Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “Don’t they realize that they’re placing the burden of responsibility on Danny? And because he can’t cut it, his feelings of failure and alienation are only reinforced. It’s a vicious cycle from which he can’t escape.”

  “In fairness, Cat,” Sherry said, “he’s provoking as hell. He bites indiscriminately. He throws tantrums. He destroys everything he lays his hands on.”

  Cat shook back her hair and raised her hands in surrender. “I know, I know. I read the report. But the bad behavior is symptomatic. It’s an attempt to get attention. I remember some of the stunts I pulled just to prove how undesirable and unadoptable I was. That was after several good prospects that ultimately resulted in rejections.

  “I know where he’s coming from. He’ll be impossible to live with until somebody sits him down and says, ‘Throw tantrums, Danny. I’m going to love you anyway. Nothing you do is going to keep me from loving you. Nothing! And I’m never going to beat you or leave you or give you away. You’re mine. I’m yours.’

  “Then that someone should hug him until the message penetrates all the crap that’s collected around his little heart and mind to make him socially and emotionally dysfunctional.”

  Jeff Doyle applauded. “That was a stirring speech, Cat. We ought to use it in a promo.”

  She smiled at the young man on her staff. In the short time they’d worked together, he’d become an able assistant. No job was too large for him, yet he didn’t mind being asked to do menial tasks. He was so instrumental to the success of Cat’s Kids that she’d recently invited him to sit in on her meetings with Sherry. He had taken an interest not only in the broadcast quality of each segment but in the welfare of the children featured in those segments.

  “Thanks, Jeff,” she said. “But I wasn’t composing promotional copy. I meant every word.” Turning back to Sherry, she asked, “Do you feel comfortable pleading Danny’s case with the judge again?”

  “Comfortable, yes. Confident, no,” Sherry replied. “But I’ll do it anyway.” She reached for the file and wedged it into her overstuffed briefcase. “I’ll let you know when they schedule the hearing.”

  Cat nodded. “If I’m unavailable, leave word with either Jeff or Melia.”

  “Leave word with me,” Jeff countered. “Otherwise Cat might not get the message.”

  Sherry divided a curious glance between Cat and him, but Cat ignored it. Jeff had spoken out of turn. She would chastise him later, in private. Their inner-office disputes were not open for discussion with outsiders.

  The social worker gathered her things. “I guess that’s everything for now. I’ll be in touch.” At the door to Cat’s office she stopped to add, “By the way, that was a brilliant piece that aired last night.”

  “Thanks. I’ll share your compliment with the crew. The video photographer got some beautiful shots of Sally.”

  The five-year-old was afflicted with a speech impediment resulting from repeated physical abuse. The disability, as well as her retarded social skills, could be reversed by loving care and attention.

  “Of course, her eyes said it all. All we really had to do was get close-ups of them. They told her story and made a script almost superfluous. She has so much potential, such a capacity for love,” Cat said sadly. “I hope the phone lines in your office melt this morning with incoming calls.”

  “So do I,” Sherry said. “Once again, are you sure you don’t mind filling in for me this morning?”

  “I volunteered.”

  After making an appointment with a couple who had applied to adopt, Sherry had discovered a conflict in her schedule. Cat had prevailed upon her to let her take the interview.

  “Thanks again. I’ll call you this afternoon to see how it went.”

  After Sherry’s goodbye, Jeff refilled their coffee cups. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  “See if Melia has come in, please. And in the future, Jeff, keep your opinions of her or anyone else here at WWSA to yourself. Okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I know I was out of place to say what I did in front of Ms. Parks, but it just slipped out. It’s true, though. Any messages left with Melia have a good chance of getting lost before reaching your desk.”

  “That’s my problem, not yours.”

  “But—”

  “My problem. And I’ll handle it. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  He went out and returned moments later with Melia King. The two formed a contrast that went beyond gender. Jeff was fair-haired and blue-eyed. His clothing was inspired by Ivy League prep schools.

