Easy on the Eyes

by Jane Porter

  Excruciating.

  Worse, the photograph continued to show up everywhere. I couldn’t go online without seeing it at MSN. Couldn’t turn on the TV without hearing it discussed on The View. Overnight I became a national figure. Because my beloved husband, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Keith Heaton, was dead. Shot by a sniper in Afghanistan.

  “Darling, you still there? You haven’t fallen asleep on me, have you?”

  I put a hand to my eyes. Although dry, they burn. I can see Keith— the gleam in his eye, that cocksure smile of his. He was brave, so brave, and so foolish. I once loved his bravado. His sense of immortality. He was larger than life, and it enchanted me. Nothing would happen to Keith. Nothing could. And because of that I learned to live larger, too, taking risks I never would have taken before. But now those risks appear to be backfiring. Everything I worked so hard for is about to be yanked away. I could lose everything all over again.

  Eyes stinging, chest burning, I take a deep breath and then another. Dammit, I don’t want to feel this way. I hate feeling this way. Too much of my life has been sad. Too much of my life has been spent grieving.

  “Not asleep,” I answer huskily, sitting upright and struggling to inject some life into my voice, even as I remind myself that covers of magazines must be heady stuff for Trevor. He’s young and he’s hungry for fame. “You look like a movie star.”

  Madison, my assistant, pops into my office. “Hey, cougar,” she mouths, dropping yet another magazine on my desk. It’s one I haven’t seen before, Star, and they’ve got the same shot of Trevor and me, and this one’s headlined COUGAR ON THE LOOSE!

  I glance up at Madison and roll my eyes. She reaches up to claw the air like a big cat.

  Shaking my head, I try to push away the magazine, but she opens it up instead to a two-page spread with more photos from our weekend. Trevor and me cuddling on the Seine riverboat. A photo of us lip-locked in the rain. Another shot of us disappearing into our hotel.

  It’s so weird, because I never saw one camera this trip. I didn’t feel anyone’s eyes, didn’t feel much of anything except pleasure that I was out of L.A. and in Europe and just free. Free to be a kid. Free to play.

  But now my weekend in Paris has been turned into a celebrity photo spread with saucy captions.

  “Trevor, something’s come up. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”

  “I’m heading out for the evening, but why don’t you try me before you go to bed.”

  “Okay. Have fun.”

  Off the phone, I hand the magazine back to Madison. “Keep it or I’ll toss it. I’m not interested.”

  “Don’t you want to see what they say?”

  “I saw enough.”

  “There are more photos, too, on their Web site.” She pauses, then growls, raking the air with another imaginary claw. “Cougar.”

  “Madison, you’re fired.” I make a shooing motion. “Now go away.”

  She just laughs and opens the magazine again to read aloud, “Who’s Purring Now?” She pauses to look down at me. “Hollywood hottie Trevor Campbell and veteran entertainment anchor Tiana Tomlinson continue their romance in the City of Love. With displays of affection like this, can the pitter-patter of little cubs be far behind?” She stops reading, looks at me. “Cute.”

  “It’s revolting and you know it.”

  “You have to appreciate how hard they’re trying to run with the cougar theme.”

  “No, I don’t.” I grimace, seriously nauseated by the piece. “Now do go away before I do fire you.”

  “You won’t fire me. I’m your Valium. I keep you sane.”

  “Uh, not right now.”

  Madison leans over my desk, plants the open pages in front of me. “You have to admit he is yummy. Look at him— ”

  “Madison.”

  “Everybody says he’s the next Brad Pitt.” She straightens, snatches back the magazine. “Oh, and what I came to say was that Glenn wants to see you.”

  I’m instantly on guard. I’ve already had one tense meeting with Glenn. I’m not ready for another. “Why?”

  Her thin shoulders shift. “Why do you think?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “He wants to know why every magazine and show is running this story but us.”

  My phone buzzes and I pick up. Madison waves good-bye and I watch her leave, noticing she’s leaner than ever.

