Sierra Donovan
They say writing is a solitary profession. I say that was before we had computers. Thanks to modern communications, I've gotten advice and support from many writers, both published and unpublished. To name everyone would be just about impossible, but special thanks go to Carol Hutchens, Steph Newton, and the three Js-Julie Mensch, Joanna King and Jody Wallace.
To everyone who's still out there trying: It happened to me. It can happen to you too.
He wasn't the man she'd expected.
Dark hair. Searching brown eyes. A well-tailored black suit.
The coat of that suit was parted to accommodate a large, middle-aged midriff. The dark hair left off well above his forehead, exposing several inches of balding scalp. And his smile somehow reminded her of a frog that, when kissed, might turn into a toad.
Of course, Christie Becker wasn't sure what she'd expected from the general manager at KYOR, the radio station where she was interviewing for a job. She'd been too excited when she got the call yesterday. This afternoon, she'd pulled into the building's parking structure literally breathless. She'd forced herself to wait in her car for a few minutes while she tried to slow the pounding of her heart.
She had plenty of time. After all, she was twenty minutes early.
Now, those quizzical brown eyes scoured over her resume, as if some trace of radio experience might appear there. She had none, except for the fact that she'd finished broadcasting school three months ago. Her pulse raced and she caught herself smoothing down the hem of her dress. Again.
"Well, Miss Becker," Mr. Arboghast said, "I did have the impression you had a little more experience when Alex gave me your tape." Alex Peretti had been her teacher at broadcasting school. He was her staunch supporter, and best of all, a good friend of Ed Arboghast, the station's general manager.
"No, sir," Christie said, sitting up straight and putting out her best smile and radio voice. "Just the radio station at broadcasting school." Her smile widened. "But if you drive in a two-block circle around the building, you can pick up the signal pretty well."
It had the right effect. It made him smile. "Yes, well, maybe I'll try that some time." The smile raised the round cheeks in his full face, making his eyes almost disappear. "The point is, I listened to the tape Alex gave me. I like it." He folded his hands in the center of his nearly-empty desk blotter. Christie couldn't help thinking this man would have been out of step even when Dick Clark was rating records on American Bandstand back in the fifties. Still, he seemed to like her, and that was a good sign.
Mr. Arboghast looked at her for a moment, cocking his head to one side. Then he said, "I'm going to have you talk to our program director."
Christie felt as if she'd just been dropped into one of those dunking booths at the county fair. Her nerves, which had been lulled into a low idle, revved up again. Talk to the program director. That had to be good. But then why had she started off talking to the general manager, the station's official head honcho?
The "honcho" was picking up the phone, and Christie could almost hear the sound of gears being set in motion. Oh, please, let it be true. She'd been a liberal arts major for her first two years of college. Finally, the question people kept asking her had begun to penetrate: What are you going to do with a liberal arts degree? She'd always loved music, but she didn't show any special talent for performing or writing it, and the idea of teaching didn't appeal to her. A spate of business courses followed as Christie rushed to prepare herself for a career in the mythic "real world." All for what? Three mind-numbing years in a loan office.
In college, the world had been full of possibilities. She'd put her shy, mousy teenage years behind her. But as the possibilities vanished, Christie felt as if she would disappear too. She was dissolving into the background of a staid, third-floor office as her twenties ticked away.
Her dream of working in radio had kindled almost out of nowhere, but once it took hold, it caught fire. All her life, people had told her what a pretty voice she had. At last she'd decided to put that voice to some use. Something enjoyable. Something better than pushing papers eight hours a day. So she'd gone to broadcasting school in Hollywood-and, finally, found something she excelled at.
"Rick?" Mr. Arboghast was saying into the phone. "I have someone here for you to see. An applicant for the overnight shift."
A pause. Mr. Arboghast looked at his wristwatch. "That's not for another fifteen minutes. Could you squeeze her in?"
Christie's heart sank. This man hadn't even known she was coming?
"Okay, right now. See you." He hung up and rose, scooping up the neat little folder with her resume inside. The ink blotter on his desktop was now bare.
"Let's go." He smiled at her, and she prayed she wasn't being led to the slaughter.
Following Mr. Arboghast down the corridor, Christie surreptitiously checked her appearance. She couldn't see her slip, but just to be sure, she tugged up under the waistline of the rose-patterned dress she was wearing. With its matching solid rose blazer, she'd hoped to look feminine and businesslike at the same time. When she tried it on, it had seemed like the right complement to her fair complexion and dark red hair.
More makeup? Less makeup? There was no time to check, as she was led through a very confusing series of corridors. The station was on the ground floor of an office building in Santa Moreno, a nice little town tucked away in a corner of Southern California an hour away from Los Angeles. How big could the building be, anyway?
At least she knew there was no food in her teeth. She'd checked in the rearview mirror before she got out of the car.
Mr. Arboghast stopped outside an office door, the width of his body blocking her view into the room. Christie heard the voice coming from inside and froze.
"I've got to go, Jack," said a rich male voice. "I'm on the air in a few minutes, and something unexpected just came up." A pause. Then he laughed, a warm, deep baritone laugh that Christie felt deep down in her toes.
