by Nora Roberts
nothing to worry about, Angela. You’re the best, and everyone knows it.”
“Damn right I’m the best. And when my first prime-time special hits during the November sweeps, I’ll start getting the respect I deserve.” Grimacing, she drained the champagne. It no longer tasted celebratory, but it thawed all the little ice pockets of fear. “I’ve already got the money.” She turned around, steadier. She could afford to be generous, couldn’t she? “We’ll let Deanna have her moment, and why not? She won’t last. Leave the tape, Lew.” Angela went back to her desk, settled down and smiled. “And ask my secretary to come in. I have a job for her.”
Alone, Angela swiveled in her chair to study the view of her new home. New York was going to do more than make her a star, she mused. It was going to make her an empire.
“Yes, Miss Perkins.”
“Cassie—damn it, Lorraine.” Spinning around, she glared at her new secretary. She hated breaking in new employees, being expected to remember their names, their faces. Everyone always expected too much from her. “Get me Beeker on the phone. If he can’t be reached, leave a message with his service. I want a call-back ASAP.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s all.” Angela glanced toward the champagne, then shook her head. Oh no, she wasn’t going to fall into that trap. She wasn’t her mother. She didn’t need liquor to get through the day. Never had. What she needed was action. Once she lit a fire under Beeker and had him digging deeper and harder for dirt on Deanna Reynolds, she’d have all the action she could handle.
PART TWO
“All fame is dangerous.”
Thomas Fuller
Chapter Twelve
“Cooked beneath a blazing sun, an enemy of rainfall, of plant life, of human beings, are the shifting sands of the Saudi desert.” Finn did his best not to squint into the camera as that merciless sun beat down on him. He wore an olive-drab T-shirt, khakis and a faded bush hat. “Sandstorms, unrelenting heat and mirages are common in this hostile environment. Into this world the forces of the United States have come to draw their line in the sand.
“It has been three months since the first men and women of the armed forces were deployed under Desert Shield. With the efficiency and ingenuity of the Yankee, these soldiers are adjusting to their new environment, or in some cases, adjusting their environment to suit them. A wooden box, a liner of Styrofoam and an air-conditioner blower.” Finn rested his hand on a wooden crate. “And a few industrious GIs have created a makeshift refrigerator to help combat the one-hundred-and-twenty-degree heat. And with boredom as canny an enemy as the climate, off-duty soldiers spend their time reading mail from home, trading the precious few newspapers that get through the censors and setting up lizard races. But the mails are slow, and the days are long. While parades and picnics back home celebrate Veterans Day, the men and women of Desert Shield work, and wait.
“For CBC this is Finn Riley, in Saudi Arabia.”
When the red light blinked off, Finn unhooked his sunglasses from his belt loop and slipped them on. Behind him was an F-15C Eagle and men and women in desert fatigues. “I could go for some potato salad and a brass band, Curt. How about you?”
His cameraman, whose ebony skin gleamed like polished marble with his coat of sweat and sun block, rolled his eyes to heaven. “My mama’s homemade lemonade. A gallon of it.”
“Cold beer.”
“Peach ice cream—and a long, slow kiss from Whitney Houston.”
“Stop, you’re killing me.” Finn took a deep drink of bottled water. It tasted metallic and overwarm, but it washed the grit out of his throat. “Let’s see what they’ll let us take pictures of, and we’ll try for some interviews.”
“They ain’t going to give us much,” Curt grumbled.
“We’ll take what we can.”
Hours later, in the relative comfort of a Saudi hotel, Finn stripped to the skin. The shower washed away the layers of sand and sweat and grit of two days and nights in the desert. He felt a sweet, almost romantic longing for the yeasty tang of an American brew. He settled for orange juice and stretched out on the bed, coolly naked, quietly exhausted. Eyes closed, he groped for the phone to begin the complicated and often frustrating process of calling the States.
The phone woke Deanna out of a dead sleep. Her first jumbled thought was that it was a wrong number again, probably the same idiot who had dragged her out of a soothing bath earlier, only to hang up without apology. Already cranky, she jiggled the phone off the hook.
“Reynolds.”
“Must be, what? Five-thirty in the morning there.” Finn kept his eyes closed and smiled at the husky sound of her voice. “Sorry.”
“Finn?” Shaking off sleep, Deanna pushed herself up in bed and reached for the light. “Where are you?”
“Enjoying the hospitality of our Saudi hosts. Did you have any watermelon today?”
“Excuse me?”
