by Amy Harmon
“Change can be hard.” Her mother put the strawberries into a container, snapped on the lid, and placed it in the fridge.
“Change can be good, too.” Dad shrugged. “But, like I always say, If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“Wait a minute. I just had a wonderful idea.” Her mother’s face lit up with excitement.
Oh, no. Not again. Her mother’s wonderful ideas usually involved men and matchmaking.
“I’m going to invite a man over to dinner next Sunday.”
Breezy groaned. “Mom, no dates.” Though she wasn’t opposed to dating, per se, she did object to the men her mother lined her up with.
“But now you’re out of graduate school, you have time to date again. I’m going to invite over two men. And I’ll get your sister over here, too. You can both come early and I’ll give you lessons in how to flirt. I’m tired of waiting around for you late bloomers. Then when I line you up for blind dates, you’ll get a second date.”
“No date! But I could totally ace Eyelash Batting 101.”
“Mock me all you want. Your father loves it when I bat my eyelashes.”
Her father lowered his paper and smiled his gentle smile again. “It’s true. I do.”
Her mother sighed. “Speaking of batting your eyelashes, I hear Andrew’s back in town for a visit.”
Andrew North? “That’s really nice, Mom. Thanks for letting me know the man who dumped me two years ago is back in the vicinity.”
“Forewarned is forearmed.” Her father turned another page. “Like receiving a tornado warning in time to board up the windows..”
The last thing she wanted to deal with was her ex-boyfriend showing back up in town. Everyone had thought for sure they’d get married, but Andrew had bigger plans. He’d left Breezy, not for a racier woman, but for a racier city. Los Angeles, to be exact. If he was in town, she was sure it was only for a brief visit and then he’d be back out looking for the thrills that small-town Aspen Grove, California, could never provide for him.
Dad was right. Forewarned was forearmed. Now she was ready so she wouldn’t make a fool of herself if she ran into him. But she would try very hard to not run into him at all until he went back to big old LA.
Her mother tilted her head in thought. “I know. I’ll invite Andrew over.”
“Don’t you dare, Mom! I mean it! That is so over.”
Her mother sighed. “Sometimes all someone needs is a second chance. And you should do good to everyone.”
Breezy pointed her finger at her mother. “If you do, I will walk right back out the door.”
“Oh, you will not.” Her mother shot her an appraising look. “You will sit down and visit with the man while he’s here.”
Her father said, “Any man who passed up our daughter has mush for brains.”
When Breezy’s cell phone chirped to tell her it was time to leave for work, she pulled it out and turned off the timer. “Thanks for a delicious lunch, Mom. Love you both. This is much better than going to my house for a lunch all by myself.”
She pulled first her mother and then her father into a hug.
“Love you, too, Sweetie.” Her father gave her an extra squeeze, then held her suit jacket while she slipped her arms in.
She fastened the three buttons. “Time to get to the station.” She picked up her purse, glad to get away from threats of old boyfriends being invited to Sunday dinner and excited to get to the weather.
“What is the forecast for this week, anyway?” asked her mother. “I haven’t heard yet.”
Dad shrugged again, said, “With Breezy, it’s always sunny,” and disappeared behind his paper.
Her mother said, “I hope there’s a date in Breezy’s forecast.”
* * *
“The sun is shining outside. How long is this beautiful extra-warm spring weather going to last, Breezy?” Paul Nelson, the 6:00 news anchorman, motioned to her from the far end of the anchor desk. Still suave at nearly sixty, his regular workouts—and tailored suit jacket—kept his love handles in check. He was ten years younger than her father and she’d known him forever. Breezy felt honored to work with such a professional—one who had also kept her supplied with coloring books and crayons when she was younger.
Breezy smiled brightly at the camera. “There’s a storm blowing in this evening, Paul. We should get a good watering for our plants with no worries about flooding.” She reached out and lifted her red ladybug umbrella above her head and danced a few steps. “So break out the umbrellas for any dancing in the rain you plan on doing. I forgot my tap shoes, but that doesn’t matter. And these unseasonable seventies temps will depart by Wednesday, taking us back to our average April sixties. And I’ll now dance right on out of here, tap shoes or not.”
