by Lori Wilde
“You were a sensation on the show.” She gritted her teeth when she said it, or so it seemed to him. “We got triple the number of hits on our website as Pets on Parade did.”
“Always hard to best a pet show.”
“No, I’m serious. Our audience loved your segment. We’d like you to come back again.”
Her body language sold her out. She wanted him back like she wanted acne on her flawless chin.
“Who wants me back?” he asked.
“Ed, my producer.”
“Your brother-in-law sent you after me?” He narrowed his eyes and was pretty sure she was holding back something.
“Actually, it was Mr. Gunderdorf’s idea.”
Zack knew the name—Gunderdorf was one of Marsh’s golfing cronies—but how did he come into this? “Why should he care who does the parlor tricks on a woman’s DIY show?”
Her eyes blazed with blue fire, and she shifted on the seat, her bare thighs separating from the tacky vinyl with a sucking sound. “Ratings,” she said without parting her lips. “He likes big ratings. He owns the station.”
“So I’m supposed to come back so you can zap me with a hot glue gun? That would go over big with viewers who watch Dr. Pimple Popper.”
She winced and drummed her fingers on the table. “I’ll give it to you straight.”
“By all means.”
She leaned forward, thighs smacking on the vinyl again. By now they must be as pink as her cheeks. “My show was near cancellation,” she went on. “Pets on Parade is waiting in the wings, panting for my spot.”
“Yeah, I met the star of that show. Prince.”
When was an accident not an accident? Maybe when a dog handler didn’t have enough sense to hang on to a leash. This didn’t mean he felt any obligation to give Danbury another shot at him.
“The show on stripping furniture turned things around.”
He noticed she didn’t actually give him the credit.
“I’ve been offered a wonderful new contract that guarantees my time slot, plus a good raise. If you knew how poorly local shows pay…”
“Congratulations.” He drank his coffee and eyed her warily.
“There is a condition. Mr. Gunderdorf himself wants you to be a regular guest. You wouldn’t have to do every segment—”
“I don’t have to do any segment.”
“No, of course not, but you’ll be well paid, and it’s marvelous publicity for your construction company.”
Sure it was. Women who watched daytime TV would clamor to have his brother and him renovate their homes.
“Well, what do you think?” She was breathless, but he doubted it was from the prospect of sharing her show with him.
Was she insane? Why would he go along with such a ridiculous idea? Hot lights, heavy makeup, silly projects? He was an outdoor man, and the business needed his full attention, especially since Cole was still basking in marital bliss, improbable as that had once seemed.
“No.”
“It wouldn’t be a full-time job by any means. I’d work out all the content. You’d just have to show up for an hour or two, and only on a certain number of segments. There’s lots of potential for your business—our sponsors, contacts…”
“No.”
“I could tell you were a little uneasy being in front of the camera, but a lot of performers get stage fright at first. I still get a little uptight before every show.”
A little? If she could, she’d script the number of slaps with the powder puff the makeup girl gave guests.
“No.”
“Please, don’t be hasty.”
Did this woman grasp the meaning of the simple two-letter word? “You don’t want to work with me.”
She bit her lips. “We could work it out. Granted, you’re more spontaneous than I am. I like to do things by the book. Afraid I’m addicted to lists and schedules, but I can change.”
“Ms. Danbury.” He forgot she’d told him to call her Megan. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“But—”
“Don’t make me go into all the reasons I’d rather pump out septic tanks with my bare hands than make a fool of myself on another of your shows.”
“You haven’t given this any thought.”
“I think it’s a lousy idea. Find someone else to do your pratfalls. I’ve never wanted to be a clown.” He couldn’t put it any plainer than that—not in mixed company in a public place. “Thanks for the dinner,” he added. “If you send me any more gifts, you’ll get a surprise package at your workplace, and I can promise it won’t be flowers.”
3
Monday morning, Megan sat in her sensible compact car in slot number twenty-seven at the far end of the parking lot. Larry, from Pets on Parade, had slot six a few steps from the entrance, a pretty good indication of their relative status at Channel 98.
She’d had her chance to improve her standing at the station, but she’d blown it. Why did she go along with Ed on the gifts? Instead of intriguing Bailey, they’d made him furious. Even the Pistons tickets. And he’d turned down her offer without even listening to the details.
What did you expect?
Wearing her short red dress had been another mistake. Sure, she’d wowed the funny little man dressed like a cartoon cowboy, but her thighs had kept sticking to that icky plastic seat, making vulgar noises every time she moved.
Some impression she’d made on Zack in the T-shirt so tight she could make out his honed chest muscles beneath. That was another irritation, as long as she was cataloging complaints. How could she concentrate on her lines when she was distracted by his hotness?
She wanted to scream her frustration, but she had to concentrate on showing viewers how to replace a broken windowpane. It was her idea to help women improve their homes on their own, and she’d always had faith that someday she’d win a spot on a big home improvement network.
Getting out of the car, Megan tried to put her anxiety on a back burner. Bailey wasn’t going to save her time slot or her show, and she hated feeling out of control. Her goals were straightforward—first to gain recognition for her show, then to meet and marry a fabulous man and have two adorable children.
