by Mary Gorman
He carefully scooped Marie’s sleeping body up off the couch and lifted her to his shoulder, wondering why it was that kids weighed more asleep than they did when they were awake. He stood for a minute, rocking back and forth to soothe her even though she hadn’t stirred, then carried her upstairs to the bedroom with the brightly colored balloons on the wallpaper. He pressed a kiss on her wispy curls and laid her gently in her crib. Just for a moment, he stood with his hands curled around the crib rail, wondering what it would be like to stand there with a woman and look down at such a small package of perfection, knowing that they had created it out of their love. He sighed, not sure that he could even imagine it.
Back in the living room, he ejected Ernie Goes to Preschool and turned to look at Mattie, asleep on the floor in his Spider-Man pajamas amidst a hailstorm of popcorn kernels, and decided to leave the boy where he was rather than risk waking him and having to watch Ernie stress out over the prospect of going to preschool one more time. He went back to the couch and began to channel surf, looking for sports.
Diane and Tom came home a couple of hours later, looking slightly less fresh but infinitely less harried than the had when they’d left four hours before. “How were the kids?” Diane asked as she hung up her coat in the front closet.
“Piece of cake,” he replied dismissively. “How was your night out?”
Tom slipped up from behind and wrapped his arms around Diane. “It was a chick flick,” he said, “but Diane liked it.”
She swatted his arm. “You liked it!”
“I liked you after you’d seen it,” he clarified, nuzzling the side of her head.
“You just like what that kind of movie leads to,” she accused.
“Damn right,” he replied, grinning at her suggestively.
“Behave yourself,” Diane told him, giving him a final swat and stepping out of his embrace. “Want a cup of coffee, Dave? We’ve got some cheesecake if you didn’t let the kids con you into letting them eating it.”
As much as Dave loved cheesecake, he knew that neither Diane nor Tom wanted him to stay for coffee. “Nah,” he replied. “Thanks anyway but I’m supposed to meet Kirk tomorrow morning. We’re painting his mother’s kitchen ceiling.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Dave rolled his eyes. He had worked as a painter in college and it was no longer his idea of fun. Even so, he was fast and he was good at it, which was why he let Kirk talk him into helping.
He said his good byes, kissed his sister, and stepped into the crisp night air.
Dave listened for a minute to the radio while the car’s engine warmed up. It was one of the on air weekend people. WMTR was shuffling people around in the wake of the evening commute deejay defecting to another radio station. He hoped they’d fill the vacancy soon. Having a known commodity was a big part of his sales pitch for getting clients to advertise on ’MTR.
Before he pulled out, he looked back at his sister’s house. Through the picture window he could see Diane and Tom. Tom was holding a groggy Mattie, and Diane stroked the boy’s dark hair. Then she turned her eyes towards her husband’s and they shared a look filled with love and tenderness.
Dave lingered for a minute, watching the intimate family scene through the glass before taking his foot off the brake and driving off into the cold, lonely night.
Chapter Three: The Meeting
Working late on a beautiful July night wasn’t Dave’s favorite thing, but if the circumstances warranted it, he’d do it. The Belmont Auto Glass account had been his baby for weeks now, and so here he was, putting together a variety of advertising packages to present at a meeting with the company’s executives the following morning. It was half past seven now — late enough in the evening that he wasn’t likely to be interrupted — so he’d left his office door open after his journey to the snack machines.
He could hear the smooth voice of the new evening commute deejay playing over the PA system out in the hall, reading tomorrow’s weather forecast. He’d seen her at the weekly staff meetings, but hadn’t met her yet. She was a real looker, though — a smooth curtain of long black hair, killer brown eyes, manicured nails, stylish clothes, a statuesque height that topped his own five-foot-seven by a good four inches, and just enough makeup to look like she wasn’t wearing any.