Paul’s co-anchor, Maria Lopez, was seated between Paul and Breezy, right behind the front panel emblazoned with the station’s logo. Maria was a petite brunette whose sun-streaked hair was always perfectly coiffed. Her beige dress was short, her large belt tight, and her heels two inches higher than Breezy’s. But then everyone’s heels were higher than Breezy’s here at the station.
Paul and Maria smiled at her antics. For some reason, people liked her best when she was silly, so her weathercasts had an edge of silliness to them. It was her gig, she supposed.
Maria had a silky voice with just the slightest accent. “We’ll have the full weather forecast right after this commercial break.”
As they went off air, Breezy rolled her shoulders, loosening up. The silliness hid the nervous excitement she always felt when on-air. Only after she left the studio for the evening did she relax again. She was determined not to make a mistake, but occasionally they happened, and then she tried to fake her way right through them and make a silly joke.
She drew in a slow yoga breath to center herself.
Paul interrupted the centering. “Have you heard the news?”
“Everything you’ve reported so far.” Breezy shot him a quick smile.
“No, chica.” Maria shook her head. “The other news.”
Curious, Breezy said, “Apparently not. Tell me.”
Paul frowned and fiddled with his pen. “Rumor is the station’s been sold.”
Mason, the floor manager, repositioned one of the cameras and said, “Ah, man. They never tell me anything. I’ll be the last one to hear, and the first one let go.”
“We may all be let go.” Paul frowned. “And I bet you’ll hear it all through the station by the time this broadcast is over.”
“It’s April Fool’s Day.” Breezy laughed, remembering her mother’s reaction earlier. “It’s probably somebody’s idea of a joke.”
Mason began counting down the seconds aloud.
“Later.” Paul straightened his suit jacket.
Picking up the mirror they kept around for this purpose, Maria fluffed her shiny hair with her fingers and then hid the mirror.
Breezy wove her way through the three large cameras and accompanying cables to stand behind the counter in the alcove known as the Weather Center. Besides her and the two anchors and Mason, the only other person in the studio was Stacy, who managed the teleprompter feed, along with a few other duties. Their earpieces allowed the producer, sitting in the room behind the studio and watching the wall of monitors, to issue commands into their right ears, giving them instructions as he felt necessary.
The teleprompter feeds showed on numerous monitors in strategic places all around the studio, but Breezy rarely used them. She knew the weather inside and out, and the time spent when she first arrived preparing the forecast gave her all the information she needed. She could see the map in her head, the movement of the clouds, the cold fronts—all the lovely elements that made up the weather.
She did, however, make use of the three monitors hanging around the green screen—one on the camera in front, and one to each side of the screen—to keep track of the graphics created by her weather producer, Fiona Hughes. The monitors helped Breezy see where s
he was pointing on the green screen.
At three seconds, Mason counted off with his fingers. The KWAC logo flashed on the monitors to the sound of the station theme, and Mason signaled Paul to begin.
Paul smiled brightly and modulated his deep, resonating voice. “We have a story that could have had a tragic ending were it not for a Good Samaritan passing by. A little Maltese dog got free from its owner’s car and was actually crossing the freeway. A motorist stopped and rescued it and another eyewitness caught it on film. Here’s the footage now.”
As soon as the dog—frantically dodging speeding cars—appeared on the monitor, she heard, “Now watch the blue Honda. The driver pulls over and gets out. Putting his own life at risk, he runs out and pulls the little dog to safety.”
Breezy and Maria ahhed instinctively over the brave act, as the little dog was pulled to safety. She loved stories with happy endings. Even Paul made a soft sound and said, “That’s what I like to see. A real-life hero.”
Mason signaled that they were going on-air again. Back to Paul, who said, “I love a hero. What a wonderful story.”
