Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  “I’m getting married, not singing Like A Virgin.” Tabitha handed a credit card over to the saleswoman.

  “My fiancé’s.”

  The saleswoman looked at the name on the card, nodding her head. “A very fine man.”

  She motioned to her assistants to commission the dress and thanked Tabitha and her party profusely, although slightly grimacing as she shook Darlene’s hand.

  With the dressing room curtains closed, Tabitha donned a finely tailored suit and tied a Hermes scarf around her neck. She hugged her friends and mother goodbye, hailed a cab, and as she rode toward her destination, she removed a copy of Stuart Little from her briefcase. She traced the picture of the little mouse on a motorcycle, opening the book and reading silently.

  At the YMCA in Hell’s Kitchen, Tabitha read aloud from Stuart Little, to the delight of the children crowded about her feet.

  “Stuart gunned his little red motorcycle. P-b-b-b-b-b!” She pursed her mouth and flapped her lips as she pushed her breath through them, in a tempo she knew the children loved. They laughed wildly.

  “Excuse me!” an aerobics instructor yelled from across the room. His purple headband matched his complexion and seemed to crush his forehead like a vice grip. Members of his class stood around him with their hands on their hips. “Your time is up!”

  The children rose and slung their backpacks over their shoulders. Music blared from the speakers as the aerobics class rushed onto the floor.

  “All right, let’s go!” the instructor shouted, to the children as well as his class members.

  Herding the children away from the onslaught of Jazzercise junkies eager to get their fix, Tabitha accompanied them to the reception area and hugged them each in turn.

  After a guardian picked up the last child, Tabitha packed up her briefcase and exited the building. Her cell phone rang.

  “Hi Tabby.” Skye typed furiously on her computer, and then waved a document at her secretary, Clarissa, and tearing open a manila envelope with a memo from Gibbs.

  “My call time is in two hours and I’m still writing for the show. I’d love to be your maid of honor, but I’m overcommitted with work. I’m really sorry.”

  “Oh, please Skye,” Tabitha pleaded. “You’d fit right in with Jonas’ friends and I promise you wouldn’t have to do anything at all. Just show up to the rehearsal and the wedding, that’s all. Please.”

  “I know I’m going to come up short on this. You should pick someone else, Tabby. You deserve the best wedding.”

  “Skye, please. You know, I always heard if someone asked you to be in a wedding you should never turn them down. Especially your best friend.”

  Skye sighed in resignation.

  “All right. Please send Clarissa all the details.”

  She hung up the phone and read the memo before her in disbelief. What, Gibbs wrote, is sitting in your anchor’s chair? Why isn’t It dressed?

  Dashing down the hallway, she flung herself into the elevator and stood beside a broad-shouldered man in a tailored suit. She dialed her access code and pressed the number to the studio floor. Her head filled with blood and her temples pulsed as if they were about to explode. She clutched the sides of her head and wobbled.

  “Signorina,” the man in the suit said. “Are you feeling unwell?” He spoke with a thick Italian accent. Her heartbeat slightly quickened.

  “No,” said Skye. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  The elevator doors opened and Skye sprung toward the studio floor. The man’s voice stopped her.

  “Signorina, if you may help me, I am looking for Mister Alfred Millingham. His assistant said he would be here, but I do not know my way around.”

  He gestured around the floor, filled with dark corridors and thick carpeted walls.

  “Would a lovely lady be kind enough to take me to him?”

  “His assistant sent you up here? That’s strange. Visitors aren’t allowed on this floor.”

  “I am a good friend of Signora Cecilia Luciana.”

  “What’s your business with Alfred?”

  “I am coming to tell him that the Signora has fallen ill and is on her way back to Rome tonight. The rest of the party I am traveling with shall leave for Boston tomorrow, and return to New York for the weekend. We shall all meet for dinner then.”

  He paused. He looked at Skye with soft, brown eyes. “Forgive me if I am being forward, but it would please me if you would join us.”

  She looked him over. He was very handsome, and he maintained an aura of quiet luxury. But she didn’t have the time or the energy to waste entertaining his affections, not now.

