Kenny’s band, Cobra City, had just signed a record deal with Atlantic, and who was she to walk out on a sixty-five- percent cut of her beloved’s profits? The way she saw things, she’d earned it.
So, Marney stayed in just long enough for Cobra to climb just short of the chart’s top forty with a rad metal ballad, “Virgin Bride.” It put the band on the map, and launched Cobra on an eighteen-month international tour. The band sold half a million records, enough for Marney to make Kenny give until it hurt.
She sent a fax to his dressing room in Amsterdam with photos taken herself, of his tryst with the blushing bridesmaid and several other jail-bait poster groupies for good measure, laid spread-eagle beneath his royal bastardness. Who was, incidentally, still wearing his signature black sleeveless leather vest while he was doing the deed, exposing, among other things, the indisputable ink tattoo of a coiling reptile trademark spelling out the word, C-O-B-R-A around his meaty bicep. Lawyers were retained, and a swift and quiet settlement was granted.
She gave up the slug, but kept her married surname, Valentine, which had a kind of an edgy efficacy.
With proceeds from her divorce, Marney quit her self-declared job as a “part-time songwriter” and banked her settlement. It was time, she concluded, to fashion a real career of her own. Long on determination, she obtained a business degree from Columbia in upstate New York, and then decided to put it to good use. Following a childhood passion of sorts, she had a flair for theatrics, a keen and unorthodox sense of style, and when somebody wanted to throw a soirée of event proportions, they called on Marney to deliver. So, naturally, she started her own event-planning company.
Small and strictly by word of mouth, Marney’s business began to grow exponentially in the late ’90s. She assisted friends and colleagues with the logistics and countless creative details of planning their weddings, birthdays, club openings, book signings, corporate receptions, and even pet birthday parties—gratis at first, just to get her feet wet. You name it, Marney lent her touch to producing high-style, to-die-for invites that not only got people talking, but also got her noticed. Soon her phone was ringing off the hook with requests for Marney’s Marvelous Events! LLC.
She was a one-woman show with minimal overhead, and eventually a prestigious upper west side address in a trendy Manhattan studio just off West 59th Street that she shared with a dubious accident lawyer. It was the size of a dorm room, with less potential. It barely housed two desks that were actually card tables, a fax machine, a copier, and an anemic client Rolodex that would eventually grow to be a remarkable quarter of a million dollars a year sales commodity.
Marney did it all from the confines of the small office. She orchestrated caterers and wait staff; hired equipment vendors, florists, scenic designers, and procured tent and event companies to transform ballrooms into backyards, and backyards into ballrooms, or outback posts, 1920s style speakeasies, or any other desired fabrication of her client’s imagination and budget. Marney threw a great party. It was as simple as that.
In just three short years, Marney sold off the business and parlayed her prestigious connections and predilection as a dealmaker to take an opportunity that landed her a dream job. She accepted an offer with a renowned public relations firm, where she built a reputation for promoting some of New York’s most notable talent. The firm’s portfolio boasted over fifty prominent clients. Marney coordinated interviews and personal appearances, radio and TV spots, print ads, as well as film engagements over the following years for a bevy of high-profile politicians and celebrities.
In the spring of 2002 she quit the firm to break out on her own, forming a private public relations agency called Marney Valentine, Inc. She had exclusive representation of a sports anchor named Sammy Keyes from Milwaukee who broadcasted weekdays at a local TV network; five voice-over actors, two male underwear models, a commercial actress, a fourteen-year-old pro tennis prima donna, a nationally acclaimed stand-up comic who had just landed a gratuitous appearance on Late Night with Conan O’Brien as a favor from an undisclosed connection that she took credit for. Marney never shared her trade secrets and was always looking to land top talent, as good clients seemed to come and go with the whims of media contracts and the public’s fickle temperaments.
