Room for Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  Women, when it comes to your views on news and sports, do you feel discounted by the men in your life? When it’s game time, does your boyfriend or your husband sit in front of the TV and ignore you? Is your opinion dwarfed by those of the men in your house? Tune in this Sunday night for The Soap Box and a little girl talk. Join me, Carol Childs, from eleven to midnight, as we sound off on sports, news, the men in our lives, and offer the female perspective on what’s happening in the world.

  I typed out six variations of the same promo along with a detailed program synopsis for The Soap Box and felt like I had found a safe middle ground. The Soap Box sounded like it fit the station’s news and sports talk format. It targeted women, which should please Tyler’s need to attract more female listeners at that hour, and it was one I could live with. I wasn’t about to promote a show that focused solely on women complaining about the men in their lives. I didn’t care how much Chase had convinced Tyler it would be a good idea. I knew better. A show with a bunch of women whining about the men in their lives would be here today and gone tomorrow, and so would I. And since management hadn’t been pleased with my first attempt to host a late-night show, I had to find a way to make this new opportunity work. I figured my best option was to take the high road and find some common ground that made sense for the format. I crossed my fingers and hit send.

  CHAPTER 14

  Every other Friday night, when Charlie goes to his dad’s and Sheri’s son Clint visits his uncle, we have dinner together. It’s become a tradition, two single moms and a night out without the kids. Tonight she had made reservations at Shutters in Santa Monica. I opened the Jeep’s window for the drive over and let the cool sea breeze blow my hair while I ignored the buzzing of my cell. I knew from the different ringtones one of the callers was Chase and the other Charlie’s dad. I didn’t want to talk to either of them. Not until I had a glass of wine, dinner, and had vented my frustrations with Sheri about work and the men in my life.

  I knew Chase wanted an update on the show, and for the time being, I wanted as much distance between the two of us as possible. As for Charlie’s dad, he had promised Charlie a car for his birthday, and I was totally opposed to the idea. It was a discussion I had been avoiding, and I wasn’t prepared to have it now. But judging by the number of missed calls registered on my phone, it was probably going to be sooner than I liked.

  I met Sheri on the hotel’s terrace, an elegant outdoor dining area with small candlelit tables and space heaters that zapped the chill in the air. At this hour, the inky black ocean waters blended seamlessly into the night sky, making the sound of the crashing waves on the shore all the more powerful. As I approached the table, Sheri put the menu down and glanced up at me.

  “You look awful.”

  “That good, huh?” I pushed the hair away from my face and took a seat. Ordinarily, the cool night air and the sound of the waves would have relieved my stress, but not tonight.

  “I’m surprised,” I said. “After Riley’s suicide this week, Tyler nearly pulling me off the Sunday Night Show, and Silva’s accident, or more correctly his wife’s accident—which I’m not supposed to talk about—awful would be a big step up.”

  Sheri bit her bottom lip as I explained how the station’s GM had told Tyler she wanted me off the Sunday night show. But that Tyler, after talking with Chase, believed Chase had come up with an idea that saved my job.

  “Go Chase.” Sheri gave a small fist pump, her hand no higher than her shoulder.

  “I wish you didn’t like him so much.”

  “He’s perfect, Carol. Not for me, but for you, and why not? You could use a little dalliance in your life. I’m surprised you don’t see it.”

  I put my hands up. “Don’t. Much as both you and Misty think he’s so great, I’m not sure he’s on the level. Before Riley died, he said Chase was a drunk. That he’d had run-ins with him and he couldn’t be trusted. Not that I’m so willing to take the word of a dead man, but right now I’m on the fence.” I crossed my arms and sat forward, hugging myself, my voice barely above a whisper. “You know he came by the other night?”

  “Misty mentioned it. She said she left the two of you to talk.”

  “He wanted to talk about the case. Thing is, I don’t know what to believe. I checked his background out online, and he’s got a medical discharge from the Army. And despite Chase’s saying differently, I’m not so certain he’s any saner than this Mustang Sally who’s been calling the station. Nor am I convinced Riley was right about Bruno’s death being a suicide. Cops hold things back during an investigation. Could be he knew something and was doing just that. In fact, right now I’ve got more questions than I’ve got answers.”

  “Well, my vote’s with Misty on this one, Carol. I like him. And I think you’re being too quick to judge.”

  “Yes, well, that is my prerogative. But I can tell you this, Chase is definitely not happening. The man’s not my type. I’m not into beards, and if anything he’s too scrappy for me.” I shook my head and grabbed the menu. I was starving.

  “You’ll excuse me if I say ‘methinks the lady doth protest too much.’” Sheri put her elbows on the table, clasped her hands together, and shaking her head smartly from side to side, smiled widely at me.

  “Very funny.” I looked up over the top of the menu, my eyes challenging hers. “I’m not into one-nighters.”

  “Who said anything about a one-nighter? Go out with him. Have a good time. He’s a nice guy, Carol, and right now you’re wound about as tight as I’ve ever seen you. Think of it as therapy.”

