For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  “I’d want my birthday presents wrapped in blue paper, with sailboats, and maybe red with trains on it. I’d want to know the difference. Just in case the relatives cheated me. Terrible, huh?”

  Casey shrugged. She liked this boyish side of the big man. She always felt good when she was around him, and over the past few weeks she’d been gravitating toward him at every chance she got. There was something warm and wonderful, safe and secure about Steve Harper. For days now she’d been diddling with the idea of inviting him to her apartment for dinner, but so far she hadn’t gotten up the nerve to actually ask him.

  “How’d Cassidy do today?” he asked curiously. He asked every day, and paid careful attention to her response. Izzy belched loudly and then preened much the way the anchorman did. “Duly noted,” Steve said, rubbing the chimp’s head.

  “Is he really going to judge a ‘hot pants’ contest?” Casey asked, trying not to giggle.

  “It was his idea. He said his viewers need to see the . . . human side of him.” He guffawed then, so loud Izzy leaped into one of the banana trees, chittering a mile a minute. “It’s a piece of fluff and the women will eat it up. We’re giving him two minutes. Look, the guy can be a charmer. Personally I think he looks like he’s embalmed, but women like his type of looks for some reason. As you must have noticed, we go by the sure thing around here. By the way, how’ya doing, Mary? Is it getting any easier? Is this place big enough for you? You don’t mind Izzy, do you?” Steve asked anxiously.

  Casey cut her cake in half. Someone was sharing her birthday, even if he didn’t know it. “Fine. Yes. Yes. No.”

  “Jeez, now I can’t remember what I asked you. In other words, everything is okay?”

  “Everything is fine, Steve. I hope you’re satisfied with my work?”

  “Satisfied! You work like a Trojan. I don’t know what I did before you got here. Listen, are you busy for dinner? There’s something I’d like to run by you. It’s probably a cockamamie idea, but I like to think I hit on something good once in a while. Cassidy hates my ideas,” he said forlornly. “I’m just the boss around here.”

  Busy for dinner? She thought about Campbell’s soup and tuna sandwiches, her usual dinner. Tonight she’d planned on washing her hair and giving herself a manicure, the single girl’s idea of a fun evening in New York City. “I’m not busy. I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  “Great!” Steve said, smacking his huge hands together. “Let’s leave from here. I won’t keep you out too late, and I’ll put you in a cab to go home. I know this great Mexican restaurant not far from the studio. They put beer in their chili. Meet me in the lobby at seven, okay?”

  Casey nodded. She had a date. She smiled. “Okay.”

  She was nice, Steve thought, but then he’d thought her nice the first day he’d met her. She was a hard worker, something he required in all his employees. Mary worked harder than most, and she was usually the last one to leave. She always tidied up and made sure Izzy was secure for the night. He hadn’t realized until just a few days ago how much he had come to depend upon her. He made a mental note to drop Alan a note to thank him for sending such a fine person.

  He’d wanted to ask Mary out for a long time, but every time he was about to approach her, he had changed his mind. There was something in her eyes, something he wasn’t ready to deal with. It was stupid, he knew, but he felt Mary Ashley was nursing a broken heart, and he had his own bruised and battered heart to deal with. If there was one thing he didn’t want, it was to ask a woman out and then commiserate all evening about past loves.

  He’d almost married Julia last spring, and he would have if she hadn’t called it off at the eleventh hour. Julia had called him at three in the morning on their wedding day to tell him she’d decided she couldn’t spend the rest of her life with a man who was so totally boring that she wanted to scream. And, she didn’t want to have hairy children. Boring he could handle. Hairy children he couldn’t.

  The day of the wedding, he’d gone to a pet store and bought Izzy and had then driven to Julia’s house. Like a fool he’d demanded his ring back and said a whole bunch of stupid, asinine, sophomoric things, all the while holding Izzy in his arms. She’d gasped and gargled and spit and snarled at him. Finally, she threw his ring in the bushes. Izzy found it and handed it to him. He’d looked at the chimp and said woefully, “You don’t ever judge a book by its cover.” Julia was a jerk, and he was a jerk for going with her and tying up three long years of his life.

