The boy rushed up the stairs in search of his bag.
Mia fussed in her chair, and unable to resist, I held her.
“Coffee?” I asked Darrell in an attempt to feign friendliness. I motioned to the cup Claire had set out in anticipation of his typical early arrival. A trait we both shared.
He nodded, taking a seat at the kitchen counter, and spread out a copy of The Fort Collins Gazette, Claire’s paper.
With Mia on my hip, I prepared three coffees.
Claire breezed in and squeezed Darrell’s shoulder, followed by saying, “Morning.” She planted a kiss on Mia’s head and then one on my cheek.
Darrell didn’t look up but grunted in his friendly way.
Claire swooped the coffee cup to her lips and took a long pull. “Just what I needed.” Something in the paper caught her attention. “What the…?”
Casually, I glanced at the open page and saw two ads for competing car companies side-by-side. Diagramming a paper was a delicate art. Not only did it involve finding the right balance between ads and news copy, but the diagrammer had to know every single advertisement in the paper to avoid the situation staring Claire in the face.
Staring briefly at the ceiling, she let it go for the moment. “Looks like another beautiful day.” Since she wasn’t peering out the window over the kitchen sink, I suspected she was being sarcastic.
With his nose still buried in the paper, Darrell said, “Nineties again.”
The summer holiday was rapidly drawing to a close, meaning Ian only had a few days left to squeeze in all the things he’d wanted to do at the start of the break. He’d been spending many days with his father, who recently walked away from the newspaper business when the Wyoming paper he worked for went belly up last May. Having him an hour away in Cheyenne had provided a decent buffer. Now, he was twenty minutes away and seemed perfectly content stopping by our house at all hours. Claire was convinced he was lonely, which was the most obvious reason. My newspaper brain suspected sabotage of some type.
“What’s the plan today?” I asked.
“The art museum,” Darrell practically whispered, the color draining from his tanned face.
“That’s right. The Impressionists’ exhibit.” Ian had bugged his dad to take him for weeks. It was like he was doing his best to expose his stodgy father to a different world—a creative world. It’d be a major coup if Ian could convince Darrell to update his black-framed glasses from the fifties.
Ian flew into the room, with his SpongeBob backpack flopping side to side on his scrawny frame. “Let’s hit the road, Jack.”
Claire gave Ian a hug before walking father and son to the door.
“Enjoy, boys,” I said, hanging back with Mia, who would be spending the day with my parents while I worked in the Denver office. Balancing her on my hip, I sipped my coffee and scanned MDD articles on my tablet. Luckily, none of our major competitors had any big scoops. The problem was, we didn’t either unless you counted the article about a potato that resembled Teddy Roosevelt and a photo contest of acrobatic cats in midair. When in need of clicks, include something about cats. The public couldn’t get enough.
Claire breezed back into the kitchen, her heels clicking against the wood floor, inserting a gold hoop into her left ear. “Maybe Darrell will find something of interest at the show—Gauguin, perhaps.”
“Naked girls always turn my head,” I said.
“So I’ve read.”
I rolled my eyes, regretting for the millionth time penning my memoir. “At least I didn’t sleep with…” Seeing the fire in her eyes, I stopped dead and said in a professorial tone, “I do believe Gauguin was a Postimpressionist artist.”
Her eyebrows still met in the middle.
There was only one way out of this dilemma. “You look beautiful this morning.” I kissed her cheek. “And you smell incredible.”
“Thanks. The big dog is in town.” Worry lines crinkled her brow.
“You’ll be fine.”
She sighed and pressed Mia’s button nose with a finger. “Well, I can always be a stay-at-home mom.”
“True that. We can live on ramen noodles. I loved them when I was in college.” I cracked a smile. All she ever strived for, even back when we were young, was a family, home, and normality. If only I could find a way to provide without selling the last shred of my dignity.
She whacked my arm and then kissed the top of Mia’s head. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”
“Thanks.”
“I was talking to our daughter.” She swayed her hips more than usual on the way out the door, a bulging Gucci tote slung over a shoulder as she headed for the office to find out if she still had a job.
“Maybe I should have played nice with the Hollywood producer.”
Mia spit up on my shirt.
“You’re right. We need to have higher standards.”
***
The second I entered my office, Avery, whose stiff posture was reminiscent of a secret service agent, appeared in the doorway. I motioned for Kung Fu Avery, a black belt holder and Krav Maga trainer, to enter.
She handed me a slip of paper.
I read the name in her tiny flawless script. “What’s this?”
“The worst of the worst motels on the outskirts of Denver. Even cockroaches avoid it.” Not a hair in her short, tight jet-black ponytail was out of place.
“I guess that means you spoke with Cora and probably know more than I do.” I ran a hand through my hair, damp from the shower after thirty minutes on the treadmill in the office gym.
Her face remained stone.
“Can you give me a hint?” I came across like a child days before Christmas morning.
“You have a meeting at ten. Lunch at one. I rescheduled your four o’clock per your instructions so you could beat Claire home.” She handed me a stack of files and printouts, turned on her heel, and left for her office next to mine, which could be seen through the glass walls without blinds. Only Cora would rent offices so cutting edge that no one could pick their nose without five others bearing witness. All I wanted to do at the moment was lie down on my couch and hide for the rest of the day.