And now, Marney was about to make Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy her crowning jewel. She had learned of Hannah’s quickly rising popularity and notable impact on the station’s and network’s skyrocketing ratings throughout the country. Hannah’s steady increase in cumulative audience reach was impressive indeed. Steady spikes in listenership and extended high mid-day rankings were just what advertisers were looking for. Hannah had staying power. Marney was certain of it. And she was dead certain that she could definitely use a good, controversial radio personality with high-level appeal to round out her client roster. Dr. Hannah also was, in her opinion, badly in need of an image makeover, which was Marney’s specialty. She knew that she could repackage and sell the entire brand of Dr. Hannah’s unique appeal, undeniable talent, and chutzpah. The radio shrink was definitely in need of a little help, and Marney was at the ready to provide.
A quick inquiry on the subject revealed that Hannah did not have exclusive representation, and that, not surprisingly, a West Coast agency was sniffing around as well for the opportunity to sign her. She would have to act fast if she was going to “court” Hannah. And so she set out to do just that.
Chapter 23
Fall 2005
Hannah arrived home one afternoon following her broadcast. She had stopped to take care of some errands and was running later than usual. The house was quiet, and no one seemed to be home. She kicked her shoes off in the front hall and scooped up the stack of mail on the credenza. It had been a long day already, and she was exhausted. A hot bath and a cup of Adelita’s vegetable soup, which she could smell wafting from the kitchen, sounded heavenly. She padded to the kitchen in her stocking feet and noticed through the back door that she was not entirely alone.
Adelita was sitting on the patio having a smoke. She saw Hannah and quickly snuffed the cigarette into a flowerpot.
“Mrs. Hannah, I have your dinner now,” she said with comforting eyes.
“Where is everyone?” Hannah asked.
“Dr. Peter . . . he took Broderick and little Olivia to the skate park today. He say, he tol’ ju yesterday, I think.”
“I’m sure he did not.” Hannah puzzled. Had she been working so much lately that she could not remember even the simplest things, like the whereabouts of her family? It was getting dark. “Did Peter say when they would be back?”
Adelita looked pained. Mrs. Murphy was getting angry and she really hated being caught in the middle of one of Dr. and Mrs. Murphy’s disputes.
The front door swung open, and in traipsed her tired and spirited crew. Olivia was fast asleep in Peter’s arms from exhaustion.
“Hey, Mom!” Broderick said holding up his skateboard. “You missed out. It was so rad—I finally did an Ollie on the park ramp. Shredded it! Next time, I’m gonna add a kick flip. You should have seen how much air I got! It was sick.”
Hannah turned up the lights and shot Peter a telling glare. “Can I see you a minute, Peter? Broderick, go finish your homework, please. And no computer games until you’re done. I do want to see that trick, though, next time,” she said, calling after his now-retreating back.
Peter handed Olivia off into Adelita’s ready arms. “I take her upstairs to bed,” she said sheepishly.
“Thank you, Adelita.” Hannah was appreciative. “I’ll be right up.” The woman’s house cleaning was questionable, but she was a dream with Olivia.
Hannah followed Peter further into the kitchen and addressed her husband sternly.
“A skate park? I hope that you made Broderick wear his helmet. Why on earth didn’t you call to tell me what you were all doing? Did they even eat dinner yet? There’s school tomorrow, and—”
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“And what, Hannah? We grabbed some tacos from the food truck at the park. And yes, he wore his helmet, and his elbow pads, and his kneepads. It was not a big deal. I’m sorry I didn’t call. Obviously, I had my hands full. Goddammit! I’ve been out of town every weekend for three months straight. I just wanted to spend some time with them. Since when is that a crime?”
“I didn’t say that it was,” Hannah’s said.
He racked through his hair, which was cut short near his temples; now a brassy auburn, mixed with streaks of gray where the boyish highlights once were. Hannah wondered how a man working so many hours a month had a tan like a seasoned golfer. She was jealous of the freedom he had taking the afternoon off from work like this and running off to the park with the kids. More importantly—without her. Her life lately did not afford such luxuries.
