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But he knew.
He knew. Some boundaries remained.
"I dont think so, Thea. "
"What do you mean, you dont think so?" She sounded harsh, as if she hadnt been denied something in a long time.
"I cant. "
"There she is!" someone cried out as the crowd pushed toward them.
As Thea went to greet her fans, Jack got the hell out of there.
Because if he stayed, hed finish that Scotch, and then drink another and another, and sooner or later, hed forget the reasons not to go to Theas suite.
TWENTY-TWO
The newest art gallery in Echo Beach was on the corner of First and Main. A scrolled ironwork sign above the door read: ECLECTICA.
Only a few weeks ago, the Flying High Kite Shop had inhabited this space, but the new owners had obviously gone all out in refurbishing the site. Espresso-colored shingles covered the exterior; freshly planted flower boxes graced the area beneath the front window.
That window was blank now, covered from end to end by a sheet of black paper. A small sign was tacked to the glass. It read: no peeking. were doing the window display and youre going to love it.
Elizabeth glanced down at the piece of paper Daniel had given her. This was the place.
Just go see her, hed said over coffee; shes new in town and could use a little help.
Elizabeth had wanted to decline, but when Daniel looked at her with those incredibly blue eyes, shed automatically nodded.
Now, she wished shed been firmer. Most of the so-called art galleries in Echo Beach carried knickknacks--coasters made out of polished driftwood . . . Christmas ornaments made of that ugly Mount St. Helens ash that looked like a jumbled swirl of chocolate and vanilla ice cream . . . crocheted doilies . . . dried sand dollars in brown mesh netting, that sort of thing. She stayed away from most of them.
Still, a promise was a promise.
She opened the door and went inside. At her entrance, a bell tinkled overhead and a bird squawked loudly.
"Hello?"
There was no answer. She looked around.
To her left was a table filled with stunning wood sculptures. Most of them were women--nudes--from neck to hips. The wood was unbelievably rich and beautiful, the color of well-aged red wine, polished to silken perfection. She couldnt help touching one of the statues; her finger glided down a delicately curved shoulder.
On the next table was an exhibit of black-and-white photography. Each print was extravagantly matted in black suede and framed in gold. The photographer had masterfully captured the spirit of the coast in a series of strikingly original shots: a beach at low tide on a windy day . . . a misty, ethereal image of the lighthouse called Terrible Tilly . . . a haunting, nighttime picture of Haystack Rock, rising out of the surf like some ancient monolith.
On the back wall were several paintings. Enough, but not too many. There was a watercolor collage of open umbrellas. A multimedia abstract work that suggested a spinnaker puffed out with wind. The largest piece was a spectacular oil painting of Orca Point.
"Amazing," Elizabeth said softly to herself.
"It is, isnt it?"
Elizabeth spun around. With the suddenness of the movement, her hip hit a table; beach glass necklaces clinked together.
A woman stepped out from behind a hanging tapestry. She was at least six feet tall, and nearly as wide as she was tall. Her hair was a birds nest of brown frizz that hung to her waist. She had on a dress that could have doubled as a sackcloth and fell to her feet, which were bare except for the silver butterfly ring on her left big toe. A plunging neckline revealed breasts that quivered when she walked. A huge white bird was perched on her right shoulder.
She stepped closer, smiling. "Im Large Marge. " She grinned. "I picked up the nickname at a commune in the Bay Area. I never could figure out how a petite, retiring gal like me got saddled with a nickname like that, but there you have it. " She frowned dramatically. "Saddled was a poor word choice. I forbid you to run with it. "
"Ill rein myself in. "
Large Marge laughed heartily. The movement almost tossed her breasts into midair.
Elizabeth offered her hand. "Im Elizabeth Shore. Daniel Boudreaux asked me to stop by and see you. "
Marge grabbed Elizabeths hand and pumped it hard. "He told me about you. Im glad you stopped by. I wanted to talk to you about the Stormy Weather Arts Festival. "
"Its a big deal around here. "
"Thats what Danny tells me, though its hard to imagine an arts walk in this weather. Ive never seen so much rain. "
"We locals barely notice it, and the tourists find out too late. Id be happy to help you organize your gallerys event, if thats what youre interested in. I know whos who around here. "
"Organization skills I got. Local artists are scarce as hens teeth. It seems that all the good ones are already taken. " She studied Elizabeth. "Danny boy tells me your work might be worth exhibiting. "
Elizabeth laughed. "Yeah, right. "
Marge said softly, "He told me youd be scared. "
Elizabeths smile faded. She took a step back. She didnt mean to, and when she realized what shed done, she stopped. "I just started painting again, after years away from it. "
Marges gaze moved pointedly to Elizabeths wedding ring. "Raisin kids, huh?"
"Yes. " She smiled, though it felt grim, that smile, almost a grimace.
"Are you any good?"
"I was. " It was as confident as she could be.
