by Nora Roberts
No, a good show wasn’t enough. She had to be diplomat, ambassador, boss, business partner and celebrity. And she had to wear each and every hat correctly—while pretending she wasn’t lonely, or worried about Finn, or missing those quiet hours when she could curl up with a book for pleasure rather than because she’d be interviewing the author.
This was what she wanted, Deanna told herself, and beamed at the waiter as he served the peach melba.
“You can sleep on the plane going home,” Jeff whispered in her ear.
“It shows?”
“Just a little.”
She excused herself and pushed back from the table. If she couldn’t fix the fatigue, at least she could fix its signs.
She was nearly at the doors when she heard someone tap on the podium mike. Automatically, she looked back and saw Fred Banks standing under the lights. “If I can have your attention. I’ve just received word that Baghdad is under attack by UN forces.”
There was a buzzing in Deanna’s ears. Dimly she heard the noise level rise in the ballroom, like a sea at high tide. From somewhere nearby a waiter raised a triumphant fist.
“I hope they kick that bastard’s sorry butt.”
Slowly, all fatigue washing away, she walked back to the table. She had a job to finish.
Finn sat on the floor of a hotel bedroom, his laptop on his knees. He hammered out copy as fast as it could pass from his mind to his fingers. It was nearly dawn now, and though his eyes were gritty, he felt no sense of fatigue. Outside, the fire-fight continued. Inside, a game of cat and mouse was under way.
During the past three hours, they had moved twice, hauling equipment and provisions. While Iraqi soldiers swept the building, moving guests and international news crews to the basement of the hotel, Finn and his crew had slipped from room to room. The successful intrigue had his blood pumping.
While he took his round at sentry duty, his two companions sprawled on the bed and snatched sleep.
Satisfied with the copy he’d finished thus far, Finn turned off the computer. He rose, working out the kinks in his back, in his neck, and thinking wistfully of breakfast: blueberry pancakes and gallons of hot coffee. He made do with a handful of Curt’s trail mix, then hefted the camera.
At the window he recorded the final images of the first day of war, the lightning flashes of cruise missiles and smart bombs, the streaks of tracers. He speculated on how much devastation they would see when dawn broke. And how much they would get on tape.
“I’m gonna have to report you to the union, pal.”
Finn lowered the camera and glanced back at Curt. The cameraman was standing beside the bed, rubbing his tired eyes.
“You’re just pissed because I can handle this baby as well as you.”
“Shit.” Challenged, Curt walked over to take the camera. “You can’t do nothing but look pretty on tape.”
“Then get ready to prove it. I’ve got some copy to read.”
“You’re the boss.” He rolled tape in silence as bombs exploded. “Are we going to work on a way to get out of here?”
“I’ve got some contacts in Baghdad.” Finn watched the fires leaping from the horizon. “Maybe.”
The moment the last after-dinner speech was finished, the last hand shaken, the last cheek kissed, Deanna headed for a phone. While Deanna called Fran and Richard, Jeff used the phone beside her to contact the Chicago newsroom.
“What?” Richard answered with a snarl. “What is it?”
“Richard? Richard, it’s Deanna. I’m on my way to the airport in Indianapolis. I heard about the air strike, and—”
“Yeah, right. We heard. But we’ve got our own little crisis right here. Fran’s in labor. We’re just about to head out to the hospital.”
“Now?” Because it felt like her circuits were about to overload, Deanna pressed her fingers hard against her temple. “I thought we had another ten days.”
“Tell that to Big Ed. Breathe, Fran, don’t forget to breathe.”
“Look, I won’t hold you up. Just tell me if she’s okay.”
“She just finished half a pizza—that’s why she didn’t tell me she was in labor. She already contacted Bach. Looks like you’re going to be preempted tomorrow. No, damn it, you’re not going to talk to her, Fran, you’re going to breathe.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her . . . Oh, Jesus, just tell her I’ll be there.”
“I’m counting on it. Hey, we’re going to have a baby! See you.”