  When Madison first started interning at the station two years ago, she was your typical midwestern college grad: smart, honest, earnest, and hardworking. She also looked like a healthy, normal American twenty-one-year-old. After two years in L.A. her hair is blonder, straighter, and she’s lost probably twenty-five pounds. Five, ten pounds ago I complimented her on her transformation, but now she’s just skinny. Not good. L.A. already has too many bobble heads.

  The call is from Andrea, Glenn’s personal assistant. “Yes, Andrea?”

  “Glenn wants to know why you’re not already in his office,” Andrea announces cheerfully. “He said to tell you that no woman makes him wait the way you do.”

  “Tell him it’s good for him.” I take a deep breath, inject warmth into my voice. “And let him know I’m on the way.”

  I grab a bottle of water from the break room and head for Glenn’s office. His door is open, and he motions for me to sit down.

  “I want to run the story and photos, Tia,” Glenn says without further preliminaries. “He’s hot, you’re ours, and everyone else is talking about your trip. Why can’t we?”

  Good old Glenn. Tall, thin, with curly graying hair, he’s smart and tough and a great producer. But it’s not his life he’s wanting to put on the seven o’clock show.

  I cross one leg over the other. “Because it’d be like discussing your daughter’s sex life on TV, Glenn.” I smile sympathetically. “It’s just not right.”

  “Trevor’s not my daughter.”

  “And I know I’m not your daughter, but where are our ethics? Journalists aren’t supposed to make the news, they report the news.” I lean back in my chair, smile pleasantly. Glenn’s an old bat, but we’ve been through a lot in the past six years, not the least being his son’s suicide and his wife’s battle with ovarian cancer. Thank God he still has his girls. The twins are twenty and smart and loving, and they completely dote on Dad. “But I’m feeling generous, Glenn. We can make a deal. You keep Shelby off my show and I’ll agree to gush a bit about sexy import Trevor Campbell.”

  “Can’t make that deal, but I do want to run with some Paris romance on today’s show.”

  Clutching my bottle of water, I close my eyes, hold my breath, and tell myself I’m not a sellout. This is business. This is what I have to do to stay alive.

  And then I think about the show idea I’ve been working on these past few months in my free time. A show profiling extraordinary women, women with courage, strength, passion, and heart. Those women have to matter. Real women must matter.

  Jaw set, I look at Glenn. “Will there ever be a place for real human interest stories in our format again? Or are those days long gone?”

  “I don’t see those stories working with the new format, no.”

  My heart sinks. Not just a proposed co-host, but a new format, too. I can’t believe it’s all changing so quickly. I can’t believe I have so little control. “What is the new format?”

  “Hollywood buzz, high energy, lots of fun.”

  “But we do that already.”

  Glenn looks at me from beneath his bushy brows. “And you don’t like it. If you had your way, we’d be CNN and you’d be Anderson Cooper.”

  He’s right, and I wrinkle my nose. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

  “Not if you were a man on a news program. But we’re not the news, we’re entertainment, and we’ve got to entertain the folks, Tia, and that’s the part you have a hard time doing.”

  But I didn’t always. “I’m still fun,” I say without too much conviction.

  “Maybe i
t’s time you took a break. Did something different for a while— ”

  “No.” I get to my feet, give him a tight smile. “I don’t want to leave and I don’t want a break. This is my home.”

  Home, I find myself repeating during the taping of tonight’s show. Home. A sensitive topic for me.

  I was fourteen when everything changed. Fourteen when I learned that life is precarious and death just a shadow beyond our doorstep. We’d just spent the day at the beach and were driving home. I was mad at the time, I forget why, and wasn’t talking to anyone. But I remember being mad, remember saying over and over beneath my breath that I hated them all, that I couldn’t wait to grow up and move away, that I couldn’t wait for my real life to begin.

  And then in one instant it all changed. In one instant I lost them all— Mom, Dad, Willow, and Acacia. Willow, sixteen and the oldest of us, was at the wheel, but they say the accident wasn’t her fault, that it was the other car that swerved into our lane. I can’t help thinking though that if Dad had been driving he might have had better instincts. He might have braked or swerved the other way instead of plunging off the road and down the cliff.

