by Nora Roberts
“Because I got a scholarship.”
“Don’t rub your brains in my face, Einstein. What did you and I go to college for?”
“You went to meet men.”
Fran narrowed her eyes. “That was just a side benefit. Stop stalling and answer the question.”
Defeated, Deanna let out a sigh. “We went to study, to become journalists, to get high-paying, high-profile jobs on television.”
“Absolutely correct. And have we succeeded?”
“Sort of. We have our degrees. I’m a reporter for CBC and you’re associate producer of Woman Talk on cable.”
“Excellent launching points. Now, have you forgotten the famous Deanna Reynolds’s Five-Year Plan? If so, I’m sure there’s a typed copy of it in that desk.”
Deanna glanced over at her pride and joy, the single fine piece of furniture she’d acquired since moving to Chicago. She’d picked up the beautifully patinated Queen Anne desk at an auction. And Fran was right. There was a typed copy of Deanna’s career plan in the top drawer. In duplicate.
Since college, she had modified her plans somewhat. Fran had married and settled in Chicago and had urged her former roommate to come out and try her luck.
“Year One,” Deanna remembered. “An on-camera job in Kansas City.”
“Done.”
“Year Two, a position at CBC, Chicago.”
“Accomplished.”
“Year Three, a small, tasteful segment of my own.”
“The current ’Deanna’s Corner,’ ” Fran said, and toasted the segment with her ginger ale.
“Year Four, anchoring the evening news. Local.”
“Which you’ve already done, several times, as substitute.”
“Year Five, audition tapes and résumés to the holy ground: New York.”
“Which will never be able to resist your combination of style, on-camera appeal and sincerity—unless, of course, you continue to second-guess yourself.”
“You’re right, but—”
“No buts.” On this Fran was firm. She expended some of the energy she preferred to hoard by propping her feet on the coffee table. “You do good work, Dee. People talk to you because you have compassion. That’s an advantage in a journalist, not a flaw.”
“It doesn’t help me sleep at night.” Restless and suddenly tired, Deanna scooped a hand through her hair. After curling her legs up, she studied the room, brooding.
There was the rickety dinette she’d yet to find a suitable replacement for, the frayed rug, the single solid armchair she’d had re-covered in a soft gray. Only the desk stood out, gleaming, a testimony to partial success. Yet everything was in its place; the few trinkets she’d collected were arranged precisely.
This tidy apartment wasn’t the home of her dreams, but as Fran had pointed out, it was an excellent launching point. And she fully intended to launch herself, both personally and professionally.
“Do you remember, back at college, how exciting we thought it would be to sprint after ambulances, interview mass murderers, to write incisive copy that would rivet the viewers’ attention? Well, it is.” Letting out a sigh, Deanna rose to pace again. “But you really pay for the kick.” She paused a moment, picked up a little china box, set it down again. “Angela’s hinted that I could have the job as head researcher on her show for the asking—on-air credit with a significant raise in salary.”
Because she didn’t want to influence her friend, Fran pursed her lips and kept her voice neutral. “And you’re considering it?”
“Every time I do, I remember I’d be giving up the camera.” With a half laugh, Deanna shook her head. “I’d miss that little red light. See, here’s the thing.” She plopped down on the arm of the couch. Her eyes were glowing again, darkened to smoke with suppressed excitement. “I don’t want to be Angela’s head researcher. I’m not even sure I want New York anymore. I think I want my own show. To be syndicated in a hundred and twenty markets. I want a twenty-percent share. I want to be on the cover of TV Guide.”
Fran grinned. “So, what’s stopping you?”
“Nothing.” More confident now that she’d said it aloud, Deanna shifted, resting her bare feet on the cushion of the sofa. “Maybe that’s Year Seven or Eight, I haven’t figured it out yet. But I want it, and I can do it. But—” She blew out a breath. “It means covering tears and torment until I’ve earned my stripes.”
“The Deanna Reynolds’s Extended Career Plan.”
