“Don’t worry,” Cassie replied, standing up, tugging her sweater into place. “I guess we both got a little carried away.”
“Come back here, Cassie. Sit down.”
“That’s not a good idea, Jason,” she said, and to reinforce her resolve she walked across the room to the large bay window overlooking Fifth Avenue. The rain had stopped, leaving a black sheen of water on the street. Her limbs felt heavy, and her lungs ached. She felt as though she had just managed to pull herself free from a forceful undertow. She realized how close she had come to giving in to Jason. No, it was far worse than that. She had been a breath away, a touch away from urging Jason to take her … to make love to her with ridiculous abandon on his own library couch. How foolish she must look to him!
“Okay,” Jason said. “But we’ve got to talk about this.”
“About what?”
“Us, Cassie. The … situation. Your future. That job.”
“I’ve already decided about that,” she lied. “I’m not going to take it.”
“Why not?”
“It would mean moving here. Leaving everything I have in Raleigh. Totally changing my life.”
“Whether you like it or not, your life already has changed.”
“I know that … and I have to get used to that. There’s a lot to think about.”
“Then I want you to think about this, too,” Jason went on. “I want you to stay here. Heather needs you.”
“That’s impossible,” Cassie said, turning to face him. “Especially now … after tonight.” Lord, he looked so tired, so vulnerable, Cassie thought, as she watched him lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees. When he ran his hands through his unruly hair, Cassie saw for the first time that he was starting to go gray. He sat back again, his arms flung wide across the couch cushions. His face looked washed out, his eyes rimmed with fatigue. The lips—just minutes ago so hard, so demanding—looked thin and parched. He’s in pain, Cassie thought, her heart going out to him. He’s in trouble, but he’s not looking for my help. Heather needs you, he had told me. But he doesn’t.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he told her wearily. “I won’t be here enough to bother you. I’m going abroad at the end of the week. I’ve business meetings in France and Japan. Most of my real estate dealings are in Europe and Asia now. I’m away more than half the time … and this year it will be even more than that. Miranda didn’t mind it, in fact I think she welcomed it. And Heather seemed fine about it. But now, well, the choice is to take Heather out of school, make her leave her friends, and travel with me. Or … have you stay.”
“I see,” Cassie said. “As her nursemaid.”
“No, damn it,” Jason shot back, “as her aunt. As someone she trusts … and can grow to love. How can I leave her behind to the Miss Boyesons of this world? It’s impossible. So I’m asking you, Cassie.”
“As a convenience to you.”
“That, of course,” Jason replied, his expression darkening, “if that’s how you choose to view this. It could also be convenient for you, if you decide to take the job Magnus offered.”
“I see,” Cassie replied. No wonder he had seemed so pleased about the newswriter position. It bolstered his chances of her taking this other job as Heather’s guardian. So what was that impressive display of passion all about? A way of sealing her affections? Of ensuring her loyalty to him? Thank God, she thought, their lovemaking had gone no further than it had. “I’ll need to think about it.”
“Of course,” Jason said, rising from the couch with an effort. “I won’t be leaving until Friday. That will give you five days. Enough time to decide?” It was phrased as a question, but he was gone before she could answer. She heard him climbing the stairs.
The fire had gone out. “Yes,” she said to the empty room.
Ten
“And this,” Magnus said proudly, “is the newsroom. It looks relatively sane right now. Chaos starts to descend around three in the afternoon.” Cassie stood beside Magnus in the spacious glassed-in corner office of Frederick Marshall, Magnus Media’s anchorman, overlooking a cluttered, near-empty circular arena below. In contrast to the battle-weary newsroom, the anchor’s suite was luxuriously decorated with Old West accents—a Remington bronze, a series of sepia photographs of Iroquois, a row of cowboy hats neatly arranged on wooden pegs—that to Cassie seemed about as genuine as a Ralph Lauren commercial.
Frederick Marshall, the network’s silver-haired, baritone-voiced anchor, had long ago discovered that his Colorado boyhood could be turned into an effective prop for his public persona. He drawled his words. He called his audience “folks.” He signed off each broadcast with an avuncular “Happy Trails, America.” Off the set, he wore mostly denim and leather, custom-tailored to a broad six-foot frame that grew more rotund with each successful season. Most people in the media considered him a corny writer and an even sloppier reporter. Luckily he was supported by Magnus Media’s vast professional staff. The only thing Marshall had to do was read what ran before his eyes on the teleprompter, and this he did to actorly perfection. But whatever his shortcomings, America loved him. The Nightly News with Frederick Marshall had pulled down impressive Nielsen ratings for the last five years.
And for the last forty minutes the CEO of Magnus Media had been squiring Cassie through the fifteen floors of his domain: the research library, the promotion group, the publicity department, personnel, the company’s private canteen. When Magnus had called the morning after Miranda’s will had been read, inviting her for “a little tour” of his media empire, she had no idea that the emperor himself would be the tour guide. Or that he would turn out to be such a minutely informed and subtly ironic one.
“I hope you weren’t counting on meeting our superstar anchorman,” Magnus told her as they stood together in Frederick Marshall’s darkened showcase of an office. “The old boy usually doesn’t put in an appearance until it’s time for makeup. Not our strongest workhorse, Mr. Marshall.”
