by Linda Palmer
Arnold’s ex was as transparent as a freshly washed window. I knew she expected me to tell Nancy what she’d said. Her game was to stir up trouble, but I wasn’t going to play.
Then, suddenly, I wondered: Was there any truth to what Veronica had said? I didn’t want there to be, because if there were then Nancy would be in for terrible heartbreak.
No! I refused to believe Veronica because I’d spent time with Nancy and Arnold, and never saw anything that made me doubt he loved Nancy. And I knew how much she loved him. Arnold’s ex-wife probably regretted their divorce and wanted him back. I was sure her phony sympathy—trying to get me to “warn” Nancy, was just an act of manipulation.
Putting Veronica Rose out of my mind for the next two hours, I concentrated on writing dialogue inserts for scenes that would be taped the following week. Characters would talk about Evan Duran, establishing him in the minds of the audience, before he appeared on-screen in scenes he would begin taping in two weeks. A lot of rewriting was needed, but the publicity of bringing back an original actor from earlier days would be valuable.
I’d have to create Garwood’s first few scenes myself. It would be quicker than explaining to the associate writers on the staff what I had in mind. Future scripts would be assigned to others, after Garwood was on the Love of My Life canvas. By then the writing staff would have had a chance to study the actor, to catch his rhythms, and they’d know the story I had in mind for the Evan Duran character.
I was printing out the inserts when Betty came in. “You’ve got to leave for the airport.”
“I know.” I removed the last of the pages and handed them to her. “Would you put these inserts into the revised scripts—I’ve indicated the particular episode numbers at the top of each page—and then distribute them?”
Betty glanced at the sheets and nodded.
“How did it go with our visitors?” I asked.
A half smile curved Betty’s lips. “Little Didi reminds me of an old joke about a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘tact.’”
“What did she do?”
“She told Jay Garwood—about his beard—that he looked like he was wearing a squirrel on his face.”
“That’s awful, but it’s funny. How did he take it?”
“He laughed, but I think he was trying to impress Mrs. Rose with what a good sport he was.”
“What do you think of Didi’s mother?”
Betty grimaced. “She’s one of those greedy women who’ve got to have every man in the room wanting her. Link didn’t pay any attention to her display of charm, but when she gave Jay Garwood a blast of it, Jay looked at her like he was a hungry dog and she was a sirloin steak.”
I stuffed two white legal pads and a handful of my favorite pens into my tote bag; they were the materials I’d need for writing on the plane to Arizona. “He didn’t do or say anything inappropriate, I hope.”
Betty shook her head. “Perfect gentleman. Anyway, I think she was just practicing on the poor guy.”
I looked up from gathering pages of story notes. “What do you mean?”
“She’s a bitch,” Betty said.
Smiling in silent agreement, I left for the airport, to lend support to Chet.
Chapter 8
AS IT TURNED out, visiting Chet had not been one of my better ideas. The “Law of Unintended Consequences” struck again. Forty-eight hours after I landed in Arizona, I was back again at John F. Kennedy International Airport.
I was surprised to see Nancy, instead of a network chauffeur, waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“I had Betty cancel the studio limo,” she said. “I wanted to pick you up.”
My immediate reaction was that I was very glad to see her; I needed to talk about what had happened with Chet. But then cold tingles of fear shot up my spine. Why was she here? Had something bad happened?
Nancy must have seen worry on my face because she quickly assured me, “Magic is fine. And nobody’s been murdered while you were gone. Come on, my car’s in the garage over there.”
When we reached her little blue Mercedes two-seater, I said, “You haven’t asked me if I had sex with Chet.”
“Don’t need to. You haven’t.” Nancy unlocked the car door.
“You’re right. At any moment his father might have gone into cardiac arrest. That’s not a romantic atmosphere.” I opened the passenger door, tossed my duffel into the compartment behind the seats, and climbed in. “Besides, we slept in the hospital’s guest quarters, where I shared a room with Chet’s mother.”
Nancy buckled herself in behind the wheel, but didn’t turn on the ignition. “So you still don’t know whether or not Chet snores, but you know if his mother does.”
