“And my dear, there are fabulous Crested Facebook friends all over the world. You can’t imagine the hundreds, maybe thousands of people—I see their posts from Indonesia and Lithuania and Peru, and of course here in the states, from everywhere imaginable—people who share their fun, their difficulties, their experiences. Help each other out, send photos, little videos. Help find homes for rescue dogs. Design and make fabulous doggie coats and dog beds and dog booties. They share medical tips about their pets, and warnings about medical problems. And they really get to be friends. Like conventional friends, they talk about their lives beyond their dogs—their work, their families, poems they’ve written and pictures they’ve painted, and recipes they’ve tried, or even invented.”
“I hadn’t realized. So there’s a whole world out there—”
“Yes, just Google—oh, for example ‘naked dog enthusiast club,’ and it will steer you in the right direction. There are Crested clubs you can sign on to. You can learn about medical care and the special foods these dogs need, and things to watch out for. The hairless ones, of course, oh, you have to be so careful because their exposed skin makes them so vulnerable. Special soaps, special sunscreens, special oils. You must get a supply of coconut oil.”
Harriet was now well into her favorite subject, and she forgot all about her packing. Gena was taking page after page of notes. And then a clock chimed in another room and Gena glanced at her watch.
“Oh, I hadn’t meant to keep you so long. I promised to be quick. And I do need to get back to my office. I want to begin working on this piece right away. But we will want to contact you about photos. And,” she added, smiling, “now that I’m a dog owner, I need to remember that dogs need to be walked.”
And then there were the leave-takings, and the well wishes—for Gena, good luck with her article, and for Harriet, best wishes for her transfer to Australia.
And Gena left.
Chapter Ten
“Well, you’re looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.” Warren eyed Gena up and down.
“I do?”
“You sure do. What’s up?” He laid the paper he’d been studying down onto a stack of folders on the sofa next to him.
“Nothing’s up. You’re imagining things.”
Wiley had started barking the minute Gena opened the door, and he was dancing excitedly around her feet as she came into the living room. She put her things down on the coffee table, next to Wiley’s leash. As she knelt on the floor to get him ready to go out, she looked up at Warren and gave him a long look.
“Looks to me like you’re the one who’s been eating a canary,” she said. “Do you have some news?”
“Funny you should ask.” Warren was beaming. “It just so happens I do have some news.” He stood up and preened a little bit. Puffed out his chest. “I told you I wasn’t going to be a lowly analyst forever.” He opened his arms wide, inviting her to come and congratulate him. “Meet the bank’s newest associate. Just got the news this afternoon.”
“Oh, Warren. That is so great!” She stood up, about to give him an enthusiastic hug, but as she got close to him, there was Wiley, getting in the way, barking fiercely. “Stop it, Wiley,” she said sharply. “Stop barking!” Little good it did. Wiley was determined.
“Can’t you shut that dog up? I swear, Gena, if this is how it’s going to be, that dog is going to have to go.”
“I’m sorry, Warren. I really am. I’ll have to figure out how to teach him to be quiet. I’ll take him out now, so he won’t bother you.” She picked Wiley up, shushing him. “Maybe you could order in some dinner while I’m out.”
“I already did. I felt like celebrating, so I called for some Indian food.”
She didn’t say anything. Warren loved Indian food. She didn’t. She knew he knew she didn’t love Indian food. But he was entitled to a celebration, she thought, so she decided to let it go.
“I won’t be long,” she said. “And you can tell me all about it when I get back.”
“Yeah. Well, don’t be long. The food will be here any minute.”
She was still carrying Wiley when she got to the elevator, and only then did it occur to her to put him down. She was feeling a little rattled. She didn’t like it when Warren was irritated—it always made her feel she’d done something wrong—and now Warren was pissed, she could tell. He was in the middle of his big news and here she was being attentive to Wiley when Warren expected all the attention to be on him. And on top of that, he was probably hungry and wanted to start right in on dinner, and now he’d have to wait for her—and for Wiley—to get back.