The promotions department had a long running billboard ad campaign called “The Faces of Radio” where they tried to make the deejays more familiar by putting their pictures out in public with superlative captions — “The Most Trusted Face in Radio” for Vince MacNeil, the station news reporter, and “The Sweetest Face in Radio” for Allyson Every, the midday deejay who was blond and cherub faced with freckles even though she was well into her twenties. “The Ruggedest Face in Radio” was Rocky MacDougall, who held the overnight shift — his chiseled features, high cheekbones, and prominent jawline merited that distinction even as much as his passion for outdoor activities did.
It hadn’t taken long for the Publicity Department to come up with a catchphrase for the new girl. Denise Johnson was “The Prettiest Face in Radio” by a country mile. The posters, billboards, and ads hadn’t gone out yet, but she’d only been at the station a week. He cocked his head as he listened to her smooth voice, slightly sultry but friendly at the same time. A beautiful voice to go with a beautiful face.
As he listened, a clatter sounded in the hallway, accompanied by the sound of someone singing flatly. Dave smiled. It was Theresa, the station’s cleaning woman. He had no idea how old she really was, but she had already been working at the station when he had been hired eight years before. He watched as she came into the room, pushing a vacuum cleaner before her and dragging her cleaning cart behind. She wasn’t even singing the same song that was playing on the speakers.
Dave liked Theresa. She reminded him of Hope, his cousin who had died when he was a teenager, doomed by the Down Syndrome that had left her with a congenitally damaged heart. Theresa looked up at him, revealing a face that was much like Hope’s had been, with heavily lidded eyes and a wide set mouth that seemed to be too full of tongue. It was an elfin face, he always thought. She had an elf’s height as well, barely reaching 4’10. She smiled when she finally looked up and saw him sitting there.
“Dave!” she exclaimed in her slightly raspy voice. “What are you doing here?”
“How’s it shaking, T-bird?” he replied, an easy grin crossing his features.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she told him.
“Ah, I’m just working late. So how you been? You need a new boyfriend yet? I’m still available, you know.” It was a long running topic of conversation between them — Theresa and her bevy of boyfriends.
“Nope. I got three right now. Pete and Steve and Nathaniel.”
“What happened to Charlie?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s just my pal,” she admitted.
“Well, if you ever decide to get rid of all these boyfriends of yours, you look me up,” he teased.
“Oh Dave, you’re so funny!”
He clasped his chest in mock despair. “Theresa, you’re breaking my heart!”
She laughed as she began to unwind the vacuum cord and plugged it in.
“You still like Justin Beiber?” he asked her.
“I like him a lot,” she told him.
“I’ll tell you what — I think we got some posters in for his new album. You start to clean up in here and I’ll go check and see if I can get you one.”
Her whole face lit up in excitement. “Thanks, pal!”
“Anytime, kid.”
It was when he came back that Dave heard voices coming from his office. He quickened his step, concerned for Theresa’s sake. They worked in a building that was secure for the most part, but Theresa was a very trusting soul, and there shouldn’t have been anyone else in his office at that hour. Anxi
ous to intervene, he started calling to her even before he reached his doorway. “Good news, Tee — they had two different posters, so I got them both — ”
He stopped short when he reached the doorway and saw who it was that was talking to Theresa. It was Denise Johnson standing just inside the doorway of his office, smiling and asking Theresa a question. “Hi,” he said, a little stupidly.
She blessed him with an electric smile. “Hi.”
“That’s Dave,” Theresa informed her.
Denise glanced at the nameplate on his desk. “Dave Dee — Dis — ”
“DiSciullo,” Theresa volunteered.
“Excuse me?” she replied, turning her attention back toward Theresa.
“DiSciullo,” Theresa said again. “‘Dish’ like you eat on, ‘shoe’ like you wear on your feet, ‘low’ like not up high. ‘Dish-shoo-low.’”
Denise turned her eyes questioningly to Dave. He shrugged. “I taught her that. It was the easiest way to help her remember.”
