Whatever. We won’t find any answers in Soup ‘N’ Salad. I’ve got to go back to work. Like they say, just do it. And instantly I see what to just do. The message light on my cell phone is flashing, so I punch in the code to get my messages. I hear the beep and then the voice.
Melanie.
“Hello, Melanie,” I say, voice on a tightrope, attempting to keep the worry out of my tone. To be safe, I decided to come back to the office to call her. My cell-phone battery hates me, and I refuse to give it the satisfaction of dying in the middle of my conversation. “It’s Charlie McNally, returning your call. Is everything all right?”
“Thanks, Charlie.” I hear a little exhale, as if maybe she’s smoking. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” I say. Melanie has something to tell me. Maybe it’s something good, like Brad’s big secret. But maybe it’s something bad, like Aztratech lawyers with a federal warrant demanding the box of stolen files.
“Well, I was going through some of Bradley’s things, you know?”
“Yes,” I say, relieved. No warrant. “Go on.”
“I finally got into his e-mail,” she begins again. “He had a separate password. I hadn’t known about it. But I tried—” she pauses “—I tried ‘Moondance.’ It was our wedding song. And that was it. So I suppose I was just looking to see if…I don’t know. But I found a copy of that e-mail he sent you,” she continues. “And it appears he sent copies of it to two other people.”
My heart revs. He’d better not have e-mailed any other reporters.
“Two other people?” I say, trying to keep my voice level. What if he sent it to other reporters? “Can you—just tell me their names?”
A pause. “Well, Charlie, I don’t know,” she says. “If Brad wanted to keep it private, maybe it should stay that way.”
I slap my palm against my forehead in frustration, and try to transmit persuasive telepathic messages to her through the phone wires. Tell. Me. The NAMES.
“Whatever you say, Melanie,” I begin out loud, trying the reporter’s faithful reverse-psychology ploy. “No pressure.” Shifting gears, I move in for the takedown. “But I thought you wanted to know what happened to your husband, and I was just thinking those other two people would have some ideas. In fact, maybe they could really help you.” And me, and our possible big story, I don’t add.
Melanie doesn’t answer, and I hope she’s considering my unassailable logic. Finally, I hear a little sigh.
“Got a pencil?” she asks.
I sit up straight and hold the phone to my ear with one hand. With the other, I write the names I’m hoping will be our key to success.
“Okay, got it,” I say. “Let me just repeat to make sure I’m correct. You said, Joshua Gelston? And Mack Briggs? Briggs with two Gs? Mack like Mack truck?”
“Right,” Melanie confirms.
“Do you know who these people are?” It could be they already know what Brad wanted to tell me, that’s for sure. I’ll just get in touch with them, and the mystery will be solved.
“Pssst.” I cover the phone mouthpiece and hiss to get Franklin’s attention without letting Melanie know. “Mela-nie,” I mouth her name noiselessly.
Franklin wrinkles his forehead; he doesn’t get it. I scrawl her name on a piece of paper and hold it up. Now Franklin’s interested. He gets off his phone call and rolls closer to my desk.
“What does she want?” he whispers.
I glare at him. Why do people think it’s easier to have two conversations at once if one person is whispering?
Meanwhile, I’ve missed part of what Melanie is trying to tell me.
“I’m so sorry, someone came to the door,” I fib. “You said, what again?”
“Briggs, no, I’ve never heard of him,” Melanie answers.
So much for the easy solution.
“Josh Gelston, though,” she continues. “I think he’s someone Brad met at a dinner party. A teacher, or something.”
“Can you read me their e-mail addresses?” I ask.
I hear some clicking on the other end.
“I apologize, Charlie,” Melanie finally says. “But I don’t see any addresses. Do you honestly think you could find out if these people know anything? I’d be terribly grateful if you could tell me what Brad may have confided to them.”
