by Lauren Clark
Setting down my wine glass, I leaned toward her. “Thank you for all of this, Candace. Really. You’re the best.” I reached out and squeezed her hand.
Candace flashed me a smile and leaned back against the pillows. “Anytime.”
I took another sip of wine, letting the warmth cascade down my throat. “Is life good? The girls? Marcus?” I asked. “Forgive me for not asking sooner…”
Candace grinned up at me and swirled the tiny slosh of red in the bottom of her glass. “Can’t complain.”
For the most part, Candace didn’t complain. She didn’t have to. Candace was content reading Dr. Seuss to her five-year old twins, arranging play dates, and scraping Play-Doh off the floor. Her butt didn’t sag, thanks to hours of Pilates. The salon was a resounding success. Her husband made loads of money as an international attorney and was handsome in a Clive Owen sort of way. If she weren’t so down-to-earth, smart, and funny, people would hate her.
Which was impossible, of course. Candace had been there. She’d had heartbreak, the disappointments. She knew what it was like to want something from the depths of your soul.
After years of being happily childless, Candace had an epiphany in the middle of the grocery store.
Amid hurried shoppers and flashing display cases, Candace watched a mother comfort her screaming newborn, and then leave her entire shopping cart full of cereal, milk, and bread.
Right then and there, she’d decided she had a hole in her life as big as the Grand Canyon.
The next several months were a blur. Rounds of exhausting, unproductive sex with her husband, and reading every how to-get-pregnant book she could find filled her life.
Fertility testing was next. She drove hours for appointments and paid outlandish sums of money for medicine. It was suggested more than once that “advanced maternal age” was to blame for her inability to conceive.
She was just thirty-nine. The age label hardly seemed right.
Candace ignored most of it, and at one point even joked about naming the baby Clomid if she ever did conceive. Two rounds of in-vitro fertilization later, still no pregnancy.
The whole time, Candace remained my sounding board about my work woes, Kelly’s occasional boyfriends, or Chris’s late hours. I thought she was handling everything just fine.
Until I realized how selfish I was.
On Candace’s fortieth birthday, at a gala celebration at the country club, my best friend disappeared for an inordinate amount of time. Marcus started to panic. I began to look under tables and in closets. After nearly calling together a search party, I found her in one of the bathroom stalls hovering over a copy of the latest letter from her doctor.
A teary-eyed Candace held up the thick, embossed paper and said, “One last chance, that’s all they say I’ve got…before I need to explore ‘other’ options.”
She started to sob again. “Like a surrogate.”
Candace was desperate. She couldn’t be reasoned with. So, I grabbed the note, scanned it, and said the most comforting thing that came to mind.
“Bastards.”
She nodded, wiping and smearing her right eye with mascara. “Uh-huh.”
It was my chance to be the one who didn’t panic, to come up with a reasonable plan of action. I considered my alternatives: We could leave and drown our sorrows over waffles at IHOP, we could stay and make up a story about Candace twisting her ankle—the reason for the tears—or I could take her home and let her cry it out.
“It’s…because…I’m old. Advanced maternal age.” Candace snuffled, wiping at her nose with handful of toilet paper.
“That’s crazy,” I retorted with a frown. Of course, I was six years younger. Hitting the big four-oh seemed a zillion miles away. I could afford to thumb my nose at aging.
“Forty is young,” I said staunchly. “It’s the new thirty.”
“Liar,” she snapped back, snatching the paper from my hand and crumpling it. Candace stood up, pushed me out of the way, and opened the stall door. Like a female Kobe Bryant, Candace took her best shot and launched the balled-up letter in the air. Making a perfect arc, it landed in the wastebasket ten feet away. Swish.
Wow.
Candace immediately sniffed back her tears and looked at me, suddenly calm. “It’s a sign.” In a few moments, the blotchiness disappeared from her face.
“A sign?” I repeated, wrinkling my forehead.
“A sign. That I need to be thankful for what I have. A good husband. A great business. I need to stop with the pity party.”
