by Nora Roberts
The first Deanna’s Hour might need to be produced on a shoestring, but she didn’t intend for it to look that way. Deanna oversaw every step and stage. A loss or a victory, she was determined that it carry her mark.
She bargained. A set of chairs for on-screen credit. She promised. A few hours’ labor for a full-time position if the pilot was picked up. She begged and she borrowed. Fifty folding chairs from a local women’s group. Floral arrangements, equipment, bodies.
On the morning of the taping, the small studio she had rented was in chaos. Lighting technicians shouted orders and suggestions as they made last-minute adjustments. The models were crammed into a bread box-size dressing room, jockeying for enough space to dress. Deanna’s mike shorted out, and the florist delivered a funeral wreath instead of the baskets of summer blossoms.
“ ‘In loving memory of Milo.’ ” Deanna read the card and let loose with a quick, hysterical laugh. “Oh, Christ, what else?”
“We’ll fix it.” Firmly, and perhaps frantically, in control, Fran gave her a brisk shove. “I’ve already sent Richard’s nephew Vinnie out for baskets. We’ll just pull the flowers out and toss them in. It’ll look great,” she said desperately. “Natural.”
“You bet. We’ve got less than an hour.” She winced at the sound of a crashing folding chair. “If anyone actually shows up for the audience, we’re going to look like idiots.”
“They’re going to show up.” Fran attacked the gladiolas. Her hair stood out in corkscrew spikes, like an electric halo. “And we’ll be fine. Between the two of us we contacted every women’s organization in Cook County. Every one of the fifty tickets is spoken for. We could have managed twice that if we’d had a bigger studio. Don’t worry.”
“You’re worried.”
“That’s a producer’s job. Go change, do your hair. Pretend you’re a star.”
“Oh, Miss Reynolds? Deanna?” The fashion consultant, a petite, perky woman with a permanent smile, waved from offstage.
“I want to kill her,” Deanna said under her breath. “I want it bad.”
“Stand in line,” Fran suggested. “If she’s changed her mind about the running order again, I get first shot.”
“Oh, Deanna?”
“Yes, Karyn.” Deanna fixed a smile on her face and turned. “What can I do for you?”
“I just have a teeny little problem? The walking shorts in pumpkin?”
“Yes?” Deanna gritted her teeth. Why did the woman have to make a question out of every statement?
“They just don’t suit Monica. I don’t know what I was thinking of. Do you think we could have someone dash over to the store and pick up the same outfit in eggplant?”
Before Deanna could open her mouth, Fran eased forward. “I’ll tell you what, Karyn. Why don’t you call the store, have someone dash over here with the outfit.”
“Oh.” Karyn blinked. “I suppose I could, couldn’t I? Goodness, I’d better hurry. It’s almost show time.”
“Whose idea was it to do a fashion show?”
Fran went back to dismantling the funeral wreath. “It must have been yours. I would never have thought up something this complicated. Go put yourself together. You won’t make much of a fashion statement in sweats and with curlers in your hair.”
“Right. If I’m going to bomb, I might as well look my best doing it.”
Deanna’s dressing room was the size of a closet, but it boasted a sink, a john and a mirror. She grinned when she saw the big gold star Fran had taped to the door.
Maybe it was just a symbol, she mused as she ran a fingertip over the foil, but it was her symbol. Now she was going to have to earn it.
Even if everything fell apart, she’d have three weeks’ worth of incredible memories. The rush and thrill of putting the show together, the fascination and strain of handling all the details. And the knowledge, the absolute certainty that this was exactly what she wanted to do with her life. Added to that, astoundingly, was the fact that so many people believed she could.
There had been tips from the floor director at CBC, advice from Benny and several others on the production end. Joe had agreed to head up the camera crew and had persuaded a few of his pals to help with the sound and lighting end. Jeff Hyatt had arranged for editing and graphics.
Now she would either earn their faith in her—or blow it.