“Makes my heart feel good.” Maria motioned toward Breezy. “And now, let’s go to Breezy Jones for a weather update.”
Breezy smiled, stood as straight as she could, sucked in her stomach, and did her thing. She told viewers the temperatures to watch for and reminded them to pull out their umbrellas if they were going out that evening. After her allotted two minutes, she smiled and motioned to the desk. “Back to you, Paul and Maria.”
As they continued with the regular news, she slipped from the set. She walked down the hallway, crossing over to the area known as the Cave, where the weather people did their magic.
Even though it was only part of the ground floor, the rest of the News Department was immense. Low-walled cubicles filled the center space, giving seating and TV monitors to anchor people and other employees. Offices filled with people editing film lined one side, down to the large central command center along the back, and producers’ offices back up the right side. The fourth side was made up of the back of the studio.
The Cave fit into an alcove closer to the studio, a low counter forming the wall dividing it from the larger area. There was one opening to enter the rectangular work space. Multiple servers and monitors were spaced along the counters, and Fiona was seated at her computer creating graphics, her long, straight red hair caught up in a ponytail. Breezy envied her the straight part. Her own curled in an unruly fashion, which is why she either tamed it with a straightening iron and pulled it into a ponytail or kept it corralled in an old-fashioned French braid for her broadcasts.
As Breezy entered, Fiona turned and frowned. “People are saying the station has been sold.”
Breezy shook her head. “Just gossip.”
Chad Ivans, one of the advertising sales reps—single, likeable, and possibly the biggest gossip in the building—walked up to the Cave and leaned on the counter. He was somehow always one step ahead of everyone else, often spreading the truth, other times spreading something else entirely. And he sported a mini-fedora, the type that almost-cool people wore to look cool.
“Hi, ladies.” He lowered his voice. “Did you hear about the buyout?”
Breezy nodded as she checked her mirror for any errant curls. Not vanity. Normal TV station fussing. No one wanted to look anything less than their best while on-air, and she’d be in front of the green screen in just a few minutes. “I’m thinking it’s an April Fool’s joke.”
“No way. I was told by a reliable source...” Chad winked and went on, “...that the new general manager will be here in just a few days.”
For the first time, Breezy felt a tinge of worry. Could it be true? If so, why hadn’t anyone heard a hint about it before now? “Surely if the Quinn family had sold the station, they’d have told us. People have worked here for decades.”
Fiona leaned in closer. “What will happen to us?”
If the station had really exchanged hands, the new management would probably keep the employees in place. Maybe. At least for a while. If it had been sold. Pushing aside the worry, Breezy said, “We’re not going to lose our jobs. We do excellent, award-winning work.”
Fiona was glum. “That might not matter.”
“Look at it this way,” Breezy said. “If the station has been sold, it may be a change for the better.”
Fiona looked skeptical and Chad snorted. “Sure, Breezy. We all believe that.”
“And if the station hasn’t been sold, we don’t need to get upset.” Breezy smiled. “Now I’ve got to go. Got to hit the green screen.”
Chad rolled his eyes.
As she walked away, she heard him ask Fiona, “Does she ever think anything could turn out badly?”
Chapter Two
Don’t knock the weather. If it didn’t change once in a while, nine out of ten people couldn’t start a conversation. —Kin Hubbard
Thursday, April 4
Standing in his new office, Noah Drake adjusted his tie. He didn’t know why he still got nervous. He’d given this pep talk before at other stations.
He had two goals for today’s meeting with the employees of KWAC. He wanted to make them feel secure in their jobs and he wanted to give them a good first impression of himself as a boss they could approach with their concerns. Succeeding as the new general manager was his big chance to progress in the parent company, so he was going to do well. He planned to slick up this small town operation, raise the ratings, and move on to bigger and greener pastures.
But at the moment, he had a building full of people worried about what was going to happen now the station had been sold. He needed to calm them by letting them know that no one was going to lose their job and that he saw value in what they all did.
