Honey on Your Mind

by Maria Murnane

  “Ah, Marge and Evelyn, of course I remember you. How are you? What brings you to New York?”

  “Our silly husbands,” Marge said. “They’re best friends and wanted a boys’ getaway to play poker and smoke cigars, so in return they sent us on a girls’ trip to the Big Apple. We can’t believe we’re really here!”

  “We’ve been everywhere,” Evelyn said. “The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, Central Park. We even saw a show on Broadway last night.” She looked at Marge. “But this has been our favorite activity so far, hasn’t it Margie?”

  Marge nodded. “Oh yes, of course. Seeing Wendy Davenport in person? We’re just tickled pink.”

  “Yes, she’s really something.” I looked over at the huge line of fans clamoring for Wendy’s attention. If you only knew.

  “And of course it’s great to see you too,” Evelyn said. “We still love Honey on Your Mind.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. So how long are you in town? Are you spending Christmas here?”

  “Oh no, we fly out tonight,” Marge said. “Can’t miss Christmas at home.”

  I smiled and grimaced at the same time. If I didn’t make a run for it soon, I wasn’t going to catch my train.

  “What about you?” Evelyn said. “You’re not spending the holidays with your family?”

  “Um, well, actually, I’m trying to catch a four o’clock train to Boston.”

  Marge’s eyes opened wide. “A four o’clock train? And you’re standing here gabbing with us? Sugar, you need to get a move on.” She held up her wrist to show me her watch.

  “Scoot!” Evelyn said, shooing me away.

  “I’m so sorry to run,” I said. “I don’t want to be rude.”

  Marge shook her head. “Young lady, you’re not being rude. It’s Christmas Eve, for gosh sake!”

  I smiled. “Thanks so much for understanding. I hope you’ll keep watching the show?”

  “We never miss it,” Marge said.

  “Now skat.” Evelyn shooed me away again. “We’re going to wait to meet Wendy.”

  I took another look at the pack of eager beavers before Wendy. The line wound all the way around the studio back up into the seats.

  • • •

  Once outside the building, I ran over to Seventh Avenue and tried to hail a downtown taxi, but apparently, everyone in Manhattan had the same idea. The street was a sea of yellow vehicles, all of them occupied. As I watched cab after cab fly by me without stopping, my hopes of catching my train dwindled.

  Frick.

  Finally, I spotted an empty cab and flagged it. I jumped into the back seat with my carry-on bag, not bothering to put it in the trunk. I leaned forward, told the driver where to go, then fell back against the seat, and hoped for the best.

  Traffic crawled along, and when we finally got to Penn Station, I handed the driver some money and jumped out without waiting for change. I ran to the escalator and sprinted down the moving steps, nearly knocking over an old man in the process.

  “Sorry!” I yelled as I flew by, not turning my head. I wondered if I’d just officially become a rude New Yorker. I’d certainly become a rushed New Yorker.

  When I made it to the center of the terminal, I was out of breath and sweating despite the cold weather outside. I looked up at the huge monitor to see which track my train was on. I scanned until I saw it:

  BOSTON, 4:00 P.M.

  STATUS: DEPARTED

  No!

  I scanned the board for other departures to Boston. The next was in an hour, so I could jump on that one. I’d be late, but at least not disastrously so.

  Still catching my breath, I decided to sit down at a bar and have a glass of wine. God knows I could use a drink right now.

  I looked around and spotted a tiny bar to my left. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and made my way there.

  “What can I get you?” the cheery senior behind the taps said as I sat down on one of the three stools.

  “Do you have a wine menu?”

  “We have red, and we have white. We’re in Penn Station, my love.”

  I laughed. I deserved that.

  “OK, I’ll have a glass of red. Thanks.”

  As he set a glass in front of me, I looked out at the terminal floor. Frantic passengers rushed to and fro in every direction, everyone in a hurry to get somewhere else.

  “Where you headed, love?” the old man asked.

  “Boston. I missed my train, so I’m going to hop on the next one.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “The next one? On Christmas Eve? You sure about that?”

  “I thought once you had a ticket you could jump on any train.”

  “If there are seats available you can, but do you know how crowded those trains are this time of year?” He gestured to the chaos outside.

  I pressed my hand against my forehead. “Oh my God, I didn’t even think about that.” Because I am the stupidest person alive.

  “You need to head over to customer service.” He pointed across the room. My eyes followed and landed on an office with an open door…and a line about fifty people long snaking out of it.

  I turned back at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Welcome to New York at the holidays, my love.”

  Did I mention I was the stupidest person alive? I gulped down the rest of my wine and braced myself for a long wait.

  • • •

  I finally made it to the front of the customer service line at 4:50 p.m. I had ten minutes to catch the next train.

  I handed my ticket to the woman behind the counter. “Hi, I missed the four o’clock to Boston and want to see if there’s room on the next train?” Again with the statement as a question, Waverly?

  She looked at the ticket and raised her eyebrows. “Are you serious?”

  I cleared my throat. “Um, yes?”