  I also can’t help thinking that if I hadn’t been so mad, if I hadn’t said I hated them, if I hadn’t wanted another life to begin, they’d all be alive today.

  “Tia, thirty seconds,” Kevin, the floor director, calls out.

  I blink, look up, returning to the set and the teleprompter and the next segment I’m introducing.

  My heart aches, the old grief swamping me, pulling me back down. Grief is my biggest enemy. I’ve spent too many years missing. Missing my family. Missing my husband. Missing me. Hating me. Won’t go there again.

  My head lifts, and I smash the sadness, smash the emptiness, smash all the bad feelings. Good feelings, I tell myself, good thoughts.

  Marta’s Eva, who makes me laugh. Hiking with Christie in the canyon. Shey’s gorgeous Texas drawl.

  Good feelings. Only good feelings.

  But God, it’s hard. It’s hard when I’m so afraid it’s all about to be taken away again and I can’t let it happen, I can’t. I’m done losing in life. I’m done hurting. I’m done feeling numb and dead and empty. America Tonight is all I have. It’s all I am. Don’t they see that? Don’t they get that?

  Kevin holds up a card. Ten seconds.

  Ten seconds and I’m falling apart. Can’t fall apart. I’m Tiana Tomlinson.

  I force a smile despite the gritty sensation in the back of my eyes and the raw panic burning in my throat. Smiling that fierce white smile, I drag the good in and up, from the tip of my toes through my knees to my belly and my chest, turning on for the camera and my audience of millions. Because this is my family now. These are the people who matter and this is the place I now call home.

  Chapter Three

  I’m meeting Celia Ramirez tonight at Grill on the Alley in Beverly Hills at a quarter to six. I’m tempted to cancel, as I’m exhausted and tomorrow’s going to be a nightmare with three events in one day. But I can’t cancel on Celia. We’re friends, but she’s a bit like Shelby. When with her, I’m always aware that I’ve got to watch my back. Too many of my relationships in this town are like that.

  I arrive at Grill five minutes late because of traffic, and Celia’s already at our table against the brick wall, texting furiously. A senior editor for People, Celia works nonstop, but that was what brought us together. We were both fiercely ambitious, and as it turned out, we both were running from our past.

  Raised in Selma, California, daughter to immigrant farm-workers, Celia has worked hard to make sure Hollywood sees her beauty, not her Latina past. She’s self-made, too, excelling in school, becoming the first Hispanic girl to hold all three positions— Student Body president, head cheerleader, and homecoming queen— her senior year of high school. She was offered a full scholarship to UCLA, where she promptly made the dean’s list each quarter, while cheering at UCLA’s football games every weekend.

  I work hard, but I’ve never worked as hard as Celia, and I don’t think Celia would ever stab me in the back. But she might prick me with a fork. The entertainment industry is cutthroat, and a girl has to do what a girl has to do.

  “Hello,” I say, arriving at our table and bending down to kiss Celia’s cheek. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem. I’ve had plenty to do.” Celia finishes her text, presses send, closes her BlackBerry, and looks up at me with a smile.

  Celia is beautiful. Jennifer Lopez meets Catherine Zeta-Jones beautiful. Tall, slim, olive skinned, with long thick, glossy black hair, Celia has learned to work not just the red carpet, but life itself, and I admire her for that. She’s one of those women with a take-no-prisoners attitude, and in that respect, she reminds me of Marta. Marta has never apologized for being beautiful or brilliant, and maybe other women don’t always immediately warm to her, but she has confidence and peace. She knows who she is, she knows what she is, and she’s good with that.

  I’d like to have that kind of self-acceptance, but between the pressure of my industry, where everyone’s always judging and criticizing, and my own inner demons that don’t let me forget what a bratty, self-centered kid I once was, it’s hard to feel good about myself.

