by Gina Conroy
Focus, Mari.
Smoothing my hair, I slapped on a smile and entered the set.
“Showtime.”
CHAPTER TWO
7:58 a.m.
Lyndon University Television Studio
“MARI,” THE DIRECTOR’S VOICE crackled through my earpiece, “we’ve got a problem.”
Not what I wanted to hear ninety seconds before going live on the very show that could jumpstart my network affiliate career.
Or annihilate it.
Heat from the studio lights bore through my skull, threatening to pressure cook my brain. I paced the length of the cramped set. “I’m listening.”
“You’ll have to lead with Fletcher Murdock.”
My adrenaline spiked. “You’re joking?” It was bad enough I had to interview him today, but why put him on before Henderson?
“Did Fletcher put you up to this?” He ruined my life once. I wouldn’t let him ruin my career.
“Mari, Henderson had a heart attack.”
My mind clouded, all thoughts lost in an endless moment of confusion. I tried to speak, but the neurons in my brain must have fried.
“Mari?”
“Th-that’s impossible.”
“You need to listen. The paramedics are on their way. We’re doing the show.”
Breath stalled. I fell into my chair, the burning in my lungs conjuring memories of Christmas Eve when Nonna’s putrid-smelling bacala fish sent me running from her home, sucking in fresh air as if my life depended on it. Trust me, it did. Just like my career depended on this show. I clutched the armrests.
“Mari, are you okay?”
“I … I’m alive.” “I need you to do this.”
“I need some time.”
“You’ve got sixty seconds.”
Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven … Perspiration collected underneath my blouse, my head seconds from exploding. “Isn’t there something we can do?”
“The best thing right now is to focus on the show. We’re all counting on you.”
My mother’s lifeless face materialized. Burning embers knocked within. Searing, singeing, sentencing. “Shouldn’t we cancel the show? Notify his daughter?”
“It’s being taken care of. Just concentrate on your next guest.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Do I need to remind you who’ll be watching? Focus on your job, and we’ll all look good.”
How could I with the grim reaper dancing around Lyndon University’s cable television studio?
There’s nothing I can do for Henderson.
I inhaled and donned my Tango face. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Quiet on the set.” Tyler, the pasty-white, wannabe Gangsta, floor manager held his low-slung jeans with one hand as he started his countdown.
The ache in my neck took root. I flexed my leg muscles and stared at the camera. Releasing the tension, I tried to forget Henderson.
“And five, four …” Tyler held up three fingers, then two, and one. He pointed to me.
The red light on the camera went live. “Welcome to ‘Archaeology Today’ where we’re diggin’ it with Professor—” The teleprompter said Theron Henderson. I sputtered like a movie film detaching from its reel, my mind flickering to the last frame of Henderson’s life. My pulse raced as I imagined his stopping.
The words on the screen rolled ahead, and I managed to ad lib, but my out-of-sync Kung-Fu funk made me want to duck and roll. Finally, the teleprompter flashed the correct segment.
“… Fletcher Murdock, straight from the field in Egypt. After an eight-month excavation, he’s returned to the university as an adjunct professor to share his experience and treasures with the students. Please welcome Field Archaeologist Fletcher Murdock.”
An applause track looped as Fletcher sauntered in wearing his trademark Aussie leather fedora, cargo khakis, and dirt-encrusted work boots. Could he be any more cliché?
Fletcher’s sea blue eyes burned through me. The Indiana Jones look-alike would no doubt turn many sorority heads, yet as good as he looked fresh off the field, strapping and tan, I wouldn’t be tattooing I love you on my eyelids for anyone, especially Fletcher Murdock.
I stood and extended my hand. “Welcome to the show.”
Fletcher bypassed my gesture and bear hugged me, lifting me on my tiptoes. An unwelcome flutter whisked through me, pulling me back to a time I thought I had forgotten. A time when I was vulnerable and naïve. A time when Fletcher and I were together.
I scrambled for some other memory, any memory, but came up blank.
“It’s great to see you, Mari.”
