It's News to Her

by Helen R. Myers

  But he’d specifically told Tom to make sure and let her know when he’d called with the terrible news.

  Before she could talk herself out of it again, Hunter brought up his number in her BlackBerry’s directory and triggered it. After three rings, the recorded voice asked her to leave a message.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice sounding husky and foreign to her own ears. She paused, feeling suddenly awkward. “I’m hoping this silence means that you’re trying to lie down a bit. I just wanted you to know…well, I’m here.”

  She disconnected and sat there…and sat there.

  Chapter Eight

  The visitation took place on Wednesday evening. The funeral home was the largest in the city, but the parking lot was congested and things inside was worse. But Hunter tried to see that as an admirable reflection of Henry Yarrow’s influence and his reputation in the city, state and the entire country.

  She arrived with Tom and Fred. Behind them were Cliff and Wade. Others like Kevin were going home to pick up their wives. Tom was not as philosophical about the traffic and swore when rerouted out of the lot by an attendant to an adjacent church parking lot.

  “Thanks, pal. You got something in Detroit, maybe?” As he finally parked, he said to Hunter, “I’m sorry. Fred and I can take turns piggybacking you to the door.”

  “This isn’t just fat, you know,” Fred replied patting his belly. “I got a hernia that needs repairing.”

  Hunter was already taking out a small zip bag with foldable flats and changing out of her high heels. “That’s okay, guys. I’m fully prepared.”

  As they walked to the front of the building, Tom noted, “There goes the mayor.” Sure enough, a handful of uniformed men ushered someone into a limousine directly at the end of the sidewalk. “Henry wanted to burn the mayor’s new limo in the front of the Alamo for what that thing cost the taxpayers. He has nerve showing up. Poor Lenore.”

  “She was undoubtedly her gracious self,” Hunter said. “She would be deeply hurt if all of the movers and shakers didn’t do the right thing and pay their respects. That’s the end game, as you well know. Play the political chessboard, but on the last day, do unto others as you hope they’ll do for you.”

  Fred steadied her a few feet from the door as she changed back into her heels. “If you’d said that on the air the other day, you’d already be guaranteed an Emmy nomination,” he said with a fake smile.

  Knowing full well those had to be submitted by the station themselves, Hunter gave him a warning look. “Don’t either of you dare do that to me. Not for anything regarding this whole nightmare.”

  Fred squeezed her shoulder. “I’m just trying to lighten things up, Legs.”

  Smiling at the nickname he was trying to wean himself from using due to an office-wide memo from Kevin regarding employee-management dialogues and avoiding sexist or other politically incorrect behavior, Hunter said, “I know. I’m okay.”

  By then, the others caught up and they entered the impressive dark brick building designed to look like something between a municipal center and church. They were quickly engulfed in a swarm of people. Despite the high-ceilinged foyer the amount of chattering made Hunter think of being caught in a beehive. She did, however, spot Cord with little difficulty at all, as though her internal radar was programmed for nothing else.

  He was dressed in another gray suit, this one of a medium slate tone, and as always, impeccably tailored. Tonight, his tie was somber black. He appeared to be listening seriously to an elderly man that Hunter didn’t recognize, and the man was gesticulating as though he was lecturing. Cord’s face was pale and his mouth was tense, until glancing around as though seeking an escape, his gaze locked with hers. She couldn’t define what passed between them, but she immediately began reliving the night after the fiasco with Jack when Cord had kissed her. Awareness washed over her, along with a heat that almost had her lifting her hair off her neck, despite the air-conditioning, which had been cranked up due to the July heat and the crowd.

  He didn’t nod or smile. After a small eternity, he looked back at the old man.

  “There’s our grim leader,” Tom said, apparently spotting Cord himself.

  Fred cupped her right elbow. “I caught a glimpse of Lenore through the doorway next to the viewing room. Let’s get this done. These places give me the creeps.”

