Holiday Fantasy

by Adrianne Byrd

  The worst part came about a week after the calls started, when she was called into Stan’s office.

  “See these letters on my desk?” It wasn’t a question.

  Summer sat down. She briefly glanced at the stack of assorted letters and unopened envelopes in Stan’s IN box. “Yes.”

  “They’re all about you and your caller. Our audience isn’t happy. And when my audience isn’t happy, I’m not happy.”

  “I’m doing everything I can,” Summer replied in her doctor-patient-soothing tone, even though her insides were a jumble of frayed nerves.

  “Whatever you’re doing is not enough. You were hired on the recommendation of someone I think very highly of. Your background indicated to me that you had experience in handling…these types of problems.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t get me wrong, up until now I’ve had no complaints. You know how I’ve felt about the way you took the show and ran with it. ’Round Midnight has been our number-one draw almost from the beginning.” He began pacing the short expanse of the crowded room. “There’s no other way to put this, Summer.” He stopped his pacing, turned to face her. She had the sudden sensation of being hustled off to radio purgatory, that elusive black hole in the time slot when no one was listening.

  “Your ratings are down. And if they keep falling…we may have to think at replacing the show.”

  Her heart knocked once, hard, then seemed to rush up to her throat where it stuck, pounding. She took in a slow lungful of air, giving the declaration an opportunity to wind its way through the labyrinth of her mind. This was worse than purgatory, where at least you had the chance to repent for your sins and be reassigned back to the Pearly Gates of primetime. This was most certainly the slow elevator to that other place, down below. Banishment.

  Stan took a breath, then reached down on his desk for his pack of Newports. He lit up and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. He held the cigarette almost daintily between his fingers, Summer thought for an abstract moment, thinking the affectation so odd for someone who strutted around like Napoleon incarnate.

  Stan pointed the cigarette in her direction as he spoke. “Do you have any enemies?”

  Summer frowned. “Enemies? What do you mean?”

  “Someone who might be out to get you, ruin your reputation. Someone who might be jealous, feel slighted—an old boyfriend. Whatever.”

  A parade of possibilities marched through her head, but the band kept right on going. There was no one she could think of who’d want to see her squirm.

  “No,” she finally answered, looking him directly in the eye.

  Slowly he nodded. “We’ll do what we can in engineering in terms of monitoring the calls, but if he gets through, you’ll have to handle it. Maybe some people like the verbal sparring and nastiness from some of the other talk radio programs and the ones on television, but it’s not what our listeners want. And the Arbitron ratings prove it.”

  Summer could tell by his stance that this meeting was over. She stood. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I’m sure you will. I’m depending on you to pull out of this. There’s got to be something in one of those psychology books of yours that tells you how to deal with nutcases.”

  “They’re not nutcases. They’re troubled individuals,” she gently corrected.

  “Call ’em what you want. I just don’t want them on my show.”

  “Thanks for talking with me, Stan. It’ll work out.”

  “Hmmm,” he mumbled, already absorbed in his next crisis.

  Summer slipped out quietly, slinging her oversized purse on her shoulder. Her stomach had that fluttery feeling like the instant before a plane lifts off the runway, then dips and pitches until it settles at a comfortable altitude.

  She couldn’t let this happen to her again—have what she’d built, worked at, ruined by someone for no other reason than just because. She felt her eyes burn and begin to cloud over.

  She wouldn’t cry, not here. Especially here where she didn’t have a real friend she could count on. As she passed the twisting, turning array of employees, she looked at each one with a critical eye. Maybe Stan was right about it being jealousy. Her show was number one, and she was sure there’d be no love lost if she got bumped down a notch or two. Or three.

  Is it him? Her?

  She turned the corner. She’d so insulated herself since she began working at the station, that there was no one she could turn to and get the inside stuff, find out if there were any plots being hatched against her.

  The only person she could rely on was herself, and her skills at analyzing others, which unfortunately seemed to always fail her when it came to her own life and problems.

  Summer pushed through the exit doors and out into the chilly October afternoon. A breeze whipped across her face and sneaked under her jacket. She quickly zipped it up. What she needed was a plan, she decided as the thoughts formulated in her head.

  She looked up, seeing Misty’s, one of the other local hangouts for the radio crowd. What she needed was some allies. The brief flicker of a smile teased her mouth. What better place to start than at Misty’s?

  When she stepped into the semidarkened bar/grill/restaurant, sometime nightclub, the place was already packed with early lunchgoers, late breakfast eaters, and those who had nothing else to do but find out what everyone else was doing.

  She fell into the last category.

  Stepping farther into the less than plush space, she was stopped in her tracks by a buxom—the kind you see on Jerry Springer—waitress, slash, hostess who asked her how many.

  It took all Summer had to keep her eyes focused on the woman’s lackluster brown eyes and not the overabundance of cleavage that clearly did not want to be confined in whatever cup size they were in.

  Summer blinked at the sound of popping gum. “Oh, just one, please.”

