Okay, statistics guys. Maybe you’re on to something. But I’m not going down without giving it my best shot. And maybe my dreams are changing.
“Drive time to New York is only about three hours,” I say, testing this prospect. I’m still clutching Josh’s hand. “If I drive fast. And you know I do. I could commute, live here on weekends, New York during the week. When school’s back in session, your schedule is just as crazy as mine. It would hardly be different from the way it is now.”
Josh picks up the box of cake from the floor and hands it to me. “We’d better go in,” he says.
The bluestone walkway to the front door is lined with graying piles of shoveled snow. We leave footprints in the newly fallen white. Through the front curtains, I see Annie’s gauzy image and the flicker of the television.
“It’s more like four hours of drive time,” Josh says. “But we’ll do what we have to do.”
“Honey, I-” I see something. A piece of paper taped to the glass of the storm door.
Josh gets there first. In two more steps, I see the message, too.
I recognize Penny’s artwork. Nine-year-old primitive, but instantly understandable. A bride, billowing veil and extravagant skirt. She’s holding hands with the top-hatted groom. Next to the Crayola couple, a beaming flower girl (or maybe junior bridesmaid), enormous pink dress, masses of curlicues around her skirt. And scattered across the page, dozens of red hearts, flying through the awkward drawing like happy butterflies.
“Looks like the votes are in,” Josh says. He snaps down the drawing with one hand and reaches toward the doorknob with the other. “From Penny, at least.”
And from me, too, I want to say. I know our future is together. I’m just not sure how. Everything good is happening at the same time.
One hand still on the knob, Josh turns to me, his face softening as he holds up the drawing. “She’s never been so happy. I’ve never been so happy. So, there’s a bump in the road. And I’m sure there’ll be more. But we’ll ride them out, sweetheart. Together.”
I hold up the boxes. “Piece of cake,” I say.
I hope I’m right.
Chapter Four
“If he’s such a hotshot, why isn’t he still in Beirut, or wherever he was? Whoa, look at me. Even after Max and Molly, I still can’t believe this. This is like-three basketballs’ worth of baby.”
Maysie takes a sip of her morning tea, standing sideways in front of the mirror of the fourth-floor ladies’ room. She’s scrutinizing her alarmingly pregnant profile and chattering nonstop, as usual. Just back late last night from covering Super Bowl preparations in Dallas and soon to give birth to her third child, she’s the only woman who works in Channel 3’s all-sports radio station, so she’s been able to commandeer the fourth-floor ladies’ room as her exclusive salon. It’s also a private spot where we can share our scoops without fear of interruption. And this morning I’ve got the biggest one yet.
“Mays?”
“And you’re going out on these undercover shoots with him? Are you sure you can trust him? I mean, like, do you know whether he got fired? Or flipped out? Or some unimaginably hideous other thing that he’s keeping a big secret? Somehow? On the other hand, he’s truly hot. Those cheekbones alone…” She eyes me appraisingly. “Think he’s single?”
I’m standing with my hands behind my back, leaning against the door, carefully hiding my ring. Maysie and Matthew Green are Mr. and Mrs. Suburban Married Bliss, and for years, Mays has indefatigably analyzed every available single man for what she calls his “Charlie potential.” Margaret Isobel DeRosiers Green has been my cheerleader and confidante through a succession of unsuitable suitors who turned out to be either too attracted to my success or too intimidated by it. When Bride’s Magazine started appearing in my mail a few months ago, it could only have come from Mom or Maysie. Maysie confessed. She’s a top-notch reporter, tough and knowledgeable as any guy in the sports trenches. But I’m about to spring some real breaking news. As soon as she stops talking.
“Mays?”
“Still, why would he give up the network to come to Boston and work with you?” She’s tucking her brown hair into the usual ponytail and yanking on a Celtics cap. “No offense, Brenda, but I mean, who wouldn’t want to work at the network if they could? And hey, you’re still guest-hosting my Wixie show, right?”
Brenda Starr, the glam comic-strip reporter who never gets old. The nickname always bugs me, since I’m a real-life reporter whose aging is all too apparent. Still, Mays is just being affectionate. I wonder what she’d say about Kevin’s network offer. I wish I could ask her.
“Mays,” I say, stepping into the room. “We’ve gotta go on this shoot in about three minutes. I have no idea about J.T. Shaw. Maybe he’s secretly some kind of ax murderer, okay? I’ll keep a lookout for an ax. Yes, I’m doing your radio show. Josh had WWXI on in the car just the other night. But listen-”
“Gotta love radio,” she says. “Don’t even have to comb your hair and lipstick is optional. And I told you they’re paying, right? Not much, though, kiddo. Probably enough for a new pair of shoes, the way they’re chintzing out these days. But thanks, Brenda. Soon as little Maddee or Malcolm arrives, you take over the microphone.”
Time’s up. Franklin and J.T. are waiting. I’ve never kept a secret from Maysie before.
I hold out my left hand.
And I don’t say a word.
Her scream echoes down the hall as I head out the door.
“Can you hear me now?” Franklin’s voice is muffled. He’s walking across Route 1, the so-called Auto Mile, headed for one of the many car dealers lining this section of the highway. We’re talking by cell phone, making sure we’re connected.
My laptop and I are stashed in the wayback of our “undercover car,” the unmarked black SUV we use for stakeouts and surveillance. The one-way windows are tinted as dark as they can be and still pass state inspection. I can see out perfectly from my vantage point in the McDonald’s parking lot, but no one can see in.
This is the annoying part about being recognizable. I can barely go undercover anymore, around Boston at least, unless I’m deeply in disguise. So we’ve devised a scheme where I can stay hidden while Franklin and J.T. act as my eyes and ears.
“Ten-four, gotcha. I hear you loud and clear.” Phone clamped to my shoulder, I twist out of my hunter-green down vest and fold it against the back of the front seat as a makeshift headrest. No telling how long this is going to take. My boots are off, too, and my legs are stretched out the length of the back compartment, my black wool pants already attracting a coating of carpet lint. I’ll have to change clothes before the Bexter party tonight. But now I’ve got my computer on my lap. Latte in the cup-holder. A pretty good view out the back window.
Red-white-and-blue-striped banners flutter across a block-long used-car lot. The mammoth sign on the flat-roofed showroom behind them proclaims Miracle Motors. Lines of glossy vehicles with grease-pencil prices scrawled on the windows glisten in multicolored rows. Towering above, on a two-story metal contraption, a bright yellow minivan rotates like the car lot’s own moon. On its windshield: Take me Home-I’m Your New Honey.
Just as Franklin walks onto the lot, J.T. pulls in, driving his dark blue Audi. Right on schedule. J.T. emerges in a burnished leather jacket, black jeans and black turtleneck. He looks like a walking American Express gold card. Franklin, sacrificing style for the benefit of the story, wears a too-big Celtics hoodie he snagged from the sports department and some garish basketball shoes.