She knew that voice. The program director-her prospective boss-was Rick Fox. She remembered him well from the radio station she'd listened to back in college. She'd spent many a night studying in her dorm room with Rick Fox in the background. She'd admired those rich tones even then, years before she consciously thought of going into radio. Christie swallowed, resolving not to be starstruck.
"Gotta go," he said. "Talk to you next week." Mr. Arboghast stepped through the door. Christie stepped in beside him. Behind the desk was a man with light brown hair, his face turned away from them. He sat in front of a computer screen on the right-hand side of the L-shaped desk. One hand rested on the computer keyboard; the other still held the phone. Christie had the immediate impression of a man used to doing several things at once. Unlike the general manager's, his desk was heaped with stacks of papers, manila file folders and trade magazines.
Rick Fox hung up. "Hi, Ed. What have you got for me here?"
Christie wasn't sure how she felt about being referred to as a "what."
Then he swiveled around in his chair, and she drew in her breath. He was younger than she expected early thirties at most-and, not to put too fine a point on it, drop-dead handsome. He had thoughtful-looking gray eyes, and features that wouldn't have been out of place on a classic film actor from the forties. Christie remembered him joking on the air about having a face made for radio. He'd lied. His basic white dress shirt was open at the neck, his light brown hair slightly tousled. Careless, but not sloppy. Someone who didn't fuss too much over his appearance, which Christie found all the more attractive.
She reminded herself it was the job she was after, not the man behind the desk.
The classic features took on a startled look as his eyes fell on her. Then he stood, long legs unfo
lding underneath him with a smooth, masculine grace. Christie slapped herself mentally. She wasn't some teenager with a crush; she was a grown woman, interviewing for a job she desperately wanted.
"Rick," Mr. Arboghast said, oblivious to her idiocy, "this is Christie Becker. Alex Peretti sent me her tape last week, and we've just been talking." He handed the folder to Rick. Christie sensed, with a sinking feeling, that he'd never seen it before in his life. And he looked like he had a lot on his mind.
He took the package from Ed with his left hand while he reached for hers with his right. When they shook hands, Christie felt the blood go to her feet. The pressure of his fingers around hers was warm, firm and brief, but the gray eyes contemplated her for a long time. She would have given a lot to know what they saw. "Miss Becker."
"Mr. Fox." Her much-praised voice deserted her; to her own ears, she sounded about thirteen years old.
He took his seat, her folder still in hand, and motioned for her to sit in the small, straight-backed metal chair facing his desk. A lot less elaborate than Mr. Arboghast's office, Christie noted, sitting down on the hard seat. She also noted that somewhere in the last several seconds, Mr. Arboghast had disappeared.
Mr. Fox opened the little folder, wearing a preoccupied expression. She ventured, "Did I catch you at a bad time?"
He glanced up with a trace of a wry smile. "I'm afraid there's never a very good time."
This didn't bode well. "I know you're on the air in a few minutes. I could come back-"
"You're here now. It's as good a time as any."
As he leaned back and studied the contents of the folder, Christie took the opportunity to study him. He would have looked even more appealing if not for the faint frown lines appearing between his brows. Christie reminded herself once more to concentrate on the business at hand. Was he seeing anything he liked?
There wasn't much to see: her resume, a photo, and the little cassette that all her hopes were pinned on. After what seemed like three hours, but could only have been a few moments, Rick glanced up at her. "Nice eight-by-ten glossy," he said with another halfsmile. It didn't sound much like a compliment.
"That was my instructor's idea," she said, hoping Alex was a friend of Rick's as well as Mr. Arboghast's. She'd wondered at the time if the picture was a good idea. After all, this wasn't a modeling job. He looked down again, and the half-smile was gone. "He thought the hair color would help me stand out," she went on. Unnerved by his silence, she added, "That really is my natural hair color."
She was prattling. Worse, she sounded like an empty-headed girl.
"Too bad," Rick Fox said dryly, his eyes still on the folder. "I was thinking of getting mine colored the same way."
She wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
Until he looked up and grinned at her.
The grin was as devastating as the wisecrack had been, for an entirely different reason. His face lost its guarded look, and all Christie could do was smile back even as she felt her face flush. Maybe things would get better from here.
They didn't. Returning to her resume, he got to the subject she couldn't escape. "I see you're working now as a loan processor."
"That's right." Only two syllables, but at least it wasn't stupid. And she didn't squeak.
"I'm a little puzzled, Miss Becker. You've got three years of solid experience at that job. You're making a lot more there than you would starting out as a disc jockey here. Why would you want to leave?"
"Ever work in a loan office?"
"No." The smile was back. It brought out pleasant crinkles around his eyes. "Pretty exciting?"
"Death defying. If you want to die of boredom." She pulled in a breath, remembering to bring her voice up from her diaphragm the way she'd been taught. "That's just it. I've spent three years in an office mak ing decent money, but it's nothing I really care about. That's why I went to broadcasting night school. I want something I can put my heart into." No need to go into the rest. How one day she'd looked down at the cheap veneer of her desk and almost sworn she could see herself fading into it.