When Megan walked into the studio, Ed was lying in wait in her closet of an office.
“I tried calling you all weekend. How did the meeting with Bailey go?” he asked.
“He said no. Did you remember to get a new putty knife?”
“Everything’s on the set. Did you talk money? Was that the holdup?”
Megan liked her sister’s husband, but sometimes she wished Georgia had married an ore-mining boat captain, a deep-sea diver, even a trash collector, anyone who wasn’t the producer of her TV show. He tried to run it the same way he’d played lineman on the University of Michigan football team—hit, block, batter, and annihilate the opposition. He laughed at her list making and was always trying to get her to wing the show instead of following a script.
“I’ll tell you all about it after the show,” she said. “For now, I need to prepare.”
Do It Herself was not a rip-roaring success that morning except to viewers who liked a little gore with their entertainment. Megan sliced her finger on a shard of glass stuck in the old window frame and finished the project with a wad of tissues sopping up the blood.
“Good save,” Ed said cheerfully. “You couldn’t have planned a better safety lesson. Now where do we stand with Bailey?”
“Ed, I’m leaving a bloody trail.”
“Do you need stitches?”
“No, I need a bandage.”
He reluctantly ambled off to hunt for the first aid box.
Where was Mom when Megan needed her?
Megan got her goal-setting habit from her mother. When her husband ran off with another woman, Gretchen coped by making a warm, loving home for her children. She remarried after her daughters left home and was leading the life she deserved in sunny Florida, but Do It Herself was very much a tribute to her mother.
; As a kid, Georgia ate chocolate-marshmallow cookies and moped while Megan established a troop record for earning Little Daisy Girl badges. Other Little Daisies made shrunken apple-head dolls, but she used her grandfather’s tools to build a hummingbird condominium that made the Badger Boys’ projects look lame.
She took off her makeup and retreated to her cubbyhole of an office, which at least had a door she could shut. Ed would track her down eventually and demand a play-by-play on her conversation with Bailey, but maybe if she hurried through a few bits of business, she could leave before he showed up to grill her.
She found a bandage in her purse and stanched the trickle still beading on her right pinky, but a loud knock dashed her hopes of avoiding a strategy meeting with Ed.
“Come on in.”
“How’s my sweetie today?”
The one man she wanted to see less than Ed was her grandfather. Ed only wanted to manage her career. George Peters had plans for her whole life, and they started with finding her the right husband.
He was a doting grandparent, and she adored him. But lately he was on a crusade. He was polling all his golfing buddies to find eligible grandsons. Worse, he was playing matchmaker, getting a tremendous charge out of arranging blind dates for her.
He’d cajoled her into going on two, one only boring, the other a total disaster. The jerk had started his touchy-feely tactics when he picked her up and had gotten so obnoxious by the time dinner was over, she took a cab home.
She hadn’t had the heart to tell her grandfather he’d set her up with a pervert, but she’d had enough of his friends’ grandsons.
“Hi, Grandpa.”
She gave him her best imitation of a warm, welcoming smile. He rarely came to the studio, and she couldn’t help but be wary.
“I thought maybe we could have lunch together,” he said.
“Oh, I’d love to, but let me check my schedule.” She glanced at the desk calendar, as if she hadn’t already memorized her day’s appointments. “Damn, I have to interview a banker about home-improvement loans at one. It’s for a segment next week. No time for lunch, I’m afraid. Aren’t you playing golf today?”
“Supposed to rain again.”
“I’ll give you a rain check on lunch.” She walked around her desk and soundly kissed his cheek.
“You work too hard.” He growled, but she knew he was proud of her. “When am I going to get more grandkids?”
“You have Jason.”
“Little stinker snitched my car keys and hid them last time I went to Georgia’s. Spoiled rotten. Needs a brother or sister to share the attention.”
“He’s just mischievous.” And Attila the Hun just liked to travel.
“Genetics,” George muttered. He wasn’t Ed’s biggest fan. “Important to pick a good man.”
“Not on my list yet, Grandpa.” She tried to tease but still suspected this was no social call.
“Your dang lists,” he grumbled.
“I just like to be organized like you and Mom.”
“If I hadn’t taken a little time off from work now and again, you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m sort of in crisis right now,” she said, letting a little of her job anxiety slip out.
“All the more reason you need some fun. One of my friends has a grandson…”
Didn’t he know anyone but old cronies with bachelor grandsons?
“Haven’t seen him in a while, but we talked before about introducing the two of you.”
No, no, no. She smiled, but inside she was screaming.
At least her grandfather helped her evade Ed on the way out. Her brother-in-law wouldn’t come within a hundred yards of him unless Georgia forced his hand. Grandpa was always trying to get Ed to play golf—totally not Ed’s sport—lose the spare tire around his waist, or have more kids.
Other people’s grandfathers lived in Florida condos or Arizona trailer parks. Hers hung around the used-car lot he once owned and gave pointers to the salesmen—and sometimes the customers. For all she knew, he was screening potential husbands there, too.