She was fastening on an earring and giving herself a final pep talk when the knock sounded on the door.
“Don’t tell me,” she called out. “The eggplant won’t do either, and we have to dash back for tomato.”
“Sorry.” Finn pushed open the door. “I didn’t bring any food.”
“Oh.” She dropped the back of her earring and swore. “I thought you were in Moscow.”
“I was.” He leaned against the jamb as she retrieved the little gold clasp. “And look what happens when I go away for a couple of weeks. You’re the top story in the newsroom gossip pool.”
“Great.” Her stomach sank as she fought the earring into place. “I must have been out of my mind to start this.”
“I imagine you were thinking clearly.” She looked fabulous, he realized. Nervous, but revved and ready. “You saw an open door and decided you could walk through first.”
“It feels like an open window. On the top floor.”
“Just land on your feet. So what’s your topic?”
“It’s a fashion show, with audience participation.”
His grin broke out, dimples winking. “A fashion show? That kind of fluff, with your news background?”
“This isn’t news.” She elbowed past him. “It’s entertainment. I hope. Don’t you have a war to cover or something?”
“Not at the moment. I figured I’d stick around awhile. Then I could head back to the newsroom with the scoop. Tell me.” He put a hand on her shoulder to slow her down. “Are you doing this for yourself, or to irritate Angela?”
“Both.” She pressed a fist to her stomach to try to quiet it. “But for me first.”
“Okay.” He could feel the energy, and the nerves vibrating against his palm. He wondered what it would be like to tap it, when they were alone. “And what’s the next step?”
She sent him a sidelong look, hesitated. “Off the record?”
“Off the record,” he agreed.
“A meeting with Barlow James. And if I manage to get his endorsement, I’m going to Bach.”
“So, you don’t intend to pitch in the minors.”
“Not for long.” She let out a long breath. “A minute ago I was sure I was going to be sick.” She tossed her hair back. “Now I feel great. Really great.”
“Dee!” Holding her headset in place, Fran rushed down the narrow corridor. “We’ve got a full house.” She snatched Deanna’s hand and squeezed. “Every seat. The three women we picked out from the Cook County Historical Society are psyched. They can’t wait to start.”
“Then let’s not.”
“Okay.” Fran looked sick. “Okay,” she said again. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”
She left the warm-up to Fran, standing just off set and listening to the laughter and applause. The nerves were gone. In their place was a burst of energy so huge she could barely hold still. Pushed by it, she made her entrance, settled into her chair under the lights, in front of the camera.
The theme music, compliments of Vinnie, Richard’s nephew and an aspiring musician, danced out. Off camera, Fran signaled for applause. The red light shone steadily.
“Good morning, I’m Deanna Reynolds.”
She knew there was chaos off set—the scrambling wardrobe changes, the barking of orders, the inevitable glitches. But she felt completely in control, chatting amiably with the perky, detestable Karyn, then roaming the audience for comments as the models strutted their stuff.
She could almost forget it was a career move instead of a lark as she giggled with an audience member over a pair of polka-dot micro shorts.
She looked like a woma
n entertaining friends, Finn mused as he loitered at the back of the studio. It was an interesting angle, because it wasn’t an angle at all. As a hard newsman with a natural disdain for fluff, he couldn’t say he was particularly interested in the topic. But his tastes aside, the audience was enchanted. They cheered and applauded, let out the occasional “ooh” and “aah,” then balanced it with cheerful groans over an outfit that didn’t hit the mark.
Most of all, they related to Deanna. And she to them, in the way she slipped an arm around an audience member, made eye contact or stepped back to let her guests take the spotlight.
She’d walked through the door, he decided, and smiled to himself. He slipped out thinking it wouldn’t hurt to put in a call to Barlow James, and hold that door open a little wider.
Angela swept through the lofty living room of her new penthouse apartment. Her heels clicked over parquet floors, muffled on carpet, clicked over tile as she stalked from airy window seat to gleaming breakfront. As she paced, she smoked in quick, ragged jerks, struggling with temper, fighting for control.