With the line buzzing in her ear, Deanna rested her brow against the wall. “What a day.”
“Finn Riley reported the air strike.”
“What?” Alert again, she spun around to Jeff. “Finn? He’s all right, then?”
“He was on the line with the studio when it hit. He got about five seconds of pictures across before they lost the feed.”
“So we don’t know,” she said slowly.
“Hey, he’s been through stuff like this before, right?” He put a hesitant arm around her shoulders as he led her out to their waiting car.
“Yes, of course. Of course he has.”
“And look at it this way. We’re getting out of here at least an hour early, because everybody wanted to get home and turn on the tube.”
She nearly laughed. “You’re good for me, Jeff.”
He beamed back at her. “Same goes.”
It was six A.M. when Deanna finally unlocked the door to her apartment and staggered inside. She’d been up for a full twenty-four hours and was long past fatigue. But, she reminded herself, she’d fulfilled her professional obligations, and she’d seen her goddaughter born.
Aubrey Deanna Myers, she mused, and smiled blearily as she walked to the bedroom. An eight-pound miracle with red hair. After watching that incredibly beautiful life slide into the world, it was hard to believe there was a war raging on the other side of the world.
But as she tugged off her clothes, unspeakably grateful that her show was preempted that morning, she switched on the television and brought that war into her home.
What time was it in Baghdad? she wondered, but her mind simply wouldn’t cope with the math. Wearily she sat on the edge of the bed in her underwear and tried to concentrate on the images and reports.
“Be careful, damn you.”
It was her last thought as she slid down over the bedspread and tumbled into sleep.
Late during the second night of the Gulf War, Finn set up at a Saudi base. He was tired and hungry and longed for a bath. He could hear the roar of jets taking off from the airfield to make their way to Iraq. Other news teams, he knew, would be broadcasting reports.
His mood was foul. As a result of the Pentagon’s restrictions on the press, he would have to wait his turn in the pool before he could travel to the front—and then he could go only where military officials instructed. For the first time since World War II, all reports would be subject to censorship.
It was one of the few words Finn considered an obscenity.
“Don’t you want to take time to shave that pretty face?”
“Cram it, Curt. We’re on in ten.” He listened to the countdown in his earpiece. “In the predawn hours of day two of Desert Storm . . .” he began.
On her couch in Chicago, Deanna leaned forward and studied Finn’s image on-screen. Tired, she thought. He looked terribly tired. But tough and ready. And alive.
She toasted him with her diet soda as she ate the peanut butter sandwich she’d fixed for dinner.
She wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling, as he spoke of sorties and statistics or answered the scripted questions of the news anchor. The Arabian sky spread at his back, and occasionally he had to raise his voice over the sound of jet engines.
“We’re glad that you’re safely out of Baghdad, Finn. And we’ll stay tuned for further reports.”
“Thanks, Martin. For CBC, this is Finn Riley in Saudi Arabia.”
“Good seeing you, Finn,” Deanna murmured, then sig
hed and rose to take her dishes into the kitchen. It wasn’t until she passed her answering machine that she noticed the rapid blink of the message light.
“Oh, hell, how could I have forgotten?”
Setting the dishes aside, she pushed Rewind. She’d slept a blissful six hours, then had rushed out again. A stop by the hospital, a few hours at the office, where chaos had reigned. That chaos, and the war talk, had driven her out again with a thick file of clippings and a bag of mail. She’d worked the rest of the evening, ignoring the phone. Without checking her messages.
Having a baby and a war was certainly distracting, she thought as she hit Play.
There was a call from her mother. One from Simon. Dutifully, she scribbled the messages on a pad. There were two hang-ups, each with a long pause before the click of the receiver.
“Kansas?” Deanna dropped her pencil as Finn’s voice filled the room. “Where the hell are you? It must be five A.M. there. I’ve only got this line for a minute. We’re out of Baghdad. Christ, the place is a mess. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get through again, so catch me on the news. I’ll be thinking about you, Deanna. God, it’s hard to think about anything else. Buy yourself a couple of flannel shirts, will you? And some wading boots. It can get cold at the cabin. Write, okay? Send a tape, a smoke signal. And let me know why the hell you’re not answering your phone. Later.”