My phone trilled.
“Yes, Avery.” I stared out my fifth-floor office window at the DTC Identity Monument, a landmark designed by Barber Architecture situated next to I-25 to resemble a steel skeleton of a building under construction.
“Your mom called. You forgot the diaper bag again.”
I smacked my forehead. “I’ll—”
“I had a feeling this would happen and set up a delivery for ten thirty.”
“So, you wanted to tell me to rub my face in it.” I swiveled my chair to see her reaction through the glass barrier.
“Probably.” She waved and grinned somewhat.
“Not sure what I would do without you.”
“I’ll be sure never to tell Claire you said that.”
“Two jokes in one morning. You get laid or something?”
She hung up, flipping me the bird.
“I’m striking out with all the women in my life today.”
“Sounds about right.”
I put a hand on my heart. “Jesus, Cora! Don’t do that.” I glared at the laptop screen that IT had rigged, linking me to the New York office, aka Cora, at all times. She had the same setup in her office. A blue and white striped blouse was engulfed by her blazer. I felt completely underdressed in jeans and a V-neck tee.
“We live in a connected world. Everything you do and say is being recorded.”
“Ever read the book 1984?”
“The CliffsNotes version. These days, it’s all people can talk about, and decades after publication, it’s a bestseller again. Still can’t bring myself to read it word for word.” She leaned closer to the camera and faux whispered, “Truth be told, I only skimmed yours for the good bits.”
“I wasn’t aware there were any.”
“Yeah,
it only took me a couple of seconds to come to that conclusion. Can’t you murder someone or something to boost your book to the top of the best-seller lists?”
“Because that’ll help me achieve the normal life I want.” I added, “In prison.”
She sat ramrod in her cushy black executive chair, rested both hands on the desk befitted for the president, and released a puff of air, switching to business mode. “Have you read the latest figures?”
I grabbed the top file from the stack Avery had handed off. “Skimming the good parts now.”
“There aren’t any. We need a plan to stop the hemorrhaging, or Matthews Daily Dish is toast.”
Chapter Seven
By the time I picked up Mia from my folks, I was ready to jump off the roof, not to kill myself, but maybe I’d luck out by breaking a few bones, necessitating a few days in the hospital to recuperate. Of course, Cora would ensure I had access to a laptop from the hospital, so I eighty-sixed the idea. It’d only cause more headaches, and I was getting desperate for solutions.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Mom tightened her cardigan around her skinny frame. Pops, whose body temperature ran hot, had the AC cranked in their quiet Denver suburban home.
We stood in the entranceway, and Mom had the door open to let in the natural heat. “Of course. Don’t worry.” She always worried about me, more so since the bombshell. Neither of my parents ever admitted to reading my memoir, but it’d be hard for them not to overhear the juicier aspects. Within hours of coming clean about being blackmailed and the sordid details, the press had arrived on their doorstep for interviews. Luckily, I’d anticipated this and had whisked them, with the use of Silas’s jet, out of town.
“Fretting is on the top-ten list of things parents do.” Mom smiled at Mia in her car seat, and I understood.
“Your mother could out worry all the other moms on the planet.” My father stepped to the side, out of reach of Mom’s swipe. “We still on for the Rockies this weekend?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Box seats. Even when I was a sports reporter, I never scored box seats. What’s your secret?” His face shone like a little boy.
“Cora. She knows everyone who has an ability to write six-figure checks.”
Pops and I were meeting with the owners of the largest sporting chain in Colorado in hopes they’d advertise on MDD. My father didn’t work for us, but he was more than willing to escort his clueless daughter, who didn’t know the difference between a shortstop and an outfielder, to impress the likes of Timothy Diamond, owner of Diamond’s Sports and former pitcher for the Mets.
“I never succeeded in turning you into a sports fan, but I did get you into the newspaper business. A noble profession, in my humble opinion.” His face didn’t betray any irony considering my past. “I’ll be sure to dazzle Tiny Tim with my knowledge about baseball.” Pops puffed out his chest.
Tiny Tim stood well over six feet. I never understood why people based nicknames on the opposite of reality. Of course, this might be because people had been making cracks about my short stature since I could remember. Even Claire, when she first met me, had called me Dr. J, after a retired basketball player, towering over six feet.
I placed one hand on his shoulder. “I know you will. Right now, you’re the ace in my back pocket.”
“Doncha mean pinch hitter?”
“That, too.” I smiled, suppressing a different thought. If I didn’t sign this deal and a few more like it over the next couple of months, I’d have to go back on my hands and knees and beg for the Hollywood producer to buy the movie rights to my life and save me and the company from bankruptcy.
Or there was Cora’s nuclear option. Kill someone to propel the sales of Miracle Girl. The thought made me laugh. Even with my past, how could anyone ever think tiny old me capable of murder?