Her voice sounds so beseeching, so needy. Of course, she’s still deeply in mourning. Looking for explanations. And I’m thrilled to be able to help her. I feel just like Nancy Drew, only a whole lot older and without the blue roadster. I can’t wait to start working on this.
“Give me a little time,” I reply. “Let me see what I can come up with.”
Charlie McNally, girl detective, on the way to get some answers. I’m buzzing up the turnpike, high on journalism, wishing my Jeep had a convertible top to put down.
There was no Mack Briggs in my Internet database, but there was an instant hit on one Joshua Ives Gelston, no DOB listed, head of the English department at the oh-so-exclusive Bexter Academy. I know that’s the revered alma mater of countless moguls, hotshots, corporate patricians and even a few presidents. The school’s Web site says he’s been on the faculty for years, adviser to the honor society and Latin club, and director of the school’s drama program. Sounds like an interesting old coot, but his world seems completely alien to Brad Foreman’s accounting/pharmaceutical universe. Wonder what they have in common?
I carefully lift my steaming latte-to-go from the Jeep’s cup holder and take a few sips while I plan my approach.
Obstacle number one: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. If Bexter Academy has guards, or a locked gate, that may present a problem. I’m envisioning driving blithely in, parking somewhere, sauntering into some easily recognizable building and finding Gelston’s office. My plan doesn’t include rent-a-cops.
Obstacle number two: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. So even though it’s a school day, it’s possible Gelston’s not even there. I shake my head, dismissing the negative vibes. My plan doesn’t include disappointment.
I put my latte back, carefully keeping my eyes on the road the way you’re supposed to, and wonder yet again whether I should have called first. But, after debating the issue with Franklin, I decided to take my chances.
Giving a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I turn the Jeep up Bexter’s winding maple-lined driveway. I have to drive slowly, the draping canopy of crimson leaves making it more like dusk than daytime. As I emerge from the shadows, a blast of sunshine flares into my line of sight.
When my vision clears, I’ve obviously been teleported into a photo shoot for some documentary on the lives of the rich and preppy. Impossibly adorable mop-haired teenagers perch on artfully whitewashed fences; other youngsters sprawl fetchingly on the manicured lawn. I wince in momentary confusion, startled, as something metallic shimmers just over my car’s path. It’s a Frisbee. A tawny-haired, argyle-sweatered boy lifts a languid hand as he retrieves it from beside the road.
Still a little unnerved from the close encounter, I steer the Jeep into a space marked Visitors. I push the gearshift into Park, which knocks the lid off my latte, spilling the last dregs of my coffee onto the passenger seat.
I scrounge into the console for my stash of napkins, remembering, too late, I used the last of them after Botox threw up on the way to the vet. All that’s in there now is my disposable camera (for insurance purposes in case I get in a crash), and about a million forks and straws. In case I’m stranded someplace where they don’t have forks and straws. As I’m cleaning up with a page from my reporter notebook, there’s a knock at my car window.
As I buzz it down, I see Frisbee Boy (even more photogenic close up) leaning in and looking repentant. “Sorry I almost nailed you,” he apologizes engagingly. “Can I help you with anything?”
And that’s why, a few minutes later, I’m knocking on the burnished oak door of Landman Hall, room 117.
“Come in!” I hear. My stomach gives a litt
le maybe-there’s-a-good-story flutter. I step into possibility.
Gelston has his back to me as I enter his office. “May I help you?” he says, without turning around. He’s standing behind a battered but beautiful old wooden desk, and looks as if he’s trying to find something in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
“Hello, Mr., uh, Professor Gelston?” I put on my humble and needy voice. “I’m Charlotte McNally from…”
He turns around.
It’s Gregory Peck. Not old, scary Gregory Peck in Moby Dick, or slimy, devious Nazi Gregory Peck in Boys from Brazil, but the tweedy, noble, taller-than-I-am lawyer Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird. My favorite movie.
I take a step backward. This is not the doddering old-fashioned schoolteacher I expected.
Gregory, I mean Gelston, smiles inquiringly, charmingly, adorably. He’s now giving me his full attention.
