by Lis Wiehl
“Can you tell Amanda Rees I’d like to see her in my office?”
“Amanda left the network today.”
“You’re kidding. Why?”
“Some videos of her just surfaced. Apparently she worked her way through college via the world’s oldest profession, or at least its latest online iteration.”
“Didn’t she know how risky that was?”
“You would think so. She disguised herself, black wig, exotic makeup. You know, I’ve heard girls can make thousands a day on those sites. With all their crippling student loans . . .”
“Who are we to judge? Poor girl—but I bet she lands on her feet. Do we know who leaked the video?”
“No, it was sent anonymously to Mort Silver yesterday. Amanda may have an enemy out there.”
“Has it gone viral?”
“It’s gaining traction, but we’re hoping her swift departure will nip it in the bud.”
“Let’s hope. I can’t afford that kind of publicity. Meanwhile, I’m back to the drawing board on the personal assistant.”
Erica hangs up and feels a sudden stab of loneliness. She misses Greg. His light touch with Jenny, his concern, his pragmatism . . . his kisses. He’s left her several messages since last night and she’s called back, but they keep missing each other.
Erica pulls up Skype and calls him. He answers immediately, and his handsome face fills her screen. It’s eleven thirty p.m. in Sydney and he looks exhausted, but in that tousled, stubbly way that Erica finds irresistible. She feels a surge of tenderness and want.
“How are you?” he asks.
“It was rough but I’m okay. I think being knocked out for those few moments was a real blessing. I missed seeing people blown apart. The poor Buchanans.”
Part of her wants to cry, wishes Greg was with her so he could wrap his arms around her shoulders and she could rest her head on his chest and weep. For the Buchanans, for that little baby Judy Buchanan was holding up, for the girl who lost her leg, for the world and all its lost innocence.
“The coverage over here has been wall-to-wall. Do you have any sense of who might be behind it?”
“I honestly don’t, and I’m not going to speculate.”
“How’s Jenny?”
“Moody. Feeling neglected.” There’s a pause. “How are you?”
Greg lowers his voice. “I’m lonely, Erica.”
She reaches up and instinctively touches the screen, as if she could reach across time and space and touch Greg. “I’m lonely too.”
“Didn’t you and Jenny promise to come down and meet some kangaroos?”
“We did. We will.” But Erica knows a trip halfway around the world would be a bad idea right now. It would risk disrupting Jenny’s shaky adjustment to living in New York. And the bombing has upended the presidential campaign, which won’t be over until the votes are counted on November 4, just over six months away. Erica needs to stay at home, on top of the story, ready to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice. “But now is probably not the best time, with Jenny still settling in and the campaign heating up. Any chance you can come stateside for a visit?”
Greg runs a hand through his hair. “If only. But I’m working twenty-hour days and will be for at least the next couple of months.”
There’s a pause. “I understand,” Erica says.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Erica? Maybe you should take the day off.”
And do what? Go home and be lonely in the huge empty apartment? “This is a fast-breaking story. The FBI, the CIA, Department of Justice, they’re all trying to identify the bomber. I want to be ready when they do.”
“I guess we’re both married to our work.”
There’s another pause, and Erica isn’t sure how to fill it. When they first met, the words just poured out; they had such an easy rapport. Skype is fine as far as it goes, but it’s a poor substitute for the chemistry that sparks when they’re face-to-face. Erica knows how hard Greg is working, but he’s sometimes hard to reach for several days at a time . . . Australia is full of bright, beautiful women . . . They’ve been apart for almost three months . . . Men are men.
Erica, stop it! You don’t jump to conclusions as a journalist, do you?
“I’m going to go now, Greg.”
“Stay in close contact.”
The call leaves Erica feeling even more distant from him.
She again tries to recall what it was that stuck in her mind from last night, before the explosion. It was something to do with her interaction with Mike Ortiz. But what? She needs to move. She stands up, walks into her sleek galley kitchen, and turns on the teakettle. A small plate is on the counter, covered in tinfoil. Erica removes the foil, and there sit a half dozen homemade muffins and a small folded note.
Erica unfolds the note and reads:
Erica—
I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Your actions were inspiring. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your life easier.
All best—Becky Sullivan
Becky Sullivan is another one of the interns. She’s competent enough, but insecure and self-effacing, she doesn’t make much of an impression. But what a lovely gesture, above and beyond. Maybe she rushed to judgment on Becky. Throwing carbs to the wind, Erica tears off a piece of muffin and takes a bite—it’s corn blueberry, not too sweet, just delicious.
She makes herself a mug of green tea and takes it and the rest of her muffin back to her desk. But instead of sitting, she walks into her outer office, where Shirley Stamos sits behind her desk. Shirley, who is around forty, is plump, has short gray hair and a round face, and wears a turtleneck every day. She’s one of those women who looks and acts as if she skipped adolescence and went straight from studious sixth grader to efficient adult.
“What do you think of Becky Sullivan?” Erica asks her.
There’s a pause and then Shirley says, “She has a lot of potential.”
“Maybe not ready for prime time?”
“You never know, she might rise to the occasion.”
“Could you send me her resume?”
By the time Erica gets back to her desk, Becky’s resume is in her in-box. She’s from Norton, Ohio, a town outside Akron, and she went to the University of Ohio on a full scholarship. Then something leaps out at Erica—Becky worked at Burger King during high school. Just like Erica did. This is a young woman who has had to earn every step up the ladder. Erica calls her extension.
“This is Becky Sullivan, is this . . . ?”
“Yes, Becky, it’s Erica Sparks.”
“Oh . . .”
“Could I see you for a minute?”
Becky Sullivan appears in her office doorway moments later. She’s a reasonably attractive young redhead in her early twenties—chubby, freckle-splashed—who would be a lot more attractive if she stood up straight and looked Erica in the eye.
“About those muffins . . . ,” Erica begins.
“I’m sorry, was that inappropriate? I was just so upset and felt so terrible for you. I remember when you went through that Staten Island ferry crash, and now this. I just wanted to do something to help, or just even show how much everyone here cares about you, but I know I shouldn’t have come into your office and kitchen without asking. I’m sorry.”
“Whoa, Becky. Slow down. Please, come in; have a seat.”
Becky makes her way to a chair, grimacing at one point.
“I just wanted to thank you. The muffins were a thoughtful gesture. And guess what? They do make me feel better.”
A tiny smile of satisfaction flits across Becky’s face, so quickly that Erica almost misses it. Then she reverts to flustered. “I can’t believe Erica Sparks likes my muffins.”
“Do you want to be a journalist, Becky?”
“That was my childhood dream—or should I say delusion?—but I think maybe I’m more suited to being behind the scenes. I like to make things happen and to take care of people. I’d love to try producing. Not now, of course
, I’m nowhere near ready—duh—but I mean later, when I’ve had some experience. I’m just trying to soak up everything. You know how grateful I am to be here.”
Yes, she’s obsequious, but there’s something interesting about Becky Sullivan. She’s empathetic, bright, enthusiastic, but there’s also a depth and even mystery that flashes in her eyes. Erica senses she could be a lot of fun once she relaxes. Might be a good match for Jenny.
“Well, you’re doing a good job, and I appreciate it.”
Becky exhales and actually smiles. “I meant what I said about doing anything I can to help make your life easier. You can call on me, twenty-four hours a day.”
Erica considers a moment. Clearly Becky Sullivan is a mixed bag. But Erica sees her younger self in the girl and would like to help her. “As a matter of fact, Becky, I’m considering hiring a personal assistant, someone who could help me at work and at home with my daughter. It’s going to be a very glamorous gig. Especially if you like picking up dry cleaning.”
Becky lets out a little gasp of disbelief. “I would love to be considered for the job. I know I’m gushy, but I have so much . . . respect for you . . .” She finally looks Erica in the eye and says, with a hint of confidence, “. . . Erica.”
Erica is hesitant. Does she detect a note of instability in Becky? Or is the young woman just understandably nervous? “I’d like you to meet Jenny before I commit to anything.”
“Of course.”
Erica looks down at the yellow legal pad that holds her to-do list. It must have a dozen items on it, at least half of them relating to Jenny and the household. She tears off the page and hands it to Becky. “In the meantime, how would you feel about tackling this list?”
“Delighted.”
With Becky gone, Erica takes out her well-worn playing cards and deals herself a hand of solitaire. The cards always relax and center her, freeing her to think. As she plays the hand, her mind goes back to her short interview with Mike and Celeste Ortiz last night, just before the bombing. Something was disconcerting about it, but what was it; what was it?
As she puts a red queen under a black king, it hits her—when she asked Ortiz if he would take a couple of questions, the senator looked at Celeste before answering. It was almost as if this man, this war hero, this possible next president of the United States, needed his wife’s permission to speak.
CHAPTER 6
IT’S ONE WEEK LATER, A little past nine thirty at night, and Erica is walking home after her show.
Pretty much the whole show was taken up with updates on the search for the Buchanan bomber. Since there were no breaking developments, she had to go over the same ground again and again, trying to find new spin. She interviewed a law enforcement expert, several politicians, a psychologist specializing in trauma, personal friends of the Buchanans. It’s called grasping at straws.
So far the FBI has been tight-lipped. Erica replayed footage of the young man in the moments before the bombing a dozen times. He seems to appear out of nowhere, slithering through the crowd like a snake, getting about six feet from the Buchanans, slipping off his backpack, letting it slide to the ground, turning, and disappearing back into the crowd. Blink and you miss him. His face is virtually obscured by the ski cap, dark glasses, and a full beard, but his skin tone is pale and the FBI has determined that the beard is fake. Between twenty and thirty years of age. Approximately five feet nine, weighs about 150. In the sketch released by the FBI, he looks baby-faced, unremarkable, like an assistant bank manager. Forensic analysis has determined that the bomb was homemade, primitive, detonated by a timer, a cousin to the one the Boston Marathon bombers built.
Until he’s identified and caught, the country is on edge, and stories that would usually get a lot of coverage—yet another deadly weather event, the ongoing refugee crisis, a controversial bill in front of Congress—are barely touched on. Erica had to repeat the same information so often she was afraid she would lapse into gibberish. But she kept it fresh and interesting and found perceptive guests. Still, the effort has left her exhausted, and she is savoring this chance to walk and unwind.