  The woman snatched up a menu from the stand and commanded, “Follow me.” Which she did and with every step wondered how the poor woman didn’t topple over face first.

  She showed Summer to a table tucked in the back.

  “Your waitress will be with you in a minute,” she said, placing the menu on the table and nearly slapping Summer across the face with those launch missiles. Reflexes snatched her head back just in time.

  Summer looked up. “Thanks.”

  Once alone, she casually scanned the crowd. She’d seen several of the radio staff on her way in, none of whom paid her much attention. Everywhere she looked, people were in twos and threes, enjoying conversation, sharing jokes and trade secrets.

  She took a sip of her lukewarm water, realizing just how out of touch she’d become. Although networking and grip-and-grin sessions were never her strong suit, the little skill she had at it had atrophied from disuse. There was not a friendly face in the place, and she knew she’d never made it easy for folks to just come on up and chat with her. So this was the price she was paying.

  She was thirty-four years old, and the stampede of thirty-five could be heard in the distance. She had a luxury condo, top of the line automobile, clothes, art, and was a great cook. But she, as Kia diligently reminded her, had no one to share it with. And now she was also faced once again with the possibility of having to walk away from a job she loved with her tail tucked between her legs.

  Where was the waitress? She almost asked out loud, the unfairness of her situation erupting like an uncorked bottle of bubbly. She looked up, her eyes scanning the shadows and shapes of the room and landed right on Tre, who was being led inside by the hostess with the mostest.

  She didn’t know whether she wanted to duck or wave him in her direction.

  The decision was taken out of her hands when he was shepherded in the opposite direction, never having seen her.

  Figures. It was typical of the type of day she was having. She turned her attention to the menu, knowing good and well that she wasn’t hungry and feeling more by the minute that this little jaunt was a mistake.

  She shut the menu, silent
ly cursing the invisible waitress, then gave herself a short counseling session. Everything takes time, Ms. Lane, the voice in her head was saying. No one can expect progress overnight. Take one step at a time. This is the first one. The hardest. You should feel good about that. The next step will be easier. If your colleagues don’t reach out to you, you make the effort.

  She looked around, again seeing a continuing stream of familiar faces. Whom could she approach and strike up a conversation and not feel like the total party crasher?

  “Hi.”

  She turned to her left, and Tre was standing there looking down at her.

  She smiled in the hope that he’d forgiven her for the sorry way she’d behaved. “How are you?”

  “Is that a clinical or a rhetorical question?” he teased. She noticed again the appealing way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

  “A bit of both.”

  He chuckled. “Fair enough. In that case, on both counts, I’d say I was fine, Doc.”

  You certainly are.

  “However, I’m sure there are many who’d question my assessment.” He smiled again, and she saw the fine lines that bracketed his mouth. It gave him character, instead of aging him as it did with women.

  “Are you meeting anyone?”

  She wished she could say yes, so that she wouldn’t appear as the lonely waif—but of course that would be a lie that would unravel in a matter of minutes.

  “No. I’m not. Would you like to join me—if you’re not here with anyone?”

  “Yes, I would. And no, I’m not.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat. “Did you order?”

  “No.” She frowned. “This section seems to be off limits to the waitress.”

  Tre chuckled. “You just have to get used to Misty’s. They have the greatest food to be such a dive, but the wait could turn you gray. Most of us try to fill up on beer, peanuts, and conversation until we can get some service. Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “Well, now that I know the rules of the game, maybe I can play.” She pressed lips together in thought. “I’d like a pineapple daiquiri.”

  “Oh, one of those fruity drinks that flatten you when you’re not looking.” He stood. “Be right back.”

  Maybe this adventure would turn out all right after all, Summer thought. But her nerves were like Rice Krispies in milk. He made her nervous, undid her usual calm demeanor. Maybe it was his casual attitude, or maybe the way he looked at her, or the scent of his cologne that made her want to move a little closer. Whatever it was, it was getting stronger every time she was in his presence. The feeling was totally foreign to her. She was accustomed to being in control of situations and her emotions. These feelings were a little scary—the extra beats of her heart, the warm flush that heated her skin when he smiled. Suppose Tre Holland was someone she could really care about? Then what? How would a relationship between them affect their working relationship?

  Stop analyzing, girl, and just go for it, she could almost hear Kia whisper.

  Tre stood at the bar and ordered their drinks. While he waited, he thought about how the rest of his day would play out. She didn’t seem averse to him joining her, so maybe he’d just blown her turning him down out of proportion. Maybe she’d just been having a bad day. It could have been a number of things, and he’d let his fractured ego take charge of his head. Pangs of guilt grabbed him in the gut. He took a deep breath and pushed it aside. Maybe this was the point of starting over. He’d give it and her another try.

  He collected and paid for their drinks and returned to the table, bringing a waitress with him.

  “Here you go.” He placed the frothy yellow liquid in front of her and, when she smiled her thanks, his heart did a little tap dance.

  They placed their orders and the waitress walked away, and the moment of uncertain silence took her place.