She held out her hand in greeting. “Denise Johnson. I’m the new deejay.”
“I know. I’m — um — associate sales manager here at the station.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Isn’t your shift until eight?”
She pushed a strand of straight black hair behind one ear with a perfectly manicured nail. “Yeah, but I was dying for a cold drink, so I stuck on ‘Hey Jude’ and set off in search of a soda machine. I was just asking Theresa here if she knew where I could find one. I’ve got — ” she glanced at her watch, “ — four minutes and twenty-eight seconds to find the machine, buy the soda, and get back to the booth.” She smiled down at him.
Dave nodded. “Out this door, go right, then take the second left. It’s in a little nook on the left.”
She repeated the directions to herself and then nodded. “Thanks.” She turned and left the room.
“She’s pretty,” Theresa commented.
“Yeah, T-bird, she sure is.”
Dave was showing Theresa the posters when Denise reappeared in the doorway. “I’ve got two minutes and twenty seven seconds,” she announced. “Do you like chocolate, Theresa? I bought an extra bar.”
Theresa stared at the chocolate with open-mouthed desire. Dave knew that Theresa had a real sweet tooth and wondered why she hesitated. “Tee?” he prompted after a long moment. “You should answer the lady.”
Theresa folded her arms in stubborn resolve. “My mother says that I shouldn’t take candy from strangers,” she announced. “I just met you. You’re a stranger.”
Denise lowered the hand that held out the chocolate. “Your mother is a very smart lady,” she said.
Theresa’s eyes tracked the candy as it fell to Denise’s side, all of the regret and longing she felt easily apparent in her chubby face. Denise’s smile faded and she looked uncomfortable, turning her eyes to Dave in silent apology.
“Hey, Denise,” Dave intervened. “I saw Mr. Lund introduce you at the staff meeting, so you’re not a stranger to me. Can I have the candy bar?”
She cast him a look of surprise and — it seemed to him — dismay. “Okay,” she said with a tad of wariness in her voice as she handed him the brightly wrapped rectangle. Theresa followed the exchange with hungry eyes.
“Theresa,” Dave said, turning to her. “Would you like a candy bar? I’m not a stranger.”
Theresa’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that!” she told him, reaching for the bar. “Thanks, pal!”
Dave smiled at Theresa as she tore off the wrapper. Glancing up, he saw that Denise was smiling, too.
A relaxed, full wattage, uninhibited smile. The ads were wrong, he thought inanely. Prettiest didn’t cut it. She was beyond pretty. When she smiled — he wasn’t sure there was a word specific enough to capture that image.
Denise glanced at her watch. “Whoops! Gotta go. It was great meeting you both. I’ll see you around the station, Theresa.” She gave Dave a grateful grin. “Thanks, Dave.”
Dave watched as Denise left. It was probably his imagination, but he room actually seemed a few watts duller without Denise in it, as if she had taken some of the electricity with her when she left.
“I like her,” Theresa confided around a mouth full of chocolate.
“Me, too,” Dave admitted.
Chapter Four: Presley
Denise Johnson filled Dave’s thoughts all the rest of the evening, through the night, and into the next day. His short-term goal, he decided as he drove to work the next morning, was to find out as much as he could about her before approaching her, so that he could woo her as effectively as possible.
Dave knew that if he wanted information, there was only one person he needed to talk to: the station’s receptionist, a talkative woman from Brooklyn with the unlikely name of Presley Rosenberg.
Presley had been at the station for three years. To be perfectly honest, Dave found her a little intimidating, with her loud New York accent, her funky sense of style, and an alarming tendency to let her mouth start running before her brain was fully engaged. She was opinionated, assertive, and knew everybody else’s business. If anyone could tell him about Denise Johnson, it was Presley.
