by Amy Harmon
“Maybe,” Breezy said doubtfully. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“You may as well give in,” Lindsey said. “I’ll just wear you down, anyway.”
Breezy chuckled. “Probably. But not tonight.”
Candy finished fussing with the food, and settled herself on the far couch. “Speaking of the Mayor’s Gala, how’s your brother doing, Lindsey? Getting used to being mayor yet?”
Lindsey’s brother, Jake Taylor, had been elected mayor of Aspen Grove and sworn in last January, so this would be his first year presiding over the Mayor’s Gala, which pretty much everyone in town would attend. “He’s gotten too serious. He’s not any fun any more.”
“Well, give him time, too,” Iris said. “Didn’t he and his girl just break up?”
“Four years ago,” Lindsey said.
“Has it been that long? Wow. How time flies.” Iris shook her head. “Does he like being in public office?”
“Public office isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Believe me.” Sonnet Cassidy kicked off her four-inch heels and pulled her feet up under her.
Dixie laughed. “Isn’t your daddy the governor of this fine state?”
Sonnet nodded. “That’s how I know.”
Candy carried her plate of food to a recliner and eased herself down without spilling anything. “Is he still trying to run your life?”
“Do sharks bite?” Sonnet snorted. “He still wants me to move back into the family home.”
“In Sacramento?” Breezy asked, surprised. “Into the governor’s mansion?”
“That’s what he wants. I’m not kidding. I told him I just started my business and I’m staying here. That drives him crazy, but it’s what I want to do with my life.”
“How’s your business going?” asked Iris.
Sonnet smiled. “I’ve got a wedding lined up for next week. The Jorgensen’s oldest daughter. If you know anyone else who could use a photographer, please pass around my cards. I brought extras tonight.”
Sonnet reached into her purse and pulled out a silver holder, then passed cards to the others. “And I chose my business name: Fresh Photography by Sonnet.”
“I love that, Sonnet,” Breezy said. “Congratulations.”
Breezy admired the artful way three lovely photographs had been arranged into a beautiful collage. “These are gorgeous.”
“What can I say?” Sonnet waved a hand. “I’m good at what I do.”
“You certainly are.” Candy asked Sonnet, “Are you still dating Harold?”
Sonnet said, casually, “Sure.”
They’d dated for months, but they were the opposite of Lindsey and Ethan—they seemed more like brother and sister to Breezy. But to each her own.
The door opened and Beth Lawrence entered and dropped her five-dollar bill in the vase. A sensible school teacher, Beth was dressed in jeans and a shirt advertising Aspen Grove Elementary. After she was greeted and brought up to speed, Candy asked how her dad was doing.
Beth shrugged, a movement that belied the glistening of unshed tears in her eyes. “Not good. The doctor says he doesn’t have much longer. Maybe only a few months.”
“I’m so sorry, Honey.” Candy set aside her plate, rose, and gave Beth a hug.
Breezy nodded in sympathy. She’d heard that Beth’s father’s cancer had returned.
Candy sighed. “I’ve known your father since I was a babe.”
“You’re still a babe.” Sonnet waggled an eyebrow.
“Right. A forty-five-year-old babe with some twenty extra pounds.” Candy grinned and fluffed her streaked blonde hair that curled about her face. “But at least the fat fills out my face so my wrinkles don’t show.”
“Oh, come on, Candy,” Dixie said. “You look fabulous, like Doris Day, and she is one of my all-time favorites actresses. Besides, who isn’t carrying a few extra pounds?”
With a grin, Candy pointed at Breezy. “Right there. This woman is skinny enough to look good even on TV.”
Sonnet twirled a finger around a strand of her silky blonde hair. “I heard that Paul Nelson was fired today. Is that true?”
The women all turned to Breezy, their inside source on the situation.