“She’s a sweet woman,” I said. “I liked her.” For just a moment, I thought my voice was going to crack, but I got a grip. Not quick enough, though.
“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked. “Did Chet do something to knock himself off your romantic radar?”
I didn’t answer directly. Instead, I told her about Doctor Teddy.
“In the hospital’s gift shop I found this big, stuffed bear about three feet tall. It was wearing a doctor’s scrubs, and even had a little stethoscope around its neck. Mr. Thompson was still in the ICU, but Chet and his mother got a big laugh out of it. When it looked as though Mr. Thompson was stable, and it would be safe for us to leave him for a little while, Chet took the bear and we went to the therapy room in the Children’s Wing. Chet introduced it to the kids as ‘Dr. Teddy,’ and proceeded to do a ventriloquist act with it.”
Nancy gaped at me. “Chet can do ventriloquism?”
I laughed. “No, he’s terrible—probably the worst ventriloquist in the free world. But the kids were crazy about him. And I saw something … Chet adores kids.”
Sensing what was coming, Nancy reached over and squeezed my fingers in sympathy. “Did you tell him?”
“That I can’t have children? I had to. For nearly two days, I’d seen how close he is to his family, how much he loves his mother and father. Chet’s brother is a doctor in the Navy. Married, two small children. He’s stationed in Guam, but he’s on his way back to Arizona on special leave to be with his dad. Chet showed me pictures of his niece and nephew—he carries them in his wallet … When we were alone for a little while this morning, I knew I had to tell him.”
“What did he say?”
I shrugged. “The comforting things you’d expect. He said doctors make mistakes about that all the time. I told him this wasn’t a mistake. I’m really not able to have children.”
I was silent. Nancy waited quietly until I was ready to go on. “Chet made a joke, or tried to. He said if we ever managed to spend enough time together to get to that point, at least we wouldn’t have to use birth control.”
Nancy frowned. “That’s not funny.”
“He realized it, and apologized immediately. He kissed me, and told me that if two people really come to love each other, it won’t matter.”
“He’s a good guy,” Nancy said.
“Yes, he is.”
“How did you two leave things?”
“We’ll get to know each other better, and see what happens. But it does matter to him, Nance. That’s the simple truth.” Eager to get off the subject, I asked, “How are you and Arnold? Did he wonder where you were this weekend?”
Nancy’s lips narrowed into a grim line. “He never called to find out.” Seething with anger, she turned the key in the ignition with uncharacteristic force.
To lighten the mood in the car, I said “On the way back from Arizona, I thought of a stunt Link can pull on Penny’s TV show tomorrow. I called him from the plane, and he’s willing.” When I told Nancy what he was going to do, it got a genuine laugh out of her.
“Did you tell Penny?” she asked.
I shook my head. “She should be just as surprised as the audience.”
Nancy was dubious, but she agreed. “TV is your field, not mine. Besides, I’d rather
worry about what Penny’s going to do tomorrow, than what Arnold might be doing tonight.”
Chapter 9
THREE MONTHS AGO, Nancy made a deal for one of her corporate clients to purchase—at a bargain price—the Better Living Channel, a struggling cable network.
Shortly after the papers were signed, and knowing that the new owner, Mickey Jordan, was desperate to come up with shows that could attract viewers, Nancy told him about our friend, Penny Cavanaugh, who’s an absolute wonder at cooking and decorating. Nancy described her as “Martha Stewart for normal people.”
When Jordan met Penny, he challenged her to “be creative” using just whatever she could find in Nancy’s office. A few minutes later she presented him with a bouquet of edible rosebuds that she’d made from some pink foil and a handful of the Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses on Nancy’s desk. The fact that Penny’s also very attractive didn’t hurt.
Deciding to gamble on giving Penny a TV show, Jordan hired an experienced producer to work with her in planning the segments. After weeks of meetings, creative decisions, recipe testing, and assembling a tech crew, the first of the daily Penny Wise half hours was about to be taped.
Nancy and I arrived forty-five minutes early at the squat, gray, no-frills structure on Ninth Avenue and West Eighteenth Street where the cable network tapes those of its shows originating in Manhattan. A small black sign on the door identifying it as the BETTER LIVING CHANNEL differentiated the building from its equally undistinguished neighbors.
We gave our names to the elderly security guard at the entrance. He squinted at his clipboard, clutched in hands that weren’t altogether steady, finally found us on the guest list, and let us in.
Originally a warehouse, the interior of the building was all on one level, but soared two stories high. Powerful lights needed for taping a TV show hung from a web of pipes above the Penny Wise set. The lights were being tested and adjusted by two gaffers on a scaffold.
The set consisted of a large working kitchen that looked remarkably like the one in Penny’s home. A few feet to one side, there was a dining room area with a rectangular table and four matching chairs. It was separated from the kitchen by a waist-high room divider, on top of which sat a row of indoor plants.
Theater seats, arranged in four graduated rows, faced the set. Today’s show would be taped in front of an invited audience. For future broadcasts the audience would consist of people who’d written to the channel for free tickets.
At the outer edge of the set, a stunning black woman was directing placement of two big cameras that would be used for the show. Her dark hair, cut in a sleek pageboy, emphasized her large eyes and high cheekbones.
Glancing up, the woman saw Nancy, gave a welcoming wave, and came over to where we were standing. After the two of them exchanged warm greetings, Nancy said, “Morgan Tyler, this is Iris Fuller. Iris is the show’s producer.”
I extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The other woman’s grip was firm and confident. I liked her poise, and guessed that she inspired confidence in those who worked with her.
“Morgan produces Love of My Life,” Nancy said.
“Co-produces,” I corrected quickly. “I share the heat.”
“Lucky you,” Iris said with a rueful smile. “On this gig the buck stops with me. The good part is that I get to boss everybody around.”
“How do you like working with Penny?” I asked.
Iris laughed and fingered the belt around her slender waist. “Penny’s a doll, but if I’m not careful, she’s going to make me fat. And, Morgan, thanks for lending Link Ramsey to be our first ‘guest cooker.’” Her lips curved into a slightly wicked expression. “He almost makes me wish that I wasn’t happily married.”
Needing to follow producer-to-producer protocol, I told Iris, “Subject to your approval, Link wants to surprise Penny with a comedy bit.”
When I described his little stunt, she laughed out loud. “Go for it. I’ll make sure one camera stays on Link and the other on Penny for her reaction.”
Something in the rigging above us drew Iris’s attention. She called up to the gaffers, “Hey, guys—that spot’s in the wrong place.” Turning back to Nancy and me, she said, “I gotta take care of this.”
“Is it okay to find Penny and Brandi and wish them luck?” Nancy asked.
“Sure. They’re in the little makeup room behind the set.” With a jaunty thumbs-up, Iris Fuller went off to deal with repositioning the lights.
THE BETTER LIVING Channel’s makeup room was the size of a walk-in closet. Penny sat in a straight-back chair, with her eyes closed, facing a theatrical mirror ringed with light-bulbs that cast a strong, even illumination. A towel covered her thick, brown hair and a collar of paper towels protected her dress from makeup stains.
Applying paint and powder to Penny’s face was Brandi Flynn, wife of Detective First Grade G. G. Flynn, Matt Phoenix’s partner at the Twentieth Precinct. Brandi’s hair, which was a color she called I Love Lucy red, was piled on top of her head, creating the effect of an exploding fireball. Today, in her capacity as Penny’s on-air kitchen assistant, she was dressed in a comparatively modest green blouse and black slacks. I say “comparatively” because while the blouse’s neckline was high, Brandi’s breasts were bountiful, and her slacks were as tight as a gymnast’s skin.
Anyone but Brandi Flynn would have looked like a hooker in the outfits she wore, but with her sweet face and the kindness in her eyes, the effect was benignly outlandish rather than crude.
Brandi glanced up from her work when we came in. “Hi, gals. Isn’t this exciting?”