  Melia had heavy-lidded, Latin eyes that she skillfully accented with kohl eyeliner. Her lips were full and sensual. She was partial to vibrant colors that set off her olive complexion and dark hair.

  “Good morning, Melia.”

  “Hi.”

  This morning she was wearing a tight-fitting knit dress the color of poppies. She sat down and crossed her long, shapely legs. Her smile was smug, arrogant, affected, and as irritating to Cat as a torn cuticle. The chip on her shoulder had become a source of malcontent within the office. Unfortunately, bad chemistry wasn’t grounds for dismissal, otherwise Cat would have fired her months ago.

  Besides, she didn’t feel she could make that decision independently. Bill Webster had handpicked her staff before her arrival at WWSA. The “candidates” had been introduced to her for approval.

  Jeff Doyle had applied for a job to produce news, but he had jumped at the chance to work on Cat’s Kids, which he knew would provide a more creative challenge.

  Melia King had been recruited from the newsroom staff. She, too, had expressed a desire for more variety, more challenge, and more money. Cat’s Kids had provided her an opportunity.

  Cat had felt it would be churlish to reject Bill’s recommendations, although she’d sensed Melia’s antipathy to her the moment they shook hands. Since she had no other explanation for the young woman’s hostility, she had figured that Melia was nervous about meeting her new boss and would soon warm up. However, after six months of working together, their relationship was still chilly.

  Melia was never late. She hadn’t been grossly derelict in her duties. Whenever a minor mistake was committed, she was ready with a viable excuse. Her apologies were lukewarm and lacked sincerity, but they qualified as apologies.

  In other words, Cat thought sourly, she covers her ass.

  “What appointments do I have scheduled for today?” she asked.

  With a negligent flick of her hand, Melia opened her spiral steno pad. “You’re interviewing Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Walters for Ms. Parks.”

  “Right. What time?” Cat asked, glancing at her desk clock.

  “Eleven. She left their file on my desk.”

  “I’ll get it from you on my way out.”

  “They live on a rural route out toward Kerrville. Do you know where that is?”

  “No.”

  Melia rolled her eyes as though Cat’s ignorance of Texas geography was the height of stupidity. “I’ll have to give you directions.”

  “That would be helpful,” Cat said tightly. “Anything else?”

  “You have an edit session at three this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be back long before then.”

  “And Mr. Webster wants to see you sometime today. At your convenience, he said.”

  “Call upstairs and see if he’s in. I’d like to see him before leaving for my appointment.”

  Without acknowledging the request, Melia stood and moved toward the door. She had the gliding gait of a jungle cat. It was obvious that Jeff wasn’t impressed by it. His lips were thin with disapproval as she went out.

  Cat pretended not to notice. She wouldn’t play one of her staff members against another. Nor did she want to show partiality. Getting down to business, she asked, “Have we confirmed where we’ll shoot the segment on Tony?”

  She always called the featured children by their first names, remembering how she’d hated being referred
to as “the child” or “the girl,” as though being a ward of the state had made her a nonperson.

  “How about Brackenridge Park?” Jeff suggested. “You could take Tony on the miniature train ride. That would be good visually.”

  “More important, I think Tony would enjoy it. What six-year-old boy doesn’t like trains?”

  Melia stuck her head through the door. “Mr. Webster’s in his office. He said for you to come on up.” She popped out of sight again.

  Cat stepped around her desk. “While I’m away, go to the park and check everything out,” she told Jeff. “Tell whoever is in charge that we’d like to do the shoot on Wednesday morning. Make sure the train will be running then, et cetera. Also, call Sherry’s office so they’ll know when to have Tony there. Double-check the time of the shoot with the newsroom assignments editor so a video crew will be available.”

  Jeff was taking rapid notes. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Lighten up. Life’s too short to be taken so seriously.”