Oh, she so did not want to talk about this right now. She was already haunted by the look in Paul’s eyes yesterday. This morning he’d come in early and left his official letter accepting the early retirement package on Mr. Drake’s desk. Then he’d gone home. That had all happened before she’d even gotten to work. Things were not going to be the same without him.
She repressed a groan and could feel her muscles tighten. Finally, she smiled, but it was forced. It was common knowledge now, so she could tell this part of it, at least. “He wasn’t fired. Actually, he took early retirement.”
The women made sounds of sympathy for him, and wanted more details.
“I don’t really know more than that.” She wasn’t about to say anything about his being forced to leave. That was his news to tell.
“It’s a shame,” said Candy.
Beth said, “Enough depressing real life, folks. I need chocolate and a movie. Preferably a funny one. Maybe an oldie but goodie.”
Candy pulled out a DVD. “Singin' in the Rain work for you, Beth?”
“Yes. I love that movie.” Beth said, obviously ready to put her sick father out of her mind for a couple of hours.
Breezy was ready to put the memory of Paul’s eyes and her own nervous worries out of her mind. She hoped it worked.
And why not? A good movie and good friends. What else could they possibly need?
Comfort food. “Piece of chocolate cream pie, anyone?”
* * *
Friday, April 12
“Ms. Jones?”
Startled, Breezy looked up from her work station. She’d been so engrossed in forecasting the weather patterns, she hadn’t heard anyone approach. She smiled up at Gabe. “Yes, Mr. Weston?”
He smiled back. “Mr. Drake would like to meet with you as soon as you’re done here.”
Good. It was finally her turn to meet with the yummy Noah Drake. “Sure. The morning meeting is in five minutes and I can come up right after that, say in twenty, twenty-five minutes?”
“No rush.” He tapped the top of the counter. “We like thorough and accurate forecasts.”
She straightened in her seat. “Then it’s a good thing that I take pride in making mine accurate.”
He gave her a light salute and headed down the aisle, talking with people as he went. Though they were both meeting with employees in their offices, Gabe seemed much more approachable than Noah, who hadn’t made many visits downstairs. She was sure he had plenty to keep him busy on the third floor, though.
As she worked, she thought through the suggestions she wanted to present, ideas for positive changes she’d like to see made at the station, at least in the weather portion. When she finished her forecast, she stared at the monitor until the weather patterns were set, swirling, in her brain.
“Going to the meeting,” she told Fiona, who sat at a monitor along the wall. At twenty-three, Fiona was the youngest hippie wannabe Breezy knew. Her favorite attire was tie-dyed shirts and jeans, even at work. Today’s shirt was dyed in shades of gray.
Without looking up from the graphic she was designing, Fiona raised a hand in a wave.
Breezy headed for the meeting room, just down the aisle from the Cave. A conference table took up the majority of the room, and many chairs around it were filled. Breezy greeted the producers inside and took a spot along the back wall. The overview of today’s news was projected on the far wall, and on the side wall a whiteboard was sectioned off into four sections. All of the producers of the various segments—Sports, Traffic, Breaking News, and, of course, Weather—would present a summary of the projected news for the day.
Weather typically went first. Breezy didn’t need written notes because the weather for the day was branded in her brain.
When she completed her rundown and le
ft the meeting, she glanced at her watch. It had only taken ten minutes. She’d be early. No matter what Gabe had said about not rushing, early was better than late.
Taking a deep breath and smoothing her skirt, she couldn’t help a smile. It was her turn to talk with the handsome Noah Drake, who had promised to listen. And she hoped to impress the man with the ideas she’d come up with.
She waved to people as she passed by. The two regular anchors plus the new man who’d replaced Paul sat at their desks in the maze of cubicles, a small TV playing the news silently on every desk. Another wave for her favorite film editor as he carried papers into an editing office. Fiona in the Cave. They all nodded or waved or called out a hello.
Taking the elevator to the third floor, she stopped short of Mr. Drake’s office to take a moment to smooth her skirt down again before knocking. She was more nervous than she’d realized. She drew in another long, quiet breath, trying to center herself. There was nothing to worry about.