“Mr. Murdock—”
“It’s Fletcher on and off the air.”
I ignored his wink as we strolled to the table filled with pottery, statues, excavation tools, and a big, white sheet covering his latest find, no doubt.
“Fletcher, by the looks of the artifact table, you’ve been busy in Egypt.”
“When you’re single and thousands of miles from civilization and a beautiful woman like yourself, what else is there to do but roll around in the dirt?”
I turned away from the camera so the audience didn’t see my eyes roll, then scanned the table of Egypt’s past. Amulets, scarabs, broken pottery, and small statues. This was a significant find. Studying the obsidian dagger, I traced the royal cartouche with the name etched out. Anticipation flowed through my body. It could only belong to one Pharaoh.
Figures, Fletcher always had a thing for the ladies. “So, Mr. Murdock—”
“Fletcher.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Fletcher,” I echoed, waiting for the politically correct segment to scroll across the teleprompter. “It’s no secret that for years Egypt’s been trying to recover its lost treasures from the countries of the world and increase.” I fanned my arm toward the artifact table. “How did you manage to secure such a large collection from a recent excavation?”
“Special thanks goes to Egypt, and the Secretary General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, Dr. Wati Rhashidi. The collection is on loan to the university. Students will have the unique privilege of studying artifacts before the treasures go on tour with major museums across the nation.”
“How generous of the Egyptians for allowing these priceless treasures to leave their soil.” I gagged on my pre-scripted words. “Let’s see what you brought us.”
“My pleasure.” He placed his hand on the small of my back, sending shivers up my spine. Memories of the touches we’d shared surfaced as he guided me closer to the white sheet. What was wrong with me? Why was I even entertaining these feelings? Why couldn’t Fletcher have stayed in Egypt with Jack?
Fletcher’s mischievous eyes narrowed. “First, I thought we’d show your viewers how archaeologists do it in the field.”
A virgin blush warmed my cheeks. Knowing Fletcher, his mind was definitely in the dirt. He lifted the white cloth, uncovering a cavernous tray of dark-brown, mountainous soil. A chill swept over me. I searched the table for latex gloves. Surely Fletcher had them somewhere.
Fletcher pried my sweaty right hand from my side and pushed me closer. “It’s like riding a bike.”
Yeah, a unicycle … fifty-feet above the ground on a tight rope of fire.
Staring at the fresh mound, I froze. Why would Fletcher do this today of all days? Had he forgotten there was a reason I chose to be a professor instead of a field archaeologist? No, he wouldn’t have known. He left before—
Anxious murmurs beyond the set grew louder. I turned for a second and noticed the open studio door. Someone must have left it ajar in all the confusion surrounding Henderson. My knees locked three inches from the table.
“Mari, follow Fletcher’s lead.” The director’s order in my earpiece kick-started my heart. “Think of the affiliate.”
Fletcher gave me a brush and pushed my trembling hand toward the dirt. My nostrils burned, a long forgotten odor attacked my senses. I gagged at the stench. Freshly dug earth … and death. M
y lips formed a “no” but my vocal cords rebelled. Not enough oxygen. I reeled in a shallow breath and exhaled, watching my network career, my dream, float away.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed two EMTs push a gurney toward the green room. Something about the woman paramedic with the brassy-blonde hair bit my memory. A lone cameraman followed them. Maybe they had gotten here in time. Maybe Henderson would be okay. But somehow I knew Henderson was already gone.
Pain jabbed my temples, piercing like thumbtacks. No matter how much I tried to forget, to rid my mind of the awful memories, death always summoned them back—with a sucker-punch. Images of my parents’ graveside funeral assaulted with rapid fire. I’d been too late. Too late for goodbyes. Too late to save my mother.
Always too late.
With numb hands I tossed the gritty soil on my mother’s casket. My lungs dragged in moist autumn air, but my eyes remained dry as the brittle, barren trees surrounding me.
What had the minister said? It didn’t matter anyway, though a part of me wished some emotion would bubble up. That I believed in a loving God. In life after death.
