by Liz Newman
“Why not wine?”
“A bottle of Mollet Florian Sancerre Roc De L’abbaye,” he ordered.
“I’ll check and see if we have that,” the waitress replied.
“If not, just bring me your best Sauvignon Blanc.”
The bistro filled with patrons as the waitress made her way to the wine rack. She searched the bottles, checking her notepad.
Skye folded the newspaper. “You know your wines.”
Charlie looked at the waitress.
“She doesn’t,” he paused, watching the waitress struggle with the order. “Well, this isn’t the Four Seasons; is it? How about a side bet? If she comes back without it, you give me your phone number?”
“Now you’re being a little too forward. So, take your guess.”
“You’re on TV. That’s obvious.”
Skye looked impassive and propped her head on her hand.
“I give up,” Charlie said. “I’m buying.”
The waitress returned with a bottle of wine from a California vintner, and Charlie nodded his approval. As the waitress poured, Charlie chatted about rock music, his quest to get back in shape, and his favorite cars. Despite the latte, Skye yawned and wondered if the piece of parsley stuck in his teeth would embarrass him. Toward the end of the meal, Skye thought about her afternoon editing work. He paid the check, and they left.
“Are you going to tell me who you are?” he asked outside the bistro.
“I’m Skye Evans. From the news show.”
“A pleasure to lunch with you. Now, about our side bet.”
“I didn’t agree to that,” Skye smiled. “I’ll take your card.”
He handed her an engraved card. “Now it’s goodbye, Charlie.”
He smiled, took her hand and kissed it, and then walked away. She watched his back for a minute, charmed by the way he stuffed his hands into his sweatpants pockets like a schoolboy. As she walked home, she took out his card: Charlie Meyer. His looked well-heeled and pampered. A horn blared, and she looked up as a cabbie weaved in and out of traffic. She stepped forward to cross, and a sedan barreled through in apparent road rage, pursuing the cab and almost striking her. She jumped back onto the curb. She was furious and terrified. Just then, she looked up at a billboard that read Bartholomew Meyer Financial Services; Live the Life You’ve Always Dreamed Of. The rage gave way to an unfamiliar feeling of relief, almost tranquility.
“Heir to the Meyer fortune,” she whispered.
***
Alfred met Skye in the sleek lobby of a restaurant between Lexington and Park Avenue. A piano played My Funny Valentine. A singer lying atop a white baby grand, her skin gleaming like molten gold, leaned forward into the microphone and crooned.
“Mr. Millingham,” the maître d’ smiled and clapped his hands.
“A pleasure to have you dining with us again. Annette, please seat Mr. Millingham and Miss Evans at his favorite table.” Annette nodded, and Alfred took Skye’s arm and led her to a table by the window. When he passed a mirror, he smooth his newly transplanted, thick white hair.
Annette unfolded two cloth napkins and placed them on Skye and Alfred’s laps.
“Tonight, the chef has created an array of seasonal dishes. I am pleased to recommend the consommé of autumn vegetables with a root terrine and the duck confit with ginger-lacquered endive salad. Phillipe will serve you.”
The beautiful Annette glided away.
The sommelier poured a sip of pinot into Alfred’s glass. He observed the color and clarity, swirled it, sniffed and sipped it. He nodded at the sommelier, who filled their glasses and bowed, retreating behind gold leaf paneled walls. After a sip, Skye mentioned her chance meeting with Charlie Meyer that morning.
“Ah, yes. I know his father, Bartholomew Meyer,” Alfred said. “We belonged to the same country club for many years. I was acquainted with him; but he was a golfer, and I’m an avid tennis player and do not care for golf. Now he has his own private country club, if you will, at his estate. I believe Lorraine occasionally plays bridge with his wife. I remember she said he had three sons, the eldest, Albert, graduated from Wharton and has been groomed to take over the company, and the middle son, Herbert. is affectionately dubbed Herbie.”
“As if being a middle child isn’t tragic enough,” Skye smiled.
“The youngest, Charles, is not in such good favor.”