  I know that growing up, all kids go through a bratty phase. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was at the height of my hatefulness when my parents and sisters died. It doesn’t change the fact that for years, I secretly believed it was my hatefulness that killed them.

  I’m old enough now to know that’s just survivor’s guilt, but they did die without knowing the real me. They knew the selfish, preoccupied me, the one who wouldn’t talk, the one who didn’t want to spend time with them, the one who expressed contempt every time they opened their mouths and told me what they thought.

  And this is the part that haunts me.

  My parents were good people. Wonderful people. And they will never know how sorry I am for being selfish and treating them as if they weren’t important.

  They will never know that I’ve worked hard to become who I am to make up for who I was then.

  I know I was just fourteen, but still, I was wrong to be rude and to always act so irritated with them. I was wrong to walk away when my mom was talking to me and my dad was trying to explain things. I was wrong to tell them that I didn’t love them and I couldn’t wait to leave home.

  But I can’t even tell them that. Can’t even say sorry.

  “Tiana, you okay?” Celia’s looking at me over her menu and her expression is concerned.

  “What?” I say blankly, my chest tight and heavy. I’d still do anything if I could just make amends. I’d do anything to bring them back. And I’d do anything to have them know I love them and miss them with all my heart.

  Celia gestures at my face. “You’re uh, crying.”

  Frowning, I reach up, feel damp lashes. So I am. I had no idea. I force a smile, the smile that makes the world think I’m just so damn lucky and happy. “It’s the smog,” I say, nonchalantly wiping them dry. “I’ve had that problem all day.”

  The waiter appears at our table to take the order, and once he’s gone, Celia’s thoughts are in a different direction. “I confess I have an ulterior motive for meeting you tonight.” She looks at me, one black eyebrow arching. “I wouldn’t bring it up if I weren’t concerned.”

  “What is it?” I ask, wondering if this is about Trevor and the Paris stories.

  “It’s your girl Shelby. Rumor’s on the street that she’s taking over your anchor chair the first of the New Year.” Celia pauses to wave off the basket of bread the waiter has brought us. No point in having temptation sit on the table and stare you in the face. “Didn’t know if there was any truth behind the talk or not.”

  We both know there’s nearly always a kernel of truth behind gossip. Even if it’s a very small kernel, and in this case, it’s not so very small. “She wants it, that’s for sure.”

  “But it’s not hers?�
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  “Not as long as I have any say.”

  “Do you have any say?”

  I flinch. I’ve known Celia too long to object to the question, but it’s a hard one, and it further undermines my increasingly shaky confidence. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t. I’m still the host. My contract’s not up until March.”

  Celia looks at me for a long moment and then shakes her head. “Shelby’s hungry.”

  “I know.”

  “Be proactive. Don’t wait for the other shoe to drop. It’ll only get worse if you do.”

  Dinner over, I drive home, park in the garage, and enter the house through the side door. I stand in the hallway off my kitchen, clutching my briefcase. It’s so quiet.

  It’s always so quiet.

  For a moment I droop, fatigue rushing over me in waves. I can feel the weight of my computer in my briefcase, the hard adobe tiles beneath my heels, the pinch of my thin, snug bra straps. Standing there, I can feel the quiet night like arms wrapping me, holding me, and it’s suffocating. Suffocating and lonely.

  Keith.

  For the first time in a long time, I miss him. Badly.

  If only he was here. He’d know the right thing to say. He’d give me a hug, and a kiss, and tell me that everything’s going to be fine. He’d remind me that I have to be a fighter, and strong. And then he’d give me another hug, and kiss me and offer to get me a glass of wine.

  I try to smile but can’t.

  I wish he was here. I could use some Keith Heaton advice. Keith was great at giving advice. Sometimes he gave a little too much advice, and sometimes his advice was a little too black and white, but in the end, it’s what attracted me and kept my respect. Keith knew what was right. And even though he was ambitious, he had this incredible inner moral compass. He was a man who couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be had, and that’s a rare find in our society.