“Exactly.” She was glad Fran understood.
“You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Sweet pea, I think that anyone with your meticulous mind, your camera presence and your polite yet strong ambition will get exactly what she wants.” Fran reached into the bowl of sugared almonds on the coffee table, popped three in her mouth. “Just don’t forget the little people when you do.”
“What was your name again?”
Fran threw a pillow at her. “Okay, now that we have your life settled, I’d like to announce an addition to the Fran Myers’s My Life Is Never What I Thought It Would Be Saga.”
“You got a promotion?”
“Nope.”
“Richard got one?”
“No, though a junior partnership at Dowell, Dowell and Fritz may be in the offing.” She drew a deep breath. Her redhead’s complexion flushed like a blooming rose. “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” Deanna blinked. “Pregnant? Really?” Laughing, she slid down on the couch to grasp Fran’s hands. “A baby? This is wonderful. This is incredible.” Deanna threw her arms around Fran to squeeze, then pulled back sharply to study her friend’s face. “Isn’t it?”
“You bet it is. We weren’t planning on it for another year or two, but hell, it takes nine months, right?”
“Last I heard. You’re happy. I can see it. I just can’t believe—” She stopped, jerked back again. “Jesus, Fran. You’ve been here nearly an hour, and you’re just getting around to telling me. Talk about burying the lead.”
Feeling smug, Fran patted her flat belly. “I wanted everything else out of the way so you could concentrate on me. Us.”
“No problem there. Are you sick in the mornings or anything?”
“Me?” Fran quirked a brow. “With my cast-iron stomach?”
“Right. What did Richard say?”
“Before or after he stopped dancing on the ceiling?”
Deanna laughed again, then sprang up to do a quick spin of her own. A baby, she thought. She had to plan a shower, shop for stuffed animals, buy savings bonds. “We have to celebrate.”
“What did we do in college when we had something to celebrate?”
“Chinese and cheap white wine,” Deanna said with a grin. “Perfect, with the adjustment of Grade A milk.”
Fran winced, then shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to get used to it. I do have a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
“Work on that career plan, Dee. I think I’d like my kid to have a star for a godmommy.”
When the phone rang at six A.M., Deanna pulled herself out of sleep and into a hangover. Clutching her head with one hand, she fumbled for the receiver with the other.
“Reynolds.”
“Deanna, darling, I’m so sorry to wake you.”
“Angela?”
“Who else would be rude enough to call you at this hour?” Angela’s light laugh came through the phone as Deanna blearily looked at the clock. “I have an enormous favor to ask. We’re taping today, and Lew’s down with a virus.”
“I’m sorry.” Valiantly, Deanna cleared her throat and managed to sit up.
“These things happen. It’s just that we’re dealing with a sensitive issue today, and when I considered it, I realized you would really be the perfect one to handle the guests offstage. That’s Lew’s area, you know, so I’m really in a bind.”
“What about Simon, or Maureen?” Her brain might have been cloudy, but Deanna remembered the chain of command.
“Neither one of them
are suited for this. Simon does excellent pre-interviews over the phone, and God knows Maureen’s a jewel at handling transportation and lodging arrangements. But these guests require a very special touch. Your touch.”
“I’d be glad to help, Angela, but I’m due in to the station at nine.”
“I’ll clear it with your producer, dear. He owes me. Simon can handle the second taping, but if you could just see your way clear to helping me out this morning, I’d be so grateful.”
“Sure.” Deanna shoved her tousled hair back and resigned herself to a quick cup of coffee and a bottle of aspirin. “As long as there’s no conflict.”
“Don’t worry about that. I still have clout with the news department. I’ll need you here by eight, sharp. Thanks, honey.”
“All right, but—”
Still dazed, Deanna stared at the phone as the dial tone hummed. A couple of details had been overlooked, she mused. What the hell was this morning’s topic, and who were the guests that needed such special care?
Deanna stepped into the green room with an uneasy smile on her face and a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. She knew the topic now, and scanned the seven scheduled guests cautiously, like a veteran soldier surveying a mine field.