  He raised his head from his frantic scribbling and looked at her with puzzlement.

  “Trust me, I know.”

  Cat’s office was connected to the bustling newsroom via a short corridor. Bill Webster had offered her a larger and better-appointed office on the executive floor of the building, but she’d declined it. Cat’s Kids was under the auspices of the news department, as was all locally originated programming. Integrating her staff with video photographers, editors, directors, and the studio crew was important to her.

  She had told Webster, “I depend on them to make me look and sound good on camera. I can’t afford to alienate them by setting myself apart.”

  There had been some built-in resentment toward her from newsroom personnel. Cat Delaney hadn’t worked her way up through the ranks as they had. She was an actress, not a journalist.

  Cat admitted to having no journalistic skills, and she knew she’d been foisted on the news department. The news team had no doubt expected her to condescend to them since she’d come from Hollywood, to be a Miss Know-it-all from Tinsel Town.

  Instead, she was constantly asking their advice. Although she’d spent years in front of studio cameras, the news format was foreign to her. By asking questions, flubbing her lines, requiring retakes, and cracking self-deprecating jokes, she was gaining acceptance.

  The CEO’s secretary greeted her warmly. “Mr. Webster is expecting you, Ms. Delaney. Go right in.”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased with the way things are going,” Bill said once Cat was seated.

  “So you’ve said on numerous occasions.” She smiled at him across the surface of his black lacquered desk, which was so glossy it could have been used as a makeup mirror. “If you lavish me with any more praise, I’m liable to blush.”

  “They’re not empty compliments,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve got the increase in market shares to back them up. Cat’s Kids is an overwhelming success.”

  Her smile reversed itself; her eyes turned stormy. “Not according to Mr. Truitt.” A reporter for The San Antonio Light, Ron Truitt had been panning Cat’s Kids since its debut.

  “He was particularly scathing in his latest article,” Cat said. “Let’s see, how’d he put it? ‘These segments are sappy and sentimental and have no more place in a newscast than a soft-shoe dance routine.’ That hack can really turn a clever phrase, can’t he?”

  Webster took the reporter’s criticism in stride. “Unfortunately, San Antonio is known in TV circles as a ‘bloody market.’ Like any other city, we have our share of violence. Among the TV news departments, the credo has been: the more gore the better.

  “WWSA’s policy on explicitness is no exception, I’m afraid. We’ve had to follow the trend in order to remain competitive. I don’t like it. That’s just the way it is,” he said, spreading his hands in a submissive gesture.

  “When compared to our lead news stories, which almost always relate to a violent crime, your segments are like a breath of fresh air. They remind viewers that there is still some good in the world. So forget Mr. Truitt’s criticism. Consider it free publicity.”

  She didn’t share Webster’s lack of concern for the articles. A bad rap was a bad rap. It wouldn’t have been nearly as upsetting if Truitt had criticized her performance; she would have sloughed that off. But he was attacking her “baby,” and, like a mama bear, she was savagely protective.

  “If they want to see violence and bloodshed, we ought to show the situations most of these kids come from,” she said bitterly.

  “All the more reason for you to blow off any criticism. Thumb your nose at Mr. Truitt.”

  “I tried, but the coward never returns my calls.” She shrugged. “It’s just as well, I suppose. I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his slanted articles disturb me.”

  Webster offered her something to drink, but she declined, explaining her appointment with the couple who had applied to be adoptive parents.

  “Interviewing the applicants isn’t your responsibility.”

  “Not ordinarily. But Sherry made an appointment she can’t keep. Rather than disappoint them, I offered to stand in for her. Besides, they sound like good prospects.

  “The fact is, Bill, I would welcome meeting personally with all the applicants. It would give me an opportunity to describe exactly what they’re letting themselves in for, which I could do from a unique perspective.”

  “That of a former foster child.”