***
Music filtered out of the open front door to where I parked my SUV in the half-circle drive, and I listened closely to make out if it was Claire’s good mood music or Beethoven, a clear signal she was brooding. I heard Adele’s catchy “Rumor Has It.”
Leaning into the back seat, I tickled the bottom of Mia’s bare feet. “Sounds like Mom didn’t lose her job today.”
Mia giggled, blowing spit bubbles in my face.
When I walked through the front door with Mia on my hip, Darrell sat at the kitchen counter just off to the side of the entrance, nursing a cup of coffee and eating a day-old bear claw. Claire must have cracked a joke because Darrell’s shoulders shook with laughter.
“JJ!”
I twirled around. Ian, with lean tanned arms poking out of a painter’s smock, was covered head to toe in finger paint. “I’m going to be an artist!” He dashed back to the easel Claire had set up right outside the back door leading to the deck off the great room. Newsprint protected the newly minted deck from resembling Jackson Pollack’s studio floor.
“So the accordion is out?” I handed Mia to Claire, who couldn’t wait to hug her baby girl. “I’m glad we’re renting all the instruments.”
“Yesterday’s news,” Darrell grumbled with his Popeye-like arms folded. The shabby chic white backed chair at the counter somehow made the man seem even grumpier. However, I detected a source of pride over his son’s exuberance. Ian would never be boring.
“I invited Darrell to stay for dinner,” Claire spoke over Mia’s head, giving me the look that said, “Behave or you’ll suffer later.”
“What shall I order?” I said without skipping a beat.
“I decided to cook.”
Darrell and I exchanged a What gives? look. It wasn’t often when we connected like that.
Claire gave us both the hairy eyeball from the opposite side of the counter, one hand on her hip. “I’m not that bad.”
She handed Mia to Darrell, the baby immediately reaching for his outdated glasses. Claire pulled two small frozen lasagnas from the fridge, putting me at ease, and Darrell chuckled, much to my surprise.
“I take it the meeting went well.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, trying to ignore that Darrell and I preferred the same drink after a long day. Any correlation to him made my toenails curl.
“Yes and no. I still have a job, but they’re laying off five percent on top of the ten percent they laid off earlier this year. Pretty soon, it’ll be just me running the show.” She selected four navy plates from the white cabinet next to the microwave.
When I first saw the designer’s plans for the kitchen remodel I’d thought it was too cabinish, even with a few modern touches. Living in New York and London had turned me into a snob. But the dark wood ceiling, white cabinets, flower wallpaper on the side of the hutch with country knickknacks, and a wooden rooster on the countertop came together, making me feel instantly at home.
“You two should get out of the media business like I did while you still can. It’ll swallow you whole and spit you out.” Darrell unconvincingly drummed his fingers on the granite counter.
“So I can hang out at your house all the time? You do still have a house, don’t you?”
He glared at me.
I decided to needle him a smidge more. “You know, since you are unemployed, we have talked about hiring a nanny.”
Claire shot me a look that would have stopped the heart of a three-thousand-pound charging rhino.
I put my hands up. “What? I was just kidding. Darrell knows that.” To mask my lie, I tossed a friendly arm over his shoulders for the briefest of moments.
He ignored me and gave all his attention to Mia, the cranky man whisperer.
There was a wicker laundry basket on the couch. Every nook and cranny on the main level was out in the open, allowing for conversation to continue no matter what section each of us was in.
“Clean?” I asked.
Claire nodded. I started folding the still-warm clothes.
“Your mom called. You forgot the diaper bag again.” Claire tore off the pla
stic wrapping from one of the ready-made meals and popped it into the oven.
“She called everyone but me.” I had a lavender bath sheet wedged under my chin as I folded it in half and then half again.
“It’s impossible to get a hold of you.” Claire had her back to me, but I knew what expression she wore and was relieved I didn’t have to witness it firsthand.
“Cora doesn’t have any trouble.”
“Mom!” Ian pulled on her blue-green blouse. “What do you think?” He held a paper with purple and red mountains, a three-colored neon rainbow against a pinkish sky, and several upside-down black Ws that I figured were birds.
Claire squatted, straining her pencil skirt in a way that connected to a certain part of my body, which started to throb, and I had to chastise myself for getting turned on while she was admiring Ian’s artwork.
“It’s beautiful, Ian.” She took the paper and attached it to the fridge with magnets Ian had made in a craft class earlier that summer. Right below it was another masterpiece he must have created before I arrived home two hours late, even though I had Avery cancel my late afternoon videoconference with the team in the Pacific Northwest. Paperwork and e-mails claimed my attention for far too long, and if Avery hadn’t lured me out of the Bermuda Work Triangle with a not so subtle reminder that I intended to be home early, I might have still been sitting at my office desk.
Ian swept the smock over his head. “Dad, you want to play?”
After Ian placed the smock in the tiled laundry room, following Claire’s directive without a complaint, father and son retreated to the newly refinished basement to play video games.
“How was your day?” Claire, who now held Mia on her right hip, placed a tender hand on my cheek. “You look exhausted.”
“Nah.” I waved her concern away. “Just letting the day go so I can enjoy life.”
The Fall Girl Page 6