“All right, Lew.” Calmer, she stopped beside a pedestal table, stabbing out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray and tainting the scent of roses with smoke. “Tell me why you think I’d be interested in some little homemade tape of a second-rate newsreader?”
Lew shifted uncomfortably on the velvet settee. “I thought you’d want to know.” He heard the whine in his own voice and lowered his eyes. He detested what he was doing: crawling, belly-rolling for scraps. But he had two kids in college, a high-dollar mortgage and the threat of unemployment urging him on. “She rented a studio, hired techs, called in favors. She got some time off from the newsroom and put together a fifty-minute show, plus an audition tape of some of her old stuff.” Lew tried to ignore the ulcer burning in his gut. “I hear it’s pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Angela’s sneer was as sharp as a scalpel. “Why would I have any interest in ‘pretty good’? Why would anyone? Amateurs try to push their way into the market all the time. They don’t worry me.”
“I know—I mean there’s talk around the job how the two of you had words.”
“Oh?” She smiled frostily. “Did you fly all the way from Chicago to feed me the latest CBC gossip, Lew? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but it seems a little extreme.”
“I figured . . .” He took a steadying breath, ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I know you offered Deanna my job, Angela.”
“Really? Did she tell you that?”
“No.” Whatever pride he had left surfaced. He met her eyes squarely. “But it leaked. Just like it leaked that she turned you down.” He saw the familiar flash in her eyes. “And I know,” he hurried on, “after working with you for so many years, I know you wouldn’t like to see her benefit from your generosity.”
“How could she?”
“By turning it into a matter of loyalty to the station. By soliciting Barlow James.”
He had her interest now. To conceal it, she turned, flipping open an enamel box and taking out a cigarette. Her eyes flicked over toward the bar, where champagne was always chilling. Frightened by the depth of longing for one small swallow, she moistened her lips and looked away again.
“Why should Barlow get involved?”
“He likes her work. He’s made a point of calling the station a few times to say so. And when he came to visit the Chicago bureau last week, he made time for a meeting with her.”
Angela snapped on her lighter.
“Word is he took a look at the tape. He liked it.”
“So he wants to flatter one of his young female reporters?” Angela tossed her head back, but her throat tightened against the smoke. Just one swallow, she thought. One cool, frothy sip.
“She sent the tape to Loren Bach.”
Very slowly, Angela lowered the cigarette and left it to smolder in the ashtray. “Why, that little bitch,” she said softly. “Does she really think she can begin to compete with me?”
“I don’t know if she’s aiming that high. Yet.” He let that idea simmer. “I do know that some of the Midwest affiliates are concerned about the cost of your new show. They might be willing to plug into something cheaper, and closer to home.”
“Then let them. I’ll bury whatever they put up against me.” Giving a bark of a laugh, she strode over to survey her view of New York. She had everything she’d wanted. Needed. At last, at long last, she was the queen overlooking her subjects from her high, impregnable tower. No one could touch her now. Certainly not Deanna. “I’m on top here, Lew, and I’m damn well going to stay there. Whatever it takes.”
“I can use my connections, find out what Loren Bach decides.”
“That’s fine, Lew,” she murmured, staring over the tops of the trees of Central Park. “You do that.”
“But I want my job back.” His voice quavered with emotion, with self-disgust. “I’m fifty-four years old, Angela. At my age, and the way things are out there right now, I can’t afford to be sending out résumés. I want a firm, two-year contract. By that time both my kids’ll be out of college. I can sell the house in Chicago. Barbara and I can buy a smaller one out here. We don’t need the room now. I just need a couple of years to make sure I have something to fall back on. That’s not too much to ask.”
“You’ve certainly thought this through.” Angela sat on the window seat, lifting her arms and laying them atop the flowered cushion. Her throat had opened again, all on its own. That pleased her. She didn’t need a drink when she had the taste of power.