  It took them a bit to reach their destination since so many people wanted to chat with the family. Neither Hunter nor her companions went into the viewing room despite the closed casket. That had been discussed before leaving the station. They were here for Lenore and Cord. They each had their memories of Henry alive and energetic.

  Hunter let Tom and Fred go first and, after they said a few words and kissed her cheek, they moved on. Lenore saw her. She signaled an attendant, and they were suddenly the only two in the room. Hunter hugged her and sat down with her on the blue brocade settee.

  “Thank you for the note and the darling handkerchief,” Lenore began. “Everyone has been so generous and kind, but your gesture touched me more deeply than I can describe.”

  “I wanted you to know you’ve stayed on my mind and in my prayers.”

  Lenore patted her hand. “Thank you. As you probably remember, these things are necessary but, at the same time, part torture chamber.”

  “Everyone is talking about how amazing you look and how well you’re holding up.”

  “Skills I learned over the years in the classroom. There are always a few little darlings who are intent on making sure you teach no one anything—or even want you to end up being committed. You have to remind yourself who you are and keep love in your heart.”

  “You are Henry’s heart,” Hunter said, her eyes filling.

  “I will believe so for the rest of my life,” Lenore replied softly. “Until he can tell me again himself.” Glancing out the door Tom and Fred had left through, she said, “I wish I could feel as confident about how Cord is doing. Did you see him out there?”

  There was no reason to deny it. “I did. He looks—so alone.”

  Hunter didn’t realize she was thinking that until the word slipped off her tongue.

  “He is, despite any support I can offer him and his parents here—at least for the moment. He’s very much alone and lonely. A man can make terrible mistakes if he’s left that way for too long.”

  Hunter did a double take. “Cord? Never. He was taught by the best.”

  “I’m not talking about the professional side of him, darling.” Lenore sent her a sympathetic look. “Cord was taken with you the moment Henry brought you on board and gave him an implicit warning, ‘Hands off—at least until you prove to me that you can be trusted even being in the same building as her.’ You see, Cord was a bit of a mess in his younger years. It was a cry for attention, which really is nothing more than a cry for love, but his parents thought stricter schools were the answer and kept sending him away from here, from the only people he wanted, whom he trusted. Henry was so worried at times, but I teased him that it took one to know one and reminded him that he’d turned out all right.”

  “I’ve heard hints of this, but never much,” Hunter said. “Plus it didn’t seem any of my business.”

  “Amusing since you were the granddaughter Henry always hoped for, but never had. It was his desire that you and Cord would work well together.”

  “Oh, Lenore, we’re getting along fine. We had our bumps, but it was—”

  “I think he meant more than professionally.”

  Hunter didn’t know what to say. What she couldn’t say was that Cord did want more from her—the what just wasn’t what Lenore needed to hear.

  “I’ve taken too much of your time,” Hunter said, leaning over to kiss her cheek and hug her one last time. “There are so many others waiting outside.”

  “I wish you could sneak me out of here. I’m already getting an earache from all of the advice about what I should do with all of my free time now. I wish people could hear themselves t
alk.” Lenore sighed. “Thank you for this moment of sanity. I hope you’ll come visit me. Stop by anytime.”

  When Hunter emerged from the room, she stopped to say a few words to Emily and Joseph. “How long can you stay after the service tomorrow?” she asked them.

  “Joseph goes home Friday,” Emily said with a regretful look at her husband. “I’ve promised Aunt Lenore another week to help her with the notes and things. She may not be ready to deal with Uncle Henry’s clothing for a while. My father had me clean out my mother’s side of the closet the next day, but everyone grieves differently.”

  Not wanting to remember her mother boxing her father’s things, Hunter said, “It’s good that you can stay awhile. Let me know if I can help anywhere.”