Noah stopped fiddling with his tie and leaned back against the edge of his new desk. “So, what do you think? Am I ready to face the troops?”
Gabe Weston, his Assistant Manager, frowned, studied him, then leaned over and flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the shoulder of Noah’s gray suit. Then he nodded. “Now you’re ready to be seen in public.”
“Oh, and now you’re an expert on fashion?”
Gabe motioned down to his own gray suit, nearly identical to Noah’s. “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”
At six feet two inches, Gabe was the same height as Noah, but sported a light blond soul patch. He was apparently attractive, if the ladies that flocked around him were any indication. And he did have a flair for fashion.
But any fashion sense he may have wasn’t why Noah had brought Gabe along with each promotion. It was Gabe’s ability to loosen him—and others—up. Noah knew he tended to stress obsessively and Gabe helped him keep his perspective. Gabe worked well with groups of people, staying outside of the emotions others could get caught in. “What do you think their response will be?” Noah asked.
“They’ll know soon enough that the last general manager no longer being here is part of the purchase agreement.” Gabe straightened his tie. “And since you’re telling them that their jobs are safe, I think they’ll respond just fine.”
“Think they’ll have heard of my stupid nickname?”
“Hope not, but news travels fast.” Gabe looked at his watch. “Come on, Doctor of Spin. Let’s go.”
Noah stood and couldn’t resist adjusting his tie again.
“It’s a millimeter off to the right,” Gabe teased.
Noah frowned at his friend.
Gabe put up his hands defensively as he grinned. “It’s your face that needs help. Maybe some botox around the eyes. Or just a little tightening around the chin. Or grow a soul patch like mine.”
Noah rolled his eyes. At thirty-four, he didn’t need fixing up. Not yet, even by LA standards. “Maybe I will fire someone today, after all.”
“Oh, I am so worried. You think you can run a station without my help?” Gabe chuckled evilly.
Noah smiled. He may threaten, but they both knew he wouldn’t f
ollow through. He valued loyalty, efficiency, and the ability to stay centered, and those were three of Gabe’s strongest traits.
Noah followed his friend down the stairs and into the cavernous room that housed the News Department, where the employees had been told to gather. Everyone—those people standing around the periphery as well as those seated at the low-walled cubicles in the center of the huge room—stared at Noah and Gabe.
Noah nodded as he made his way up the aisle between the glass-lined offices on the left and the beehive of cubicles, complete with the buzzing of worker bees. As his gaze slid over the faces of his new employees, he saw fear and uncertainty. Except for one young lady, a really cute brunette in the center of the room whose face practically beamed and whose warm brown eyes caught his for a moment. She looked all of sixteen and he wondered what her job was. She had her hair woven around her head in what his ex-girlfriend used to call a French braid. If she was trying to look older, it wasn’t working.
When he started turning his head as he passed, Noah realized he was staring at her, and he pulled his gaze away.
At the front of the room, covering most of the wall, was the large command center. Elevated like a stage, a waist-high, semi-circular partition marked its curving boundaries, with a staircase opening in the middle.
Noah and Gabe took the three steps to the top, greeted and shook the hands of the three people who waited there, and then Noah turned to face the employees, who had shuffled over into a nervous, lightly buzzing clump. One man had stopped shuffling and stood a step behind the main crowd. Short and slender, dressed in jeans and a western-cut shirt, his stance was angry and his arms were crossed, and Noah hoped he wouldn’t be a problem.
Now it was show time.
Noah resisted the urge to touch his tie as he smiled at the worried people before him. “Good morning. I’m Noah Drake and I’m the new general manager. This is my assistant general manager, Gabe Weston. We wanted to call you all together to discuss the implications of the recent purchase of the station. I know you’re curious and concerned about the changes ahead, and I want to assure you, first and foremost, that your jobs are safe. The intent of this purchase was not to come in and destroy all the good things you’ve done during the years, but to build on them. I’m excited for the future and I hope to instill that same excitement into you.”