  “Right. They’re required to take the Positive Parenting course, but even after ten weeks of training they’re not prepared for every eventuality that arises when dealing with a special child. It would also give them an opportunity to see that I and the program are strictly legit.”

  “You’ve assumed enough responsibility as it is.”

  “I thrive on work.”

  “And you’re a control freak. You want to oversee everything.”

  “Guilty,” she said with a smile.

  “Just go easy on yourself.”

  She bristled. One thing she didn’t tolerate was deferential treatment because of her transplant. “Don’t mollycoddle me, Bill.”

  “Cat,” he said reproachfully. “I caution the salesmen and midmanagement personnel—all type A’s like you—not to work to the detriment of their health. None of them has had a heart transplant. It’s good advice for anyone.”

  “I’ll concede that.”

  “Is everything working out well with your staff?” When she hesitated, Webster’s eyebrows arched inquiringly. “Problems?”

  “Anytime more than one person works on a project, there’s bound to be some friction,” she answered diplomatically.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Friction can often lead to beneficial brainstorming. I think your staff was well chosen.”

  She decided to approach her problems with Melia by going through the back door. “Jeff’s a workaholic. He’s superefficient. But he can be high-strung.”

  “Is he gay?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not at all,” he replied, unruffled by her sharp tone. “Just curious. That’s the gossip. Either way, I think his personality is much more suited to Cat’s Kids than to the hard news format. Do you get along with Melia?”

  “She has her mood swings,” Cat said, hedging.

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Of course. It’s just that sometimes her moods and mine are on a collision course.”

  She wanted to avoid suggesting that all the blame belonged to Melia. Perhaps it didn’t. Their dislike had been mutual, although Cat had done her best to give Melia the benefit of the doubt. She’d cut her more slack than she thought was deserved.

  Webster didn’t pick up her hint of disharmony. “As you said, Cat, when more than one person is involved, there are bound to be some differences of opinion.”

  Bill had bent over backward to make her transition to WWSA easy and enjoyable. She didn’t want to appear to be a whiner. So, for the ti
me being, she shelved her grievances. “I’m sure that in time we’ll smooth out all the wrinkles.”

  “I’m sure you will, too. Anything else on your mind?”

  She consulted her watch and found that she still had a few minutes. “I’d like you to start thinking about the possibility of a fund-raiser.”

  “Fund-raiser?”

  “For the kids, those still in foster homes and the ones already adopted. Foster parents get two hundred dollars a month per child from the state. Medicaid pays for their health care. But that doesn’t cover everything.

  “Wouldn’t it be good PR for the station, as well as enormously beneficial for the kids, if WWSA sponsored a concert, or a celebrity golf tournament, something like that, to raise money for the extras? Extras like orthodontia and eyeglasses and summer camp.”

  “Great idea. Do whatever you like.”

  “Thanks. But I need help. I’m still the new kid on the block and don’t know very many people. Do you think Nancy would consider helping?”

  “Consider it?” He laughed. “It’d be right down her alley. She loves nothing better than rolling up her shirtsleeves and plowing into a project. Fund-raisers are her forte.”

  “Great. I’ll call her.” Cat stood. “If that’s all, I’ve gotta run.”

  He came around his desk to walk her to the door. “You’re doing a terrific job, Cat. We’re so fortunate to have you. You’ve given the station credibility and an aura of class. But have we been equally good for you? Do you have any regrets over leaving California? Are you happy?”

  “Regrets? None, Bill. I love the kids. I’m doing something worthwhile, and it feels good.”

  He waited, but when she said nothing more, he probed. “That answers only half of my question.”

  “Am I happy? Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “What about Dr. Spicer?”

  Cat was chummy with her new co-workers but hadn’t had time to cultivate any close friendships. Furthermore, it was her policy to keep professional matters separate from her personal affairs. Her long, demanding workdays didn’t leave much time for meeting people outside the industry. Consequently, Dean was still her best friend, and that’s the way she answered Bill’s question.