And he was right about how she looked: all full of secrets. She was bursting to tell him about the day she’d had—and what a day it had been! Such a rich feast of new experiences—deVere’s dramatic hidden history, so full of fascinating twists. And the meeting with the elegant Harriet van Siclen and her beautiful Pie. But it would have to wait. Warren wouldn’t want to hear about anything about dogs, that was for sure. And as for Romy’s adventures back in the war—well the tabloids would love it, but this was Lady Fair’s story. She wanted to do this right. She’d talk to Marge about it in the morning. And she’d wait for more from Romy.
As for Warren—no, she’d wait with that. After all, Gena was no gossip, and this was Romy’s secret. She should wait till they’d had a chance to talk.
When she and Wiley got off the elevator, the whole forty-first floor was redolent with the aromas of the East. Warren was already transferring everything into bowls, the saffron rice and the platters of naan, the mounds of malai kofta. This was his favorite kind of evening. Ensconced on the living room sofa, the bowls of beef tikka masala and a plate of samosas spread across the coffee table and a movie on the TV. With Gena curled up next to him. And then, later, in the dark, with only the ambient light from the city around them that seemed to float in through the tall glass windows, making love in their big bed, their “play pen,” he liked to call it. And then a sound sleep, and up the next morning to go out and be a master of the universe again. Warren Haglund was on his way up, and all was right with the world. Except—
Except that now, before Gena could come to bed, she had to take Wiley out for his last walk of the night. And Warren had to wait. Which kind of spoiled the evening’s mood. But Gena’s mind was elsewhere anyway (and sex with Warren wasn’t always the greatest, but then, that’s normal, isn’t it?), and she didn’t sleep really well, because her thoughts were spinning, spinning, with all the things there were to do!
Chapter Eleven
She’d barely set her latte on the desk, and she hadn’t yet put down her bag or hung her jacket on the hook behind her when Selma poked her head around the door.
“Marge wants to see you the minute you get in. She left a note.”
There it was, in thick black ink. Marge Webster’s imperious scrawl.
My office. ASAP!!
—MW
Uh oh! Am I in trouble?
“Did she look mad?”
“Well. Yeah. I guess so.”
Gena dropped her bag and her jacket in a heap on her desk next to the Starbucks cup and headed right back to the elevator. A command from the editor in chief needed to be obeyed instantly. Especially when it came with double exclamation marks. On the way up to the forty-ninth floor, Gena reviewed her life and her work, found herself blameless on all scores, and decided that if Marge Webster was mad, it wasn’t because of anything she had done.
Marge’s door was closed, which was not a good sign. Gena squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked. From behind the door, she heard, “Yes!?”
That didn’t sound friendly.
She opened the door, stepped in, and said, “Morning, Marge. You wanted to see me?”
With a gesture, Marge indicated the chair opposite her and didn’t wait for Gena to get herself perched on its edge before she s
aid, “Did you know Dinah was leaving?”
“What?”
“Dinah. Dinah Featherington. Did you know she was leaving?”
Gena was speechless. Her blank expression was answer enough.
“Just like that,” Marge said, obviously angry. “Left a resignation letter here on my desk this morning and cleared out. Without a word of warning. No explanation. She said nothing to you?”
“She didn’t say anything to me about leaving. I had no idea.”
“I don’t know how she could have just skipped like that, without a word to anyone. I hadn’t a clue. So unprofessional! And all the features people are in turmoil now. Your whole department is in a stew.”
“Whatever I can do, Marge. Of course.”
“Good. Because I need you to pick up immediately on something Dinah was working on. Where are you on the Romy deVere piece?”
“I was up there, in Connecticut, on Friday. The interview went really well. She was great, and the story may have an interesting twist to it—”
“Whatever it is,” Marge interrupted her, “you’ll need to set it aside for a couple of days. Dinah had an interview set for this afternoon with Sonny Gaile at his home in Tennessee.”
“Sonny Gaile? I’m seeing that kid everywhere these days. I didn’t know Dinah was doing a piece on him.”
“We’d just decided on it the other day. And he was able to squeeze us in for an interview this afternoon. You’re going to fly down there today.” She paused a moment to let Gena absorb this sudden shift in her plans for the day.