Marital triangles. Deanna took a bracing breath. Two couples and the other women who had almost destroyed their marriages. A mine field might have been safer.
“Good morning.” The room remained ominously silent except for the murmur of the morning news from the television. “I’m Deanna Reynolds. Welcome to Angela’s. Can I freshen anyone’s coffee?”
“Thank you.” The man seated in a chair in the corner shifted the open briefcase on his lap, then held out his cup. He gave Deanna a quick smile that was heightened by the amusement glittering out of soft brown eyes. “I’m Dr. Pike. Marshall Pike.” He lowered his voice as Deanna topped off his cup. “Don’t worry, they’re unarmed.”
Deanna’s eyes lifted to his, held. “They still have teeth and nails,” she murmured.
She knew who he was, the segment expert, a psychologist who would attempt to cap this particular can of worms before the roll of ending credits. Mid-thirties, she gauged, with the quick expertise of a cop or a reporter. Confident, relaxed, attractive. Conservative, judging by his carefully trimmed blond hair and well-tailored chalk-striped suit. His wing tips were polished to a high gleam, his nails were manicured and his smile was easy.
“I’ll watch your flank,” he offered, “if you watch mine.”
She smiled back. “Deal. Mr. and Mrs. Forrester?” Deanna paused as the couple glanced toward her. The woman’s face was set in a resentful scowl, the man’s in miserable embarrassment. “You’ll be on first . . . with Miss Draper.”
Lori Draper, the last segment of the triangle, beamed with excitement. She looked more like a bouncy cheerleader ready to execute a flashy C jump than a sultry vamp. “Is my outfit okay for TV?”
Over Mrs. Forrester’s snort, Deanna assured her it was. “I know the basic procedure was explained to all of you in the pre-interview. The Forresters and Miss Draper will go out first—”
“I don’t want to sit next to her.” Mrs. Forrester’s hiss squeezed through her tightly primmed mouth.
“That won’t be a problem—”
“I don’t want Jim sitting next to her, either.”
Lori Draper rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Shelly, we broke it off months ago. Do you think I’m going to jump him on national TV, or what?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past you.” Shelly snatched her hand away as her husband tried to pat it. “We’re not sitting next to her,” she said to Deanna. “And Jim’s not going to talk to her, either. Ever.”
This statement set the match to the smoldering embers in triangle number two. Before Deanna could open her mouth, everyone was talking at once. Accusations and bitterness flew through the room. Deanna glanced toward Marshall Pike and was greeted with that same easy smile and a lift of one elegant shoulder.
“All right.” Deanna pitched her voice over the din as she stepped into the fray. “I’m sure you all have valid points, and quite a bit to say. Why don’t we save it for the show? All of you agreed to come on this morning to tell your sides of the story, and to look for some possible resolutions. I’m sure we can arrange the seating to suit everyone.”
She ran briskly through the rest of the instructions, controlling the guests in the same way a kindergarten teacher controls recalcitrant five-year-olds. With determined cheerfulness and a firm hand.
“Now, Mrs. Forrester—Shelly—Jim, Lori, if you’ll all come with me, we’ll get you settled and miked.”
Ten minutes later, Deanna stepped back into the green room, grateful that no blood had been spilled. While the remaining triangle sat stonily, staring at the television screen, Marshall was up, perusing a tray of pastries.
“Nicely done, Ms. Reynolds.”
“Thank you, Dr. Pike.”
“Marshall.” He chose a cinnamon danish. “It’s a tricky situation. Though the triangle was technically broken when the affair ended, emotionally, morally, even intellectually, it remains.”
Damn right, she thought. If anyone she loved cheated on her, it would be he who would be broken—in every way. “I suppose you deal with similar situations in your practice.”
“Often. I decided to focus on the area after my own divorce.” His smile was sweet and sheepish. “For obvious reasons.” He glanced down at her hands, noting that she wore a single ring, a garnet in an antique gold setting on her right hand. “You’re not in the market for my particular skill?”
