“Listen, Franko,” I begin. “Is it about money? What did New York offer you? What if we can-”
“Charlotte,” he says, holding up a hand. “Stop. I can tell you’re involved in one of those conversations you have with yourself. I have no idea what you and you are talking about. Whatever it is, I promise we can all discuss it later.” He looks at Jerry. “Glass of champagne, please. And one for my pessimistic pal here.”
I knew it.
“Don’t call me Charlotte if you’ve got bad news,” I instruct. “And I’m not celebrating anything until I decide there’s something to celebrate. If you and Stephen are moving out of town,” I say though a sip of my red wine, “that ain’t something I’m celebrating.”
Franklin pushes a flute of champagne toward me and holds his up to make a toast.
I sigh, already defeated. If he and Stephen are happy, I guess I should be happy, too. I put down my wineglass and lift the slender one Franklin’s forcing on me. “What?” I ask, expecting the worst.
“Story of a lifetime,” Franklin says, looking pleased with himself. “You know how you’ve been bugging the Constitutional Justice Project to let us in on one of their wrongful conviction cases? Do it up big, inside info, evidence, interviews?”
“Of course,” I reply. A tentative smidge of hope emerges. Maybe this will be a good surprise after all. “And so…”
“Well, Brenda Starr, apparently your phone calls convinced ’em. Remember Deadly Dorie? Notorious husband-murdering Swampscott mom? Up the river for life?”
“Yeah, sure.” I nod. “Three, four years ago? Bashed her husband with an iron or something, then pushed him down the stairs. But she confessed, right?”
“Wrong,” Franklin says. “Well, she did confess, but tonight we got a call from the CJP. We’re getting the inside dope. She’s innocent. They’ve got new evidence proving she didn’t do it. And it’s all ours. Exclusive. They want you, my Emmy-winning friend, to do the story that gets her out of prison.”
TWO GLASSES OF CHAMPAGNE LATER, I high-five the air as I trudge up the last flight of stairs to my apartment, the third floor of a restored old Mount Vernon Square brownstone on the flat of Beacon Hill. My live shot was a success, we have our ratings story, and we’re going to get an innocent person out of prison. Not bad for one day.
I can hear Botox meowing as I unlock the door. She curls her tail through my legs as I enter, purring for attention. I reach down to pet her sleek calico fur and see, as I predicted, she’s made a little shredded paper nest out of the mail again. That’s to punish me for coming home so late.
“We’ve got a hot one, Toxie,” I tell her. I dump my purse and tote bag onto the dining room table, pushing aside a pile of unread copies of Vogue and The New Yorker, and hang my black suit jacket on the back of a chair. I wonder, for the millionth time, why I spent so much money on antique dining room furniture I only employ as a magazine depository and an extra closet. I glance around my place, just reassuring myself everything’s where it should be. Which of course it is. The navy leather couch, plump taupe-and-white upholstered chairs, elegant Oriental rugs. Splurgy curtains hang over a curving bay window that, if you look in just the right direction, reveals a snippet of the Charles River. I do love it, but I’m hardly ever in it.
“We’ve got a hot one, Dad.” I salute the framed photos on my wall-covering family gallery as I head down the hall. Dad always loved a good story and I wish he were here to hash this one over.
The message light on my bedroom phone is blinking red. I push the playback button, then flip my black leather sling-backs into the closet, and twist my arms around to unzip my slim black silk skirt. I stop mid-zip as I hear the message. I’ve known Josh for, what, eight months? But still, just hearing the warmth in his voice feels like an embrace. “Hi sweets,” I say to the phone. My skirt drops, forgotten, to the floor.
“Caught you on the news,” the message continues. “How’d that happen? I thought you were with your mother. Anyway, you looked hot. But then…” His voice gets softer. “You know I always think you look hot.” I can picture his hazel eyes giving that full-of-meaning twinkle, his unruly pepper-and-salt hair falling out of place. The moment I first saw him I thought “Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch,” and I still think so. A sexy Atticus. Atticus with abs. Atticus with…
“Shall I make this an obscene call?” he continues. Now he’s using what I secretly call his “Charlie voice,” making me deeply wish we were together tonight. “Ask if you’re wearing that little black lace number? Okay, no. But listen, it would be nice if we could talk about it in person, wouldn’t it? So, sweets, dinner Thursday, right? We’ll hit Legal Seafoods or something, since Penny’s now informed me she’s a ‘fishatarian.’”
There’s a pause, and I hear him sigh. “She’s off in her room now, still wide-awake, says she has to ‘talk’ with Dickens. Her stuffed dog, not the author.” Another sigh. “Anyway, I, uh, miss you. Talk to you tomorrow.”
The message clicks off, but his voice still hangs in the air. My darling Josh. Though I’ve never called him that out loud. I sigh, consider clicking my wilted skirt onto a hanger, then toss it into the dry clean pile.
Be careful what you wish for, my mother used to warn. As a little girl I’d always wondered why wishing was so dangerous. Now, I admit, I’m wishing for a future with Josh. Which means a future with his little girl. Which means, I’d suddenly be an English professor’s wife and somebody’s mom. Be careful what you wish for. Maybe Mother was right again.
I throw on my favorite old Rolling Stones T-shirt, and pad off to brush my teeth, Botox trailing behind me. Well, one thing for sure. If I’m ever somebody’s mom, I’m sure as hell not going to tell my daughter she needs a face-lift.
CHAPTER 3
“I have no idea what you’re worried about,” I say, giving the elevator button another jab for punctuation. The lobby of the office building is chilly and marbleized, and people with briefcases and scowls bustle past us, intent on their own destinations. Our destination is thirty-one floors up. “Of course she’ll do the interview, Franko. If Dorinda Keeler Sweeney wants to be a free woman again, why wouldn’t she?” I give the button another poke. “Come on,” I implore it.
There’s a lot to learn in the next few hours. And tonight there’s dinner with my darling Josh. And Penny, the newly minted fishatarian.
“The elevator is not going to arrive more quickly no matter how many times you push that button, Charlotte,” Franklin instructs, setting his cordovan leather briefcase on the floor. “And as for Dorie, I hope you’re right. If we get her to talk on camera, the story is blockbuster. Without her interview…well, let’s just say our brand new consultant from the Coast is not going to be too happy.”
I pause, mid-push. “You told her? You already told Susannah we’re researching this story?” We still have a lot of digging to do, and I never like to promise anything until I’m sure it’s a cinch. That way you don’t disappoint people with bad news, you only make them happy with good news.
Franklin gives his briefcase a little kick, looking crestfallen. He runs a finger around the neck of his starched oxford shirt.
“Well, she cornered me in the control room last night. Asked me if we had a July sweeps story yet. It was fun to be able to say yes.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I reassure him. Probably fine. Maybe fine. I just don’t want to be the one to inform Susannah Smith-Bagley-hired-gun ratings guru and so-called news doctor just assigned to “young up” Channel 3’s image and snag more viewers-that our big story fell through.