And he was gone.
Deanna was reaching down to press Rewind and listen to the message again when Loren Bach’s voice flowed out. “Jesus H. Christ, you’re a hard woman to get in touch with. I called your office, and your secretary said you were at the hospital. Scared the life out of me until she explained it was Fran having her baby. Heard it’s a girl. Don’t know why the hell you’re not home yet, but here’s the deal: Delacort would like to renew your contract for two years. Our people will be contacting your agent, but I wanted to be the first to tell you. Congratulations, Deanna.”
She couldn’t have said why, but she sat down on the floor, covered her face with her hands and wept.
Things moved quickly over the next five weeks, at home and away. With the new contract with Delacort signed and sealed, Deanna found both her budget and her hopes expanding. She was able to add to her staff, and furnish a separate office for Fran when she returned from maternity leave.
Best of all, the ratings began a slow, steady climb during the first weeks of the new year.
She had ten cities now, and though she still fell behind Angela’s whenever the shows were scheduled head to head, the margin had slimmed.
To celebrate the success, she bought a softly patterned Aubusson carpet to replace the flea-market rug in her living room. It went, she thought, perfectly with the desk.
She had a cover on Woman’s Day scheduled for April, a feature in People and, for old time’s sake, agreed to appear on a segment of Woman Talk. The Chicago Tribune did a Sunday spread, calling her a star on the rise.
She turned down, with a combination of amusement and horror, an offer to pose for Playboy.
When the red light blinked on, Deanna was seated on set. She smiled, slipping easily, comfortably into thousands of homes.
“Do you remember your first love? That first kiss that made your heart beat faster? The long talks, the secret glances?” She sighed and had the audience sighing with her. “Today, we’re going to reunite three couples who remember very well. Janet Hornesby was sweet sixteen when she had her first romance. That was fifty years ago, but she hasn’t forgotten the young boy who stole her heart that spring.”
The camera began to pan the panel, focusing on giddy, nervous smiles as Deanna continued to speak.
“Robert Seinfield was just eighteen when he left his high school sweetheart and moved two thousand miles away with his family. Though a decade has passed, he still thinks of Rose, the girl who wrote him his first love letter. And twenty-three years ago, college plans and family pressures separated Theresa Jamison from the man she’d thought she’d marry. I think our guests today are wondering, What if? I know I am. We’ll find out, after this.”
“God, great show.” Fran, Aubrey snug in a baby saque at her torso, marched out on the set. “I think Mrs. Hornesby and her fellow might have a second chance.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted Aubrey to see where her mother works.” Nestling the baby, she looked longingly around the set. “I’ve missed this place.”
“Fran, you’ve just had a baby.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. You know, Dee, you should think about a follow-up show. People love the sentimental stuff. If any of those three couples get together, you could do a kind of anniversary thing.”
“I’ve already thought of that.” Deanna stepped back, hands on hips. “Well,” she said after a minute. “You look good. Really.”
“I feel good. Really. But as much as I love being a mom, I hate being a homebody. I need work or I’m liable to do something drastic. Like take up needlepoint.”
“We couldn’t let that happen. Let’s go up and talk about it.”
“I want to say hi to the crew first.”
“I’ll be up in the office when you’re finished.” Smiling smugly, Deanna headed to the elevator. She’d won her fifty-dollar bet with Richard. He’d been positive she’d last two full months. On the ride up to the sixteenth floor, she glanced at her watch and calculated time. “Cassie,” she began, the minute she stepped into the outer office. “See if you can reschedule my lunch meeting for one-thirty.”
“No problem. Great show, by the way. Word is the phones were going crazy.”
“We aim to please.” With her schedule in mind, she dropped down behind her desk to study the mail Cassie had stacked for her. “Fran stopped by downstairs. She’ll be up in a few minutes—with the baby.”