“Oh, I thought you were a student.” He walks around his desk and holds out his hand. “Josh Gelston. Sorry, I’m just researching something, and…Well, it doesn’t matter.” His eyes twinkle at me. “So, Charlie McNally,” he goes on. “Of course I know who you are.” He looks briefly perplexed. “But—did you have an appointment?”
“Um, no, I don’t—didn’t.” I make a valiant attempt at composure. “I know this is an unusual request, but I’m researching a story, and I think you may be able to help me with it. Do you have a moment?”
He waves me to a forest-green leather chair in front of his desk, and he sits in the one beside me. “Of course,” he says, “and you have me curious. What could bring a TV reporter, with no camera, out to our neck of the woods?”
He crosses one ankle over the other knee, leaning back in his chair as if we’re old friends, and looks at me expectantly. I catalog salt-and-pepper hair, tasseled loafers, broken-in corduroy pants, tattersall oxford shirt, maroon crewneck sweater with just a hint of a tie sticking out. I expect an Irish setter to come sit at his knee, a fire crackling in the background, a little Ella on the stereo. I sneak a look at his left hand. No ring.
I can’t believe myself.
Then I remember. Gelston may not know about Bradley Foreman’s death. Am I going to be the one to tell him a friend has died in a car crash? Although Melanie indicated they weren’t exactly friends. But then again, they were e-mailing each other. Or maybe they weren’t; maybe Brad just sent him that one e-mail. Why, why, why didn’t I think about this in the car?
Too late now.
“I’ve been talking recently with Melanie Foreman,” I begin carefully. “Have you…Did you…”
“Yes, I heard what happened to Brad.” A shadow passes over his face, and his hazel eyes close briefly behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “I’m sure Melanie explained we were acquaintances. It’s very sad. From what I know, he was a great guy.” It looks as if he’s going to say something else, then he stops.
“Right. That’s exactly how she described your relationship.” I decide to explore a little further. “But he sent me an e-mail, just before he died. You know that, correct?”
“Yes, I know that.” If you like the studious English-teacher type, which I do, he’s incredibly attractive, but he’s giving me nothing. My turn again.
“And, well, it’s kind of complicated, but I didn’t read his message until after the accident. And now I’m wondering, and Melanie is wondering, what was it he wanted to tell me? I thought you might have an idea, since he sent you a copy of it.”
His turn. Now he’s going to spill it. Or throw me out.
Josh walks back to his desk, where, I just happen to notice, there’s not one family-looking photo of any woman. Or man. When he turns around, I’m—luckily—no longer looking at his romance-free desk, but looking right at him.
“I wondered what would happen about that,” he says. I can’t tell from his expression what he’s thinking.
“And?” I ask.
He sits back down, takes a leather book from his desk and holds it on his lap. “Well, a few, oh, weeks ago, I guess, I got a call from Brad. I did remember him from a big dinner party we both attended. We really just met in passing. So I was a bit surprised when he called. Anyway, he said he had a box of files he was going to send to my home, and some references he wanted me to check.”
“References? Check?” I’m confused, then realize maybe Franklin was right. “Like job references?” I ask.
“Job…? No. Not like that.” Josh smiles and points to his own chest. “English teacher, remember? Literary references. So I said, sure, I’d be glad to try to help him. He read me the lines, though, and they weren’t familiar, so I asked him to e-mail them to me. I never figured out why he didn’t research them himself. Anyway. I looked them up, and e-mailed him back the results. It happened a couple of times, maybe three. And that was the end of that.”
I take out my notebook and flip it open. “Do you mind telling me what the quotes were?”
“I guess it’s fine,” Josh says slowly, apparently weighing any possible consequences. He holds up the book. “In fact, I was looking back on one of them now.” He runs a finger down what I guess is the table of contents, hunting for the page.
“Here’s the last quote he sent,” Josh says. He begins to read:
“The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.”