“But I guess you don’t meddle with success, right?” Cassie asked, pleased that Magnus had seen fit to confide his real opinions about the anchor.
“Actually I had been planning to do just that. Nobody knew this except Miranda and myself, but I don’t suppose it would hurt to tell you, Cassie. We were going to try your sister as a co-anchor next season with the hope that she would take over the Nightly News in another season or two.”
“But what about Breaking News? That’s your highest-rated show. Wouldn’t you be putting it in jeopardy?”
He turned and looked at her, his usually smooth features wrinkling into a sudden smile. “I like the way you think. You’re cautious. Quite unlike Miranda, I’m afraid. She felt she’d done everything she wanted with Breaking News. And, as usual, she was looking for her next step up. For her that meant anchor. And, well, you know Miranda. She was a force of nature…” His voice softened with emotion.
Looking away, Cassie said, “I hadn’t even considered what a blow her death is to you professionally. What’s going to happen to Breaking News? Have you decided yet?”
“For the time being,” Magnus replied, clearing his throat as he regained his composure, “we’re going to try a rotation of hosts. Give some of our better people a chance to prove themselves. Maybe mix in some new blood from outside. I’ll give it six months or so, then select whoever tests out the best.”
“Well, you seem to have it all worked out.”
“That’s what I do, Cassie,” Magnus replied as he escorted her out of Marshall’s office. “Work things out. Find the right people for the right jobs. Search out fresh talent. We may be working in an electronic medium, but it’s people who make or break a network. Writing talent. Tough reporting. That’s what I’m looking for. Computer graphics are never going to replace the right face and a voice that inspires trust.”
He led her down the spiraling staircase that joined the newsroom to the executive eagle’s nest above. Marshall
’s suite had exuded luxury and prestige, but the large circular newsroom was all practicality and function. Brightly lit with overhead fluorescent tubes, a mismatched collection of standard-issue desks and computer terminals, this was clearly the chaotic nerve center of the news department. The Magnus Media Building might tower above Sixth Avenue, employ thousands, generate news around the world, but this jumbled pie-shaped room on the eighteenth floor had a familiar, comforting appeal to Cassie.
“This looks just like my newsroom back in Raleigh,” Cassie said, stopping at a paper-strewn desk. A photocopied message was taped to the side of a modular wall: “Never forget: without free speech … we’d all be out of a job.”
“Of course,” Magnus said as he guided her through the warren of equipment and furniture. “News gathering, writing, rewriting, reporting—it’s pretty much the same whatever the medium. Television just happens to reach millions more people than newspapers.”
“This sounds like a sales pitch to me.”
“No,” Magnus replied, suddenly somber, “it’s a fact. Electronic news has a tremendous amount of power. It’s colorful. It’s live. It can bring a changing world right into the living room.”
“True. But it also has no depth. It offers up little sound bites of information as thorough coverage. It never looks beyond the obvious.” For a moment she was positive she had gone too far. Though Magnus hadn’t mentioned the writing position yet, it was surely the hidden agenda of his guided tour. This was partly a job interview, Cassie reminded herself, not always the best time to speak one’s mind.
Double swinging doors opened to a bank of elevators. Magnus walked to the far elevator and pressed the UP button. In silence they rode the elevator to his penthouse offices. Even as the doors swished open, Cassie could feel a difference in the quality of the air. It was thinner, cooler, scented with something ferny and masculine. Light flooded the reception area, pouring down from a skylight cut into the diagonal ceiling. Antique Kashan carpets hung on the walls. The matronly, impeccably dressed woman behind the reception desk took in Cassie as she addressed Magnus.
“I was able to juggle the board meeting to four today, but the Newsweek lunch is a noncancel. Sorry. Your speech is all typed, so you can glance at it in the limousine on the way over.”
“Damn. Well, thanks for trying, Charlene. No calls for the next half hour, okay?” But even Cassie knew that an answer wasn’t expected, compliance was. She followed Magnus down the thickly carpeted corridor and into a corner office with magnificent two-story floor-to-ceiling plate-glass walls. Wordlessly Cassie went to a window that offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the West Side and the Hudson River. Here, midtown seemed distant and serene, the grid formation of avenues and streets a well-organized and successful plan. The taxi horns and sirens didn’t carry this high up. The exhaust fumes and grime disappeared like morning mist. Across the river, the flatlands of New Jersey faded into a bank of clouds. A flash of lightning shot vertically through the encroaching wall of storm.
“You can actually see the weather change from up here,” Cassie said, turning around to face Magnus as he clicked the door shut behind them.
“It’s magnificent, isn’t it? The sunsets are the most amazing. You’ll have to come back sometime to see one. Have a seat, Cassie.” He nodded toward the group of Bedermeier chairs arranged around a huge round table of black polished slate. Red-and-yellow tulips, drooping artfully over the sides of a Ming Chinese bowl, sat in the center of the table. With the sense that everything she touched was priceless, Cassie pulled out a chair and sat down, facing in to the room and Magnus, her back to the beautifully distracting views below.
