by Dete Meserve
Chapter Seven
Eric moved in water like most of us wished we moved on land. Smooth, graceful, seemingly effortless. His strong arms sliced through the water with rhythmic precision, in perfect synchrony with his legs and torso, so it appeared as if he only had to stroke the water a few times to get across the pool. It looked completely natural for him, as though swimming had been bred in his genes.
I stood at the shallow end of the Olympic-size pool, my stomach shaking as if someone had dropped a jackhammer inside. I might have looked good in the stylish sapphire swimsuit I’d bought on a whim but never worn, but none of that would matter when Eric saw me flailing around in the water.
I hoped he wasn’t going to do the whole macho-guy thing and try to convince me how “easy” it was going to be to learn to swim. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be coddled like I was a fragile china doll that might break at the sight of the deep end.
As I watched him glide through the water toward me—oblivious for the moment that I was even there yet—I considered leaving. I ticked off a list of excuses I could make. “I’m coming down with the flu” might work. “I’ve got an important assignment at work” was certainly true. But before I had a chance to put one of them to use, Eric had reached my end of the pool.
“You made it,” he said, catching his breath.
In one smooth move, he hoisted himself out of the pool and stood next to me.
Wow. I’m glad I didn’t say it out loud, but I know it registered on my face. Know how some guys look terrific when wearing certain clothes? Eric looked fantastic wearing only a pair of black swim trunks. Given his line of work, I knew he was in great shape, but I had not expected the muscled arms and the washboard abs. I struggled to keep my breathing steady.
He wiped the water from his eyes. “Hey,” he said, seemingly unaware of the effect he was having on me. “Ready to get in?” Honestly, I wasn’t sure how I was going to focus on learning how to swim when he looked like that. “Sure,” I said, affecting a breezy tone.
“Meet you at the five-foot marker.”
He jumped back in the water, leaving me standing there. At first I wasn’t sure why he wasn’t waiting for me to get into the water, and then I realized he probably figured I’d be less nervous if I could control how and when I got in.
I stepped down the ladder into the water, momentarily shocked by its coolness. On the third rung, I stopped. This was my first time in any large body of water since the accident. The water was only at the level of my belly button, but panic rose in my throat. My legs felt wobbly and weak and my fingertips tingled. I closed my eyes to regain my focus, but all I could see was the endless ocean swelling above me.
Water is water. It may be part of the ocean and filled with salt, or it may be filtered and shocked with chlorine in a swimming pool. Even so, all water is the same, and I knew it was still waiting for a chance to grab me again, to finish what it started. Was I crazy for giving it a second chance?
I couldn’t stand there indefinitely, even though I wanted to, so in one jerky motion, I lowered myself into the water. Even in the shallow end, I was covered up to my shoulders. I curled my toes, gripping the bottom of the pool, and slowly moved about, adjusting to the water’s resistance.
Eric swam over to me. “I know you don’t like being in the water,” he said. “But you do look good in it.”
“Not as good as you.” There, I said it. Casual, of course. Like I was just being friendly. But the thoughts that were going through my head and the feelings that were stirring inside me as I stood just a few feet away, alone in the pool with him, were anything but casual.
“Let’s stay here a minute and bounce.”
“Bounce. Really?”
He nodded. “I want you to see that the water wants to hold you up—that’s its nature. No matter what, the water has no problem lifting you.”
“Or drowning me,” I grumbled.
“Not going to happen on my watch. If I can pull a boy out of thirty-mile-an-hour white water in the pouring rain, I think I can pull you out of an empty swimming pool.”
He had a point.
At first I felt ridiculous bobbing in and out of the water like a kid on a pogo stick. But then Eric started bouncing too and splashing a little water at me with a silly grin on his face. And when I splashed back, I forgot how stupid I must have looked.
“When you’re ready,” he said, “get in a little deeper.”
I crept a little closer to the deep end and felt the pool slope beneath my feet. The water was higher against my body, so when I bounced it rose to the V of my neck. I felt wobbly, certain my feet would lose their grip on the slope and I’d slide helplessly into the water’s clutches.
Eric reached out and took my hands, and I was no longer aware of the depth but how close our bodies were in the water, how little we both were wearing, how warm his hands felt.
“When you’re in the water, move as it moves. Allow yourself to be shaped by it.”
I couldn’t imagine allowing myself to be shaped by the water—not without it choking the life out of me. But the way he was looking at me, I knew I had to try.
“Let’s try and float on your back.” His hand was on the small of my back as I slowly leaned back into the water. I braced for the inevitable moment when the water would pull me under. I was brazenly provoking it, tempting it to try to claim me again.
But as I floated on the water, instead of fear I felt oddly calm. Eric released his hand from my back and allowed me to float a little on my own. I relaxed into the water, inviting it to cradle me. And it did.
I stayed there for probably only thirty seconds, but it seemed longer. Eric was grinning, deeply now, and looking at me as though I were swimming the English Channel. “In a week you’ll be doing laps,” he predicted.
“Doubt that.”