But nothing.
Nothing waited for my mother on the other side of the grave, despite what she believed. I knew Hell existed; yet it wasn’t buried beneath the ground.
It was lying right beside her.
I couldn’t help my smile as I looked at my father’s coffin. Like the pharaohs, he’d be sealed in his earthy tomb forever.
Doomed.
Damned.
Forgotten.
Except by the broken vessels he left behind.
The past and the present collided as Fletcher let go of my hand. It fell like an Egyptian brick, knocking the metal tray off the table. Dirt poured onto me, soiling my dignity. The room spun. I lost my balance just as I had ten years ago when I fell into my father’s open grave.
Except this time I fell into Fletcher’s embrace.
CHAPTER THREE
8:23 a.m.
Lyndon University Studio
HOVERING BETWEEN SLUMBER AND consciousness, I nestled in secure arms. Gentle kisses dotted my cheeks. The fullness in my bladder urged me to get out of bed, but the thrill rushing through me coaxed me into lingering a bit longer in the arms of my husband. I jolted awake.
It’d been two years since Jack shared my bed.
“Mari, are you okay?”
That voice. Pressure squeezed my head as Fletcher’s face came into focus. He held a rag in his hand. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Was this one of your practical jokes?” Face flushed and head airy, I wormed out of his arms. “Grow up!” I pushed him away and staggered to my feet. I should’ve known he’d only bring trouble. “FYI, your little joke cost me the morning show at KTXL.”
He knelt, open-mouthed. Pity-filled stares from the crew burned, penetrated; reminding me of my humiliation. I had to escape—to my dressing room.
After a quick detour to the restroom, I entered my closet-sized sanctuary, kicked off my heels, and plopped in the chair. But found no relief. Dropping my head on the vanity, I knocked over my purified water. It spilled along with my tears. Tears of embarrassment and for a lifelong dream shattered. I set the bottle upright and used half a box of Kleenex to dry the mess. A soft knock sounded on my dressing room door.
“Just a minute.” I blew my nose. “Come in.”
Elizabeth Darby’s hazel-blue eyes misted, her curly, blonde hair illuminating her angelic complexion. What a contrast to my brunette, frizzed mop and caked-on foundation.
“Oh, Mari, bless your heart. I got here as soon as they let me out of the control booth.”
My best friend since kindergarten ran to me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. Her Texan drawl was as soothing as a pint of Ben and Jerry’s after a relationship breakup. “I had no idea he’d pull a stunt like that, but I should have seen it coming. I’m so sorry.”
Despite her I’m-not-perfect-just-forgiven T-shirt, my best friend was perfect.
Elizabeth handed me my blew-my-whole-paycheck-on-it Coach bag. “You left this in the studio.”
“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” Too bad she couldn’t resurrect my career. I set my oversized, red tote under the vanity and shrugged. “I didn’t have time for another job, anyway. This single-mom gig and teaching keep me busy enough. Plus, I’m the acclaimed hostess of the hit cable show ‘Archaeology Today.’ What more could I desire?”
“You can’t give up on your dream. Maybe it’s not that bad.” Elizabeth knelt and took my hands. “If you want, we can pray?”
Like that had ever worked for me. “No, that’s okay.” I pulled my hands from hers and turned toward the mirror. “You’re right. It’s probably not that bad. Can’t be worse than the last two years.” I wiped the mascara from under my eyes and tried to brush the soil from my suit, but only smudged the dirt in deeper. “I’m such a mess. Why do you put up with me?”
“Don’t know?” Her playful tone couldn’t mask the sincerity in her eyes. “Maybe we’re M.F.E.O.”
I tried not to raise my eyebrows, but I couldn’t help it.
“Made For Each Other. It’s Rachel’s new catchphrase.”
I thought of Hattie, my eleven year old. It’d been so long since we talked, I didn’t even know if she had a catchphrase. I’d have to remember to schedule mother-daughter quality time soon. “M.F.E.O. I like it.” My frown lifted. “Like Laverne and Shirley.”
