The sky is steel and ice, promising another bitter night. I tuck the blanket closer around Sophie, and wiggle my fingers toward Gabe. “Take my hand, honey. Can you get down?”
Gabe slides off the seat and grabs my hand. His lower lip gives the beginnings of a quiver. “I want to see my daddy,” he says, looking at me.
“Absolutely,” I say. “And we can tell him how brave you are.”
This has got to be the strangest interview I’ve ever done. The EMTs finally arrived, pleading “wicked traffic” and “buncha jerk” drivers. They checked the kids, plastered Declan Ross’s forehead with a gauze-and-tape bandage, pronounced everyone fine and took off. Now Sophie’s nestled peacefully over my shoulder, her little breath sounds snuffling into my ear. Franklin and Gabe, holding hands, are watching as I use my non-Sophie hand to hold the Channel 3 microphone, its chunky logo red, white and blue against the gray slush. I know we probably won’t use my interview with Declan Ross, or even the video J.T. shot of the victims’ car—Franklin’s already informed the assignment desk it’s too minor to make air.
And I’m yearning to leave, meet up with Josh, share our celebratory dinner. Take a step closer to becoming Penny’s mom. But we’re here, and my years of experience dictate it’s easier to erase an interview than regret not doing it. Better to be safe than scooped. Your job could depend on it.
“So just to be clear,” I say, bringing the microphone back in my direction, “this car is rented because yours is in the shop?” I flip the mic back to Ross.
“Yes, ours was recalled. Just a day ago. For bad brakes,” Ross says. His eyes are clear again, and he’s the picture of a middle-class dad with kids. And a bandage. “We got a, well, somewhat frightening letter from the manufacturer, indicating we should bring it in to have the brakes looked at. So, of course, we did. My wife dropped it off yesterday, got this rental. Gabe and Sophie, we’re certainly not going to risk—”
He breaks off, looking at his son. I can see his eyes welling. His yuppie-casual clothes are still ominously smeared with browning red. No question this family had a narrow escape. “Gabie, you okay?”
“You’re on TV, Daddy,” Gabe says. “And Franklin says I get to see a tow truck. And a police.”
“So what happened?” I continue, getting him back on track. My calculation, we’ve got only a few minutes of daylight left. And according to the EMTs, the state police should arrive any second.
“A car—switched lanes. Cutting me off. Nothing I could do. I saw him barreling toward the tollbooth. Boston drivers…” He pauses, and I can see his hands clench into fists.
Sirens approach. The cops.
“Did you get any identification? Of the car?” I ask. Just making sure. “License plate? Make? Color?”
“No,” Ross begins, “I—”
“It was a blue car.”
Gabe, still holding Franklin’s hand, is standing on one foot, then the other. “Like my Matchbox car, Daddy,” he says. “I saw it.”
Two state troopers are out of their cruiser, doors slamming, almost before the gray and black Crown Vic comes to a halt. Hulks in stiff steel-blue uniforms, opaque sunglasses, massive leather belts armored with weapons, high-polish boots, they stride toward us, shoulder radios squawking static.
Gabe takes a step back, mouth open, then runs to his father, his little arms circling one blue-jeaned leg in a death grip, his face buried in his father’s thigh.
“Everyone all right here?” One trooper’s embossed metal nametag says Scott Maguire.
Maguire, I say to myself, remembering it. Again, better to be safe.
“We’re fine, Officer. We just need a tow truck.” Ross says, smoothing Gabe’s hair. He smiles at me, then points. “And I need my daughter back.”
“It’s for your own good, I promise you.” I’m on the floor, on all fours, pleading. “No, not you, Franko. I’m talking to Botox.”
I’m finally back at my apartment. As I predicted, the producers spiked the hit-and-run story, so we dutifully stashed the accident video in our archives and split. Two hours of overtime pay for J.T., two hours of unrecoverable Josh-time for me. But on the way home, in one of those everything-happens-for-a-reason kind of moments, the whole crash thing gave me a potentially brilliant idea. Now, with the phone clamped between my shoulder and my cheek, I’m trying to explain my brainstorm to Franklin and coax Botox into the cat carrier at the same time. She made herself heavy when I picked her up, then twisted out of my arms and is now glaring at me from under my dining room table. She’s bitter. Slashing her calico tail. Daring me to make a move to grab her.