  She laughed. “Sweetheart, every train in and out of here is booked solid. If you want to get to Boston, your best bet is the bus.”

  “The bus?”

  She nodded. “The bus.”

  “How do I take the bus?”

  She pointed to the exit. “Most of them leave on the corner of Thirty-Fourth and Eighth. They leave on the hour to Boston, DC, and Philly.”

  “So I just stand on the corner and wait?”

  She laughed. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  “Was it my French accent that gave me away?”

  She laughed again. “You got a smart phone?”

  I nodded.

  “Buy a ticket online. They fill up quick, but they have departures late into the night, so you might get lucky and find one with a seat left.” She wrote the names of a few bus companies on a piece of paper. “Good luck, sweetheart. Now I need to attend to the next customer.” She winked, and then gestured to the man behind me to approach the counter.

  “Thanks.” I sighed and walked slowly back to the bar.

  “Any luck?” the bartender asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You want another glass of wine, love?”

  The shake turned into a nod. I’d already missed the five o’clock bus, so why not? I pulled out my phone and looked up the first company on the list, and then did a schedule search for New York to Boston.

  Every time slot was booked.

  I tried the next name.

  Booked.

  I tried the third name.

  Booked.

  Oh crap.

  I tried the fourth name.

  Booked.

  Holy frick.

  There was one more name on the list: the Fung Wah Bus out of Chinatown. I punched in the schedule search and held my breath. I closed my eyes for a moment, and then looked back at my phone.

  Seats available!

  On the ten o’clock bus.

  Arriving at Boston’s South Station at two in the morning.

  Nice.

  I reluctantly bought a ticket, and after finishing my wine and saying good-bye to the sympathetic barten
der, I decided to return to NBC. Instead of hiking all the way back to Brooklyn, I figured I’d bring dinner to the office and hang out for a couple hours until it was time to head down to Chinatown. I called Jake on the way and told him about the delay. He said he’d set his alarm to come pick me up at the bus station.

  As I walked back to NBC, I thought briefly about renting a car but decided otherwise. From the looks of the traffic snarled all around me, just navigating out of Manhattan might take several hours. Ugh. What was Jake’s family going to think of me? Missing my train and showing up in the middle of the night? Way to make a good first impression, Waverly.

  • • •

  When I got back to the office, the building was practically deserted. Except for the security guards and a few random techies from the editing department, everyone had taken off to spend Christmas Eve with friends and family. I rolled my suitcase into the kitchen and set my chicken pad Thai on the table, then opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

  Just then, I heard someone moving down the hall. I quietly closed the fridge and tiptoed toward the door.

  Wendy was walking slowly, alone, toward the big conference room.

  What is Wendy still doing here?

  The last thing I wanted to do was spend Christmas Eve with Wendy Davenport, but the big conference room had a huge flat-screen TV, and that’s where I’d planned to eat my dinner.

  I decided to eat in the kitchen.

  After I was done, I glanced up at the clock on the wall. I still had more than two hours to kill before it was time to head down to Chinatown. I stood up and walked to the sink to refill my bottle from the tap. As I watched the water level rise, I thought about Wendy. Over the past few months, I’d gradually learned how to deal with her, even when I didn’t want to. Maybe I could deal with her now? She’d been off her rocker this afternoon, but maybe she’d be in nice-Wendy mode now? Nice Wendy was actually almost fun. Crazy Wendy was, well, enough said. And I couldn’t help but feel bad for anyone who was spending Christmas Eve alone. My evening hadn’t exactly gone according to plan, but at least I had somewhere to go.

  I left my suitcase in the kitchen and tiptoed down the hall toward the big conference room, looking left and right as I walked.

  Every office was empty.

  I stopped in front of the conference room door and poked my head in. Wendy was sitting alone at the huge table.

  With a bottle of vodka in front of her.

  The lights were on, but the TV wasn’t. She held a full glass in her hand.

  Before I could step away, she looked up and saw me.

  “Hi, Wendy,” I said softly.

  She quickly glanced at the bottle, but it was obvious that I’d already seen it.

  “Hi, Waverly,” she said with a sigh. Her eyes were bleary.

  Is she drunk?

  I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stood where I was.

  “Are you doing OK?” I asked.

  She sighed again. “I’m drunk.”

  I looked at the floor. OK, I guess that answers that question.

  “I’m drunk a lot lately,” she said quietly.

  I looked up at her. What?

  “You are?”

  She nodded and wiped a tear from her face. “Ever since she entered the picture.”

  What?

  “Don’t tell anyone, OK?”

  My mind began to race. Was she talking about Paige? If so, when did she find out?”

  I sat down at the table across from her.

  She refilled her glass. “Do you want some?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks, I’m good.” My mind began to race with questions. Have you been drunk at work before? Is that why you’re so erratic? Is that why you never told me I was going to be on your show today? It had never occurred to me that she might have a drinking problem. I’d just assumed she was a bitch.

  “You sure? No one likes to drink alone.” She laughed, but it clearly wasn’t funny.

  I swallowed but didn’t say anything.