“Lucy and Ethel.”
“Thelma and Louise.” An all-out grin spread across my face.
“Who?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Thelma and Louise. Two women, running from the law, breaking practically all the commandments before they fly their car off the cliff to their deaths.”
“Sounds depressing.”
“It’s a classic. We’ll have to watch it sometime. Girls’ night out, and don’t worry, your husband won’t mind. I’m not a huge Brad Pitt fan, but trust me, you’ll be digging out your cowboy boots and inviting Stephen to play outlaw.”
Confusion clouded Elizabeth’s face.
“After watching this movie, Jack and I used to be a regular Bonnie and Clyde. Strictly in the bedroom, of course.” Boy, times like this I really missed Jack.
“Oh ... oh!” Elizabeth’s light eyes darkened. “Stephen doesn’t approve of those kind of movies.”
“Relax. It’s rated R, not triple X. Don’t tell me your religion forbids R-rated movies.”
“No, it’s not like that.” Elizabeth stood, her tone holding no judgment.
I found the nerve to ask the nagging question on my mind. “Any news about Henderson?”
“I heard he didn’t make it.” Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t want to keep you from your class.”
“And you have to get back to the studio.” I walked Elizabeth to the door. “They can’t get by without their best technical director.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped. “Give a chimp my job. I’m sure he can push the buttons.”
“Everything okay?” I wrapped my arms around my fading optimist. It wasn’t like her to go Eyeore on me.
“Sure. I’m content in all things.” Elizabeth’s words lost their pep like a cheerleader in a snowstorm. “Call me later?” She stepped into the hallway and paused. “Mari, all things do work together for good. You’ll see.” Forcing a smile, she closed the door behind her.
Good? What good had come from a divorce I didn’t want? From Fletcher’s career assassination? Henderson’s death? I should probably cancel my interview and put myself out of my misery. Give up on my dream and accept that I’d be working in the same office as my exes for the rest of my life. Happy endings had never been a part of my life before. Why expect anything different today?
I found my phone and punched in the numbers for the casting director at KTXL. As much as I loved Elizabeth, I didn’t understand her. She always had a simple answer for everything. Too bad the questions always changed before I coul
d fill in the blanks.
Before I hit send, my phone played “Walk Like an Egyptian” not “King Tut,” the ringtone Jack programmed into my iPhone when we were still together. But why would it play? Jack only called once a month to make sure the child support checks were deposited in my account on time. They always were.
“Hello. Mari Duggins.”
“It’s Jan Carson at KTXL. We’ve moved your interview to 3:00 this afternoon.”
“T-today?” I took a sip from my water bottle, hoping to revive my tongue.
“Will that be a problem?”
I glanced at my filthy suit, then at my French manicure in desperate need of a fill. “No, 3:00. I’ll be there.”
“Fabulous. We’re thrilled with the new direction the morning show is going and think you’d add an interesting dynamic to the team. Of course, there are nine other applicants with impressive credentials. Don’t forget to bring a copy of this morning’s show to the interview.”
The horrifying segment looped through my mind. Didn’t she see it? “I’m not sure I can get it in time, but I can get last week’s program.”
“Any show is fine. We’ll see you this afternoon.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” What dumb luck! I hit end, dialed my nail tech, and begged her to fit me in. To my surprise, her 1:15 had canceled. I reached for a change of clothes in my dressing room closet. Elizabeth’s words echoed in my head.
All things work together for good.
Could Elizabeth be right? Would all things work together for good?
Maybe for my career, but surely not for Professor Henderson.
Or my love life.
CHAPTER FOUR
8:42 a.m.
Mari’s Dressing Room
STARING INTO THE VANITY mirror surrounded with lights, I ignored the discomfort in my gut and forced my fingers to trace the grooves on my forehead. The tiny cracks on the once flawless surface taunted me, reminding me of my imperfections. Maybe if I had my own makeup artist like the anchors at KTXL I wouldn’t seem as old as the artifacts we studied in class.