“She brought the baby? Oh, I can’t wait to see her.” She stopped, disturbed by the expression on Deanna’s face. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Baffled, Deanna shook her head. “I don’t know. Cassie, do you know how this got here?” She held up a plain white envelope that carried only her name.
“It was already on your desk when I brought the other mail in. Why?”
“It’s just weird. I’ve been getting these notes on and off since last spring.” She turned the paper around so Cassie could read it.
“ ‘Deanna, you’re so beautiful. Your eyes look into my soul. I’ll love you forever.’ ” Cassie pursed her lips. “I guess it’s flattering. And pretty tame compared to some of the letters you get. Are you worried about it?”
“Not worried. Maybe a little uneasy. It doesn’t seem quite healthy for someone to keep this up for so long.”
“Are you sure they’ve all been from the same person?”
“Same type of envelope, same type of message in the same type of red print.” Distress curled loosely in her stomach. “Maybe it’s someone who works in the building.”
Someone she saw every day. Spoke with. Worked with.
“Anyone been asking you out, or coming on to you?”
“What? No.” With an effort, Deanna shook off the eerie mood, then shrugged. “It’s stupid. Harmless,” she said, as if to convince herself, then deliberately tore the page in two and tossed it in the trash. “Let’s see what business we can clear up before noon, Cassie.”
“Okay. Did you happen to catch Angela’s special last night?”
“Of course.” Deanna grinned. “You didn’t think I’d miss my toughest competition’s first prime-time program, did you? She did a nice job.”
“Not all the reviewers thought so.” Cassie tapped the clippings on Deanna’s desk. “The one from the Times was a killer.”
Automatically Deanna reached into the stack and read the first clipped review.
“ ‘Pompous and shallow.’ ” She winced. “ ‘By turns simpering and sniping.’ ”
“The ratings weren’t what they expected, either,” Cassie told her. “They weren’t embarrassing, but t
hey were hardly stellar. The Post called her self-aggrandizing.”
“That’s just her style.”
“It was a little much, doing that tour of her penthouse for the camera and cooing about New York. And there were more shots of her than her guests.” Cassie shrugged, grinned. “I counted.”
“I imagine this will be tough for her to take.” Deanna set the reviews aside again. “But she’ll bounce back.” She shot Cassie a warning look. “I’ve had my problems with her, but I don’t wish hatchet reviews on anyone.”
“I wouldn’t either. I just don’t want you to be hurt by her.”
“Bullets bounce off me,” Deanna said dryly. “Now let’s forget about Angela. I’m sure I’m the last thing on her mind this morning.”
Angela’s initial tantrum over the reviews had resulted in a snowstorm of shredded newspaper. It littered the floor of her office. She ground newsprint into the pink pile as she paced.
“Those bastards aren’t getting away with taking a slice at me.”
Dan Gardner, the new executive producer of Angela’s, wisely waited until the worst of the storm had passed. He was thirty, built like a middleweight with a compact, muscular body. His conservatively styled brown hair suited his boyish face, accented by dark blue eyes and subtly clefted chin.
He had a shrewd mind and a simple goal: to ride to the top on whatever vehicle could get him there the fastest.
“Angela, everyone knows reviews are crap.” He poured her a soothing cup of tea. It was a pity, he thought, that their strategy of allowing no previews of the first show had failed. “Those jerks always take cheap shots at whoever’s on top. And that’s just where you are.” He handed her the delicate china cup. “On top.”
“Damn right I am.” Tea slopped over into the saucer as she whirled away. Fury was better than tears, she knew. No one, absolutely no one would have the satisfaction of seeing how hurt she was. She’d been so proud, showing off her new home, sharing her life with her audience.
They had called it “simpering.”
“And the ratings would have proved it,” she snapped back, “if it hadn’t been for this damn war. The goddamn viewers just can’t get enough of the fucking thing. Day and night, night and day, we’re bombarded. Why don’t we just blow the damn country off the map and be done with it?”