“Watermelon. The sun’s a bitch here, especially about ten in the morning. That’s when I started to have this fantasy about watermelon. Curt got me going, then the crew started torturing themselves. Snow cones, mint juleps, cold fried chicken.”
“Finn,” Deanna said slowly. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired.” He rubbed a hand over his face to pull himself back. “We spent a couple of days out in the desert. The food sucks, the heat’s worse and the fucking flies . . . I don’t want to think about the flies. I’ve been up for about thirty hours, Kansas. I’m a little punchy.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“Talk to me.”
“I’ve seen some of your reports,” she began. “The one on the hostages Hussein’s calling ‘guests’ was gripping. And the one from the air base in Saudi.”
“No, tell me what you’ve been doing.”
“We did a show today on obsessive shoppers. One guest stays up every night watching one of the shopping channels and ordering everything on the screen. His wife finally cut the cable when he bought a dozen electronic flea collars. They don’t have a dog.”
It made Finn laugh, as she’d hoped it would. “I got the tape you sent. It bounced around a little first, so it took a while. The crew and I watched it. You looked good.”
“I felt good. We’re getting picked up by another couple of stations in Indiana. Late afternoon. We’ll be going up against a monster soap, but who knows?”
“Now tell me you miss me.”
She didn’t answer right away, and caught herself wrapping the phone cord around and around her hand. “I suppose I do. Now and then.”
“How about now?”
“Yes.”
“When I get home, I want you to come with me up to my cabin.”
“Finn—”
“I want to teach you how to fish.”
“Oh?” A smile tugged at her mouth. “Really?”
“I don’t think I should get serious about a woman who doesn’t know one end of a rod from the other. Keep it in mind. I’ll be in touch.”
“All right. Finn?”
“Hmmm?”
She could tell he was nearly asleep. “I’ll, ah, send you another tape.”
“ ’Kay. See you.”
He managed to get the phone back on the hook before he started to snore.
The reports continued to come. The escalation of hostilities, the negotiations for the release of the hostages many feared would be used as human shields. The Paris summit, and the president’s Thanksgiving visit to U.S. troops. By the end of November, the UN had voted on Resolution 678. The use of force to expel Iraq from Kuwait was approved, with a deadline for Saddam of January fifteenth.
On the homefront there were yellow ribbons flying—from the tips of car antennae and porch banisters. They were mixed with holly and ivy as America prepared for Christmas, and for war.
“This toy piece will show not only what’s hot for kids for Christmas but what’s safe.” Deanna looked up from her notes and narrowed her eyes at Fran. “Are you okay?
”
“Sure.” With a grimace, Fran shifted her now-considerable bulk. “For someone who’s got what feels like a small pick-up truck sitting on her bladder, I’m dandy.”
“You should go home, put your feet up. You’re due in less than two months.”
“I’d go crazy at home. Besides, you’re the one who should be exhausted, schmoozing half the night at the charity dinner-dance.”
“It’s part of the job,” Deanna said absently. “And, as Loren pointed out, I made a number of contacts, and got some press.”
“Mmm. And about five hours’ sleep.” Fran fiddled with a toy rabbit that wiggled its ears and squeaked when she pressed its belly. “Do you think Big Ed would like this?”
Brow lifted, Deanna studied Fran’s belly, where “Big Ed,” as the baby was called, seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. “You already have two dozen stuffed animals in the nursery.”
“You started it with that two-foot teddy bear.” Setting the bunny aside, Fran reached among the toys scattered on the office floor and chose a combat-fatigued GI Joe. “Why the hell do they always want to play soldier?”
“That’s one of the questions we’ll ask our expert. Have you heard from Dave?”
Fran tried not to worry about her stepbrother, a National Guard officer who was in the Gulf. “Yeah. He got the box we sent over. The comic books were a big hit. Wow!” With a sound between a gasp and a laugh, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “Big Ed just kicked one through the posts.”
“Is Richard really going to buy the baby a Bears helmet?”
“Already has. Which reminds me, I want to make sure we get gender molding into this segment. How society, and parents, continue stereotypes by buying this kind of thing for boys”—she waved the GI Joe—“and this sort of thing for girls.” She nudged a Fisher-Price oven with her foot.
“Ballet shoes for girls, football cleats for boys.”
“Which leads to girls shaking pom-poms on the sidelines while boys make touchdowns.”
“Which,” Deanna continued, “leads to men making corporate decisions and women serving coffee.”