He swam back deeper into the water and pulled me with him. For an instant I glided through the water, pulled deeper into it by his strong arms. Then his big hands were on my waist, pulling me to him, until our bodies touched, then met. He wrapped one arm around my waist, holding me tightly to him, while he treaded water with the other.
Every cell of my body was tuned to him—the warmth of his skin through my swimsuit, the feel of his body gently swaying with mine in the water, and the possibilities if either of us moved our bodies a fraction of an inch. He pressed his lips to mine in a kiss that sent a ray of warmth through my chilled body.
In that moment the surface of the water looked different. Weaker perhaps. Less able to stake its claim on me again. Less.
By the time I got to work at five minutes before nine, I was exhausted. I wanted to go home, curl up under my down comforter, and sleep the rest of the day away. I yawned my way back to my desk and was surprised to find Josh waiting for me, his feet propped up on it. Josh and the news photographers rarely hung around the reporters’ desks so I knew something was up.
“Your phone not working? I’ve been texting you for the last twenty minutes.”
I grabbed my phone from my purse and realized I hadn’t even glanced at it all morning. Instead of scanning my e-mails and the day’s headlines, like I usually did on my way into the newsroom, I had found myself reliving the morning with Eric. Being in the water with him was far more intimate than I ever imagined. But underneath the strong attraction developing between us, Eric was genuinely determined to help me get comfortable in the water. Maybe it was because the water was where he felt at ease and at home. Or, maybe the water was a place where he tested himself, where he confronted enormous challenges and conquered them. Yet I had the sense there was even more to it than that. Something I didn’t yet understand.
Josh handed me a cup of coffee. Black. “You’re going to need it,” he said. “Read this.” He handed me a manila envelope addressed to me in care of the station. It already had been opened. “Rob in the mailroom opened it by accident and when he saw what it was and you weren’t here, he gave it to me.”
I glance
d up at him, perplexed by his serious mood, and unfolded the letter inside. Typewritten on cream-colored, expensive-looking stationery, it read:
Dear Kate,
I’ve watched fakes come forward claiming to be me, and I’ve seen experts inaccurately speculate about my motives. Now I want to set the record straight about who I am and why I’ve been giving away so much money. I’ll send you instructions on where and when we can meet. Alone.
Good Sam
He grinned. “Awesome, right?”
I wasn’t sure. As much as I was eager to meet Good Sam and interview him, it made me more than a little nervous that he might be just as eager to meet me.
“It gets better. Keeping reading,” Josh urged.
P.S. To prove that this isn’t a hoax and that I’m Good Sam, talk to John Baylor at 88 N. Nottingham. I just put $100,000 on his porch. Go get an exclusive interview.
“We can get there in fifteen minutes. Tops,” Josh said.
I put the letter down. “Susan Andrews is on Good Sam exclusively now.”
“Since when does that stop you from getting a story? Especially an exclusive one?”
Josh was right, of course. In journalism school we had been taught that stealing another reporter’s story was akin to cheating on a test. But this wasn’t stealing Susan Andrews’s work or retelling her scoop. It was just following a lead—one that was directed to me—and beating her to it. But was the lead real? “For all we know, this is a hoax, a wild-goose chase.”
“Right. And the best way to find out is to check out John Baylor. If he got some money, this letter must be from the real Good Sam. And if it is, he’s going to arrange to meet you for an interview, and you—not Susan—will be the one to find out who he is.”
I let out a shaky breath. Had the psychic, Melanie Richards, been right? Would I really be the one to discover Good Sam’s identity?
John Baylor was in complete shock when Josh and I arrived at his house, a cute white cottage in El Segundo a few blocks from the beach and two blocks south of Los Angeles International Airport.
“I didn’t tell anyone we received money,” he said. “I only got it about two hours ago. I’m still reeling from it all. How could y’all possibly know about it?”
I dodged his question and said we’d received an anonymous tip. Oddly, he seemed satisfied with that answer.
“I went out the front door to run some errands and that’s when I saw the canvas bag,” he said, beaming. “I wasn’t sure what it was at first. But then I saw that lopsided number eight on the bag and I knew. I knew Good Sam had answered our request.”
Unlike many of the others who had received money from Good Sam, John Baylor was eager to talk. In fact he was so effusive that I half wondered if he was mega-dosing Prozac or secretly acting as Good Sam’s public relations agent.
He let us record an interview with him in his living room, which had a working wood-burning stove in the corner. You don’t see one of those very often in Southern California, and if you do, they’re usually for decoration. But John and his wife had worked through all the red tape and EPA regulations so that they could eliminate their heat bill.
He placed the canvas bag, still bulging with cash, on the couch next to him during the interview.
“One hundred thousand dollars can change your life,” he said. He was African American, about fifty-five with salt-and-pepper hair and vintage tortoiseshell glasses you usually see on East Coast professors and West Coast hipsters.
“Why do you think Good Sam chose you?” I asked.
“My daughter put up a note on one of the kiosks they have all around the city. You know, the ones where people put up signs, notes, cards, and such to tell Good Sam what they want. My wife has cancer, and Jane thought Good Sam could help.”
“Does she understand that Good Sam only gives money away? That he can’t cure cancer?”