“Kind of sudden, Marge. But sure. I can rearrange some things. The deVere story can wait a bit.”
“Good. The travel department made the necessary changes. Jerry Brewster got the ticket in your name. And he’s put together all Dinah’s material for you. You can review her notes on the plane. You should be able to make it to LaGuardia by 10:30.”
“He’s just a kid, isn’t he? Is he even eighteen?”
“He’s nineteen, and he’s the hottest new thing on the country music scene these days. The kids are crazy about him. He’s got a house in the woods, near some little town in the Smoky Mountains. That’s where he grew up. Dirt poor. It’s a real rags-to-riches story. It’s all in Dinah’s notes.” The phone on her desk started ringing and she glanced at the ID. “I’ve got to take this,” Marge said, picking up the phone. “And you better get moving if you’re going to make it to LaGuardia to catch that plane.” She waved Gena away, signaling their meeting was done, and turned her attention to the call.
At the door, Gena turned and mouthed a “thank you” to Marge, who nodded abstractedly. Gena was dismissed.
Outside, Dinah’s assistant, Jerry Brewster, was waiting for her, with a folder of handwritten notes, a sheaf of article and photo printouts, and the flight confirmations.
“Did you know?” she asked as she took everything from him. “About Dinah leaving?”
“Not a word,” he said. “You are so lucky,” he said. “I want to hear all about him when you get back. Sonny Gaile! He’s just the cutest thing!”
“I know, I know. But jeez—I better run. I’ve got one hour to get to the airport. And I’ve got to stop at home, make some arrangements.”
As she hurried to the elevator, Jerry called after her, “Sonny’s publicist will meet you at the airport.” And as the elevator door closed, Jerry’s voice trailed after her, “You’re flying into Knoxville.”
In her office, she retrieved her bag, her jacket, and the latte, and on the way down to the street, she was already calling Viv.
“Viv, omigod! I’ve got such a favor to ask.”
“What’s up?”
“Marge Webster is sending me to Tennessee in”—she glanced at her watch—“in fifty minutes. Our features editor quit without a word of warning, and I’m going in her place to some little town in the Smoky Mountains to interview Sonny Gaile! Of all people.”
“Sonny Gaile?! Omigod! That kid is the very latest thing on the teen circuit! Making a fortune, I hear. That’s so great. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“Well, yeah. But the thing is, there’s Wiley.”
“Wiley?” Viv had to think for a few moments. “Oh. Of course. You have a dog now.”
“Right. I can’t just leave him. And he and Warren don’t get along at all. Not at all. Warren can’t stand him, and he’s been real clear”—At this moment, a taxi pulled over in response to Gena’s waving arm—“real clear,” she said as she got in, “that he refuses to have anything to do with him. I can’t ask him to take care of Wiley. I think he’d rather let him starve.” To the driver, she said, “Two Twelve East Seventy-Third Street,” and to Viv she continued, “I bet he’d call someone to take him away rather than walk him—or let him mess in the apartment. So listen, Viv. I really need your help. Your studio is just a couple of blocks from my place. Please, please, Viv. Can you meet me at my apartment right away—I’m on my way there now—and please take Wiley? Just till I get back. I haven’t even had a chance to look at the notes or the itinerary, but I think I’ll be back late tonight. No one said anything about another day. Please, Viv. I can give you everything. His food. His collar and his leash, and—”
“Of course, Gena. I can be there in a minute. Don’t worry. Don’t worry at all. Wiley will be in good hands. In fact, I’m looking forward to meeting him. Glad to have the chance. But you better be ready to tell me everything about Sonny. With pictures.”
Gena sat back into the taxi’s beat-up leather seat. Tons of tension fell off her.
“Viv. What would I do without you?”
She didn’t know what Viv was thinking.
But this is what Viv was thinking:
Of course I’ll help out. But Gena, honey, this could have been the crisis that would have forced you to dump that loser you’re stuck with.
But what Viv said was: “It’s a good thing my studio is close to your place. I’ll run right over there. See you in ten.”