  The crowd was still quite large, large enough for her to have lost any sign of Tom or Fred. But she noticed Cord again and although he had moved to speak with a new set of people, his unhappy gaze kept shifting toward her right. Hunter followed his angle of vision and spotted a couple standing against a wall only a few yards from her. She recognized them by a photo she’d seen in Henry’s office. These were Cord’s parents— Catherine and Charles Marcus Rivers.

  While both attractive people and dressed with understated good taste, they acted out of place, as though they were visitors rather than family of the departed. More unfortunate was that they were making no attempt to be a part of what was going on. Hunter grasped that this had to be painful if not embarrassing for Cord to watch. No doubt he’d already tried to engage them, Lenore, too. Knowing how awkward she would feel being in the same predicament, Hunter ventured toward them.

  “Excuse me, Dr. and Mrs. Rivers? I’m Hunter Harding with KSIO News. My condolences on the loss of your father, Mrs. Rivers. I loved him dearly and considered him the greatest mentor anyone could have.”

  While Cord’s father looked pained at being approached and began to look away, his mother actually appeared grateful to have something to do, but she clearly had no idea who Hunter was.

  “Thank you. The news…yes. But I’m afraid that we’re out of the country so much that I’m not good with staff names.”

  “I’m glad that you were able to get a flight back. I believe Cord said you were in Europe? Are you researching another article, Dr. Rivers?” she asked, focusing on him. “I enjoyed what you wrote in last month’s Art Thoughts Magazine. You managed to bring art as a social conscience alive for me.”

  At first looking unsure that he’d heard correctly, Charles slowly straightened his spine before reaching out to shake her hand. Imagining him without his thick glasses, Hunter still saw more of Catherine and Henry in Cord than she did from this poor soul who was so uncomfortable in his own skin.

  “You read that?” he asked. “I thought only gallery owners and artists hoping to be mentioned did.” He gave his wife a satisfied look.

  “Well, both of my parents encouraged a broad knowledge of the arts as much as the fundamentals in education. ‘Math and English are the salt and pepper of life,’ my violinist mother would say. ‘But things like paprika, thyme and cumin intellectualize the palate.’ Unfortunately, work gives me little time to experiment with cooking and while piano lessons proved a waste of my patient instructor’s time and my parents’ money, I am enchanted with much in your world.

  “Doctor, your article made me understand that it’s not just the paintings lucky enough to be in museums that are important to us and offer life-changing insights, but also those destroyed by war or prejudice or lost through theft.”

  “Yes, what do the children have left to teach them of culture through the ages, let alone to inspire them?” Charles reiterated. “Only what some government allows them to see?” He offered a slight but formal bow. “You’ve made a difficult day a treat for me. I thank you, Miss…?”

  “Harding,” Catherine murmured.

  “That’s right. With my teaching days behind me, my memorization skills are fading. That I once learned a hundred new names a semester seems a lifetime ago.”

  “On the other hand, I don’t miss those tedious graduation ceremonies one bit,” Catherine drawled.

  They chatted for a few more minutes and then Hunter explained that she was catching a ride with other people from the station and needed to find them. It was when she started to look for the others that she found herself tracked by a watchful Cord. His expression almost stole her breath. It would be rude not to go to him and pay her respects, and yet, considering that he hadn’t taken her call Monday night nor returned it Tuesday or today, she’d lost her bearings, as well as her confidence.

  Two things happened simultaneously to make her decision for her. A striking woman came up to him and embraced him, and Tom materialized beside her.

  “You set?” he asked. “If we don’t get trapped in traffic again, we can run through our ten o’clock stories before you go on.”

  “Where’s Fred and Cliff?”

  “Already heading to the car.”

  “Sorry for lagging. Let’s go.”

  The guys started programming talk as soon as everyone had their seat belts locked, and Tom was keying the ignition. Hunter, however, found it difficult to stop thinking about Cord’s behavior.

  What had happened? How could he look at her one moment as though she was the only person in the room and in the next moment turn away from her as though she didn’t exist? But she reminded herself that no one was thinking straight right now. For all of his ability and charisma, he was human—and if he had an ounce of that poor, hurt boy left in him, then he was bleeding internally and needed time to get his bearings.