“Oh, save it, Hannah. Save it for your callers.”
He said the word as if it was a bad thing. Callers. As if they were an addiction or a disease. Either way, the connotation was unfair and harsh. He knew it.
She took the hit directly where it was aimed, at her heart.
Then came a tougher blow. “Those kids are missing a hell of a lot more than a day at the park from you.”
She balked at his growing anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re gone half the time—twelve to fifteen hours a day sometimes, for remote broadcasts, promotions, and station meetings—doing whatever they tell you to do.”
“How dare you?” She glared.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, flung the twist top into the sink, and then headed outside onto the deck and fresher air.
She followed, hot on his heels. “You’re gone half the time at the hospital and the other half traveling to God knows where for God knows what. You missed both Ty’s and Marc’s graduations, which nearly broke their hearts. They would never tell you, but it did. You had made promises multiple times to go to their schools and see them.”
Both boys were ensconced in their graduate studies, Ty at Duke University and Marc out West at USC. “Time is marching on, and you can never get that back. Peter, if anyone should be realistic about who’s doing or not doing what, it ought to be you.”
He shifted against the wood railing, turning away from her. Hannah felt her body tense from head to toe. Months of pent-up anger welled inside her. She would have to be careful, watch her words, or she was liable to say something they both would regret.
“I just know that they miss you a lot. That’s all.” Her voice softened. “What about us, Peter? Where are we? What’s happening here?”
The questions remained unanswered in the darkness of the quiet night. Olivia had awakened and was calling for Hannah, despite Adelita’s efforts to comfort her.
Hannah’s pleading gaze did little to penetrate Peter’s stone expression.
“How about we talk on Sunday?” he said. “My parents are coming in and can visit with Olivia for a couple of hours. Maybe take her to the zoo.”
She touched his arm tentatively. “Why not sooner? Tomorrow? We can work through this, right?” Hannah’s voice pleaded.
Peter wagged his head. “Can’t. I’m off to Philly in the morning. I have a meeting.”
“I see,” Hannah’s voice trailed. The feeling in the pit of her stomach told her more than he ever would. It was the fifth such trip to Philadelphia in several months.
“We’ll talk when I get back. Okay?”
His Blackberry sounded from his belt loop, and he grabbed it routinely, assessing the message on the monochrome screen. “It’s the hospital. Probably the triple bypass,” he guessed, quickly using the scroll wheel to cue up the number. He would call to notify them that he would be on his way.
Hannah turned and started upstairs, not noticing that the number he selected was not even in Ohio.
“I need you, Peter . . .” a voice pleaded on the other end of the line.
“I’ll be there tomorrow night,” Peter whispered. “I promise you—it’ll be okay.”
Chapter 24
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Peter had taken up a secret residence in Pittsburgh in 2005—and thus began his duo life—there with Anthony and his sometime-roommate Paul, who fancied wearing women’s clothes and prancing around the apartment in large brassieres and pantyhose. By day, Paul was an unassuming two-hundred-fifty-pound commodities broker with a bad haircut and a lisp. He was, remarkably, a decent cook. Oh, would Peter’s hard-nosed moral-mannered wife flip out if she could see them all! Her sophisticated surgeon husband, a gay junior league bartender, and a drag queen! His biggest fear was getting caught, and yet, so very often, he wished that he would. At least then all the lies would stop and the truth would be out. Regretfully, he was far too weak to face the music and placed all of his energy instead into maintaining the charade. One which he would continue to live secretly for five years more.
