“Pssst.” Say he’s thinking of buying it in a used-car lot.
This time Franklin’s look verges on exasperated. Then as he reads the note, he gives me a thumbs-up.
“Yes, he’s shopping for cars, you know. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.” Franklin puts a hand to his throat, mimes gagging. This part of journalism often includes a bit of theater. It’s worth it for a good story.
And this might be a great one. There could be millions of unrepaired recalls in used-car lots. Like I said, time bombs, waiting to endanger unwitting drivers and their families. We have to find those cars. Warn people.
Get specifics, I write.
“You know what,” Franklin says, sitting up a little straighter. I can hear his voice hardening. “You must have records of this, I’m sure. Instead of spending time looking for my viewer’s request, why don’t you send us the records for the past three years. All the cars that have been recalled but not repaired. By date, by manufacturer and by model type and year. We’d prefer to have the data sent electronically, not on paper.”
This should all be public information. I hold it up, and then put it down. It’s outrageous! I scrawl in double-size letters. I hold up my instructions again. “Pssst.”
Franklin’s glare could curl my hair, if it weren’t already ridiculously curly. He swivels his chair away, all drama, putting his back to me and covering his ear with his free hand.
An e-mail pings into view. It’s from Kevin O’Bannon. Cue the suspense music.
Come to my office. ASAP. Confidential.
Music up full. I glance at Franklin, who’s still deep into negotiations.
A summons to the news director’s office. A summons I’m not supposed to discuss. And what could be confidential? In an instant, my brain catalogs my recent actions. Do they think I’m taking too many pencils from the mail room? Have they found all the department store orders on my computer? Long-distance calls to my mother in Chicago? E-mails from wedding caterers? Maybe I won’t have to worry about balancing job and Bexter intrigue. Maybe I won’t have a job.
“Pssst.”
Franklin turns, wary, narrowing his eyes.
I give him my brightest smile and point down the hall toward the bathroom.
He flutters a wave and turns back to his call. I head into territory unknown.
“Have a seat,” Kevin says, waving me to his navy-and-burgundy tweed couch. He crosses to the office door. And closes it.
I sit. I worry. Something major is about to happen. Kevin’s door always stays open.
Half of the news director’s attention is always tuned to the clamor of pagers, beepers, Nextels and police radios buzzing and squawking at the four-person assignment desk just outside his office. If Kevin closes his door, he closes out the rest of the world. And news directors can’t afford to do that. Unless it’s something really-I don’t have words for how big it has to be.
Kevin sits down beside me. Unheard of. The walls close in as I struggle to predict the future. Whatever he’s going to tell me has got to be life changing. For someone. But what if it’s not me? What if it’s Kevin’s life that’s changing? Maybe he’s dying?
No.
Maybe he’s quitting.
My fear evaporates as my instinct kicks in. Sometimes I just know things. And I’ve learned to trust those times.
Kevin is quitting. It’s not my job at Channel 3 that’s ending. It’s his.
Maybe.
I shift around to face him, trying to organize my legs and choose an expression.
Kevin adjusts his sleek tie of the day, this one covered with the tiniest of greyhounds, nose to tail. The greyhounds match his perfectly tailored gray pin-striped suit. Which matches his graying but salon-sleek buzz cut.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Charlie.” Kevin stops. Clears his throat. “Bottom line. Big picture. I’ve been offered a new job. In market one. New York.”
I flutter a hand to my chest, then reach out to touch his arm. He’s quitting. I knew it. “Well, that’s-congratulations, Kev-”
“And that’s not all,” Kevin continues, ignoring my reaction. “I’ll be helming the news division of a new cable network. It’ll be the antithesis of everything that’s now on local TV. It’ll be all journalism, all the time. The depth of public TV, the production values of MTV, the nose for news of Murrow. No cute titles. No more pandering feature stories about puppies and pandas.”
“News nirvana, sounds like,” I say, smiling. “Really, Kevin, congratulations. We’ll miss you. I haven’t heard of this, though. What’s it called?”
“No name yet. Rollout’s not till May. This point, it’s all confidential.” Kevin raises an eyebrow, conspiratorial. “I trust you, Charlie, as always, to protect your source. And keep this news to yourself. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, of course, I-of course.” My brain is churning, projecting my own future. The average life span of a local news director is about eighteen months. Kevin lasted a bit longer than most. Who’ll be my new boss? A man? A woman? Someone better? Worse? I’ll certainly have to prove myself all over again. And that makes me suddenly weary of the endless game. Maybe I should quit, too. Be a wife and a mother. Be my own boss. I steal a comforting glance at my ring, twist the stone to the back so Kevin doesn’t notice it yet. Maybe this is a sign. No more TV news for me. Maybe it is my life that’s changing.
Kevin’s up from the couch, headed back to his desk. He turns, leaning against the blond wood.
In the silence, I hear the electronic hum from the bank of television monitors flickering silently on his floor-to-ceiling shelves. The muted buzz of the newsroom.
“Charlie? I want you to come with me. Move to the Big Apple. Be my senior investigative reporter. It’s the big dance, kiddo. And I’m your ticket to the job of a lifetime.”
New York. Network television. Senior investigative reporter. As good as it gets.
The diamond ring on my finger suddenly weighs a million pounds.
I trudge up the two flights of stairs leading back to my office. My dreams have just come true. Journalism prayers answered. And yet, it would all be so much easier if I could go hide under my desk. Job of a lifetime, huh? Just when I thought I had my lifetime in order.
I promised Kevin I would give him my answer as soon as the February book is over. Yes. Or no. Stay. Or go.
I trudge a few more steps, regretting my cantilevered heels, yearning for coffee. I can’t discuss this with Franklin, since I’ve been ordered not to tell him about it. And that’s not really fair, since if I move to New York, his job will also change. And he should have some time to plan his own future.
I also can’t tell Franklin about the Bexter phone calls. I can’t tell Kevin, either. And that’s not really fair, since kids might be in danger.
How many secrets can one person have?
I shake my head, focusing. I don’t have to decide anything right now. Franklin will think I was in the bathroom and won’t ask any questions. Tonight at dinner, I can pump Josh for more information about Bexter.
When I tell Josh about the New York offer, he’ll-
I stop, hand clutching the banister, three steps from the top.
Kevin ordered me not to tell anyone. And I agreed. Does “anyone” mean Josh?
“You’ve got to love valet parking,” I say, sliding out into the snowy night. A navy-jacketed doorman, umbrella popped, is waiting to shelter us to the entrance of the Paramount Hotel. Huge marble lions, sphinxlike, stand sentinel in front of cut-glass and polished-brass revolving doors. Inside is old-world Boston-chandeliers and brocade settees and gold braid and burnished oak paneling, budget-shattering bouquets towering on curvy antique tables. The city’s most elegant place for a wedding. I’d confided the possibility to my mother, who, for perhaps the first time in our lives, agreed I might have a good idea.