  “Hunter?”

  “Preoccupied. What did I miss?”

  “Fred thinks it would be smarter to let Greg handle your slot tomorrow night. This way they can get some footage of you attending the service and maybe you can say a few words on camera? You’re holding up well under the circumstances, but we know what this is costing you, and you’ve already had plenty enough adjustments these last weeks. Besides, if you hold up too well, you’ll seem like the bionic woman.”

  Remembering her breakdown in Tom’s office, she said, “There’s not a big threat of that happening.”

  “All I’m saying is that emotions aren’t always a bad thing for the viewer to see. I think they’d like to follow tomorrow’s service by viewing it through your eyes.”

  Hunter knew that neither man was being morbid. It was only educated guesses based on rating patterns in the industry that supposedly showed what viewers would keep watching and what they’d flip the remote to, to escape pain or from boredom. Frankly, she thought the idea of watching someone’s pain was only baby steps away from needing therapy, but if they were going to turn this into a whole viewers’ event, then she knew what her role was.

  “No wonder you want me to take off tomorrow evening,” she said with just a modicum of bitterness.

  “Aw, Hunter, we’re not being mercenary.” Tom pleaded. “We’ll be giving viewers a piece of history—like when a president dies or Princess Di or the Pope. People bond through those memories.”

  He was right, of course. “I’ll try my best to give you what you need.”

  “We’ve barely begun, and I can’t wait for this whole circus to be over,” Fred said. “Anyone carrying any antacids? I’ve chewed up all of mine.”

  By morning, Hunter woke grateful for the decision that she should pass her shift to Greg and whoever else they’d choose as a buffer. She probably didn’t get more than an hour of sleep. When she wasn’t making notes as to what and who to look for and mention at the service, her gaze kept wandering to her BlackBerry and then the phone at her nightstand, and her thoughts ping-ponged to Cord. It got to the point that if she wasn’t who she was at KSIO, she would rather have dealt with an airport full-body scan and intimate frisk than attend the service.

  As Hunter dressed, the gray July day was already being touted on TV as rare for this part of Texas. Was the implication Henry’s death would make the heaven weep? “C
lassy and intelligent—not,” she muttered under her breath as she reached for the mascara that it would take an act of Congress to remove. “Frank, if you start having me recite some Ides of March poem, that hernia won’t be the only thing that needs operating on.”

  Dressed in a sleeveless black sheath and carrying a silk black-and-red shawl in case the air-conditioning was cranked too cold in the church, Hunter drove herself to the service. Since Tom and Fred would return to the station and were bringing along a camera team, those were the logistics they’d agreed on.

  As everyone expected, the church—next door to the funeral home—became a who’s who of state and national notables. The VIP list even outdid yesterday’s roster at the visitation.

  Hunter stood outside and recited from her notes what would take place, who the most famous people were who were already here—clips to be inserted later by production—and a recap of the program. Not surprisingly, Tom had managed to get himself a copy.

  Once the cameraman signaled he’d gotten the footage he wanted of her, she, Fred and Tom headed inside. She was aiming toward a bench with adequate room for the three of them when a funeral official with a name tag stopped her and asked her to move forward to the family pew.

  “Oh, I’m not family,” she whispered. “There must be a mistake.”

  “Ma’am, Mrs. Yarrow requests your company.”

  Dear Lenore, what could she be thinking? Hunter wondered. She must be feeling more insecure than she’d let on yesterday, maybe because Cord had to sit up on the altar for the entire service.

  She began to apologize to Tom and Fred, but they hushed her and urged her on. Leave it to them to see this as a staging gift, she thought with more than a little resentment. At the front pew, she passed the Cummingses and touched Emily’s hand, then found herself between Lenore and Catherine.

  “Are you sure?” she whispered to the women. “I feel this is such an imposition.”