Without another word, Candace dragged me out of the bathroom, never bothering to fix her makeup. She kissed me on the cheek, grabbed Marcus, and went home. She proceeded to cancel all of her appointments for the next week and booked a flight out of town. A mini-escape to Bermuda, with its pink sand and hibiscus-lined streets.
A week later, she was back, happy, rested. And pregnant. She was late; she’d done a test. A thin blue line appeared on pregnancy test number one. Then on number two, and number three just to be sure.
Candace and Marcus were doubly blessed with twins eight and a half months later. The memory of it all made me smile.
Candace put the finishing touches on my new look. Hair done, my back to the mirror, she smoothed blush onto my cheekbones. Wisps of her makeup brush tickled against my skin. Tiny thoughts nagged me as she worked.
What do I want? Do I need a new start?
Should I get back to my dream of working on the Travel Channel or one of National Geographic ’s new shows?
Granted, everything in my life was fine. Fine, but safe. Fine, but routine.
I sat perfectly still while Candace swept on yet another coat of mascara.
“Okay, okay, time to stop daydreaming. Almost done.” Candace stepped back and surveyed her work. She cocked her head and nodded. “Not bad, not bad at all.” She started humming Bootylicious under her breath, a smile playing on her lips. “Oh, yeah.”
Head turned, I blocked out the telltale smirk Candace used when she felt she was absolutely, positively right. She spun me around in the chair and waited.
“I can’t look,” I said, half-jokingly, keeping my head down. “What if I don’t like it?”
Candace’s toe clicked an impatient staccato on the tile. “Stop it.”
“But…” I squeezed my eyes shut tight.
“Just stop it. All of your second-guessing. I mean it. You said so yourself. Enough is enough. You are not going to do this.”
“Do what?”
More clicking. “Talk yourself out of it. I absolutely, positively won’t let you.”
I didn’t answer.
“Not until you look,” she said smugly.
I opened one eye, then the other. “Oh.” I stared at the mirror.
It was me. Only ten times better. Maybe one hundred. I even looked like one of those anchors on FOX or MSNBC. Drew might not recognize me. And there was a better than average chance that Chris would sit up and take notice.
The shape of the cut flattered my face, with little wisps curving into my cheekbones. The color made the hazel of my eyes pop. My lips and skin glowed, every mark and microscopic blemish was smoothed and covered. Did I tell you Candace was a genius or what?
She filled a bag with MAC cosmetics, brushes, loads of StudioFix, and handed it over.
In that instant, the heavens opened up and the angels sang. It seemed like it, anyway.
I blushed like a bride. “Candace, have I told you lately that I love you?”
Chapter 19
At home, I added a few ideas to my grand re-invention plan. Joe would help, I assured myself. He was on my side. I dialed his number.
His gravelly voice answered on the third ring.
“It’s Melissa. Sorry to bother you on a weekend.”
“Hey, aren’t you off today?” Joe lectured. “That means not thinking about work—”
“I know, I know. Can’t help it,” I protested. “I have a big favor to ask.”
&n
bsp; “Anything for you, dear.”
“All righty.” I paused, and then let the words spill out. “I’m coming into the station to look at some demo DVDs, that is, if Drew didn’t throw all of them away. I have to try and find some anchor candidates.”
Joe gave an, “Mhm,” and continued to listen.
“But in the meantime, until we find someone, I need some help. Could you meet me at the station later?” I hesitated. “I need to brush up on my anchoring before Monday night. I’ll bring goodies. Coffee from The Daily Grind? Anything you want.”
“You’re not worried about this, are you?” Joe teased. “I mean, I know how you like things to go right…”
“Er, no. I mean yes. A little.” I scrambled for the right words. “But, I want to look professional and don’t want to embarrass anyone. I want to be comfortable on set.” I paused. As comfortable as a person can be when he or she is thrown into this weird, awkward situation. “And I trust you. To give me some pointers, I mean.”
“I’ll be damned,” Joe coughed and cleared his throat. “Someone wants my opinion…”
I held my breath.