“Miranda loved this room,” Magnus said as he walked over to the south-facing window. “I must sound like a sentimental fool to you,” he added harshly, “always going on about her.”
“No, you don’t. I can hear in your tone how much you cared about her. She wasn’t … an easy person to be with, to care for. I admire anyone who was strong enough to be a real friend to her.”
“She wasn’t easy,” Magnus said. “But then you aren’t either, Cassie. That crack about the shallowness of network news was hardly kind.” Cassie sensed that he was offering her the chance to take back what she had said, or to at least soften it. A month ago she would have fallen all over herself to please him. A few weeks ago she would have thought of something accommodating to say that would take the sting out of her criticism. She would have seen both sides of the issue; now she only saw her own. Miranda’s death had changed her, hardened her in ways that she did not yet understand.
“It’s how I feel,” Cassie told him. “I think your half-hour format sells the news short. And I think for the most part Breaking News overly sensationalizes the facts.”
“Ouch. Did Miranda know you felt that way?”
“Actually, yes. I told her the last time we spoke. The morning she tried to convince me to work here.”
“That’s interesting,” Magnus said, turning from the window. “That very afternoon she told me that you had a lot to offer to the network. That we should hold the job open until you had a chance to reconsider.”
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” Cassie said. “It’s been a confusing couple of days for me. I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about a lot of things. Did you know that Miranda left me everything in her will?”
“No. I had no idea. When did all this happen?”
“The will was read yesterday. It was really pretty odd. She made a big point of leaving me the contents of a safe-deposit box, except nothing but the usual sorts of documents were there.”
“You’ve gone through them carefully?”
“Well … yes. But what would she have left me that would be so important?”
“I’m not sure,” Magnus said thoughtfully, walking to the table. He pulled out a chair facing Cassie and sat down. “But Miranda was working on a pretty sensitive story just before she died. Apparently she was dealing with sources who didn’t want their identities known. All very hush-hush. She refused to tell even me what was going on.”
“Nobody knew what the piece was about?” Cassie asked. “Isn’t that pretty unusual?”
“With anyone but Miranda it would have been unheard of, frankly. But she was special. She convinced me that her sources needed the protection … and I gave in to her wishes. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, she could wind me around her little finger.”
“You don’t think this had anything to do with her…”
“With the accident?” Magnus asked with a sigh. “No. I suppose it would all be somehow easier to deal with, if we could blame somebody for it. Accuse. Convict. But, no, I’m afraid not. The police report states that it was just … one of those terrible freak things: she was going too fast on an icy stretch of road.”
“But you think she left me notes or something about this story, don’t you?”
“Well, maybe,” Magnus admitted. “When you mentioned the safe-deposit box and Miranda’s desire for secrecy, it seemed a distinct possibility.”
“I’ll look through everything again if you like,” Cassie said.
“I want you to do more than that, Cassie.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to take the writing job. No, wait…” Magnus interrupted when he saw that she was about to object. “I want you to take it on your own terms, Cassie. Develop stories that dig deeper, hit harder. In more ways than you can imagine, I agree with you: the news department is far too mired in hype and ratings. We need an infusion of fresh talent, strong ideals. I’m willing to take a chance on your lack of television experience to get just that.”
He had so quickly and cleverly punched all her buttons that for a moment Cassie didn’t know what to say. Then she met his amused, calculating look and laughed. “And what if I fall flat on my face?”
“We pick you up, dust you off, and send you back to North Carolina. But I don’t think that’s going
to happen.”
“I really get to do the kind of stories I think are important? And go in-depth?”
“Yes, within limits. You’ll be reporting to a managing editor, of course, and working with a production crew. It’s far more of a team effort than newspaper writing, I’m afraid. But you’ll see. The important thing is, I’m here. I believe in you. If you don’t think you’re getting the kind of support you need down there, just let me know. I’ll help you get it.”
“And in return?” Cassie asked, sensing there was something left unsaid.
Magnus stared past her shoulder to the oncoming storm that had just breached the Hudson. Rain clouds massed on the horizon; a rumble of thunder echoed up and down the river.
“Just stay in touch, Cassie. Remember that I’m a friend. And, at this particular moment, a sad and lonely man.”
It was the end of their discussion. She rose to go. Through the intercom he instructed Charlene to arrange for Cassie to meet with Personnel. He accompanied her to the door of his office and added, as if in an afterthought, as he told her good-bye: “Let me know if you find anything in those documents, Cassie. Or if you hear anything around the newsroom about that story of Miranda’s, okay? Good luck, now.”
Eleven
Nothing was going Cassie’s way her first day at Magnus Media, and it had started even before she got out of bed.
At six that morning, a few seconds before her alarm rang, she had heard Heather calling: “Good-bye, Daddy … bye!” Then the echo of Jason’s steps on the stairs, an exchange with the chauffeur, and the sound of the front door slamming. He would be gone for over three weeks. Didn’t she at least deserve a quick knock on her door? A whispered “good luck with the new job”? But he had left without a word. And, once again, as she often had over the last four days since she had agreed to stay, she began to doubt the wisdom of her decision.
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