a step back. “Everybody here deserves a lot of praise.”
“Of course,” Magnus replied, unwiring the bottle. The cork flew across the room, landing near Jason. “To Breaking News,” Magnus cried, holding up a glass and smiling at Cassie.
“Got a sec?” Jason asked, taking Magnus’s elbow almost an hour later. With increasing anxiety, he’d been watching Magnus monopolize Cassie’s attention. Each time Jason tried to catch Cassie’s eye, she’d turn with seemingly renewed interest back to Magnus. If Jason didn’t know Cassie better, he would think she was actually flirting with the man.
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