Joe was a gruff guy, way underappreciated. But he knew his on-air talent. “If that’s what you want, count me in,” he said. “Give me an hour or so.”
I hung up with a flash of panic. An hour to get ready, stop at The Daily Grind, and get to the station. Thank goodness for new clothes: Form-fitting jeans, a black top, cropped jacket. Very nice. Now, for the rest of it. I lined up all of the little pots of MAC makeup and tried to touch up what Candace had done. Subtle changes from my normal routine made all the difference, she had reminded me. A touch of creamy-white on the brow bone. Darker lips. Light eyebrow pencil.
Not bad, I nodded at my reflection. Not bad at all.
The last thing my nerves needed was a shot of caffeine, but I couldn’t resist ordering a caramel latte when I arrived at The Daily Grind. The manager, Dino, a small, wiry man from Italy, and a teenage girl bustled behind the counter. The delicious aroma of coffee beans, steamed milk, and cinnamon permeated the air. Instantly, I perked up.
I waited in line patiently, glancing over at the couples chatting over mugs of hot, steamy drinks. From the doorway, a man with a build like my husband caught my eye and smiled.
Unnerved, I blushed carnation pink and shifted from foot to foot.
“Do you have the time?” Another man in front of me, dark and thin, turned abruptly and caught me off guard.
“Um, sure.” I fumbled the sleeve of my new jacket up to find my watch and looked up at the stranger’s green eyes watching me. “Just after three-thirty,” I offered, then stared at the floor.
“Don’t I know you?” he began, and then stopped. “Sorry. That didn’t sound right,” he grinned, making his eyes crinkle up nicely at the corners.
I turned a darker shade of pink and shook my head. The teenage girl behind the counter tapped her pen impatiently, directing her glare at me.
“You’re next,” I pointed out gently, trying to ignore the glowering looks from the other customers. The Daily Grind natives were apparently more caffeine-deprived than usual.
“Sorry,” the man apologized to the people in line behind us. “You distracted me,” he winked and whispered before turning around.
I glowed warm inside at the compliment, then made myself focus on the thick, moist slices of coffee cake behind the glass. Aside from the calories, at least coffee cake couldn’t get you in trouble. If this flirting kept up, I’d never make it to the station on time.
“Excuse me?” A male voice prompted me. Here we go again. I braced myself to brush off any attempts at casual conversation, deep, sexy eyes or not.
“Ma’am?” the voice repeated in a familiar polite tone. “Pleeze, can I help you?” I wrenched my eyes to the counter.
Dino, with his weathered smile, waited for my order.
“Caramel latte, grande, low-fat milk, please. Four tall coffees. All to go.” I stopped and checked the shelves behind the glass again. “A dozen chocolate chip cookies, six poppy seed muffins, also. That should do it.”
He nodded and busied himself with my order.
“How are you, Dino?” He looked up again. This time, his eyes flickered with recognition.
Dino clasped his bony knuckles under his chin. “Mees Meelissa. Es you!” Dino laughed and clapped his hands. “Bellissimo. You are be-you-tiful.”
“Um, t-thank…” I stammered.
He didn’t stop there. “Audra,” he called to the wisp of a teenager behind him as he busied himself with my latte. “Come, look. Mees Meelissa.” Hands in the air, he gestured at my new look, tracing my face and shoulders with his hands. “Ah, your eyes sparkle.”
Audra gave me a dutiful once over, smiled blandly, and went back to making cappuccino. Obviously, I didn’t have the same impact on teenage girls, which I later rationalized was a positive thing.
Dino stood mesmerized, my to-go cup in hand. Audra almost bumped him out of the way with the coffee carrier.
“Thanks. Could I please have the cookies and muffins, too?” I smiled apologetically. “We’re working a little overtime…and my friends are really looking forward to the sweets.”
With a sweeping bow, Dino set the latte on the counter, put the coffees in a carrier, and bagged the goodies. I handed him two twenties, told him to keep the change.
Behind me, Dino blew kisses.
Chapter 20
I couldn’t help but feel flattered. How long had it been since anyone, let alone a sixty-year-old man, fell all over me and complimented my looks?