  Tre took a sip of his drink, using the time to get himself together. “What brings you to Misty’s? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

  “I’m not sure really. I was walking and then it was right in front of me. I’d heard a lot of the radio crowd came here, so I thought I’d see what it was like.”

  He grinned. “Now you can see how our tastes run. To be honest, this doesn’t seem like the kind of place for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged slightly. “You don’t seem to be the type of woman who would enjoy herself in a dingy little dive like Misty’s. I see you more as the glitz and glamour type, hanging out in restaurants with chandeliers, soft music coming from some unseen source, and drinking wine that was imported.”

  He stared at her until she averted her gaze. Is that how she came across? Was that why the staff didn’t go out of their way to include her because she seemed above it all?

  “I didn’t realize that was the impression I was giving,” she said softly, and the almost hurt tone of her voice knotted Tre’s insides. “I—enjoy a lot of things. I guess people have preconceived notions about others when they don’t know them.”

  “You have to admit, you don’t make it easy for anyone to really get to know you, so they stay away.”

  She rolled his observation around in her head. She knew he was right. It had always been difficult for her to form relationships. The only reason why she and Kia remained friends was because Kia was determined to be her friend. She’d made a bet with some of the other girls in their sixth-grade class that she could be Summer Lane’s friend. And she never gave up until she was. However, not everyone had Kia’s determination.

  “It’s not intentional,” she finally said. “Just easier.”

  “Easier?”

  “Keeps you from expecting too much. Can’t get disappointed.”

  Tre leaned a bit closer. “Is that what you tell your patients?”

  “I tell my patients to be honest about their feelings, to give life and people a chance. But don’t rest your hopes and expectations on anyone else.”

  “So why wouldn’t you give us a chance?” He gave her a long look. “Be honest.”

  Summer twisted her lips to bite back a smile. She blew out a breath. “It’s a lot more complicated than that.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  The waitress returned with their food and conversation momentarily ceased, giving Summer the few minutes of breathing room she needed. She knew she was about to tread across deep waters. She didn’t want to go under in her efforts to get to the other side.

  “Can I get you folks anything else?” the waitress asked.

  Summer shook her head.

  “No. Thanks, Stella,” Tre said.

  He turned his attention to Summer, and she felt riveted by his steady gaze. There was no way that Tre Holland was the type of man you could tiptoe around when he wanted answers.

  She cleared her throat. “When you first asked me out…Tre, I was intrigued by the possibilities and—” she smiled shyly “—kind of excited.”

  “Only kind of?” He grinned.

  “Yes. Only kind of.”

  He turned on an upside-down smile, and Summer laughed. “And?”

  Her face grew serious. “I guess if we’re going to be honest—” she wrapped her hand around her glass “—what’s happening to me now at the studio, the harassment, accusations. It’s not the first time. About three years ago…”

  Summer told him about the male patient of hers who’d become obsessed by her. She hadn’t seen the signs, and by the time she realized what had happened her career was crumbling. He’d gone to another psychologist and began telling her that Summer had tried to come on to him, had attempted to seduce him on several occasions, and that was the reason why he stopped seeing her as a patient. Rumors started circulating, and someone—she never found out who—decided to report the alleged incident to the medical board.

  “I was devastated,” she said, shaking off the ugly feelings that had snuck out of the place she’d stored them. “I had to go to appear in front of t
he medical ethics committee. It all boiled down to my word against his. I started losing my patients because I couldn’t concentrate.” She took a long swallow of her drink, staring off into space.

  He felt sick. “How did you get out of it?”

  “I had to do something, as a doctor, I was sworn never to do: break doctor-patient privilege. I always taped every session. When it looked as though my career was about to be flushed down the toilet, I called my former patient and told him I’d be forced to reveal the contents of our sessions if he continued to pursue the accusations. He finally backed off and withdrew the charges.”

  “Would you have used the tapes?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “I don’t know, Tre. Sometimes I think I would. Other times I’m just not sure. I don’t ever want to have to make that decision again.”

  “Wow. How did you pull your practice back together?”

  “It took time. But it was never really the same. Although the case never went to trial, I was tainted. There was always the question in many of my colleagues’ heads, ‘What if?’ They never came out and said anything, but the atmosphere in my circle had gotten chilly.”

  “So now you’re here. How does all of that affect you and me?”

  “I had every intention of going out with you. As a matter of fact, the same evening you brought it up in the hallway, I’d just received a solid dose of déjà vu.”

  He pulled back his head in confusion.

  “Jordan Michaels approached me, and to make a long story short, he said there were stories circulating about me. He insinuated that was the reason why I wouldn’t go out with him. All I could think about was not again. All I’d need is for everyone to start thinking that the only reason my show is at the top is because I’m fooling around with the boss. That’s a headache I don’t need.” She shook her head and pushed her salad around her plate with her fork.

  “Why don’t you give me the chance to make my decisions for myself? Both of us know that your status at the station has nothing to do with a relationship between you and me. To be quite frank, I didn’t want your show on the air.”