Chapter Twelve
It was a whirlwind day and a half. Starting with a quick flight into Knoxville. She’d tried to call Warren before takeoff, but he’d cut her off sharply. “Can’t talk now. Text me.” That was all. He’d hung up before she could say a word. He’d been frosty at breakfast, probably still a little put-off after last night, and she’d hoped to mollify him with a chatty little call to let him know she’d be away for the day—maybe even a couple of days. Maybe he’d be impressed that she was on her way to Tennessee to meet with Sonny Gaile. After all, everyone wanted to meet Sonny Gaile! Also, she was eager to share with him the office news about Dinah’s mysterious resignation, and to wonder with him what that could be all about. No one leaves Lady Fair for no good reason, and certainly not like that, without a word of warning.
But that was too much for a quick text message, and it was time to buckle up and turn off phones, so all she wrote was:
Have 2 b away—back tonite
or maybe tmrw. on a plane
2 Tennessee. Interviewing
SONNY GAILE!! YAY ME!
Then she put her phone away and got out the folder of Dinah’s notes.
There were articles about Sonny and his music, photos of his new home in the woods, some bio details, including a bit—but not much—about his childhood. Most of it was familiar—Sonny Gaile was too big a sensation for Gena to not be already aware of the usual publicly available information, including his relationship with Tim Fine, his producer, the man he credited with all his success. There was also a note, written in big, black, block letters on the last page of Dinah’s handwritten notes: “LISTEN AGAIN TO SONNY’S PERFORMANCE OF ‘YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL.’ FABULOUS!!!” And then, underneath, “On YouTube. Concert 2 months ago, in London.”
Gena had heard this performance. It had been all over the Internet when Joe Cocker died. But she made a mental note to hea
r it again.
* * * *
Sonny’s publicist was waiting at McGhee Tyson. She was a tall blonde with gleaming teeth, spike-heeled knee-high boots, and a warp-speed style. Her name was Brittney Brisken, and she was all polite attention and enthusiastic, take-charge command as she whisked Gena away in Sonny’s SUV to his “cabin” in the woods. Some cabin! Eighteen rooms, including a fully functioning, state-of-the-art recording studio, on a hundred and eighty acres of beautiful rolling hills.
Sonny turned out to be a sweet boy. Not at all the self-important, self-absorbed narcissist she feared the teen sensation would be. He was fair-haired and delicate of feature, with misty, gray-blue eyes that seemed to be looking into some remote other world. A fairy land, perhaps. He greeted her with genuine deference, plainly eager to be worthy of her time and of Lady Fair’s interest. He showed off his new home, entering each room—even opening closets and built-in cabinets and drawers—with an air of wonder, as though he wasn’t sure it really was all his, had been built just for him.
“The architect went over every spec and every design idea first, and I did approve it all, but still,” he said with a kind of awe-filled amazement. “I just don’t get that I can have all of this now. And just for singing my songs. No one ever needed to give me a thing for singing. I sing because I’m alive. It’s the only way I know how to be alive.”
Gena was sure this was not posturing. His sincerity and innocence were apparent. She had her recorder going and was following him everywhere, taking notes like mad and using her cell phone camera to record everything.
After the full tour of the “cabin,” he was concerned that she hadn’t had lunch, and he called in his houseboy—yes, a houseboy!—and told him to tell the cook—a cook, too!—to make some sandwiches and coffee.
“Will that be okay?” he asked her. “Just sandwiches? Mrs. Wilkins is a whiz in the kitchen, but she wasn’t expecting a guest for lunch, so I’m figuring it’s not polite to toss a surprise at her. When we got a call from Dinah Featherington last night that she wouldn’t be coming, we canceled our plans to go into town for lunch—Dinah and Brittney and me and Tim—and told Mrs. Wilkins to just leave us some sandwiches in the fridge. Then, just a little while ago, someone at Lady Fair called and said you’d be coming instead, so Brittney went hightailing it up to Knoxville to meet you. Tim is down at the barn with the horses, but I called him and said to get on up here so we can all have lunch together.”
Who Do You Love? Page 5