“Hang on, Franklin, I never should have hauled out the cat carrier. She despises it.” I pause, clamber to my feet and peer at her, glaring back. “I’m going to leave you, you know. And you’ll hate that even more. No, not you, Franko. The stupid cat.”
Franklin is already home, probably already cuddling with his adorable Stephen. But me? I’ll never get to Josh’s house. And though Josh is used to my excuses for being late, “the cat was hiding,” though true, is not the most compelling.
And I still have to tell Franklin my idea.
“So here’s the scoop,” I say. “And maybe we can pull it off in time for the February ratings book.”
Before I can begin, Franklin interrupts to tell me what I already know. We’re working a solid lead on phony organic food.
“And Charlotte,” he says. His leftover Mississippi drawl always makes my name sound charmingly like Shaw-lit. He’s the only one, besides my mother, who never calls me Charlie. “February is looming, less than a month away. You want to switch gears now? What if it falls through?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I reply. He’s such a Boy Scout when it comes to rules and schedules. “But this could be big. Listen. Spend one hour thinking about it. I vote—let’s risk one day on it. Maybe two. Hear me out. Just briefly.”
“It’s your funeral,” Franklin says.
I stick my tongue out at the still-unreachable Botox, head down the hall to my bedroom and begin throwing clothes into a suitcase. “You know Declan Ross’s car? It was recalled, right? And he got it fixed. But how many people just ignore those recall notices? Don’t bother to take their cars to be repaired? And how many of those cars are still on the road? They’re like—time bombs, you know?”
I scout my closet, listening while Franklin, reluctantly at first, agrees I might be on to something.
“And you know, I see what you mean, Charlotte. All we need is a few victims,” he says. “People who bought used cars with open recalls. And what if they got hurt?”
“Uh-huh,” I say. Part of my mind is in the closet. Black suit for work tomorrow. Sweatpants for tonight. Sweatpants? On the other hand—I dig into my dresser and find a gauzy black nightgown, still wrapped in hot-pink tissue paper. If not tonight, when? Into the suitcase. Now for my perfect jeans. I scrounge into the closet, dragging clear plastic hangers across the metal rod, one after the other. The jeans are not there. I scrape through the hangers again. Nothing.
Are my jeans at Josh’s? Half my stuff has already migrated to his house in Brookline. Half my stuff is still here in my condo on Beacon Hill. I just don’t know which is where. I have two toothbrushes. Two complete sets of contact-lens solutions. Two hair dryers. Leading a double life is increasingly complicated. And expensive.
Franklin continues, having snapped up my story bait so completely he’s now content with my scattered uhhuhs. “If we search through the files at the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration and demand records and documentation…”
“Uh-huh.”
He’s hot on the trail. But I’m suddenly distracted by my third finger, left hand. For better or for worse, my life is about to change.
I plop onto the bed, listening to Franklin with half an ear, awash with uncertainty. We may finally have a good story for the February ratings: how many dangerous recalled cars are still on the road? But for the first time since I can’t remember when
, I’ve realized our sweeps story is not my top priority.
What if that’s a life-wrecking mistake?
Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. It already happened to me once. And once to Josh. What if I’m panicking now, freaking out at age forty-seven? What if I’m tossing away twenty years of television? Sometimes when you try for everything, you wind up with nothing. But if you don’t try, you could also end up with nothing.
In the news business. And in real life.
“Okay, Franko, glad you think it’ll work,” I say. “We can hit Kevin with the idea first thing tomorrow. And maybe wind up doing some good. Give my love to your adorable Stephen.”
I click off the phone. With a snap of the locks, I pack my fears away, slam my suitcase closed and head down the hall to give Botox another chance. This will work. I can make it work. A job. And a husband. Watch this, statistics guys. I’m going to have it all.
Chapter Two
“C link me again, Daddo. Clink me again, Charlie Mac.” Penny’s crystal glass is full of ginger ale, ours of champagne. My giggling stepdaughter-to-be is more interested in toasting than taking a sip.
Not me. I’m on my second fizzy glass of Veuve Clicquot and I’m delighted there’s more where that came from. It’s not every day you have to inform an unpredictably prickly preteen you’re going to be her stepmother, move into her house and sleep with her father.
