"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."