  “It would mean a lot to me if you joined me, Waverly. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

  I thought about it. I’d rather drink a glass of gasoline than straight vodka, but I didn’t want to upset her, so I nodded. “OK, maybe a small one.”

  She reached toward the cabinet behind her and pulled out another glass, then poured me a drink. I thanked her and took a sip, hoping the alcohol wouldn’t burn a hole through my esophagus.

  I felt like I should say something, but I had no idea what. For a moment, we sat there in awkward silence.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I finally asked.

  She shook her head and took a huge gulp of her drink.

  “Things don’t always work out the way you think they will, do they,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  I took a tiny sip of my drink and made a face as it stung my insides.

  “Do you want a mixer with that?” she asked.

  “You have one?”

  “There’s orange juice in the fridge. I’ll get it.”

  She stood up, a bit unsteadily, walked out of the room, and returned a few minutes later with a carton of orange juice. She leaned over and poured some into my glass, splashing some on the table as she did so.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, let me clean that up.” She wiped the table clumsily with her hand. It was a bit sad to watch.

  I stood up. “Let me get a napkin.” I was nearly out the door when I heard her say something.

  “You’re a nice person, Waverly.” It came out as a whisper.

  • • •

  An hour later, I was still nursing that one drink. The last thing I wanted to do was get drunk around Wendy Davenport, even if she was drunk. If loose lips sink ships, I certainly didn’t need any vodka prying mine open.

  “You really missed your train because of me?” she said.

  I nodded.

  Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Waverly. I thought I’d told you I planned to have you on the show today. I really…thought I had.” She stared behind me at the wall, or maybe at nothing. It was hard to tell.

  “It’s OK, we all make mistakes.” God knows I’d made enough of them myself. I wasn’t angry anymore, especially after seeing her this way. Now I just felt sorry for her.

  “So you’re not getting to Boston until two?”

  I nodded. “Looks like it. It’s OK, though. Jake is picking me up at the bus station.”

  She kept staring at the wall behind me. “I’m sorry for being so hard on you, Waverly.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry for making fun of you on the set today. I…I don’t know why I did that. And when I first met you on the Today show, I was really a pill then too. I’m sorry for that as well.”

  Again, I didn’t speak. She wasn’t looking at me, but I got the sense that she wanted to keep talking, so I quietly started tearing up a napkin.

  “I get like that sometimes. I’m just…mean. I don’t intend to be. I really don’t.” She took another sip of her drink and stared at it. “Living a lie, it’s not easy.”

  I looked up from the pile of napkin bits.

  Living a lie?

  I didn’t know what to say, so I kept silent.

  After a few moments, she finally looked up at me. Her eyes were glassy. “Trying to be something you’re not, have you ever done that?”

  I thought back to my days in sports PR, when I’d faked my way through meetings, trying to care, wanting to care, pretending like I cared.

  “Yes, I guess.”

  “Did it make you a little…crazy?” she whispered.

  It hadn’t, but I didn’t think that’s what she needed to hear, so I nodded. “A little.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “I quit.”

  “You quit?”

  “Yeah, I quit. My job. It wasn’t a fit for me anymore, so I quit.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  Is she talking a
bout her marriage?

  “So, um, why are you here this late anyway?” Paige was away visiting her parents in Maryland for Christmas, so shouldn’t Wendy be with Gary and her kids?

  She didn’t appear to hear my question. Or if she did, she ignored it. “It’s like my whole career…the show…it’s all…it’s all based on a lie.” She took another gulp of her drink.

  One thing I did know was that no matter how crazy Wendy could be—and at times, her elevator clearly wasn’t going to the top floor—she was definitely good at her job. Very good.

  I| shook my head. “That’s not true, Wendy. You’re great at what you do. People love your show. They love you.”

  She didn’t appear to hear me. She finished off her drink and set the glass on the table. “My marriage…it’s fake,” she whispered.

  I caught my breath. Oh my God. She does know.

  Suddenly, despite all the horrible things she’d said to me since we’d met, I felt overwhelmed by compassion for her. I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, Wendy.”

  She smiled but pulled her hand back. “Thanks, but you can’t help me with this.”

  I nodded, unsure what to say.

  After a few moments, she spoke again. But she didn’t make eye contact.

  “Damn her,” she whispered.

  I wanted to make her feel better, but I didn’t know how. My mind scrambled for something to say.

  Unfortunately, a Waverly moment was the result.

  “She’s a nice person,” I blurted.

  Wendy looked up at me. “What?”

  I bit my lip. Damn it.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Oh my God.

  She doesn’t know?

  Then why did she just say that? And why did I just say that? What is wrong with me?

  The thoughts bounced around inside my head.

  I swallowed. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

  Oh sweet Jesus, just shut up, Waverly!

  “Waverly, what are you talking about?”

  I stood up and looked around the room, wishing someone else were there. Talk about loose lips. “I should probably go now, I’m sorry.” You suck, Waverly.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, the edge suddenly back in her voice. Mean Wendy was back. “You don’t know anything.” She reached for the bottle. How many drinks had she had?