“I’ve done good work for you,” he reminded her. “I can still do good work. Plus, I have plenty of contacts back in Chicago. People who’ll pass on inside information, if there’s a need for it.”
“I can’t see that there will be, but . . .” She smiled to herself, considering. “I don’t like to ignore possibilities. And I always reward loyalty.” She studied him. A drone, she decided. One who would work tirelessly, and one who was afraid enough to bury ethics under necessity. “I’ll tell you what, Lew. I can’t offer you executive producer. That slot’s already filled.” She watched him pale. “Assistant producer. I know that technically it’s a demotion, but we don’t have to look at it that way.”
Her smile was bolstering. As easily as a child, she forgot her earlier disgust with him, and her careless betrayal. Now, once again, they were teammates.
“I’ve always depended on you, and I’m glad I can continue to do so. It’s a negligible cut in salary, and it is New York. That makes up for a lot, doesn’t it?” She beamed at him, pleased with her own generosity. “And to show you how much I value you, I’ll want you on board for the first special. We’ll have legal draw up a contract, make it official. In the meantime . . .” She rose, crossed to him to take his hand between both of hers in the warm, affectionate gesture of old friends. “You go back and tidy up your affairs in Chicago. I’ll have my real estate agent look for a cozy little place for you and Barbara. Maybe Brooklyn Heights.” She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “And you keep your ears open, won’t you, dear?”
“Sure, Angela,” he said dully. “Whatever you say.”
Chapter Ten
Loren Bach’s office capped the lofty silver tower that was home for Delacort’s Chicago base. Its glass walls offered a view that stretched beyond the Monopoly board of downtown. On a clear day, he could see into misted plains of Michigan. Loren liked to say he could stand guard over hundreds of the stations that carried Delacort’s programming, and thousands of homes that watched.
The suite of offices reflected his personality. Its main area was a streamlined, masculine room designed for serious work. The deep green walls and dark walnut trim were pleasant to the eye, an uncluttered backdrop for the sleek, modern furnishings and recessed television screens. He knew that it was sometimes necessary to entertain in an office, as well as do business. As a concession and a convenience, there was a semicircular sofa in burgundy leather, a pair of padded chrome chairs a
nd a wide smoked-glass table. The contents of a fully stocked refrigerator catered to his addiction to Classic Coke.
One of his walls was lined with photographs of himself with celebrities. Stars whose sitcoms and dramas had moved into syndication, politicians running for office, network bigwigs. The one telling omission was Angela Perkins.
Adjoining the office was a washroom in dramatic black and white, complete with a whirlpool and sauna. Beyond that was a smaller room that held a Hollywood bed, a big-screen TV and a closet. Loren had never broken the habit of his lean years, and continued to work long hours, often catching a few hours’ sleep and a change of clothing right in the workplace.
But his sanctuary was an area that had been converted from office space. It was cluttered with colorful arcade games where he could save worlds or video damsels in distress, electronic pinball machines that whirled with light and sound, a talking Coke machine.
Every morning he allowed an hour to indulge himself with the bells and whistles and often challenged network executives to beat his top scores. No one did.
Loren Bach was a video wizard, and the love affair had begun in childhood in the bowling alleys his father had owned. Loren had never had any interest in tenpins, but he’d had an interest in business, and in the flash of the silver ball.
In his twenties, with his degree from MIT still hot, he’d expanded the family business into arcades. Then he’d begun to dabble in the king of video: television.
Thirty years later, his work was his play, and his play was his work.
Though he had allowed a few decorative touches in the office area—a Zorach sculpture, a Gris collage—the core of the room was the desk. So it was more of a console than a traditional desk. Loren had designed it himself. He enjoyed the fantasy of sitting in a cockpit, controlling destinies.
Simple and functional, its base was fitted with dozens of cubbyholes rather than drawers. Its work surface was wide and curved, so that when Loren sat behind it, he was surrounded by phones, computer keyboards, monitors.