It’s twenty blocks from GNN to her apartment—up Sixth Avenue, across Fifty-Ninth Street to Central Park West, and then up to her building at Seventieth Street. With her makeup washed off and a baseball cap and nonprescription glasses on, she’s unrecognized. Erica loves the anonymity, the chance to watch the parade of tourists and fellow New Yorkers—yes, she considers herself a New Yorker now—as they stroll the nighttime streets. She feeds off the city’s energy, the sense of light and movement racing fearlessly toward the future, a drive that seems to slip into a lower gear after dark as workday stresses lessen and the streetlamps and neon signs cast a comforting glow on the sidewalks. She can’t imagine living anywhere else.
Erica reaches Sixth Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street. There’s a crowded bar and restaurant midblock, and she notices that the patrons seem frozen, riveted, with their heads turned toward the three television screens above the bar. They’re all turned to GNN and Breaking News—Buchanan Bomber Identified is scrolling across the screen below newscaster Carl Pomeroy, who has the hour show following Erica’s. She races into the restaurant in time to hear Pomeroy say, “The FBI has just announced that it has positively identified the lead suspect in the Buchanan bombing at Case Western Reserve University. The identification was accomplished using DNA found on a scrap of fabric from the backpack that held the bomb.”
A mug shot of a pale, slightly pudgy man fills the screen.
“His name is Tim Markum. He’s twenty-eight years old, a trained accountant with two prior arrests, one for fraud and one for impersonating a law enforcement official. Markum’s last known address was a post office box in Tucson, Arizona, which has since closed. That is the only information the FBI has released, and according to knowledgeable sources, that is pretty much all the information it has.”
Erica feels an enormous surge of relief, though IDing the perp is just the first step. But at least she has something fresh to report. Erica leaves the restaurant. Out on the sidewalk people have stopped, alone and in small clutches, glued to their smartphones—the whole country, the whole world, is sharing the news in real time. The new normal.
As Erica switches direction and heads back down to GNN, she remembers that she promised Jenny she would help with her book report on To Kill a Mockingbird tonight. She stops in her tracks and takes out her phone and calls home.
“Jenny, they’ve identified the Buchanan bomber.”
“That’s big news.”
“Yes, yes, it is. I think I should get back to the studio.”
There’s a pause and then Jenny says, in a voice tinged with loneliness, “I do too.”
“So you’re all right with it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
There’s another, longer pause.
“I’ll ask Yelena to stay until you get home.”
Erica pockets her phone, and as she races down to the network on a wave of adrenaline, she feels herself pulled backward by a fierce undertow of guilt.
CHAPTER 7
BASMATI RICE. HOW DIFFICULT CAN that be? But when Erica takes the lid off the saucepan the rice looks soggy, and there’s still a quarter inch of water in the bottom. Does that mean she should turn off the oven so the salmon doesn’t dry out? And what about the broccoli, which is boiling away? Is it going to be green mush by the time the rice is done?
It’s Saturday, two days after the bomber was identified, and this was supposed to be a nice evening at home for her and Jenny. And it’s an important night—Becky has dropped by before dinner to meet Jenny and see if they have any chemistry. The two of them are in the living room—Erica didn’t want to be a hover-mother so she retreated to make dinner.
Great idea, Erica. Takeout was invented for a reason.
The whole world is avidly following the manhunt for Tim Markum, but he seems to have disappeared into a black hole. Erica selfishly hopes he isn’t found for at
least the next couple of hours; she would hate to be called to duty tonight of all nights.
Becky appears in the doorway and smiles shyly. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
“How did it go?” Erica asks.
“Pretty well, I think. We talked all about school. She loves history and hates French, and sometimes she feels stupid because the other girls talk about things like skiing in Switzerland and having three houses, and she wonders if they’re only nice to her because you’re famous.”
“You got a lot out of her very quickly,” Erica says. “Sometimes I feel like I’m pulling teeth.”
“I’ve always been the kind of bland, nonthreatening type people feel comfortable opening up to.”
“Becky, you shouldn’t sell yourself short.”
“It’s just kind of a knee-jerk thing. I’m sorry. Old habits die hard.” She stands up a little straighter, as if willing herself to be confident. “I do think I clicked with Jenny. She’s wonderful.”
“Most of the time. This dinner, on the other hand, is a disaster. The rice isn’t cooking.”
Becky does a quick assessment. “May I?”
“Please do.”
Becky takes the lid off the saucepan of rice and turns up the heat. “Colander?”
Erica hands her one, and she drains the broccoli and puts it in a bowl.
“Lemon, mustard, butter.”
Erica retrieves all three from the fridge and Becky adds them to the broccoli, mixes it, covers the dish with tinfoil, and puts it on the warming element. Then she takes the salmon out of the oven.
“Spices?”
Erica points to the spice cabinet. Becky opens it and takes out three jars that Erica has never opened—cumin, shallot pepper, and a blend called Turkish—mixes them with a little olive oil, and spreads the mixture on the salmon. Then she sticks the fish back into the oven on broil.