“God, am I going to screw this kid up?” Fran levered herself out of the chair. The fact that she waddled made her nervous pacing both comic and sweet. “I shouldn’t have done this. We should have practiced on a puppy first. I’m going to be responsible for another human being, and I haven’t even started a college fund.”
Over the past few weeks, Deanna had become used to Fran’s outbursts. She sat back and smiled. “Hormones bouncing again?”
“You bet. I’m going to go find Simon and check on last week’s ratings—and pretend I’m a normal, sane human being.”
“Then go home,” Deanna insisted. “Eat a bag of cookies and watch an old movie on cable.”
“Okay. I’ll send Jeff in to pick up the toys and move them down to the set.”
Alone, Deanna sat back and closed her eyes. It wasn’t only Fran who was on edge these days. The entire staff was running on nerves. In six weeks, Deanna’s Hour would either be re-signed with Delacort, or they would all be out of a job.
The ratings had been inching up, but was it enough? She knew she was putting everything she had into the show itself, and everything she could squeeze out into the public relations and press events Loren insisted on. But was that enough?
The trial run was almost over, and if Delacort decided to dump them . . .
Restless, she rose and turned to face the window. She wondered if Angela had ever stood there and worried, agonized over something as basic as a single ratings point. Had she felt the responsibility weigh so heavily on her shoulders—for the show, for the staff, for the advertisers? Is that why she’d become so hard?
Deanna rolled her tensed shoulders. It wouldn’t simply be her career crumbling if the show was axed, she thought. There were six other people who had their time and energy and, yes, their egos, invested. Six other people who had families, mortgages, car payments, dentist bills.
“Deanna?”
“Yes, Jeff. We need to get these toys down to the . . .” She trailed off as she turned and spotted a seven-foot plastic spruce. “Where in the world did you get that?”
“I, ah, liberated it from a storeroom.” Jeff stepped out from behind the tree. His cheeks were flushed from both nerves and exertion. His glasses slid slowly down the bridge of his nose. His boyishness was endearing. “I thought you might like it.”
Laughing, she examined the tree. It was pretty pathetic, with its bent plastic boughs and virulent green color no one would mistake for natural. She looked at Jeff’s grinning face, and laughed again. “It’s exactly what I need. Let’s put it in front of the window.”
“It looked kind of lonely down there.” Jeff centered it carefully in front of the wide pane. “I figured with some decorations . . .”
“Liberated.”
He shrugged. “There’s stuff in this building nobody’s used—or seen—for years. Some lights, some balls, it’ll look fine.”
“And plenty of yellow ribbons,” she said, thinking of Finn. “Thanks, Jeff.”
“Everything’s going to be okay, Deanna.” He put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a quick, shy squeeze. “Don’t worry so much.”
“You’re right.” She pressed her hand on top of his. “Absolutely right. Let’s get the rest of the crew in here and decorate this baby.”
Deanna worked throughout the holidays with the plastic tree glowing behind her. By juggling appointments and putting in three eighteen-hour days, she made time for a frantic, twenty-four-hour trip home over Christmas. She returned to Chicago’s bitter cold on the last plane on Boxing Day.
Loaded down with luggage, gifts and tins of cookies from Topeka, she unlocked her apartment. The first thing she saw was the plain white envelope on the rug, just inside. Uneasy, she set her bags aside. It didn’t surprise her to find a single sheet in the envelope, or to see the bold red type.
Merry Christmas, Deanna.
I love watching you every day.
I love watching you.
I love you.
Weird, she mused, but harmless considering some of the bizarre mail that had come her way since August. She stuffed the note in her pocket, and she’d barely flipped the lock back in place when a knock sounded on the other side of the door. She tugged off her wool cap with one hand, opened the door with the other.
“Marshall.”
His Burberry coat was neatly folded over his arm. “Deanna, hasn’t this gone on long enough? You haven’t answered any of my calls.”
“There’s nothing going on at all. Marshall, I just this minute got back into town. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m not in the mood for a civilized discussion.”
“If I can swallow my pride enough to come here, the least you can do is ask me in.”
“Your pride?” She felt her temper rise. A bad sign, she knew, when only a few words had been exchanged. “Fine. Come in.”
He glanced at her bags as he stepped through the door. “You went home for Christmas, then?”
“That’s right.”
He laid his coat over the back of a chair. “And your family’s well?”
“Hale and hearty, Marshall, and I’m not in the mood for small talk. If you have something to say, say it.”
“I don’t believe this is something we can resolve until we sit down and talk it through.” He gestured to the sofa. “Please.”