Finally ready, she lifted her hand to knock on the slightly ajar office door but, before she could, she heard voices and paused.
“I don’t know, Gabe.” Noah Drake sounded skeptical. “I think the change needs to be made. This station is watched outside of this small community. A third of the state watches our news. But it doesn’t matter whether we agree or not; Bentley has decided.”
She lowered her hand to her side.
Noah sounded a little hoarse, as if maybe he was fighting off a cold. Poor baby. She’d have to take some of her mother’s delicious homemade chicken noodle soup over to Noah’s house. Her mother had said she was cooking some today.
Gabe responded, “She’s well liked, Noah.”
“It’s just that nobody is that sweet in real life. Pollyanna just doesn’t fly. I’ve spoken with Pamela and she said Bentley already bought her ticket. It’s a done deal.” A pause. “I haven’t found that file. Have you seen it yet?”
“I’ll check my desk for it. Listen, Noah, this young woman is the town sweetheart. I’m not kidding. Everybody loves her.”
Oh my gosh. Who at the station was too Pollyanna?
Again, she raised her hand to knock as Noah said, “It doesn’t matter. When viewers see someone forecasting the weather, they want glitz and glamour. Not small-town sweetheart.”
Her hand froze in mid-air.
What?
The weather?!?
They were discussing her?
Mr. Drake thought Breezy was too Pollyanna? For the weather?
She lowered her hand, indignation roaring through her. He had to be kidding! Who did he think he was, coming into the station and forcing people to take early retirement and saying she was too Pollyanna?
What did that even mean, anyway? She worked hard to come across as cheerful. Did he think people wanted gloomy? People liked her cheerful delivery, and she had the fan mail to prove it.
How dare he.
Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. She needed to be professional, get through this meeting without letting him know he’d devastated her.
She would show him Pollyanna with an attitude. And she would do it right now.
“Just saying. This is a small town, Noah, and they like her.”
There was a pause in the conversation.
She knocked before they could get going again.
Chapter Four
Weather forecast for tonight: Dark. Continued dark overnight, with widely scattered light by morning. —George Carlin
After her knock, there was a long pause in the men’s conversation. Then Gabe opened the door wide. Seeing her, his mouth parted and he looked worried, no doubt wondering how much she’d heard. He quickly collected himself, his face morphing into his usual pleasant expression. “Come in, Ms. Jones.”
“Thank you, Mr. Weston.” She smiled warmly at the man who’d defended her. And then turned a chilly gaze toward the man who thought she was freaking Pollyanna. “You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Drake?”
He stood and reached out to shake her hand. “Yes. Thanks for coming in.”
He had a nice handshake, for a Pollyanna hater. Who could hate Pollyanna, anyway? What kind of cretin was he?
“Please. Have a seat.”
“I’ll go line up your next appointment,” Gabe said as he beat a hasty retreat.
Breezy sat on the edge of the seat, ready for verbal battle. She rested her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to point at him and say what she really wanted to say. Cretin or not, he was still her boss.
Noah sat down behind his desk. “So, Ms. Jones, it’s good to finally meet you officially. Gabe tells me you’re quite the weathercaster.”
Weathercaster? Puh-leeze. “Meteorologist.”
His eyes lit up in surprise, so apparently he knew the difference. “Really? You look far too young to be that accomplished.”
She narrowed her eyes. Pollyanna and too young? What was next? Did she have too many freckles on her nose? Too short? Too accomplished? She forced a light smile. “Thank you. I have double degrees in Meteorology and Communications and a Masters in Meteorology.” So there, Mr. Drake.
“I’m very impressed. What got you interested in forecasting?”
If she hadn’t overheard his plans, she would have relaxed and enjoyed this talk with him right about now. She tried to keep herself calm. “My father was the meteorologist for KWAC for over thirty years. I come by it naturally and I started young.”