We didn’t actually go into that much detail. And we still haven’t set the date. But Penny—nine going on sixteen—knows the score. She came back from Walt Disney World with cropped hair, pierced ears and a vocabulary that includes incomprehensible abbreviations and unknown (to me at least) pop music stars.
Happily, she says she’s “cool” about our plans. She tried on my ring, performed a spot-on walking-down-the-aisle imitation, then ran off to call her new after-school babysitter and instant role model, Annie Vilardi. Annie’s a Bexter senior, and suddenly her word is inviolable. Now Pen’s back clinking faux champagne. Annie-fied, she’s part little girl, part prom queen.
“So, pumpkin, you think you’d like to be in a wedding? The flower girl? You think you and Charlie Mac might be able to shop for a dress?” Josh scrabbles Penny’s spiky new do and smiles at me over his glass.
He and his daughter have on matching Bexter Academy sweatshirts, Penny’s inside out, and plaid flannel pants. His salt-and-pepper hair, more pepper, is rumpled as usual. Tortoiseshell glasses. Even after more than a year together, I still think “Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch” every time I see him. And now, his verging-on-smoldering expression makes me pleased I packed the slinky nightgown.
“I knew you were getting married,” Penny says, swatting her father’s hand away. “That’s no biggie of a secret. Charlie Mac had a toothbrush at our house. Annie says when there’s a toothbrush, that’s serious. My mother had a toothbrush at Elliot’s house before they got married. I saw it. Annie says—”
“Was it your mother who agreed to the pierced ears?” Josh interrupts. Teasing. “I thought you two agreed to wait until you were sixteen.”
Penny puts down her glass and crosses her spindly arms in front of her, still brown and freckled from the Florida sun. She rolls her eyes, impatient, then settles her face into a parent-weary look. “Daddo, you know about Bexter. When Mom told me about that, that’s when she told me I could get pierced ears. Annie says pierced ears are cool. Charlie Mac, you know about it, right?”
Yes. I do. And that’s my own Reality World. Penny’s doctor-mom, Victoria, and her doctor-husband Elliott snagged some high-security medical center research grant in Los Angeles. Just for “a while,” she told her ex-husband, it was no kids allowed. As a result, Josh is getting a full-time daughter. For “a while” at least, Penny lives with her dad and goes to Bexter. Entering midterm, and, courtesy of her professor-father, tuition free.
“Of course, honey,” I reply. “And Bexter is—”
But Penny’s not listening.
“I’m not gonna die from one little taste,” she says, hoisting the green champagne bottle, dripping with melted ice, out of the silver bucket. “Annie says she had champagne when her brother graduated Bexter. The real stuff. And so did all the kids at the party. She says everyone’s parents let them do it.”
“If Annie says you should jump off a bridge, would you also do that?” Josh guides the bottle back into the bucket. “How about…”
Taking a sip from my own glass, I watch their playful battle, and mull over our looming future. Sooner or later, we’ll set a date. Sooner or later, I’ll sell my condo. We’ll decide whose coffeemaker we keep, whose set of silverware, whose toaster oven. Divide the closets and the medicine cabinets. Learn to schedule shower times. I’ll be a full-time reporter, full-time professor’s wife and full-time stepmother.
A yowl arises from near the living room couch. A wail, laden with despair. Botox refused to exit her once-loathed cat carrier when I opened the latticed door, and has now plastered her body to the back wall of the plastic box. Apparently this is an announcement that she’s going to stay inside it. Forever. Botox hates transition.
“What’s wrong with Botox?” Penny asks. Her face twists with concern. Champagne wars forgotten, she runs to the carrier, crouching in front of it, peering inside.
I link my fingers through Josh’s, leaning into his shoulder, and raise a headache-risking third glass of Veuve. My ring reflects the candlelight, and in the tiny glittering flash I’m hit with my new reality.
“Your new family,” I say. I hear my own voice turn husky. It’s not from the champagne. “You like it?”
“I do,” Josh replies. He looks down at me, then squares my shoulders and stares into my eyes.
“Sweetheart?” He looks perplexed. “Are you crying?”