  Since then he hadn’t been able to get back into the dating pattern. Girls were and always had been a mystery to him. Mary Ashley seemed different. At least she hadn’t turned him down for dinner. Of course it wasn’t a real date, but more of a business meeting.

  She liked Izzy too, and Izzy liked her. Right there was half the battle. He felt good until he caught sight of himself in one of the glass partitions. He was too big, too ugly, too . . . hairy. “Shit!” he said succinctly. Jesus Christ, it was just a business meeting and getting a bite to eat. If it was a real date, he’d take her someplace fancy like the Russian Tea Room, not some dumb Mexican restaurant where they put beer in the chili.

  God, he hated working on Sundays. But news was news, and it didn’t matter what day of the week it was. He had to remember to ask Mary how she felt about working on Sundays. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she worked seven days a week just the way he did, the way they all did. Jesus, had he told her she was supposed to rotate her days, to take time off during the week? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. No damn wonder Julia what’s-her-name had dumped him. What the hell kind of husband would he have made? He would never be home to see his hairy children, much less get to know them.

  Steve sat down and reached for his eleventh cup of coffee. It tasted like the eleventh cup in the pot too. He grimaced and pushed it away.

  “Matt, would it do any good for me to kick your ass right now? How many times do I have to tell you not to smirk on camera? You look like a real asshole when you do it. Your timing was off. Your tie was crooked, and your goddamn nose was shiny. I don’t want to hear any of this crap about today being Sunday. You have a fucking contract, and it’s all spelled out. And your voice wasn’t serious enough when you reported on the Vietnam situation,” Steve exploded.

  “No one watches Sunday noon news,” Cassidy whined. “They’re either out to brunch or reading the Sunday paper. Every Sunday you pick on me, and I’m getting fed up with it.”

  “Really,” Harper said, leaning across the table. “Why don’t we take a vote here and see if the others agree with my assessment of today’s newscast. Am I on the money or not?” There was a chorus of ayes. Cassidy tried to shrink into his seat. “We’re a team here. Just because you’re in front of the camera means diddly to the rest of us. There are thousands of pretty faces out there who would kill for your job. This is the last time I’m telling you, Matt. Get with it. We do it my way, or I take my marbles and go home.”

  “The ratings,” Matthew Cassidy bleated.

  “Fuck the ratings,” Steve muttered. “So we fall off, lose some money until we build up a new face. You are expendable, Matt. You’re too much of a prima donna. The papers are taking jabs at you, in case you haven’t noticed. Now, let’s get down to business. I have an idea . . .”

  IT WAS A cellar restaurant. It smelled delicious, Casey thought, as Steve helped her off with her coat.

  In a voice that was as big as himself, Steve whispered, “The owner of this place looks like Pancho Villa. Great cook. It’s small, but cozy. You can’t beat the food, and they give you so much you can’t eat it all. I come here every couple of weeks. It takes that long for my insides to heal after a meal.”

  Casey sat down on a spindly chair at a table covered in red-checkered oilcloth. She giggled when Steve set the plastic rose covered with dust under the table. “What’s that smell?” Casey asked.

  “Frying chili peppers. Great, eh? Makes my mouth water . . . Two bottles of beer,” he ca
lled across the room to no one in particular.

  A pretty waitress with an off-the-shoulder white blouse and a flowered skirt sashayed over to their table. Her skin was the color of honey, her teeth pearl-white, her eyes dark and inviting. “Ah, señor, you bring a guest . . . finally, to my father’s restaurant. It is an honor for us. Is it some special event? My father says your newsman today looked like the back end of his grandfather’s horse.” She laughed gaily, her white teeth showing off her bronzed skin to perfection.

  “Tell your father he’s right. No, this is not a special occasion, but while we’re on the subject, when are you going to get engaged?” To Casey he whispered, “She takes liberties with our friendship. She’s pretty, but no man would want her. She’s too fresh.”

  “Señor Harper, the men are lining up around the corner for my hand. My father says none of them are good enough for me. What am I to do?” She giggled.