Dave stopped into a Mister Donut drive-through on his way into work and bought a dozen doughnuts and a dozen muffins. If he was going to pump Presley for information, then he wanted to get her in a good mood first, and food, especially baked goods, was a good way to get on anybody’s good side. He actually enjoyed cooking and baking, but because it hadn’t occurred to him to ply Presley with pastries until he was already driving on the way to work, he didn’t have time to fix something homemade.
Presley was seated at her desk as usual. She was wearing a sort of a white peasant blouse, gathered at the neckline, and had small gray dolphins dangling from her earlobes. She eyed him as he approached the desk as she talked on the phone, then her eyes lit on the parcels he was carrying and she waved him over. She finished her conversation, hung up the phone, and looked at him speculatively. “You packing any extra doughnuts there, Dave?”
“For you? Sure. Doughnuts and muffins. What’s your pleasure?”
“What you got?”
“Jelly, honey dipped, coconut, plain — ”
“Oooh, coconut,” she announced.
He opened the box that held the doughnuts and set it down on her desk, letting Presley help herself. “So how’s it going?” he asked her casually.
“Same old shit,” she replied, pulling the coconut doughnut from the box. “Vacation season is about to start. When are you taking off?”
“Sometime at the end of July. There’s a family reunion for my Mom’s side up in Maine the last weekend. You?”
“Been ordered back to Brooklyn,” she told him. “I’ll go for the first week, but I think I’m going to just bum around here for the second. Maybe do some day trips, hang out on a beach. I don’t know.”
“Things must be a lot more settled since that new girl started — the P.M. commute lady?”
“Denise.” she said. “Have you met her yet? She’s really a trip.”
“A trip, how?” he asked, not certain that Presley’s classification of the new employee was a positive thing.
“She’s just so amazing. Did you know that she used to be married to a guy whose father and uncle are listed in the Fortune 500?” she asked, referring to the magazine’s annual listing of the 500 wealthiest people in the world.
“You’re kidding,” he asked, feeling a bit stunned. Why would someone like that be working in a Boston radio station?
Presley nodded, her dolphins set into frantic motion once again as her head bobbed up and down. “Seriously. And get this — her mother is Judy Johnson.”
Based on the way she said it, he thought it was a name that he was supposed to know, but didn’t. He racked his brains but c
ame up short. “Who?”
“You are such a guy,” she scolded him. “Judy Johnson, the romance writer. She lives in Cambridge, did you know that? Denise moved back in with her after the divorce.”
“The romance writer got a divorce? That’s ironic, isn’t it?”
“Not her mother, stupid. Denise. Denise got divorced. Apparently that no good louse of a husband started cheating on her, so she left him and moved back in with her mother.”
“What about alimony?” he asked curiously. “Was there some kind of pre-nup or something? Couldn’t she afford her own place?”
“She left the money behind when she left him. Isn’t that the damnedest thing? I’d have wanted to take the louse for every last cent, but Denise says that she didn’t want to have anything to do with him or his money after that — she just wanted her independence back. So here she is.”
“Wow … ”
“Yeah, isn’t that something? I hope she rocks this town. She has integrity, you know? Not many people have that nowadays.”
“Well, having a mother who must be a pretty successful writer — ”
“New York Times bestseller,” Presley provided helpfully.
“She must come from a family that has money of its own.”
Presley shrugged. “My impression is that they didn’t have it when she was growing up. Her Mom’s only been writing for about ten years or so, I think. And she said that her father was a produce manager at a grocery store. He died just about the time she went to college. I think she was probably some kind of genius or something. She said that she met her ex while she was studying Art History at the Sorbonne in Paris. A grocer’s kid from Cambridge doesn’t get to go to the Sorbonne unless she’s really got something upstairs, you know? Hard to believe that I actually know someone like this, but she’s a really neat person. We went to see James Taylor together down at the waterfront, and then she took me to a French restaurant down by Copley Plaza. She ordered in French, wine and everything and ended up getting this unbelievable meat and pastry thing that wasn’t even on the menu. She is just so cool … ”