Skye choked and cleared her throat. “Really. Is that so?”
“He dropped out of Rutgers, and I believe he now lives off the remainder of his trust. He is what they called in my day a playboy, or a dandy. Are you considering dating this young man?”
“I have my doubts.”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a place to advise you. Love comes to us when we least expect it, from whom we least expect it. I’ve learned that in all my years. Lorraine was always a good wife and mother, but sometimes a man needs more. I’m sorry to say so, but it’s the truth. Lorraine and I are getting a divorce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Skye said. “If you will be happier in the long run, that is how it should be.”
“I’ve found love with someone who is perfectly imperfect. If I were a woman, I’m not so sure I would be so lenient with my standards. I believe that history has taught women not to be.” He folded his hands and looked at Skye. “I worked to take care of Lorraine’s every need. She wanted to continue working, even after I made my fortune, but I thought it best that she devote her life to our children. And now look at us, warring in an ugly divorce, my children hate me, when I have raised them with the best of everything. Lorraine accused me of stealing the best years of her life. She wanted to build a career rather than take care of others, and all while those years were the most difficult of mine.” He took out his handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “Excuse me, dear Skye, for being so emotional. Perhaps I am just getting old.”
Alfred took another sip of wine. He cleared his throat. He leaned his large frame forward as he looked at her beseechingly.
“Skye,” he began, “in 1961, I started this company with a thousand dollars—all I saved up in my accounts from working at a factory in the meat packing district. My mother and father died when I was young, leaving me with nothing. The conditions were terrible. During the summers, the stink of meat and fat sickened me, not to mention the injuries I received while I worked there. I have scars on my hands. I saved and bought two cameras, some microphones, leased a building, and hired a skeleton crew.”
“Then one day, a very young, very beautiful woman showed up at my door. She was tired of being told what questions to ask and how to ask them by her superiors at the network where she was working. Even when I sent her out on assignments, she would ask me, ‘What can we do to make this story more newsworthy to the viewer, Alfred? How can we structure this piece so that viewers won’t forget this incident tomorrow, but will want to tune in to hear more about it?’ Questioning all the while, this bright young woman, and I molded her to be one of the greatest journalists this country has ever known. Never had a female reporter become a household name until this woman and I joined forces. Perhaps some may say she would have soared without my help, but I think she and I would agree we succeeded together. Do you know who that woman is, Skye?”
Of course I do. My mother. Skye raised her glass. “To Carolyn.”
“To Carolyn.”
“Which is why I asked for a meeting with you, Skye. I have a very special favor to ask you.”
“You know I will always do my best to accommodate you,” Skye smiled.
“Denny and I are going to marry as soon as the divorce papers are signed. She is three weeks pregnant. Please keep that knowledge in confidence.” Alfred’s news seemed strange coming from an old man.
Skye stifled a giggle.
“I made a promise to Denny,” he continued, “and I am a man of my word. I will not make the same mistake twice and suffer the hatred that I bear every time I see Lorraine. Denny wants to build a name for herself before she h
as children. She wants to work and thanks to you will have the opportunity, to deliver the news regularly before she goes into labor. After that, she shouldn’t have any trouble returning to a career at any local news station she wishes to go to. Hopefully, she will not want to return to work. A woman like Denny is far too gentle for the working world.”
“I’m sorry,” Skye shook her head. “There was no question asked. What opportunity am I providing her?”
“Denny will be replacing you as an anchor on Around The Clock one night a week; with your blessing, of course. You will be paid the same salary, enjoy all the same benefits, but you will be behind the scenes doing the writing only for one night a week and anchoring the remaining four. For only a short while, Skye. And it will always be your show.”
“If I recall correctly, my mother changed her last name to Chase at your request. You said her last name, Chang, was ‘too ethnic.’ Now, you’re asking me, on the show that bears my name, to allow someone else to sit in my anchor’s chair. Let’s not forget that someone else happens to be your pregnant fiancé. I may be a bit seasoned for this business, but this sounds like oh, how do I put this delicately,” Skye waved her fork around in the air. “A sell-out, Alfred. You want me to sell out my show.”