  “Keep right on sneaking out and down the fire escape the way you’ve been doing for the past three years.” Steve laughed.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Elena laughed.

  “Aren’t you going to take our orders?”

  “Why? We only serve one thing. My father already knows you are here so it will be out in a minute.” To Casey she said, “I think he’s trying to impress you. This is a humble restaurant.” She flashed another wide smile.

  “Yeah, right. And they own half of Sutton Place,” Steve teased.

  “I never had Mexican beer before,” Casey said. “Is it strong?” Steve shrugged. Elena set down a pitcher of ice water and glasses. A moment later she was back with two bowls of chili sprinkled with chopped onions.

  It was ten o’clock before Casey’s tongue, teeth, and lips returned to normal. She’d made six trips to the bathroom, to Harper’s amusement. She alone had consumed the first pitcher of water. He’d lost track of the glasses of beer both of them put away. He was feeling no pain; in fact, he was having a hell of a good time. Mary Ashley was a great dinner companion. He hadn’t had this good of a time since Julia had dumped him.

  “It’s getting late, Steve. You said you wanted to discuss something with me.” She waited, not knowing what to expect. She’d actually celebrated her birthday, first with Izzy and then with Steve. She felt giddy, half drunk.

  Steve slapped at his forehead. “That’s right, I did. I’ve been having such a good time, I almost forgot. We’ll have to do this again. Well, what I mean is, we’ll go out to dinner again, but not necessarily here. You know, a . . . date.” He held his breath waiting to see her reaction.

  Casey smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “You would?” Steve asked, feeling suddenly stupid.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ah, great. We’ll . . . ah, I’ll check my schedule and we’ll . . . do it.”

  “Okay.” Casey smiled.

  “Yes, it is okay.” Steve grinned. “Listen, remember the piece we did back in January, right after you came to work for us? The one on Coco Chanel? I think we did it January eleventh, the day after she died? For our ‘Show-and-Tell’ segment.”

  “I remember. It was quite good. She once made a dress especially for me. I never got to wear it. It was a beautiful sapphire-blue color. She was a true trendsetter,” Casey said quietly.

  “The station had so many calls after we aired, I couldn’t believe it. Wherever did you come up with that bit about her calling her perfume No. 5 because a fortune teller told her it was her lucky number?”

  Nicole had told her that, and without thinking, she’d added it to the research she’d compiled for Steve’s “Show-and-Tell” . segment. Of course, she couldn’t tell him that. Palms up in the air, she said lightly, “Who knows, someplace in all the research I did on her. I thought it was a good piece too.”

  “Well, what do you think about this, then? Two minutes, three times a week. A ‘Show-and-Tell’ about newsworthy and noteworthy people who are alive, not dead. Six minutes total. One film clip of Cassidy and the person, a thirty-second clip. Along those lines. I thought we could compile a list of possible candidates. I want you to do the research. I’m prepared to hire a part-timer to assist you if you agree. A good profile is what I’m looking for. You know, meaty, with a script that crackles. Something that will make people want to tune in and stay tuned. What do you think, Mary?”

  “It sounds . . . like a lot of work. I think the idea is wonderful. I like hearing about famous people.”

  “That’s just it, Mary, I’m not sure I want famous. If some guy grows the biggest tomato in the state of Pennsylvania, I want that. If some kid rides his bike a hundred miles and doesn’t get a flat tire, I want that. Real people. I guess what I’m trying to say is I want people who in some way make a difference. I don’t want movie stars. I realize it’s going to be a lot of work in the beginning, but once segments start to air, we’ll get all kinds of leads and possibilities. Then it will be a simple matter of weeding out the prospects and doing the interviews. I want you to think about it and we’ll talk tomorrow. No, we won’t. You’re off tomorrow. Tuesday. Lunch. I’ll bring some hot dogs from the vendor on the corner. Izzy loves hot dogs. Is that okay with you?”

  “It sounds good. I think I should go home now. The beer is making me sleepy.”

  “I’ll put you in a cab. I enjoyed this evening, Mary. You’re sure you think this is a good idea?”

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea. Don’t the others think so? What does Mr. Cassidy say?”