  “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Okay. How about we talk about Silva? I heard the report. What’s up with that?”

  “I’m not supposed to say. Station’s orders.”

  Sheri glanced at the waiter. “That’s too bad. There’s a bottle of red on the way, and I’d love to share it.”

  The waiter arrived with the bottle of wine, opened it and poured a small amount of the rich red Bordeaux into Sheri’s glass. Then, like a good sommelier, he stood back with the bottle in hand and waited while she sampled it.

  Swirling the wine in the bottom of the glass, Sheri took a whiff then tasted it. She gently smacked her lips together, declaring it a truth serum.

  “I’d offer you a glass, but it’ll cost you.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Pour me a glass. You know I was going to tell you anyway, but you’re sworn to secrecy.”

  “Like this should be any different than any other time?”

  Sheri was right. I didn’t have many secrets I hadn’t shared with her. I trusted her implicitly. We were as close as sisters, maybe even closer. And, if I’d asked, I knew she would swear an oath on her son’s life without thinking twice.

  I began by repeating the news story about Ben’s wife’s accident. The same story I had used in my news update that morning, then stopped and put my elbows on the table and clasped my hands together.

  “But you don’t believe it’s true. Do you?” Sheri asked.

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t. The car that hit the girl was his car, a yellow Corvette, not his wife’s. I think he was racing into work, probably running late as usual, when he hit the girl and panicked. Then he went home and told his wife what had happened. Took his wife’s car to work and told her to take his car back to the scene of the accident and call it in.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I can’t even talk about it. Right now the police are investigating, but Tyler’s put out a gag order on the staff. Threatening to fire anyone who talks about it.”

  “And I know that doesn’t rest well with you.”

  “Not at all. And I’m convinced Silva’s wife is too afraid to say anything.”

  “You could ask Chase to check it out.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “After all, he is an investigator. It’d be easy enough fo
r him to keep you out of it. You know he’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  I glanced back at my menu. Sheri did have a point. I mulled the idea over, weighing how I might mention it to Chase when Sheri kicked me under the table. I eyeballed her over the top of my menu, uncertain what the urgent signal might be. Perhaps some Hollywood star or political big shot. The restaurant was famous for star sightings. Sheri’s eyes met mine, then swept to the table next to us. Look.

  Seated less than three feet away was an attractive couple in the middle of a very uncomfortable situation. The woman, about thirty-five, was dressed conservatively, her long dark hair about her shoulders. The expression on her face was as though her world were about to fall apart. Tears were forming in her eyes, and one rolled delicately down her cheek. Opposite her was a man about the same age, his dark hair mussed as though he had been running his hands through it. Whatever the altercation, he appeared to be trying to comfort her and had leaned across the table to put his hand on her forearm. She pulled away and harbored her left hand in her right against her chest, as though trying to keep something from him.

  My eyes snapped back to Sheri. She pointed silently to her ring finger and mouthed, He wants the ring back.

  Suddenly the woman shrieked at the man. “I can’t believe you would do this. How could you? Here of all places. I thought you wanted to take me out for a nice dinner and talk about the wedding. You jerk!”

  Sheri and I stared at each other. Too close to the impending disaster to ignore it and with nowhere else to turn, we both stared down at our menus.

  “I knew I never should have trusted you. You lied. You never intended to go through with it!”

  The man mumbled something, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he reached once again for her hand. She shrieked like injured animal.

  Finally, the man stood up.

  “I can’t deal with you. I can’t deal with any of this.”

  Throwing his napkin down, he brushed past our table, leaving his dinner jacket on the chair behind him and nearly knocking over our wine glasses. An awkward silence followed. I bit my lip while Sheri’s eyes went from me to the empty seat across from the woman. I think we both hoped the man would come back. But when he didn’t, and the waiter came instead to fetch his jacket, we both knew we couldn’t ignore the situation.

  Sheri’s eyes met mine. What do we do?

  I shrugged and glanced over at the woman. She sat crumpled in her seat, her elbows on the table, hands folded with her head bowed against them, staring straight ahead. I reached over and gently put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Miss, are you okay? Is there something we can do for you? Maybe someone we could call?”

  The woman sniffed and shook her head. I dug for a tissue in my bag and handed it to her.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. Her voice cracked. “He’s left me. I’ve given up everything for him, and he just walked out.”

  “Would you like to join us?” Sheri signaled the waiter to set another place at our table.

  It wasn’t the evening we’d had planned, but at that moment we felt an unspoken sisterhood. We ordered ravioli for the three of us. Sheri said it was comfort food and poured her a large glass of red wine while we listened to her story. Her name was Jennifer, and she’d given up her job when her fiancé had asked her to move to Southern California in hopes of creating a life together. Once here, he appeared to have cooled to the idea of a wedding, insisting she get her own apartment while he finished preparing his place for the two of them. The first of many excuses, she said, and now he had dumped her. Left her without so much as taxi fare home.

  When we’d finished dinner, Sheri scribbled her number on a napkin and tucked it inside Jennifer’s purse. If she needed to talk, Sheri said, all she had to do was call, night or day. She’d be there for her. Then with Jennifer between us, we escorted her back out through the lobby, helped her to dry her tears, and waited until a taxi arrived to take her home.