“Absolutely not, Skye. Your mother and I agreed that her name should be changed. Her parents never supported her endeavor as a journalist to even warrant the honor of making her given last name infamous. That is true. And it was a simple matter of practicality. We didn’t want to alienate our audience. Once they tuned in, they were mesmerized by her reporting style. They cared only about her reporting, not what her last name really was. I made her into a star, a household name. The competition is saturated, Skye, and there are a dozen other news stations applying for licenses to broadcast. Which is why you must choose to step aside for one night a week, so I can mold you into a superstar, and at the same time appease the woman soon to be the mother of my child.”
Skye stabbed at the leaves of her salad, driving the tines mercilessly through a slice of purple radish that vaguely resembled a heart. “I’m failing to see any choice being offered here.” She smiled a smile carefully honed to draw any aggressive connotations out of her statement. Phillipe appeared at the table, but upon hearing Skye’s grim tone, faded once again into the background of the restaurant.
“I have always admired you, Skye,” he said. “You are one of the finest journalists ever to grace the screen, and you have the fire. Perhaps you will consider letting me treat you to a vacation until this matter holds less of a sting. A very good friend of mind, Signora Cecilia Luciana, has extended an offer numerous times to host me or any of my dearest friends at her villa in the countryside just outside Rome. I spoke with her recently and received her blessing, and I am offering the villa to you. You are welcome to stay there, for as long as you’d like. The staff will cater to your every whim. Take a vacation, Skye.”
Phillipe placed their main courses on the table. “I appreciate the offer, Alfred,” Skye responded as she murdered a sliver of duck. “I’d like to continue to work.” And to make sure the show doesn’t get run into the ground because a melon-breasted amateur sits in the anchor’s chair.
The revolving door to the building spun swiftly as Skye pushed on a panel of glass to exit onto the city streets. Night had fallen, and Skye stormed toward the curb, the familiar feelings of rage coursing through her body. A crowd of tourists passed, pointing at Jardines and peering into the windows at the rich and famous dining there. “Take a vacation,” she muttered as soon as she was certain they were out of earshot. “Push me out with a goddamn vacation.” A litany of swear words escaped her lips. A man cleared his throat, and she turned to find a lone valet standing at a podium.
“Ma’am,” he said. “If someone offered me a vacation, I’d take it.”
“That’s why you’re a parking attendant,” Skye growled under her breath. She waved her hand up high and hailed a cab. A taxi pulled to the curb and she settled into the backseat. The smell of strange human bodies and sweet mildew filled her nose as she shut the door. Her cell phone rang, and the country code for England popped up, followed by a set of unfamiliar numbers. “Skye Evans,” she grumbled.
“Hello, Skye.”
“Dad?” Skye had not spoken to her father in years. “How are you?” A mixture of excitement and despair shadowed her voice, but her heart was flooded with gratitude to receive a call, even from her estranged father at such a dark hour.
“I’ve seen better days. My doctor diagnosed me with a bloody melanoma.” The way her father spoke in his British accent gave his affliction an almost pleasant, elegant sound. “They plucked four areas on my back right out and say it’s likely to relapse. Don’t you worry, love. Your poppa’s going to be just fine. Perhaps you can take a trip to London soon.”
Skye’s lungs tightened, and a tinge of fear welled up in her stomach. “I wish I could. The show needs me now, more than ever. I’ll tell you all about it later. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
“Of course.” Talon Evans became tense and rushed at the sound of the emotion in her voice. He sighed as Skye relayed her dinner conversation with Alfred. “Your mother would be the one to ask for advice on that. She knows how Alfred thinks. Is she well?”
“She’s fine. I’m spending Thanksgiving with her in Connecticut. If I share anything with her about Teleworld, she’ll place a call. It’s embarrassing. But it’s nice,” she said as her eyes moistened, “hearing your voice. We should talk more. Catch up.”
“If that’s what you’d like,” Talon said. “Maybe you can fly over the pond and visit. Or I’ll come to you when this skin thing is straightened out.”
Skye mused aloud about visiting London in a few months. They said their goodbyes and as she hung up, she recalled the years that went by when she was a teenager after the divorce, and the perfunctory phone calls from her father, and the unanswered letters she wrote to him. Talon handled confrontation poorly. Skye learned this at an early age, from hearing her mother talk about problems with her father. Talon would lock himself in his study with a bottle of brandy, and when he emerged hours later he would reply yes, yes, yes to anything Carolyn wished to discuss. The tactic proved faulty in long run, as the marriage failed. Skye quelled her feelings about the divorce by throwing herself into her studies.
Things cannot get any worse, Skye thought as she ended the call. A nagging feeling told her she was wrong.
Chapter Three
On Monday morning, the bridal shop on Forty-Fifth Street hummed with the swish of dresses, freed from their plastic moors and displayed to sighing brides-to-be surrounded by their mothers. Brash married sisters and future bridesmaids sipped champagne, and many flashed alarmed looks at each other as they glanced at the price tags of bridesmaids’ gowns. Even a puritan would feel a little dirty coming in from the streets of New York City into this world of velvet carpeting, oval pedestals, and flowing white curtains cascading from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and simulated candlelight radiating from wall sconces and crystal chandeliers.
Tabitha overcame her nagging feeling of impurity by reminding herself that every modern woman must feel the same way in front of these giant mirrors where the ghosts of virgins past stared back at her. She gleamed as an assistant gently pulled a strapless gown over her body, its narrow, flowing skirt glistening at her feet like a pool of pearls. Her regal shoulders emerged from the fitted, crystal-encrusted bodice.
“Gorgeous,” a sales woman gushed. “For hundreds of years, this bridal shop has fit only the most affluent women of the highest society. This dress defines you. Stunning, yet elegant, and very upper-class. Do you feel as beautiful as you look?”
Tabitha turned from side to side in the wedding gown as she imagined herself at her wedding ceremony, all eyes on her in adoration when she appeared at the end of the aisle clutching a huge bouquet of red roses and wearing Jonas’ late grandmother’s antique diamond necklace.
“Take all the time you need,” the saleswoman said, refilling their champagne glasses.
The rest of the girls and Tabitha’s mother wandered off to select bridesmaids’ dresses, leaving Tabitha alone with her closest friend, Nadine.
“I love it,” Nadine said. “You are going to make the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. Your guest list is so impressive. A-list artists, actors, celebrities. I wish it wouldn’t be so gauche to bring an autograph book.”
“Don’t you dare,” Tabitha admonished, her green eyes flashing.
“You know I wouldn’t. If I get drunk enough I might steal a page out of your guest book,” Nadine joked.
“None of them are my friends. They all love Jonas. Celebrities aren’t rushing to hobnob with a poor girl from South Jersey.”
“Skye Evans is coming, isn’t she?”
“She hasn’t returned the response card. The one person I invited on my side that’s a somebody treats me like a nobody. She was my best friend in college.”
Nadine blinked, and her brows furrowed. “How rude.”
“I have an idea,” Tabitha picked up her cell phone and dialed a number.
”Skye Evans, please? This is Tabitha Simon. No, I already left a message last week and I haven’t heard back. Yes, I’ll hold.”
To Nadine, she whispered, “I’m going to ask her to be my maid of honor.”
She spoke back into the phone, “I’m still here. That’s fine. I’ll take her voicemail. Actually, ask her if she’d like to be my maid of honor. I’ll hold. Fine, ask her to call me back. Thanks.”
In the depths of the mirror, behind Tabitha’s reflection, Darlene, her frumpy mother, bumped into mannequins, annoying patrons as she made her way toward Tabitha with her arms full of bargain basement selections. Darlene whispered to the saleslady, a worried look crossing her features, and then ambled over to Tabitha and said, “It’s nice, but maybe you should try something more reasonable.”
Darlene held up a hideously dated concoction of mesh and lace. Tabitha pushed the dress away.