  “I haven’t told the others. I wanted your reaction. I’ll spring it on them at next Sunday’s meeting.”

  Casey blinked at the size of the tip Steve left for Elena.

  “It’s for her trousseau,” he said with a wink.

  What a kind man he is, she thought. Just like Alan, in many ways.

  “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” Steve said lightly as he closed the door of the cab.

  “I enjoyed dinner. Thank you, Steve.”

  All the way home she hummed the birthday song under her breath. All in all it was one of her nicer birthdays.

  Chapter 20

  OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT on Seventy-ninth Street, the wind howled and rain sluiced against the windows. It was Wednesday, March 24, Casey’s day off.

  Casey liked having a day off in the middle of the week, it broke up the long work hours. She was now putting so much time in at the station that she had no time to call her own. It was a good thing, she thought, that she wasn’t involved in a relationship. Even the dinner date with Steve hadn’t materialized. He had less free time than she did, and she knew for a fact that he often slept at the station on a folding cot kept in the office closet for emergencies.

  Her day had been planned. She was going to shop for some new spring clothes, fill her pantry, dust up the apartment, and if time permitted, after she took a nap, take in a movie. Now, however, with the rain, none of her plan would work out, unless she wanted to get soaked and catch cold.

  Every lamp and overhead light in the apartment was lit in her attempt to keep the darkness outside. She cringed when an angry slash of rain slapped against the living room window. She remembered the monsoon rains in Vietnam. She started to shake. She clasped both her hands in an effort to regain calmness. Sometimes it worked when she talked to herself or dialed Luke’s number. It was almost a game now, calling Luke after one of her bad dreams, listening to his calm voice. She could tell that Luke was intrigued by the things he said to the silence on her end of the line. Sometimes he talked for as long as three minutes before he hung up. She always wrote down what he said, immediately after replacing the receiver in the cradle. In a minute she would reach for the sheaf of papers and read them over and over. Actual phone calls were for bad dreams. The notes were for second-hand comfort during the bad times, when something triggered a painful memory. Her head was pounding, and for a second she thought she was going to throw up. She grappled with the papers in the desk drawer. She took a huge, deep breath. Damn, it wasn’t working. She ran to the bathroom, but s
he managed to keep down the coffee and toast she’d eaten earlier.

  She paced. It had been three years since her ordeal in Vietnam. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. If only Alan were here to talk to, but he hadn’t seen fit to answer any of her letters. She’d sent one every week. She was out of his life now, and he simply didn’t want to be bothered, she told herself.

  Lately she’d toyed with the idea of calling the foundation Mac Carlin had set up for Vietnam veterans. She’d read about it a few months ago. The Vietnam Veterans Foundation. She had called information for the telephone number and had even drafted a letter, but she hadn’t carried through. She remembered so clearly writing the letter and then shoving it in the desk. At that precise moment she’d said aloud, “I should go back. Maybe if I go back all of this will go away.” She’d gone into such an unholy tizzy then that she’d actually blacked out, but when she came to, the thought had still been with her. Since then the thought was always with her.

  She thought about Alan again. She ached with rejection. How could he cut her off so completely? She tried to make her mind understand that Alan had done his job. He’d saved her life, made her whole again, and moved on with his life.

  At the station they had constantly spoken of the “bottom line.” Everyone, they said, had a bottom line. Hers, she knew, was the open acknowledgment that she needed someone. On that last day, Alan had told her to get a cat. She hadn’t gotten the animal, but now she wished she had.

  She continued to pace, circling the apartment, staring at the few possessions she’d accumulated in the past few months, little things to brighten her new home. In an antique store she’d spotted a fat, happy buddha made from teakwood. Every time she looked at the silly expression on its face, she smiled. Now it rested in one of the dark corners on a pedestal next to a luscious green fern that she watered and spritzed every Sunday. On her coffee table a music box that played “As Time Goes By” rested next to a potted Japanese garden. She watered the small garden once a month and played the music box every day. It always made her sad. In a fabric store on Second Avenue, she’d purchased a pile of pillows in rainbow colors, just like Maline’s back in Thailand, to add color to the quiet living room.