He considered the question for a moment. “She’s six, so I don’t think she understands everything yet. All she knows is that the people Good Sam has helped are always smiling and look happy on TV. In her mind Good Sam is as good as Santa Claus.”
“How do you plan to spend the money?”
“There’s a new treatment available for my wife’s cancer, but it’s still experimental and not covered by insurance,” he said, his voice ragged. “We’re going to use Good Sam’s money to see if we can beat this thing once and for all.”
I served up a softball question next. “If you could say one thing to Good Sam, what would it be?” I asked.
He paused for a moment, and I leaned forward, waiting for an answer. I didn’t invent the softball question, so I can’t take credit for its popularity in TV news. A good softball question can get you another thirty seconds or so of airtime and pushes the story closer to the coveted top of the newscast. And it also can be good for your career. Look at the experts, Katie Couric and Matt Lauer.
John Baylor pressed his hands together. “I’d say…‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart…for helping me and my family, Good Sam.’ And I’d say, ‘If you ever decide to run for public office, I’ll vote for you. Because, Good Sam, you understand people.’”
Good Sam had chosen well.
Chapter Eight
The way my Good Sam story about John Baylor turned out, with sound bites straight out of a reporter’s dream notebook, I expected at least a nod of appreciation from David. I knew better than to expect anything more than a grumbled “Good work” or even “Not bad.” What I didn’t expect was for him to summon me to a meeting in Bonnie Ungar’s office.
In the two months since she joined the station, Bonnie hadn’t met with any of the nonexecutives, except during last month’s Christmas party, when she had come around to every employee, placed a perfectly manicured hand on each shoulder, and expressed her appreciation for “all the great work.” So I knew this meeting meant I was in deep trouble. I actually felt a dip in the temperature as I stepped into her mahogany-paneled office.
“Come on in, Kate,” she said, her voice as sweet as maple syrup. Bonnie was well into her fifties with no-nonsense shoulder-length brown hair and a slight gap between her front teeth. She was dressed in a black tweed jacket and pencil skirt, complete with Ferragamo pumps in lipstick red.
David and Susan sat in stiff wing chairs facing Bonnie’s desk. Susan stared straight ahead, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. David managed a smile, but it quickly faded the instant I sat in the chair next to him.
“I’ll make this brief,” Bonnie said, her tone turning tight and formal. “We appreciate all your good work on the Good Sam story, Kate. And your interview with John Baylor was a real coup for this news department.” She closed a notebook on her desk. “But we’ve made a decision to position Susan as the lead reporter for this story. David has discussed this with you already. True?”
“Yes.”
She leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands together. “Then why have you continued to pursue this story?”
Because that’s what a good reporter does, I wanted to say but didn’t. “Because Good Sam sent me a letter.”
“Good Sam sent you a letter,” Susan said, rolling her eyes just enough for me to see the disdain but not enough to look unprofessional.
“Why would he single you out?” Bonnie asked.
I shrugged. “I supposed it’s because I broke the story and my reports have been all over our newscasts for days…up until now.”
I looked to David for support. “That’s true, Kate,” he said, his olive skin unusually pale. “Regardless, I made it clear two days ago that we were assigning the Good Sam beat to Susan. Didn’t I?”
I nodded.
Bonnie stared at me for a moment then picked up a pencil and twirled it between her fingers. “Okay, then,” she said coolly. “Let’s be absolutely clear about what has to happen next. Susan is exclusively on the Good Sam assignment. If you get any further correspondence from Good Sam or any leads related to the story, bring them to Susan and she
will follow through on them.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she answered, as though I’d just asked her why the earth rotates on its axis. “Because Susan is an established brand with our viewers. They’ve come to expect her to handle the big stories. And we want to further that expectation and improve our ratings.”
“Haven’t I improved the station’s ratings with my reports on—”
“There’ll be no further discussion about this,” Bonnie interrupted. “We appreciate all your good work and want to see you continue that work covering the police-blotter stories, but your assignments are not your decision.” She dropped the pencil on her desk. “Do we have an understanding?”
I felt Susan’s eyes upon me and sensed she was already gloating over her victory. I tried hard not to show any emotion, not even a hint of the anger that raced through my veins.
I glanced at David again, to see if he might rally to support me, but he was reading something on his phone.
“Yes, of course.” I said it as though it was a relief to be free of the Good Sam story. I almost believed it myself.
My friend Sarah has a voodoo doll. Whenever someone at work does something that aggravates her, she pushes a pin into the doll’s body to instigate a headache, back pain, or a bout of nausea in that person. She works at one of the movie studios in town, so—what can I say?—she uses that voodoo doll a lot.
I wanted a voodoo doll after I left Bonnie’s office. Childish, I know, but I had never encountered such an impenetrable brick wall before. I once had a news director who threw things and shouted obscenities when he was angry about a story, but I actually would have preferred that behavior to Bonnie’s stone-faced cold-heartedness.
As I made my way back to the newsroom, Alex rushed up to me and handed me an envelope. “This just came,” he whispered. “Do you think it’s from Good Sam?”
The envelope was addressed to me in a showy word processor font usually found in wedding invitations. Typed in red ink beneath my name, the message read:
