I’d waited, staring out my window, waited until I saw his pale blue Volvo pull up under the streetlight. Watched him, holding my breath, as he opened the car door, got out, walked to my front door. For the brief moment he was out of sight, I know my heart stopped beating.
Then his footsteps, running up the carpeted stairs. His key in the lock. And then he was inside and I was melting into his arms, protected, relieved, safe.
And now. He’s angry. After almost a year together, I’ve seen him tired, almost drunk, in bed with a fever, bored, passionate, cheering for the Red Sox, playing Twister with Penny. I’ve seen him annoyed, suspicious, and briefly unhappy. But I’ve never seen him this angry.
“If you don’t call the police,” Josh says, unwrapping his arm from around my shoulders and leaving me, longing, on my midnight-blue leather couch, “you’re simply allowing yourself to be in danger. That’s not ‘intrepid tough reporter.’ That’s absurd.”
He goes to the bay window overlooking Mt. Vernon Square, and pulls aside the delicate oatmeal muslin curtain. “You were planning to notify the cops when-whoever it was-was still on the phone, correct?”
He’s holding the curtain open and facing out. Directing his questions to the window. “So what’s the difference with calling them now?” His voice is arch, critical. The voice I’ve heard him use on the phone to Victoria.
I’m simmering a bit myself. Shouldn’t he be comforting me? Isn’t this the part where Prince Charming is supposed to draw his sword and protect me from evil-doers? Why do I have to defend myself and my actions? I’m the one who, apparently, just got threatened. I don’t need Josh’s advice. I don’t need him to tell me what to do. I just need a reliable friend.
But maybe he needs something, too. Coming up behind him, I prop my chin on his shoulder. “I’m so glad you came over, sweetheart. I must say I had a few freaked-out moments. And I wasn’t happy about going outside just then, so thank you for coming over. You’re right, I was going to call the cops when the guy was on the phone.
“But now,” I step back, turn his shoulder so he’s facing me and take both his hands. I try a tentative smile. “But now, what could they do? Besides, if an investigative reporter gets flummoxed by a crank call-well, I’ve handled worse. Right? I’ve gotten dozens over the years. Nothing has ever come of them. It just means I’m on the right track. Of whatever it is. And that’s a good thing. Right? Listen, I promise I’ll tell the news director about it tomorrow. Kevin can notify the cops if he wants. Right?”
Josh is silent, so maybe I’m succeeding.
“And now you’re here,” I continue, “and now it’s fine, and now let’s finish our wine and maybe even finish the evening we were supposed to have when we were so rudely interrupted. This morning, you were saying?”
I scan his face, gauging my attempts at reconciliation.
“The last time you had a ‘good story,’ you were chased down the interstate by murdering thugs,” Josh replies, ignoring my question. His voice is cold. “Then held at gunpoint. Twice. A ‘good story’ almost got your own mother killed, just two months ago, and now-”
“Well, no, that’s not quite accurate.” I take a step back, and I can feel a frown creasing my forehead.
“It is accurate.” Josh shrugs, then looks down, slowly shaking his head. “I know you’re devoted to your job. And getting the bad guys, as you always say. And that’s admirable. And scoring yet another Emmy.” He looks back up at me. “But if someone is calling you at home, threatening you, how can I protect you? How can I protect any of us? And you’re calling it a good thing?”
“Well, in TV news, you know, ‘good’ is kind of relative, and-”
“Let me finish. If we’re a team? You and me and Penny? You can’t be putting us all in danger. If they know where you are, they’d know where she is.”
“But they’re not going to-”
“Who are ‘they’?” Josh says. “You have no idea what ‘they’ would or wouldn’t do, because you have no idea who ‘they’ are. And for you to just dismiss a threatening phone call, not even report it to police, seems irresponsible.”
Josh steps away from the window. I see him eyeing the front door.
He’s going to bolt? Without even having a real conversation?
“Honey?” Then I stop. He’s displeased because I’m not doing what he says? I’m not one of his errant students, a kid who disobeyed orders or passed notes in class or whispered or cheated. I’ve been fine on my own for all these years. Which used to worry me. Now I see why being on my own might have been much, much easier. But do I want to be on my own anymore?
“Honey?” I say again. I’m teetering on angry, but trying to soften my voice. “Maybe we should really talk about this. Not fight. I mean, I give my opinion, then you give yours. And we discuss it. But if I give my opinion, and then you say I’m wrong, that’s not a discussion. You know?”
“It’s not just about calling the police,” Josh says, ignoring my question. “Covering that plane crash was more important to you than coming home. To me. To Penny. She relies on you now. Her mother left us. She chose her job. And now, you-”
“I wasn’t choosing my job in Baltimore,” I interrupt. My hands are on my hips. I didn’t decide to put them there. “I chose it twenty-five years ago.”
Botox pads into the room, then stops. She eyes us, her tail waving. She hops onto the couch and begins daintily licking a paw. As if the entire world wasn’t about to fall apart.
“I see,” Josh says. In three controlled paces, he’s in the dining room. He yanks his leather jacket from the back of a mahogany chair, thumbs it over one shoulder and marches toward the front door.
“Josh?” I say. My hands drop to my sides. My chest turns to ice and my eyes swim with tears of indecision. What do I do? What do people do? People disagree, don’t they? Sometimes?
“Let’s talk tomorrow,” he says. In a voice I’ve never heard.
“Whatever,” I say. In a voice I’ve never heard.
The front door opens. And closes. And Josh is gone.
I’ve lost my luggage. That I can handle. But now, what if I’ve lost the love of my life?
Chapter Five
My mother is going to kill me. Maysie will be so sad. They’re both happily married. Maysie about to have kid number three. I’m apparently the only one who is unable to balance my personal life with my professional life. Mom’s twenty years of fears and warnings are now confirmed. I’m raggedy and raw this morning, and my eyes sting whenever I think about Josh and Penny, which is all the time. I can’t even imagine how Josh will explain to her what happened. I can’t really explain it myself. I yank myself back into the real world. I can always count on work. And Franklin. Right. He and Stephen are also in a committed and fulfilling relationship. I’m the only loser.
A swirl of coffee-swilling subway commuters bustles around us as we stand on the sidewalk in the midst of the Government Center Station crowd. Our destination this morning is the curved stone facade of Two Center Plaza, the Boston office of the FBI. We’ve got ten minutes until the meeting.
“The purse party’s tomorrow, out in Great Barrington,” Franklin says. “Four in the afternoon, the voicemail message said. Like a tea party, I guess. Only without the tea. And with contraband.” Franklin’s eyeing a little map on his latest phone gizmo. “GB’s about a three-hour drive from here.”
“They certainly called back quickly,” I say. I’d left our undercover phone number on Regine’s Designer Doubles Web site just yesterday. It’s our private line, not hooked in to the Channel 3 phone system, and it has caller ID blocking. We give it out whenever we need to stay anonymous.
Franklin and I ignore the crosswalk and scuttle through the middle of Cambridge Street traffic. “But why not, I guess, when it’s all about the money,” I continue. “So here’s the plan. You put together the hidden camera equipment today. Tomorrow I’ll hop on the Turnpike and pay a visit to the purse ladies. I’ll come back with some knockout video and some knockout evidence.”