The nightgown was a major success. But I still can’t sleep. Brookline’s old-fashioned streetlights weave crisscross patterns on Josh’s bedroom ceiling, stripes of shadow across the stark white. They’re now as familiar as my own ceiling design, Beacon Hill’s gas-lit yellow cast across the pale blue I painted myself. It’s been home for a long time. Now I sleep here as much as there. And I’m feeling just as comfortable. Almost. After so many years on my own, what will it be like to share everything?
I wrap Josh’s burgundy-striped down comforter closer and struggle to quiet my thoughts. I can make out the silver-framed photos and diplomas on the walls, key rings and loose change on Josh’s imposing walnut dresser. I like his dresser better than mine. Will I get half the drawers? His books and old skiing trophies already crowd the built-in shelves. Will there be room for my books? Go to sleep, I silently chant. Go to sleep. Tomorrow, actually today, is a workday. And Franklin and I have to get started on the car-recall investigation. Lots to do. Too much to do. I close my eyes.
“Sweets?” Josh whispers. “You asleep?”
“Not one bit,” I say. “I’m trying, but not terribly successfully. My brain won’t turn off. Nor will the rest of me, thanks to you.”
I move to face him, eyes open again, smiling with possibility, glad for a good excuse to be awake. I’ll just be tired tomorrow—today. It’s happened before. And it’s not every night your engagement goes public. I expect Josh to reach out for me, but his expression is—concerned? And why are his glasses back on? My Josh-radar pings into the red.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you keep a secret?” he says. He’s still on his back, hands clasped over his chest, head turned to watch me.
I sit up, yanking the comforter over me, and twist around to look down on him, assessing. I hate secrets. The reporter half of my brain is pitching out disaster scenarios faster than I can bat them away.
Can I keep a secret? What kind of a question is that?
“Um, keeping a secret, that’s the reporter’s credo, right?” I smile, trying for adorable-cheerful. Maybe I’ve misread his mood. I squint at the digital alarm clock. It’s hard to be perceptive at 3:34 a.m. “Confidential sources stay
confidential? And hey, I didn’t call Maysie to tell her about the engagement, how about that? If I can keep our news from my own best friend?”
Josh isn’t laughing. He scoots up, back to headboard, grabbing his half of the comforter. “It’s Bexter,” he says. He leans over, gives me a quick kiss. “I’m sorry, sweets, to be distracted. Tonight, especially. But you know Dorothy Wirt? The Head’s assistant?”
I nod. Josh tells me she’s such a snoop, he secretly calls her Miss Marple. Gray hair, cardigans with brooch. A mental pack rat. Organized as a dictionary.
“Well, the Head and I found her at her desk a few days ago. Crying.” He blinks, remembering.
“She was in tears. Inconsolable. It took a lot of convincing, but she finally told us she’s been getting some pretty disturbing phone calls. She didn’t want to tell, she insisted, didn’t want to ‘alarm’ the Head. I mean, I think it’s more alarming that she tried to keep it to herself.”
Josh holds up a hand. Stopping his own story.
“She may have a point,” he says, sighing. “It could be the first of this year’s Bexter senior pranks. But Dorothy told us someone called Bexter and, using an obviously disguised voice, asked, ‘Do you know where your children are?’ That must be a student. It’s so ridiculous. Clichéd. Right from some made-for-TV movie. Maybe it’s nothing.”
“I don’t know, Josh,” I say, mulling it over. My sleep-deprived brain is beginning to churn. It’s clearly not nothing. “All those Bexter students with rich and famous parents. Doesn’t Headmaster Forrestal want to call in the police? Even the FBI? Isn’t there caller ID? A pattern to the calls? To the timing? What about the parents?”
Now I’m wide-awake. Penny. Bexter. “And hey—I’m a parent. Or will be, soon. And you are, too.”
“Nope. Nothing.” His hands smooth the comforter in front of him. Again. And again.
I’m confused. “Nothing what?”
“No pattern. No caller ID. Sometimes there’s no one on the line at all, Dorothy says. The number is blocked so it doesn’t come up on caller ID. And no to the cops, too. The Head is insisting. He says, since there are no specifics, there’s nothing to investigate. ‘It’s not like it’s a bomb threat.’ In that voice of his.” He raises his eyebrows, miming an aloof demeanor.
Drive Time Page 2