Marge made a clicking sound, then snorted and slammed her hands on her fleshy hips. "Dannys take is good enough for me. Id like to show your work for the festival. "
"No. "
"Why not?"
Elizabeth didnt know what the right answer was. "What if its no good?"
"Then it wont sell. Or maybe itll sell anyway. Hell, honey, its art. Anything can happen. You want a guarantee, get a bank job. Whats the point of painting if no one ever sees it?"
"I suppose I could think about it. "
Marge glanced at the wall clock. "Ill give you three minutes. "
"Come on . . . "
Marge took a step closer. "I know you, Elizabeth. Hell, Ive been you. I spent ten years trying to fit my full-sized personality into a compact marriage. If you dont give me an answer right now, Ill never hear from you again. "
Elizabeth felt exposed by that observation. And empowered. She didnt need psychic abilities to hear Meghanns voice in her head: Damn it, Birdie, dont you dare hesitate. "How many pieces would you need?"
"Five. Is that possible?"
Elizabeth had no idea, but she knew she had to try. For once. "They wont sell, you know. "
"Im sure weve both survived worse than that. Come on, Elizabeth, say youll do it. "
"Ill try. "
Marge grinned. "I love confidence in a woman. " She smacked Elizabeth on the back so hard she stumbled sideways. "Are you still here? You ought to be home painting. Now, git. "
In the past five days, Jack had been in six cities, and every moment in each of those cities had been a blitz. Hed interviewed Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr. , Randy Johnson, Shawn Kemp, and Brian Bosworth.
When the interviews were finished, he spent another three days in the editing room, working the narration and music into the one-hour special hed titled: Breakable Gods.
Hed loved every minute of it.
"You and Sally did a hell of a job," Tom Jinaro said, leaning back in his chair. "You were right to hire her. Shes a pistol. "
"Thanks. " Jack had been confident coming into this meeting. He knew his special was a virtuoso blend of news and entertainment. Hed dared to expose himself emotionally on camera, just enough to humanize the story. Hed admitted how difficult it had been to be forgotten by a city that had once adored him. Alex and Ken had been honest, too, admitting how much it had hurt to be vilified by their former fans. Brian talked convincingly about being forgotten.
Tom
leaned forward again. "Ive been in this business a long time. Ive seen people come and go--mostly go. But youre the real deal. Ive never seen anyone shoot up the ladder quicker. I had Mark produce your special because hes the best we have. Honestly, I didnt think you were ready for this sort of thing, but he tells me you were as good as anyone hes ever worked with. "
"Thanks," Jack said again.
"So, what do you want?"
"Excuse me?"
"Its a simple question. What do you want? The Fox NFL Sunday show? Your own interview hour? A book deal? What?"
"You know what I was doing three months ago, Tom? Begging for a job on a low-rent regional sports show--and I didnt get it. " He let that image sink in. "You hired me when I was in the gutter, professionally. You took a chance on me; believe me, I wont forget that. "
Tom smiled tiredly. "Youll mean to remember it, but after a while, youll start racking up offers, and then youll think about your age, and your agent will tell you to make hay while the sun shines. Its how the game is played. " He leaned forward. "What Im going to tell you now cant leave this room. If it does, Ill know it was you. "
"What is it?"
"One of the guys is quitting NFL Sunday. One of the big four. I cant tell you which one. But were looking at you to fill that slot for next year. "
The only show bigger was Monday Night Football.
Jack drew in a sharp breath, savoring the moment.
"Thanks. " It was all he could say. Any more and he might start laughing.
"Its not for sure. " Tom grinned. "But its damn close to that. So, let me give you some advice, man to man. You had a bad-boy image in the NFL and it doesnt look to me like youve changed. I hear you practically live at Kels pub. "
Jack started to disagree, but Tom stopped him with a laugh.
"Save the denials for your curiously absent wife. I dont care what you do offscreen as long as it doesnt hurt our ratings. But you know what its like when the tabloids turn on you. Opportunities can vanish in an instant. Stay away from drugs and DUIs and underage women. "
"Dont worry. Nothing is going to derail me this time. Im older and wiser. "
"Glad to hear it. Now, get going. Talk to Steve in postproduction. I want you and Mark to redub the music. The opening score sounds like the music they played at my aunt Roses funeral. And theres a bad cut on the Randy Johnson segment. "
"Thanks. When do you think we can air it?"
"Sweeps week. Ill set up with Marion to run a series of promo spots. Well want to shoot them ASAP. "
Jack left the office and went straight to the editing room, where he and Mark Lackoft spent the next ten hours examining and refining every split second of footage. By the time he was finished, Breakable Gods was worthy of a damned award.
Although he was exhausted and starving, he couldnt remember when hed felt so good. He left the office and walked home, strutting like Tony Manero. He could practically hear "Stayin Alive" playing in his head.
"Hey, Billy!" he called out to the doorman as he strode through the lobby and rode the elevator to his floor.
He opened his door and walked into the apartment. He almost yelled, Birdie, Im home, but stopped himself just in time.
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