He puts a finger in the book to mark his place and looks up at me, starts to say something.
I can’t help but interrupt. “The Tempest, huh?”
And then, I almost burst out laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anyone’s jaw literally drop. But Josh’s jaw does, and now he’s trying to recover.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes widening. “Of course I’ve seen your investigative stories, but I didn’t have you pegged as a Shakespeare buff.”
He is so very, very cute. And so flatteringly sweet, remembering me from TV. I know it’s a big journalism “don’t” to flirt on the job, but there can’t be any harm in being friendly, right? Well, there actually can, but I’m promising myself I won’t cross the line.
“My mother always warned me my major in Shakespeare would make me unemployable,” I tell him, attempting to look charming and well educated, but not too self-satisfied. “But from time to time, it comes in handy.”
“Impressive,” he says. He clamps the book closed. “But anyway, that was one of the quotes. He wanted me to identify each one and then tell him the next two lines.”
“‘We are such stuff/As dreams are made on, and our little life/Is rounded with a sleep,’” I quote back. “That’s what’s next, isn’t it?”
“Very good.” Josh nods in professorial admiration. “Who knew you TV types had hidden depths?”
I can see little laugh crinkles behind his glasses, and he absently brushes away a shock of barber-needy hair that’s fallen onto his forehead. I calculate there’s more salt than pepper, and that he must be early fifties, maybe mid. I can feel “the line” getting fainter and fainter.
“Wait,” he says. “Let me show you another quote he sent. This one’s tougher.”
I watch as he gets up and turns back to the bookcase, moving his hand slowly across a shelf of multicolored covers. There’s laughter out in the hallway; somewhere a door slams. It feels…familiar.
I’ve been here before? No. It was years ago.
It was the day I met James. Sweet Baby James.
My hair was still dark brown back then, parted Steinem-style down the middle, pulled back into a ponytail. My skirt was unimaginably short. Not that it mattered. I was Charlotte Ann McNally, radio reporter. First real job out of college, no contract, five dollars an hour. My mind was racing with my looming deadline, wondering how I could explain the state’s newly passed clean-water law in a thirty-second story.
Then, I heard laughter
out in the hallway; somewhere a door slammed. I felt someone enter the room, and turned around. Even now, I remember I had to steady myself on the back of my chair. Cheekbones. Pinstripes. A smile that wrapped me in promise. I hadn’t even heard his voice. And who cared what he said in the interview. Deadlines melted, time evaporated, sound disappeared.
I wore a pink Ultrasuede suit and white stockings to our wedding—just a few months later—in a fluorescent-chilled clerk’s office at City Hall. I could see nothing in my future but that handsome face. For months, his astonishing looks distracted me from what I decided was his astonishingly manipulative lifestyle. Eventually, as I got into the book behind his glossy cover, I found it was less a romance and more an autobiography. All about himself.
Half-empty/half-full? Life with James, I soon decided, meant it was always half-empty, and my responsibility to make it full again. He wanted to change the world, except for the part behind our apartment door.
His work? Valuable and worthwhile. My work? Fine as long as I was home to make dinner. His long hours? Valuable and worthwhile. My long hours? Proof I only cared about my career. My hard-won job interview at Channel 3? A pitiful attempt to match his public success. My Sweet Baby James turned out to be just a baby. I grew up and he didn’t. Which is exactly what I told him.
He told me I was married to my career, not to him. He wanted children; I wanted to wait. Which of us, he sneered, was the grown-up?
As it turned out, I left behind the array of trendy appliances I’d purchased to prove my homemaking prowess. I kept my collection of Tina Turner cassettes, Gramma’s good china, my Betamax and my dedication to journalism. Every time I placed a new Emmy on my bookshelves, it was a shining reassurance I had made the right choice. Career. Success. Still, tucked into my emotional hope chest, I always thought I preserved the right to choose again. Now I wonder—was I wrong? Now I wonder—has for now turned into forever?
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