She left him standing in the parking lot with a cockeyed grin on his face that didn’t bode well for her peace of mind.
She went to work the next day determined to let her producer worry about whether Zack would appear on the show again. There was nothing more she could do.
Do It Herself ran two times a week, alternating with the Bulgarian chef in the eleven a.m. slot. With that much airtime to fill, Megan did sometimes bring in guests, preferably women with skills such as tile laying, wallpapering, or carpentry—role models for her audience. The one time she’d let Ed talk her into having a male guest on the set, it had led to the Bailey disaster.
Ed was lurking around her office when she got there.
“Megan, we have to talk.”
Not for nothing had he blocked against Ohio State, Michigan State, and his headstrong wife, her sister, Georgia. Megan tried her three best excuses to avoid him—a phone call to make, a script to study, an appointment to keep.
“You don’t have to worry about your show because there won’t be one,” he said, sounding madder than she’d ever heard him. “Come into my office.”
He had three chairs to her two in his minuscule space, but she preferred not to dwell on her relative status at a station where the custodian’s closet was bigger than her office. Keeping her show on the air was the first priority.
“I want the whole story on Bailey,” Ed said, making the room seem claustrophobic when he closed the door behind him.
“The whole story is no story. He emphatically said no. The man is a builder, not a performer, and he doesn’t want to be one.”
“How did he react to the gifts?”
“He hated them.”
“Even the Pistons tickets?”
“Even the Pistons tickets.”
Ed liked lounging in the oversize executive desk chair Georgia had given him on his birthday. Megan took it as a bad sign that he was on his feet, leaning forward with his palms flat on the desktop in a confrontational pose.
“He was embarrassed,” she added, realizing she didn’t much blame the man.
“What we have to do is pull out all the stops. Show him we’ll do anything to convince him to do the show.”
“He can’t be convinced.”
“You’re not trying hard enough.”
“And you’re unrealistic. Zack Bailey is more likely to take out a restraining order than sign a contract if I keep pestering him.”
“I hate to tell you,” Ed mumbled in such a somber tone she expected big phony tears to roll down his fleshy cheeks, “but the show is hanging by a thread. Gunderdorf wants more of what he saw last week. The chemistry between you two was electric—his words, not mine.”
“Gunderdorf imagined it. Forget Bailey. He’s not doing my show again.”
“There won’t be a show if we don’t sign him.”
She didn’t want to believe Ed, but he sounded seriously worried. “The ratings aren’t that bad. I can live with a worse time slot.”
“That’s not the point, Megan. Gunderdorf wants a winner, and he thinks Bailey will be the ticket. If we can’t sign him, the show gets axed, and you’ll finish out your contract doing bits on other shows.”
“I’ll take my show somewhere else.” She tried to sound defiant, but it came out depressed. A canceled show was almost impossible to peddle in another market. Although she supposed she could take it to YouTube just like everyone else.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen!
Ed stayed silent for so long Megan started to twitch. Finally, he said, “It’s not just about you, Megan. If the show is canceled, my job is history.”
“What?” She blinked. “Why? This isn’t your fault.”
“When Gunderdorf says do it, he assumes it’s as good as done. I will have failed, and that paints a target on my back.”
“That’s not fair. There’s no way to force Zack Bailey to make appearances, and our rat
ings have been okay without him. We don’t deserve to be dumped.”
“It’s not fair that my knees kept me out of the pros. I only took broadcasting in college because it looked fun, but I don’t have the talent to be on-camera. If I lose this job, where do I go? Idaho, Iowa, North Dakota? And get divorced in the process?”
She stared at the walls Ed had turned into one big bulletin board with clippings and souvenirs of his college days playing football plastered all over them. She could walk away from her job, but his future looked really bleak if he lost his.
Georgia’s life was a paint-by-number scene. She hated change, and Ed’s chances of getting a job in the Detroit area were slim to none. Megan couldn’t stand it that Gunderdorf, a man who never came near the studio, had the power to pull the plug on people’s lives. It was so unfair.
Then there was her nephew, Jason. He could be a little snot, like the time he deliberately smeared ice cream on her new raincoat, but raising kids cost a lot of money.
Georgia was writing a cookbook using Ed as her taster, but at the rate she was going, it would be years before she was ready to submit it to a publisher—and then it might not sell. How many people would buy a cookbook featuring a hundred and one recipes using figs?
Ed was morose but silent. He was a competent producer, but she couldn’t rely on him to save the show. Creative ideas were her strength, and she badly needed one that would persuade Bailey to make more appearances.
“I hate this,” she said.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Don’t give up hope. There has to be something I can do to persuade Bailey.”
“Megan! You can’t compromise your morals!”
“Not that something!”
“What then?’
“I don’t know.” She lifted her chin. “But I will figure it out.”
Zack was on the phone trying to nail down a date to pour the concrete for the sidewalk in front of the bank building. Cole was arguing with the electrical contractor about some substandard wiring that had to be corrected.