Bellissimo , I repeated, rolling the word around. Why did it always sound sexier in another language? Right. Italians. Language of love. They were all pros.
By the time I strolled through the door of the station, I was feeling pretty good.
I’d go through some DVDs, check the mail for new ones, see if I could retrieve some boxes from Drew’s wastebasket. He always kept his door open and unlocked.
Except today.
I tried the knob. It didn’t move. I peered through the glass, just in case Drew was in there sleeping. Pitch black. No news director.
There went that idea.
Voices floated from the control room out into the hallway. Joe, legs stretched, cowboy boots on his desk, was in the midst of telling a joke when I walked in.
“…and so, when he opened the door, there was a big hairy man, wearing nothing but tennis shoes and a sign around his neck saying, ‘If I catch you, I can do anything I want…’”
The room erupted in laughter so loud no one noticed me standing in the corner, balancing my drink, the guys’ coffee, bags of treats, my just-in-case makeup bag, and purse.
Joe stood up so fast he looked like a giant wasp had stung his backside. He knocked over a bag of pork rinds, which scattered across the floor like pieces of Styrofoam. The look on everyone’s face was identical, sheepish, and a little shocked, like they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar—or better yet, dirty magazines.
“Hey there,” I said to break the silence, and laid the bags and coffee cups on the desk.
“Hey,” they chorused. Joe bent his mammoth body to pick up a few stray pork rinds. I sank to my knees to help.
“How can you guys eat this stuff?” I teased, eyeballing the bag of boiled peanuts on the counter. “Do your wives know?” My eyes narrowed in a mock look of concern.
“Aw, Melissa,” one of the guys started to explain.
I waved for him to stop. “Just kidding. Here’s some more junk food so we don’t run out.
And what’s the deal with Drew’s door being locked?”
“Um, Alyssa-alert,” Joe rolled his eyes. “Someone said they saw her outside the building yesterday. Drew’s worried Alyssa might do something crazy.”
“I saw her in her car this morning. She drove by the station three or four times,” someone else chimed in.
“Say no more,” I said and held up both hands.
&
nbsp; Agreement was murmured all around the room. Joe stood, reached over, and shoved his hand in the bag. He fished out a muffin and took an enormous bite.
“Y’look good,” Joe managed between mouthfuls. He raised his eyebrows and took a closer look. “Mm-hmm. Mighty nice.”
Once more, a hum of approval circulated through the room. Someone coughed and suddenly the group tried to look busy, pushing buttons, adjusting lights in the studio, and checking equipment.
“Ready to go?” Joe asked.
“If it’s not too much trouble…” I started, gauging Joe’s reaction. He shook his head. “I was hoping I could run through Friday…I mean Thursday night’s show.” Better to forget about Friday night.
He nodded. Easy as that.
Without another word, Joe jumped into action. With a few clicks on the keyboard, the script from Thursday evening sprang up on the teleprompter screen. I took a few minutes to glance it over on the computer screen while Joe printed a copy for me to have on set.
“Ready when you are.” Joe handed me the script.
I nodded and went out the door.
In the studio, I glanced down at my outfit, briefly thinking I should have put something bright and flashy on. No, that was trying too hard. I was only filling in. And I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.
The lights snapped on and warmed up as I blinked to adjust to the brightness. I slid my earpiece in, clipped on my microphone, watched as one of the guys adjusted the camera, and felt a little thrill run through me. This was nothing like going on set Friday night during an emergency with only a few seconds of airtime—no time to prepare, no time to think. Now I had to do both. This could be fun.
“Give me a level, Melissa.”
Here we go. I made myself take a deep breath. “Mic check. Mic check—”
“Okay, thanks.” Joe cleared his throat. “All set?”
I nodded, and then focused on the teleprompter. All of a sudden, the words seemed to swim in circles, white against black. My mouth went dry, the flutter in my throat intensified, and the clench of nerves in my stomach tightened. I gripped the desk to keep my hands from quivering, and whispered a quick prayer.