He nodded in approval and actually cracked a smile. “So you knew what you wanted to do from a young age and then achieved it. Again, I’m impressed with your credentials.”
A slight pause.
But…?
“Gabe tells me you have impeccable credentials and you come highly recommended.” He leaned forward and rested the tips of his fingers on the edge of the desk. He paused, then leaned back again. “Were you aware I ran one of our stations in LA?”
“Now I’m impressed.”
He studied her, crinkles in his brow. Hadn’t she sounded sincere enough? Imagine that.
Adrenaline shock fueled her smile. Could she really lose her job? She hadn’t expected any of this.
He tilted his head and then shook it a little. “I enjoy raising ratings and I have a big vision of where this station can be in the next twelve months. I want you to know that we definitely want to keep you on staff.”
That was a relief. But why did she feel another but coming?
“We’re looking to slick things up a bit. So a former colleague has been asked to do the broadcasts. But I definitely want you to stay on as Pamela’s assistant. The weather producer to work on the graphics.”
Weather producer. Fiona’s job.
Her heart racing, she swallowed. “I don’t understand. I'm being demoted? May I ask why? My ratings are the best in the state. I've won awards.”
“You’re doing an excellent job with your forecasting. That’s why we want to keep you on staff. You will even receive a pay raise. A small one.” He almost looked surprised at his own words.
She forced herself to stay in the seat, to speak politely. “May I ask who Pamela is?”
He smiled as if he was glad she hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum on his desk, her being so freakishly young and all. “Pamela Gladstone. From our station in LA. Have you heard of her?”
Oh, yeah, she’d heard of Pamela Gladstone. A woman with a figure like Pamela Anderson, who revealed way too much of her figure on-air and who went through men like most women toss back M&Ms.
Now their comments made sense. They wanted cleavage and collagen, not perky and Pollyanna.
Uncharacteristic anger rose within Breezy.
Pamela was a mere weathercaster, not a meteorologist, so she would pull her forecasts off the weather services reports. When they had a perfectly good, award-winning meteorologist on staff. What kind of backward thinking was that?
“I will do whatever I can to make the transition to your new position easier on you.”
“The transition to my old job, you mean.”
To his credit, he looked uncomfortable. “Yes. But with a raise. And as soon as the ratings go up, Pamela will move on to another position.”
“Our ratings are already the best in the state.”
“This is not up for discussion. It’s already been decided.”
What was he saying? That after Pamela moved on, he would want her back, modestly dressed as she was? The jerk. They would just get some other scantily clad weathercaster. He hadn’t even bumped her to weekends, so that meant he didn’t want her on-air, at all.
Her career had just been wiped away as if by a tsunami.
Breezy ought to move on to another position. An actual meteorologist position. Unfortunately, that would mean moving out of Aspen Grove, and she didn’t want to leave her family and friends. She was in the same boat as Paul, now. She was a hometown girl and always had been. She had roots here. So for now, she would try to make the best of this new situation. And hopefully Pamela Gladstone would move on and Breezy would get her old job back. Because after the ratings started dropping—and they would because KWAC’s viewers were also hometown people and she didn’t think they’d like Pamela’s scantily clad look or sexy presentation—Noah would change his mind about having her on-air.
Or did he really know what he was doing? He’d turned other stations around. Maybe these changes would actually improve ratings. And she’d be washed away permanently.
Noah turned his head and coughed lightly.
“Catching a cold?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Fighting a cold.”
Good. Served him right. He wasn’t getting any soup from her. “That’s too bad.”
He raised the other eyebrow. “So will you accept the position?”
“What happens to Fiona?”
“Fiona?”
“My current weather producer. The person whose job I just took.”
“Oh.” He looked flustered, though she couldn’t imagine why. The Firing Squad must be used to doing this sort of thing. “She can be your assistant.”
Assistant to the assistant. Fiona would be so proud. “And does she get a raise, too?”