"Well, Miss Becker, radio isn't all it's cracked up to be either. It's not nearly as glamorous as you might think. Disc jockeys eat a lot of Top Ramen, especially when they're first starting out. And I'm afraid advancement isn't exactly guaranteed either. Vacant air shifts don't come up very often here, except for the overnight shift. Did Ed tell you what the job pays?"
"No, we didn't get to that."
He told her. She tried not to wince. She said, "I've got some money put away."
"And you realize the shift is from midnight to 6 A.M." He studied her again, faint frown lines creasing his brow once more.
"Yes, I'm fine with that." Would he please ask about her qualifications? Christie needed to get on comfortable ground. Speak up. Elaborate, she told herself. She opened her mouth-to say what, she didn't know. Things had gone so well with the general manager, she'd been caught off guard. One more minute and you're out the door. You don't know when you'll get another shot. You've got to make this one count. "Have you heard my tape?" There. That was something.
"No." Rick passed a hand roughly through his hair. It added to that attractively tousled look. Stop it, she thought. This man is about to squash your livelihood. "To be honest, Miss Becker," he was saying, "I wasn't expecting you when you came in. And-"
"Well, do me a favor." Something rose up within her, and she hoped it wasn't a bad thing. "Before you make up your mind, please listen to my tape." She was encouraged to hear her voice come out confident, instead of plaintive, the way she felt. "I know I haven't had a full-time air shift yet, but I did complete broadcasting school, and Alex Peretti thought enough of me to recommend me." She prayed, once again, that Alex's name held some clout with him. "Listen to the tape, and if you like what you hear, give me a chance to show you what I can do. I promise you won't be disappointed."
She had his attention. At least he was looking at her, although she couldn't read his expression.
"The `B' side of the tape has some commercial demos," she went on. "Of course, they're only dummy spots I did at school. But I think you'll agree production is one of my strong points. I imagine that comes in handy, especially on the overnight shift." She smiled. "I've heard what radio deadlines are like." She felt better. Much, much better. Oxygen was starting to return to her lungs. And her brain.
Rick promptly deflated her. "Well, Miss Becker, that's true. But we do our best to take care of that during the day, when we can play the spots for client approval."
"I'm very good with sound levels," she came back quickly, but with less confidence.
"Yes. Well." He glanced down at her package again, no longer handling any of the materials, and Christie had the feeling she'd already been discarded. "I'll give your tape a listen. But I can't make any promises. I'm sure you were a good student, or Peretti wouldn't have sent you here. But there's really no substitute for on-air experience."
He stood, and she knew the interview was over. She forced herself to stand and held out her hand one more time. When he took it, she made sure to make eye contact again. And tried not to sink into those contemplative gray eyes. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Fox."
"I'll give you a call," he said, and something in his voice was a little softer. It sounded like the end of a bad blind date.
Mr. Arboghast was nowhere to be seen as Rick showed her back down the twisting corridors. She was sure she was seeing the inside of the station, and Rick Fox, for the last time. Annoyingly, the thought gave her two pangs instead of just one. He hadn't even been particularly nice to her.
The glass doors eased shut behind her. At least it didn't hit her on the way out. A girl, that's what he'd seen her as. A kid. She headed toward the parking garage without looking back.
I shouldn't have worn pink, she thought.
Rick watched the rose-clad figure walk away with her head held high, looking taller than she actually was. The straight posture probably carried quite a bit of injure
d pride along with it. But it couldn't be helped. A loan processor with no on-air experience? What was Ed thinking of, anyway? Still, a part of him was sorry to see her go. No redhead had the right to look that good in pink.
But that wasn't the point.
Rick got into the on-air studio two minutes before 4:00 P.M. when his afternoon drive shift started. Jonathan, the disc jockey on the air before him, had stacked up all the CDs and commercials for the first hour. It left Rick with little to think about until five o'clock, when he'd start airing the news and traffic reports. Then things would get hectic.
After the first song, he opened the microphone. "KYOR-your station for the best songs of yesterday and today," he said. "This is Rick Fox, taking you through your afternoon drive." He had a vision of a certain redhead hearing him on her car radio, ripping the knob off the dash and throwing it out the window.
Guilt, he told himself. That was all it was.
Whatever it was, it sent him into his office, down the hall from the studio, the first time he played a song more than five minutes long. That would give him enough time to listen to her tape. Enough of her tape, at least, to confirm his opinion and ease his conscience. Keeping an eye on the clock above the door of his office, he found the cassette and popped it into the boom box on his desk.
Christie's voice came out at him-full, bright and just a little stiff. Not bad for a beginner, actually. Not bad at all.
The first side of the cassette was the air checkexcerpts of Christie's announcer breaks from an onair shift, with the songs edited out. It used up most of his five minutes, but Rick listened all the way through it, telling himself he was nuts. He looked at the chair across from his desk, where she'd sat less than half an hour ago. The memory was so fresh that he could still see her there, quiet determination in her green-hazel eyes, legs crossed distractingly under the soft pastel skirt.
Shaking himself, he got up, went down the hall and started the next song. A moment later he was back to flip the tape over and listen to those commercial demos Christie Becker was so proud of.
Love on the Air Page 1