In the spring of 2010, it was Peter who would have to tell Anthony about the tragic blood test results that would be sent for re-evaluation to three separate labs throughout the country, at his insistence. It would be Peter who would break down into a fit of rage and despair soon after, that would cause him to drive his Mercedes onto an interstate median, whereby losing control. He would have never told Hannah the truth about why. About how he had been driving and crying and praying—cursing ruefully to God at the moment that he swerved into the far left lane and into oncoming traffic. No, he would not tell her that. Instead, he would only say that he was exhausted and disoriented from lack of sleep. So what if he ended it all? he would think, just moments before everything went black. What would it matter? He was a freak and a failure and probably deserved no less. The worst part would be waking up dead inside his heart, strapped to a bed in traction, in his own hospital, and with three cracked ribs and a fractured septum. Nothing would compare to the pain of not being able to see or contact Anthony, who would not even find out about Peter’s accident until weeks later. Right before Anthony would go into confinement himself for treatment for the AIDS. He, in all of his goodness, had never wanted Peter to see it. None of it.
Hannah had moved heaven, earth, and her show schedule to dutifully be by her husband’s side after his accident. The radio station graciously allowed her to tape several weeks of shows in advance of airing them, whereby granting her a brief leave of absence.
Hannah felt compassion for her overworked surgeon husband, and even blamed herself for any contribution that her busy schedule might have added to his distant and brooding disposition. She’d believed that when he had recovered and started working and traveling again, that things would get better between them. But little did she know that the worst was yet to come.
In less than three months’ time, Peter’s body was completely healed, but the seams of his and Hannah’s marriage were splitting further apart. Peter spent more and more time traveling, primarily to Pennsylvania on business, or flying off somewhere with Olivia, causing her to miss school.
Hannah continued to commute weekly to the New York radio station, where she broadcasted her show, taped promos, attended industry events, spoke at luncheons, and met with select private clients “around the fringes.” When she was not being America’s Dr. Hannah, she was working on writing another self-help book, and working hard at being the best mother possible, and being there for Olivia, her grown sons, and her two granddaughters.
The day that her daughter-in-law, Sara, gave birth to the girls was a joy that she could not explain. Being a grandmother at fifty-five seemed almost as surreal as having a ten-year-old daughter, but in Hannah’s mind, it just meant that she and Peter must have done something right; that both of their parents had done everything right. It broke her heart, though, that Robert never got to see his great-granddaughters, Emily and Addison, on this Earth and would have to settle for watching them grow up from heaven. Charlotte, whose mind wa
s rapidly declining, would not be able to know that the incredible gift of the two beautiful babies placed in her lap for a holiday photo, were her legacy.
Hannah’s family needed her. They all still needed her. There was homework, graduations, courtships, weddings, and so much more to come. Nothing and no one was ever going to change that. She’d only wished all that time that her estranged and increasingly emotionally distant husband felt the same.
Instead, he continued to choose to live a lie.
Chapter 25
2005
Lindsey Lennar was a natural beauty. She had moved to New York after her senior year with her mother, to pursue a modeling career, and eventually signed on with the teen division of a prestigious modeling agency. Marney had hired the girl prior to that for several client photo shoots, when she was just getting started with her own agency. But today, it was Lindsey’s kid sister, Jaden, Marney was interested in. She’d remembered that Lindsey hailed from none other than Cuyahoga Falls, and that, with a little quick digging, unearthed a workable connection between the Lennar family and Hannah Courtland-Murphy.
There was no doubt that Lindsey, by far, was the beauty in the family, with Carmen Electra-blue eyes, a full mane of golden hair, and a fiercely confident runway walk that teetered between romantic and hard-edged, making her mark on the fashion scene with her doll-like stare. Luckily for Marney, Lindsey’s younger sister, Jaden, a gangly sixteen-year-old with jagged braids, crooked teeth, and zero fashion sense, had decided to stay on and attend college locally in Ohio, far from her sister’s conspicuous spotlight, to pursue interests of her own. A simple call one day to Lindsey to congratulate her on her latest Calvin Klein billboard sparked a conversation that revealed pay dirt: Lindsey’s sister, Jaden, was enrolled in community college and working as a backup babysitter for none other than Hannah Courtland-Murphy. It was fate! Jaden was filling in on weekends to give the Murphys’ nanny the needed time off, keeping Jaden in Britney Spears CDs and gas money while she commuted to campus.
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