  “You still think there’s not an audience for women to vent about how some men have treated them?” Sheri asked.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  CHAPTER 15

  I wasn’t sure if it was the music coming through my bedroom window at six forty-five on a Saturday morning or the sound of metal chairs scraping across the cement patio outside—like fingernails on a chalkboard—but either way, I was awake.

  With Charlie at his dad’s for the weekend, I figured it had to be Misty. I grabbed my robe, my eyes feeling like they were filled with sand and only partially open, and followed the sounds of “California Dreamin’” downstairs to the kitchen. The French doors leading to the terrace were ajar.

  Misty stood in the middle of the patio. She was dressed in a long gingham skirt that had seen better days and a red gardening apron with matching red gloves. I hollered to her, but with her back to me, she appeared to be in a state of confusion, looking around as though she heard my voice but didn’t know from where it was coming.

  “Misty?” I hollered again. I stepped over to the patio table where she had placed an old boombox and turned the sound down. “What are you doing?”

  Misty turned around and, with a look of surprise on her face, raised her gloved hands to her chest and patted her heart, like the slow beating of a butterfly’s wings.

  “Oh, there you are. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  I repeated the question.

  Misty pointed to a bag of potting soil and several small cartons of plants. “Exactly as I told you I planned to do. Planting a garden. Did you forget?”

  I sighed, grabbed one of the small nursery cartons off the table, and took a whiff. “Herbs, I hope.”

  Misty turned her back to me and adjusted her work gloves. “I was thinking of an herb garden, and then when Chase called yesterday, I had another idea. Maybe an arbor. Something decorative, where we might grow—”

  “Chase called? Here?”

  “He wants to talk to you, Carol. I got the feeling it wasn’t just the case you’re working on.” Misty looked over her shoulder at me and winked.

  “Misty, Chase and I aren’t working on a case.”

  “Whatever. He said it was important. But if you ask me, it was only an excuse.” She turned her head back toward the planters. “So I asked if he’d do us a favor.”

  “A favor?” I put the small nursery carton back on the table. “Just what kind of favor, Misty?”

  “Like I said, I was thinking about a…a…what do you call it…a—”

  “An arbor?” I reminded her.

  “Yes. If we’re going to be growing grapes, we’ll need one.”

  “Grapes?” I quickly inventoried the table. I didn’t see any evidence of grapevines. “Where are you planning on planting grapes, Misty?”

  “Over there.” She pointed to a corner area of the patio. “The light’s good, and I think it’d be an ideal place to put one of those small romantic patio tables with a couple of chairs.” She winked knowingly, then turned her back to me and picked up one of the small herb containers.

  “And I suppose Chase agreed and volunteered to come by and help?”

  “He did. Said he’d be more than happy to. In fact, I suspect a man like that is quite good with his hands.” She raised a brow knowingly.

  I let the innuendo slide.

  “And did he happen to mention exactly when he planned to come by?”

  “This afternoon sometime. I forget exactly, but you might want to get yourself gussied up a bit.”

  Trying to keep my cool, I said, “Misty, when Chase was here the other day, do you remember me saying I wasn’t wild about the idea of his coming by the house? That I like to keep my work and my personal life separate?”

  “Did you say that? I must have forgotten. I’ve had so much to do. Charlie and I have been busy going back and forth to the nursery picking up plants
and pots. You know how it is. And when he wasn’t here to drive me after school yesterday, I went by myself and—”

  “Excuse me, Misty.” I stepped forward and took the plant from her hand. “Did you say Charlie’s been driving your van? Strange how neither of you mentioned it to me.”

  “Didn’t I?” Misty pursed her lips. “Well, I must have forgotten. You know how forgetful I can be. But yesterday, I couldn’t wait, so I drove myself.”

  I glanced down at the street where Misty had parked her van. My condo was built on top of the parking garage, and from the patio, I had a good view of the street below. Painted with peace symbols and psychedelic flowers, it was like a traveling billboard for the sixties. That and the fact she’d taken up two spaces with one bald tire resting on the curb was a ticket waiting to happen.

  “You know, Misty, the cops won’t like you parked like that, even if you do live here. They’ll give you a ticket. And with your poor memory and cataracts, we really should talk about your not driving.”

  Misty exhaled sharply. “Well, just what do you expect me to do? Fly?”

  “Uber, perhaps?” I placed my hand gently on her shoulder.

  “Humph.” Misty turned back to her seedlings.

  “We should think about it, Misty.” Misty’s state of confusion and memory were becoming a concern. Recently I had found dishtowels in the trash and the newspaper in the laundry basket. I pulled my robe tight around me and turned to go back inside. “Were there any other calls?”

  “Your bag was ringing when I got up. It’s on the table.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And Charlie called last night on the house phone. I assume it’s okay for me to answer it?” Misty’s voice sounded brittle.

  “You don’t need to ask, Misty. You can use the house phone anytime you like.”