  “That’s very kind of you. Unfortunately, I have other engagements.” She looked him over again.

  “Perhaps you can take some time off, as you say in America.” He slipped his hands in his coat pockets, and his lips curled into a tight-lipped, sensual smile. The draw of Denny Moss in her anchor’s chair was far too great to keep her mesmerized. Sliding her body over the wall as she sneaked to the corner of the hallway, and peeking into the glass panel separating the corridor from the studio, she watched Denny smile smugly in the anchor’s chair, with the Around The Clock with Skye Evans logo emblazoned on the wall behind her. Skye’s eyes burned as she ducked back into the elevator foyer.

  “I’m sorry, what was your name again?” she asked.

  “Le mie scuse,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Sal Olivieri.”

  She dug her fingernails into the sleeve of his coat. “Sal,” she said, repeating his name. “Come with me.” Leading him to the glass wall of the studio, she pointed at Denny. “See that chair, Sal? Just a day ago, that was my show. Mine. A show I slaved to earn. There’s another woman in that chair now. A woman who used to come to the studio only to bring in coffee. Do you know what that tells me, Sal?”

  Keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets, Sal spread his elbows out wide and raised his eyebrows in question.

  “That tells me that even though I’ve given blood, sweat, and tears to this place, what I have worked so hard to build will never feel safe. And I’m tired,” she said as she brought her hand to the tip of her nose, fanning herself, and narrowed her eyes, prohibiting the tears from running down her cheeks. “Taking time off isn’t in the cards for me.” She shook his hand vigorously, her brow furrowed with worry. “It was very nice to meet you, Sal.” She pressed the elevator call button and shoved him back inside. “Alfred’s assistant can schedule this kind of thing for you. I’m very busy, and so is Alfred.”

  Ignoring her efforts to dispose of him, the Italian stepped out of the elevator and stood before her. “Signorina. Will you give me the pleasure of telling me your name?”

  “Look, guido, why don’t you just watch TBC tonight and find out?” She shoved him back into the elevator, turned away and stomped down the hall, throwing open the door to her studio. Denny sat in front of the glass partition in the anchor’s chair, her breasts spilling out of a crimson red silk shirt. A young cameraman, besotted by Denny’s voluptuous frame, peered eagerly into his camera lens.

  “You’re so…so photogenic,” the cameraman stuttered.

  Skye approached her. “Denny, you’re not on tonight,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “I know,” Denny said. “I’m just trying to get my bearings.”

  Gibbs approached the anchor’s chair and grinned at Skye. “I hope you’ve familiarized yourself with this spot. It’s time to work on Skye’s shot and do a run-through.”

  “Thank you,” Denny squeaked and hugged Gibbs. “I’m so excited for tomorrow night!”

  Denny tottered away on her stiletto heels and Skye turned to Gibbs, “You’re really torturing me, you know that?”

  “Quid pro quo, Starling. You’ve got to admit that was funny. We’ve already pinpointed the breast shot for her,” laughed Gibbs. “I’m sorry. The breast…the best shot. God, why do I keep saying that?”

  “Now you’re really asking for it, Gibbs.
Tomorrow, in the office, at seven in the morning. I need your help for the reel I’m submitting for consideration for The Edward Morrow Award. Be there or take this as your warning.” She gave him a playful yet piercing look.

  “I’ll do the breast job you’ve ever seen,” he joked. She shook her head, and preparations for the evening show began.

  ***

  Jonas and Tabitha watched Around The Clock with Skye Evans that night. Taking a sip of chamomile tea, Tabitha burrowed under the covers and propped her head up on a European pillow. A lavender-scented candled glowed on their bureau.

  On the television, Skye grilled an aging former movie star arrested for assaulting a police officer after letting her fifteen-year-old son drive her to a liquor store and becoming enraged when her son was pulled over and her alcohol confiscated.

  “Miss Kelley, after being arrested six times on drunken driving charges, why do you feel justified in enlisting your son to help you continue a habit that is likely to kill you, or someone else?” Skye asked.

  “He has a learner’s permit,” Lacine Kelley responded. “As far as my attorneys are aware, there is no blood alcohol level for passengers, which is why we are suing the state of New York.”

  “In your opinion, the taxpayers of New York should be liable for your irresponsibility and for your assault on Officer Timothy Lawry,” said Skye.

  “The taxpayers of New York should be liable for not correctly defining the law in this matter,” replied Kelley’s attorney, Albert Greene.

  “We maintain that my client acted accordingly as provoked, and she is a victim of her own celebrity. The police officer in this case verbally assaulted my client, and she retaliated to that assault justifiably.”

  “So because your client hits someone, like the typical town drunk when she loses control, the state is liable. Your client has a clearly proven substance abuse problem,” Skye countered.

  “Lacine Kelley suffers from an illness called alcoholism,” Mr. Greene replied.

  “Is that the state of New York’s fault?”

  “She is caught up in a witch hunt. The New York Police Department is covering up its officer’s bad behavior by blaming a woman who clearly cannot remember what happened. She suffers from blackouts, and she is being treated for mental health problems with medications that are possible causes of these blackouts. What she is after is justice and a clarification of our state’s laws.”

  “Wild Turkey has been proven to cause blackouts as well. Coming up after the break, we’ll speak with a pro-football Hall of Famer’s family after his tragic death. Please stay tuned.”

  Jonas laughed out loud. “Now that’s talent,” he said, pointing the remote at the television screen without changing the channel. “Skye tells it like it is.”

  “She cuts to the chase. As in Carolyn Chase,” Tabitha muttered.

  “Do I sense a bit of jealousy from my little mermaid?” Jonas cooed as he tickled her sides.

  She shoved him away, hard. “Get away from me.” Tabitha snatched the remote, turning the volume down. “It’s freezing in here.”

  “Thermostat’s on seventy-two.” You’re really flushed,” Jonas said, holding a hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “Just throw me that blanket.” She wrapped it around her body, still shivering. She began coughing uncontrollably.

  ***

  The Tuesday morning sunlight shone down from the sky, its beams radiating onto the buildings of Manhattan like a kaleidoscope portal to another world. Skye met her customary town car, courtesy of TBC for the transportation of its executives, in front of her row house. She climbed in and opened a window to breathe in the crisp, early morning air. As the car made its way through her neighborhood, she watched a forklift lower its cargo of fresh fruits and vegetables at the corner market, where oranges and waxy red apples were meticulously stacked in tilted, open boxes on the sidewalk. A pickup truck lumbered around the corner, its driver hopping out and picking up stacks of flattened cardboard boxes. A shopkeeper strung sausages in the window of the neighborhood deli. A pair of office workers, laughing as if they shared a private joke, made their way from their front door to a car, balancing steaming Styrofoam cups of coffee and leather briefcases.

  In her office at Teleworld, Skye switched on her computer just as Gibbs poked his head in. “You ready?”

  Skye perused the daily news reports the interns compiled for her at the onset of daylight. “Almost.”

  Gibbs sat down heavily on a plush chair in front of Skye’s desk. Skye softly growled with annoyance and pressed a button on her computer, sending a few reports to her printer. “Last night I had a date with the executive editor at New York Magazine.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Pretty well. She wants to see me again.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks. I think. So, you’re never coming back to me, are you?”

  “I feel nothing at all for you, except love for a dear friend,” she said. “Even then, you can be a real pain in the ass.”

  Gibbs leaned forward, his hands clasped. “I promise you, this will be the last time I ever get this serious. All fun and jokes from now on, okay? I just want you to know something. I will always love you. Not because of your show, or that to me you are the most beautiful woman in the world. Not even in a romantic type of way, either, as I happen to believe that hanging on to unrequited love makes for a good psycho thriller. I want you to think of me as a friend, someone who will always look after you. Anything you need, Skye, just ask.”

  “That’s what true friends are for.” Picking up the documents from her computer, Skye shuffled through them, placing them in a manila envelope and scribbling the name of a staff writer on a black line. “Toss this in my outbox, would you?” Gibbs dutifully exited her office and placed the envelope into Clarissa’s magenta front load desk tray. Sheepishly, he returned to Skye’s office, his hands dangling by his sides as if he were trying to figure out what to do with them. He picked up an ornate crystal paperweight with the initials SLE engraved into it.

  “Where did you pick this up?”

  Skye typed stealthily on her keyboard, glancing at the paperweight Gibbs held in his hand. “I don’t remember. It was a gift from…someone.”

  “It was from me. On the sixth month anniversary of our first date.”

  Ceasing her relentless pounding on the keyboard, Skye peeked over her monitor, smiling with feigned embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Gibbs. I have so much going on right now with the show. Damn that Denny Moss. I can’t think straight anymore. I wish I had someone to talk to, to commiserate with. To have great talent, sacrifices must be made. My mother always used to say that. The first to stretch their necks on the altar were my friends. Sorry.”

  “You can always talk to me, Skye. Maybe my friendship doesn’t mean a whole lot to you, but it’s here when you need it.

  “Sweeter words have never been spoken in all of New York.” She threw her arms around Gibbs and enveloped him in a huge hug. “This is so unprofessional.”

  “So is sleeping with your cameraman. But that never stopped us.”

  “We didn’t deserve each other, Gibbs. Not at all.” Skye felt Gibbs bristle under her touch. He pulled away.

  “All right, enough of this,” he said. “What say we light some candles, take a hot bath, and talk about our feelings.”

  “Here’s my feeling; I’m going to win that Morrow Award. It’s mine. Now, let’s get to work.”

  ***

  Sal Oliveri, the Italian man whom Skye had met on the studio floor the night before, strolled down West Street in downtown Manhattan with another gentleman. Sal and his confident gait seemed reserved, compared to the swagger of his accomplice. In their sharp, tailored suits and expensive shoes, they appeared to glitter. . Everything about the gentlemen seemed calculated to attract: even the silk handkerchiefs folded neatly into their pockets, especially, and the designer sunglasses. Marcellus Aganelli wore a white Montecristi
panama hat tilted slightly. Marcellus straightened the lapels of his tailored suit, and then the two sat at an outdoor table of a restaurant.

  A waiter handed them menus and brought them espressos. Marcellus heaped two tablespoons of sugar into his and filled the rest of the small cup with cream. They spoke in Italian.

  “I’ve never seen you up this early,” Sal said.

  “What time is it in Rome, Sal?” Marcellus asked. “Around five in the afternoon?”

  Sal nodded.

  “I’m up around the usual time then.” Marcellus yawned.

  “I feel like we’ve languished here for weeks,” Sal grumbled.

  Marcellus took a sip of his espresso. “I can understand why you feel no affinity for this place. There are no dirt piles for you to amuse yourself with.”

  “I do not feel comfortable in this city. When can we go?”

  “You do not feel comfortable with yourself. But you will be you, no matter where you go. Let’s see the city. Enjoy life. Perhaps we should go to California.” Marcellus lifted his cup in a toast.

  “The Californians save all their lives to visit the Amalfi coast,” Sal said.

  “You’ll thank me for dragging you away from old surroundings,” Marcellus said. “Salud.”

  As their glasses clinked, American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into World Trade Center Tower One, the building directly behind them. Marcellus threw down his hat and rose from the table, and the pair took off running in the opposite direction, covering their heads to protect themselves from falling debris.

  Chapter Four

  At Teleworld, a technician threw open Skye’s office door and yelled, “A plane crashed into the top floor of the World Trade Center! What a freak accident!” He stampeded down the hall, knocking on doors and shouting out the news.

  Skye’s hands sweated as she met Gibb’s puzzled gaze. Top floor. I don’t know anyone who works on the top floor of the World Trade Center. Only a handful who work at the World Trade Center, but they are distant faces, barely recognizable names, most people have become pictures in a yearbook or shadows of a time in my life that no longer exists. It was an error in a flight plan, is all. The biggest botched commercial airline flight in history. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she tried to absorb the account and determine her next move.