Penny opened her eyes and greeted us with a nervous smile. “Can you believe it? This is actually happening! I didn’t sleep at all last night, worrying that I’d forget everything I’m supposed to do.”
I gave her ice-cold fingers an encouraging squeeze. “It’ll be easy. Think of it as being at home, cooking and talking.”
Brandi turned her attention from Penny, leaned in close to the mirror, and gave her own lashes another swipe with the mascara wand. “Iris told me they wouldn’t have a makeup artist,” she said, “so I brought my stuff from home. Do you believe it—Penny doesn’t even own makeup! She’s like you, Morgan, she never wears anything but lipstick and mascara. For me, that would be like running down Fifth Avenue naked!”
Removing the towel from Penny’s head, Brandi presented her to us with a flourish. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous?” Hastening to add, “Not that you don’t always look nice, Pen.” Brandi gave Penny’s lustrous brown hair a few strokes with a brush.
“You’re beautiful,” I told Penny sincerely. Nancy echoed the sentiment with a nod.
“Thank you, but I really don’t care how I look. I’ve been praying I don’t set fire to the kitchen, in front of all those people!”
AT THE SCHEDULED time, invited guests filed in and took their seats. Per Penny’s request, Nancy and I sat in the center of the front row. I’d told Penny that with those powerful TV lights in her face, she wouldn’t be able to see us, because the audience would be in darkness. Still, she’d said it would make her feel better just to know we were close by.
Link Ramsey, Love of My Life’s romantic rogue hero, arrived only a few minutes before the show was to begin. Although he was one of the most disciplined and reliable actors I knew—fully prepared and never late—he always looked as though he’d just awakened. And the sleepy twinkle in his dark chocolate eyes suggested that he hadn’t been in bed alone.
Iris Fuller introduced herself to Link, they whispered together briefly, and she ushered him backstage. Just before the security guard closed the outside door, I glimpsed the figure of a young man wearing a white shirt and black slacks, carrying something over his arm, slip into the studio and disappear behind the set.
Iris Fuller came out onstage, introduced herself as the producer, and welcomed us to the first show of the Better Living Channel’s new series, Penny Wise. When she said that Link Ram
sey, star of Love of My Life, was going to be Penny Cavanaugh’s guest, the audience broke into spontaneous and prolonged applause.
Audience lights dimmed and the Penny Wise theme began to play over the sound system. It faded down as Penny came out into the kitchen set, introduced herself and Brandi, and explained that today:
“We’re going to make a turkey dinner. Practically everybody loves turkey, but for some reason we only have it on Thanksgiving Day. There’s no reason we can’t have it any time of the year—and it’s so easy to do! Now, to help us demonstrate how really simple it is to cook, please welcome a man who says he’s never even scrambled an egg: one of television’s most popular actors, Link Ramsey!”
Link came into the kitchen set on a wave of vigorous applause.
He smiled at Penny, and at the audience, then fingered his casual sweater with embarrassment. “Gee, Pen, I’m sorry. I planned to be dressed appropriately for you, but my dry cleaning … Oh, here it is!” Link gave someone offstage a big “come in” gesture, and onto the set hurried the young man carrying what I could see now was a dry cleaner’s bag. “It’s about time,” Link said, tearing off the plastic covering to reveal a chef ’s outfit. As he kept talking about the problem of getting dry cleaning delivered on time, Link proceeded to strip off his clothes—down to his shorts!—and put on the chef ’s white slacks and jacket.
The audience roared with laughter, Brandi giggled, and Penny stared—her mouth open in speechless shock. The expression on her face, as she tried to look anywhere except at Link undressing, was so funny that only a trained actress could have pulled that off on purpose.
In a few seconds, Link was completely outfitted. As though nothing unusual had just gone on, he began asking Penny about cooking a turkey.
Thanks to good camera work, the viewers would see Brandi putting together a simple apple, bread, and sautéed sweet onion stuffing at one end of the work counter, while at the other end Penny was showing Link how to prepare the turkey by sprinkling the cavity with salt and pepper. Next, under Penny’s direction, Link rubbed the turkey all over with butter.