“Not at the moment.” Marshall Pike was enormously attractive, she mused—the charming smile, the long, slender build that had even Deanna, who hit five-ten in her heels, tilt her head up to meet the flattering interest in the deep brown eyes. But at this moment she needed to focus the lion’s share of her attention on the sullen group behind him.
“The program will start right after this commercial.” Deanna gestured toward the set. “Marshall, you won’t be going on until the final twenty minutes, but it would help if you’d watch the show to formulate specific advice.”
“Naturally.” He enjoyed watching her, the way she revved in neutral. He could almost hear the engine gun of her energy. “Don’t worry. I’ve done Angela’s three times.”
“Ah, a vet. Is there anything I can get you?”
His eyes slid toward the trio behind him, then came back to Deanna’s. “A flak jacket?”
She chuckled, gave his arm a squeeze. He’d be just fine, she decided. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The show proved to be emotional, and though bitter accusations flew, no one was seriously wounded. Off camera, Deanna admired the way Angela kept a light hand on the reins, allowing her guests to go their own way, then easing them back when tempers threatened to boil over.
She pulled the audience in as well. With an unerring instinct, she offered the mike to just the right person at just the right time, then segued smoothly back to a question or comment of her own.
As for Dr. Pike, Deanna mused, they couldn’t have chosen a more skilled mediator. He exuded the perfect combination of intellect and compassion, mixed with the concise, teaspoon-size advice so necessary for the medium.
When the show was over, the Forresters were clutching hands. The other couple had stopped speaking to each other, and the two other women were chatting like old friends.
Angela had hit the mark again.
“Decide to join us, Deanna?” Roger pinched her arm as he swung up beside her.
“I know you guys can’t get through the day without me.” Deanna wove her way through the noisy newsroom toward her desk. Phones were ringing, keyboards clattering. On one wall, current shows from CBC and the other three networks were flashing on monitors. From the smell of things, someone had recently spilled coffee.
“What’s our lead?” she asked Roger.
“Last night’s fire on the South Side.”
With
a nod, Deanna sat at her desk. Unlike most of the other reporters, she kept hers meticulously neat. Sharpened pencils stood points down in a flowered ceramic cup, a notepad aligned beside them. Her Filofax was opened to today’s date.
“Arson?”
“That’s the general consensus. I’ve got the copy. We’ve got a taped interview with the fire marshal, and a live remote at the scene.” Roger offered her his bag of licorice. “And being a nice guy, I picked up your mail.”
“So I see. Thanks.”
“Caught a few minutes of Angela’s this morning.” He chewed thoughtfully on his candy. “Doesn’t discussing adultery so early in the day make people nervous?”
“It gives them something to talk about over lunch.” She picked up an ebony letter opener and slit the first envelope.
“Venting on national television?”
She lifted a brow. “Venting on national television seemed to have helped the Forresters’ relationship.”
“Looked to me like the other couple was heading for divorce court.”
“Sometimes divorce is the answer.”
“Is that what you think?” He kept the question light. “If your spouse was cheating, would you forgive and forget, or would you file papers?”
“Well, I’d listen, I’d discuss it, try to find out the reason it happened. Then I’d shoot the adulterous swine full of holes.” She grinned at him. “But, that’s just me. And see, hasn’t it given us something to talk about?” She glanced down at the single sheet in her hand. “Hey, look at this.”
She angled the sheet so they could both see it. In the center of the paper, typed in dark red ink, was a single sentence.
Deanna, I love you.
“The old secret admirer, hmm?” Roger spoke carelessly, but there was a frown in his eyes.
“Looks that way.” Curious, she turned the envelope over. “No return address. No stamp, either.”
“I just pulled the mail out of your box.” Roger shook his head. “Somebody must have slipped it in.”
“It’s kind of sweet, I guess.” She rubbed a quick chill from her arms and laughed. “And creepy.”