by Nora Roberts
“I’d like to concentrate on personal issues rather than front-page ones. And I’d like to avoid shock television.”
“No redheaded lesbians and the men who love them?”
She relaxed enough to smile. “No, I’ll leave those to someone else. My idea is to balance shows like the demo with more serious ones, but to keep it very personal, involving the audience—studio and the home audience. Topics like step-families, sexual harassment in the workplace, how men and women cope with middle-age dating. Issues that target in on what the average viewer might be experiencing.”
“And you see yourself as a spokesperson for the average viewer?”
She smiled again. Here, at least, she could be confident. “I am the average viewer. I’m certainly going to watch a special on PBS that interests me, but I’m more than happy to pull up a bar stool with the gang at Cheers. I share my first cup of coffee in the morning with the Chicago Tribune and Kirk Brooks on Wake Up Call. And unless I have an early call, I go to bed with The Tonight Show—unless Arsenio looks better that night.” Now she grinned and sipped again. “And I’m not ashamed of it.”
Loren laughed, then drained his Coke. She’d very nearly described his own viewing habits. “I’m told you moonlighted for Angela.”
“Not moonlighting exactly. It wasn’t as structured or formal as that. And I was never on her payroll. It was more of an . . . apprenticeship.” Deanna screened the emotion from her voice. “I learned quite a bit.”
“I imagine you did.” After a moment, Loren steepled his hands. “It’s no secret that Delacort is unhappy about losing Angela’s. And anyone involved in the business would know that we don’t wish her well.” His eyes were dark as onyx against his Byronically pale skin. Yes, an apostle, Deanna thought again, but not one who would have gone cheerfully to the Roman lions. “However,” he continued, “given her track record, she should continue to dominate the market. We’re not ready to go head to head with her, nationally, with another talk-show format.”
“You’ll counter-program,” Deanna said, making Loren stop, raise a brow. “Go against her with game shows, high-rated reruns, soaps, depending on the demographics.”
“That would be the idea. I had considered spot-testing a talk-show format, in a handful of CBC affiliates.”
“I only need a handful,” she said evenly, but gripped the soft-drink bottle with both hands to hold it steady. Sink or swim, she decided. “To start.”
Perhaps it was personal, Loren mused. But what of it? If he could use Deanna Reynolds to take a small slice out of Angela, he could afford the cost. If the project failed, he would write it off as experience. But if he could make it work, if he could make Deanna work, the satisfaction would be worth more, much more than advertising revenue.
“Do you have an agent, Ms. Reynolds?”
“No.”
“Get one.” His dark, mild eyes sharpened. “I’d like to welcome you to Delacort.”
“Tell me again,” Fran insisted.
“A six-month contract.” No matter how many times she said it aloud, the words still echoed gleefully in Deanna’s ears. “We’ll tape right here at CBC, one show a day, five days a week.”
Still dazed even after two weeks of negotiations, she wandered Angela’s office. All that was left were the pastel walls and carpet and the steely view of Chicago. “I’ll be able to use this office, and two others in accordance with CBC’s end of the deal, during the probationary period. We’ll be carried by ten affiliates in the Midwest—live in Chicago, Dayton and Indianapolis. We have six weeks to put it together before we premiere in August.”
“You’re really doing it.”
With a half laugh, Deanna turned back. She wasn’t smiling like Fran, but her eyes were glowing. “I’m really doing it.” She took a deep breath, grateful that none of Angela’s signature scent remained in the air. “My agent said the money they’re paying me is a slap in the face.” Now she grinned. “I told him to turn the other cheek.”
“An agent.” Fran shook her head and sent her cowbell earrings dancing. “You’ve got an agent.”
Deanna turned toward the window and grinned out at Chicago. She’d chosen a small, local firm, one that could focus on her needs, her goals.
“I’ve got an agent,” she agreed. “And a syndicate—at least for six months. I hope I’ve got a producer.”
“Sweet pea, you know—”
“Before you say anything, let me finish.” Deanna turned back. Behind her, the spears and towers of the city shot up into the dull gray sky. “It’s a risk, Fran, a big one. If things don’t work out, we could be out on our butts in a few months. You’ve got a solid job at Woman Talk, and a baby on the way. I don’t want you to jeopardize that for friendship.”
“Okay, I won’t.” Fran shrugged, and because there was no place to sit, settled on the floor, grateful for the give of elastic over her expanding waist. “I’ll do it for ego. Fran Myers, Executive Producer. Has a nice ring.” She circled her knees with her arms. “When do we start?”
“Yesterday.” Laughing, Deanna sat beside her, slung an arm over her shoulders. “We need staff. I might be able to lure in some of Angela’s who got pink-slipped or didn’t want to relocate. We need story ideas and people to research them. The budget I have to work with is slim, so we’ll have to keep it simple.” She stared at the bare, pastel walls. “Next contract, it’ll be a hell of a lot bigger.”
“The first thing you need is a couple of chairs, a desk and a phone. As producer, I’ll see what I can beg, borrow or steal.” She scrambled to her feet. “But first, I have to go tender my resignation.”
Deanna caught her hand. “You’re sure?”
“Damn right. I already discussed the possibility with Richard. We looked at it this way: If things go belly-up in six months, I’d be ready for maternity leave anyway.” She patted her stomach and grinned. “I’ll call you.” She paused at the doorway. “Oh, one more thing. Let’s paint these damn walls.”
Alone, Deanna pulled her knees up to her chest and lowered her head. It was all happening so fast. All the meetings, the negotiations, the paperwork. She didn’t mind the long hours; she thrived on them. And the realization of an ambition brought with it a burst of energy that was all but manic. But beneath the excitement was a small, very cold ball of terror.
It was all going in the right direction. Once she adjusted to the new pace, she’d get her bearings. And if she failed, she would simply go back a few steps and start again.
But she wouldn’t regret.
“Ms. Reynolds?”
Thoughts scattering, Deanna looked up and saw Angela’s secretary in the doorway. “Cassie.” With a rueful smile, she glanced around. “Things look a little different these days.”
“Yeah.” Cassie’s own smile came and went. “I was just getting some things out of the outer office. I thought I should let you know.”
“That’s all right. It won’t be my territory officially until next week.” She rose and smoothed down her skirt. “I heard you’d decided not to make the move to New York.”
“My family’s here. And I guess I’m Midwest through and through.”
“It’s rough.” Deanna studied her, the short, tidy curls, the sad eyes. “Do you have something else?”
“Not yet. I’ve got some interviews lined up, though. Miss Perkins made the announcement, and a week later she’s gone. I haven’t gotten used to it.”
“I’m sure you’re not alone there.”
“I’ll get out of your way. I just had some plants to take home. Good luck with your new show.”
“Thanks. Cassie.” Deanna stepped forward, hesitated. “Could I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You worked for Angela for about four years, right?”
“It would have been four years in September. I started as a secretarial assistant straight out of business college.”
“Even down in the newsroom we’d hear occasional grumbling from her staff. S
ome complaints, some gossip. I don’t recall ever hearing anything from your direction. I wondered why that was.”
“I worked for her,” Cassie said simply. “I don’t gossip about people I work for.”
Deanna lifted a brow, kept her eyes steady. “You don’t work for her anymore.”
“No.” Cassie’s voice cooled. “Ms. Reynolds, I know that the two of you had . . . a disagreement before she left. And I understand that you’d feel some hostility. But I’d rather you didn’t draw me into a discussion about Miss Perkins, personally or professionally.”
“Loyalty or discretion?”
“I’d like to think it’s both,” Cassie said stiffly.
“Good. You know I’m going to be doing a similar type of program. You may not repeat gossip, but you certainly can’t help but hear it around here, so you’d know that my contract is of short term. I may not get beyond the initial six months or ten affiliates.”
Cassie thawed a bit. “I’ve got some friends downstairs. The newsroom pool’s running in your favor about three to one.”
“That’s nice to know, but I imagine that’s a matter of loyalty as well. I need a secretary, Cassie. I’d like to hire someone who understands that kind of loyalty, one who knows how to be discreet as well as efficient.”
Cassie’s expression altered from polite interest to surprise. “Are you offering me a job?”
“I’m sure I won’t be able to pay you what Angela did, unless—no, damn it, until—we can make this thing fly. And you’ll probably have to put in some very long, tedious hours initially, but the job’s yours if you want it. I hope you’ll think about it.”
“Ms. Reynolds, you don’t know if I was in on what she did to you. If I helped set it up.”
“No, I don’t,” Deanna said calmly. “I don’t need to know. And I think, whether we work together or not, you should call me Deanna. I don’t intend to run a less efficient organization than Angela did, but I hope to run a more personal one.”
“I don’t have to think about it. I’ll take the job.”
“Good.” Deanna held out a hand. “We’ll start Monday morning. I hope I can get you a desk by then. Your first assignment’s going to be to get me a list of who Angela laid off, and who on it we can use.”
“Simon Grimsley would be on top of it. And Margaret Wilson from Research. And Denny Sprite, the assistant production manager.”
“I’ve got Simon’s number,” Deanna muttered, dragging out her address book to note down the other names.
“I can give you the others.”
When Deanna saw Cassie take out a thick book and flip it open, she laughed. “We’re going to be fine, Cassie. We’re going to be just fine.”
It was difficult for Deanna to believe that she was leaving the newsroom behind. Particularly since she was huddled in Editing reviewing a tape.
“How long is it now?” she asked.
Jeff Hyatt, in the editor’s chair, glanced at the digital clock on the console. “Minute fifty-five.”
“Hell, we’re still long. We need to slice another ten seconds. Run it back, Jeff.”
She leaned forward in her swivel chair, like a runner off the mark, and waited for him to cue it up. The report of a missing teenager reunited with her parents had to fit into its allotted time. Intellectually, Deanna knew it. Emotionally, she didn’t want to cut a second.
“Here.” Jeff tapped the monitor with one blunt, competent finger. “This bit of them walking around the backyard. You could lose it.”
“But it shows the emotion of the reunion. The way her parents have her between them, their arms linked.”
“It’s not news.” He shoved up his glasses and smiled apologetically. “It’s nice, though.”
“Nice,” she muttered under her breath.
“Anyway, you’ve got that together-again business in the interview portion. When they’re all sitting on the couch.”
“It’s good film,” Deanna muttered.
“All you need’s a rainbow arching around them.”
Deanna turned at Finn’s voice and scowled. “I didn’t have one handy.”
Despite her obvious annoyance, he stepped over, dropped his hands on her shoulders and finished watching the tape. “It has more impact without it, Deanna. You soften the interview and the emotion you’re after by having them take a stroll together. Besides, it’s news, not a movie-of-the-week.”
He was right, but it only made it harder to swallow. “Take it out, Jeff.”
While he ran tape, editing and marking time, she sat with her arms folded. It was going to be one of the last pieces she did for CBC News. It was a matter of ego, as well as pride, that made her want it perfect.
“I need to do the voice-over,” she said with a telling look at Finn.
“Pretend I’m not here,” he suggested.
When Jeff was set, she took a moment to study the script. Holding a stopwatch in one hand, she nodded, then began to read.
“A parent’s worst nightmare was resolved early this morning when sixteen-year-old Ruthanne Thompson, missing for eight days, returned home to her family in Dayton . . . .”
For the next several minutes, she forgot Finn as she and Jeff worked on perfecting the segment. At last, satisfied, she murmured a thanks to the editor and rose.
“Good piece,” Finn commented as he walked out of Editing with her. “Spare, solid and touching.”
“Touching?” She stopped to angle a look at him. “I didn’t think that counted with you.”
“It does if it’s news. I heard you’re moving upstairs next week.”
“You heard right.” She turned into the newsroom.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks—but you might want to hold off on that until after the first show.”
“I’ve got a feeling you’ll pull it off.”
“Funny, so do I. Up here.” She tapped her head. “It’s my stomach that doubts.”
“Maybe you’re just hungry.” Casually, he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “How about dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“You’re off the schedule at six. I looked. I’m clear until eight A.M., when I have to catch a plane for Kuwait.”
“Kuwait? What’s up there?”
“Rumblings.” He gave her hair a little tug. “Always rumblings. So how about a date, Kansas? Some spaghetti, some red wine. A little conversation?”
“I’ve sort of given up dating for a while.”
“Are you going to let that shrink control your life?”
“It has nothing to do with Marshall,” she said coolly. But, of course, it did. And because it did, she executed a quick about-face. “Listen, I like to eat, and I like Italian. Why don’t we just call it dinner?”
“I won’t argue over semantics. Why don’t I pick you up at seven? That’ll give you time to go home and change. The place I have in mind is casual.”
She was glad she’d taken him at his word. She’d been tempted to fuss, at least a little, then had settled on a roomy blouse and slacks that suited the midsummer mugginess. Comfort seemed to be the tone of the evening.
The place he’d chosen was a small, smoky café that smelled of garlic and toasting bread. There were cigarette burns in the checkered tablecloths and hacks in the wooden booth that would have played hell with panty hose.
A stubby candle stuck out of the mouth of the obligatory Chianti bottle. Finn shoved it to the side as they slid into a booth. “Trust me. It’s better than it looks.”
“It looks fine.” The place looked comforting. A woman didn’t have to be on her guard in a restaurant that looked like someone’s family kitchen.
He could see her relaxing, degree by degree. Perhaps that was why he’d brought her here, he thought. To a place where there was no hovering maître d’, no leather-bound wine list.
“Lambrusco okay with you?” he asked as a T-shirt-clad waitress approached their booth.
“That’s fine.”
“B
ring us a bottle, Janey, and some antipasto.”
