Stay Tuned (10 page)

A load of DVDs landed on my desk Monday morning. I spent the first hour of the day going through them and had narrowed the candidates to three possibilities. There was a perky brunette from Albuquerque, a redhead from Meridian, Mississippi, and an exotic Hispanic woman now anchoring at a tiny station in South Florida.

I knocked on Drew’s door. The huge plasma screen in front of him blared with sound, as did the two smaller televisions flanking it. Intent on catching even the tiniest fragment of breaking news, Drew simultaneously watched CNN, MSNBC, and Fox with the intensity of a gambler betting his last dollar on a long-shot horse race.

After all, that’s what the news business is about. Every morning, the contest began to see which station could grab the biggest stories. Same challenge the next day, and the next. National news or local, the game was played the same way. And Drew played to win.

In his tenure as a reporter, Drew had crisscrossed the country, covering stories like Waco, Columbine, and the Oklahoma City bombing. He was brilliant, but his temper and tendency to micro-manage sent him tumbling down from the big markets instead of making a steady climb. Those who needlessly challenged him were chewed up and spit out. To top it off, there were rumors of five ex-wives and bouts with rehab.

But Macon was home for Drew. He had a family tree that dated back as far as the most esteemed Georgians could verify. That carried substantial weight in our smaller, tight-knit community—almost as much as his many political and social connections.

Beneath all of the bluster and anger, I knew he had a soft spot for producers. And he watched out for me. Which meant I looked out for him, too.

“What is it?” Drew asked, not bothering to look up. “Damn stock market analysts,” he continued, his back hunched like he was caught in a windstorm.

“Can you take a look at a few candidates?” I rattled the DVDs.

“Yeah, yeah.” After another minute, Drew pointed the remote at the loudest television, rubbed a hand on his head, and spun around. He did a double take. “Damn!”

His reaction caught me off guard. Did “damn” mean good or bad? Was he talking about my hair? Or maybe he was saying “damn” about the stock market and it wasn’t about me at all.

“Nice change,” he added for emphasis. He leaned back in his chair. “It suits you.”

I felt a tiny ripple of satisfaction.

Unlike other men, Drew was in tune with hair, makeup, and clothing trends, mostly because they affected ratings. Countless focus groups were devoted to dissecting an “audience friendly” appearance—the kind of look that makes men want to date you and women want to be your friend. Too much emphasis either way was bad for business, Drew explained. It was a delicate balance.

Alyssa had never quite carried off the girl-next-door look, he had joked. Now it didn’t matter if she was Miss Universe.

I handed over the DVDs. “Want to watch now?”

“Nah,” he waved a hand and shoved them into his briefcase. “I’ll take a look tonight.”

Drew, instead, started ranting about the buzz WSGA had generated from the on-air fight. He was particularly focused on the huge number of viewer phone calls, leading me to believe that the situation might not have been as devastating for WSGA as I first thought.

“Since Friday night, calls hit over the two hundred mark, counting my cell, work, and home phone. A few people actually found it amusing,” he shook his head.

This morning, after about twenty phone calls to Atlanta, he had convinced the corporate types everything was under control, despite the fact that Alyssa was threatening to sue the station while Tim’s attorney had requested that every station copy of the “incident” be handed over or destroyed. Any new developments were sure to warrant coverage in the
Telegraph
.

Drew snorted a laugh. “The whole thing ended up better than reality television.”

He had a point. Let’s face it;
Survivor
contestants who all got along and sang campfire songs together wouldn’t sell a lick of airtime. In essence, Alyssa and Tim had been voted off the island. Who was next?

The perplexed look on my face triggered Drew’s next comment.

“Don’t worry,” he comforted me. “No one else is getting fired.”

Whew.

“Any chance Alyssa’s coming back? Some of the guys said she’s been driving by the station.” I tried to make the questions sound nonchalant. Inside, I was quivering.

“Not a chance,” Drew shook his head, then pointed at me. “But watch your back. That girl’s crazy. We’ll get a restraining order if she doesn’t quit lurking around.”

I offered my boss a brave smile. “Okay.”

“Well, I do have some good news. It’s official that Rick Roberts
is
coming back,” Drew rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I talked him into it. He’ll be here soon.”

“That’s—”

“I know, I know,” Drew gloated. He rubbed his hands together in glee. “It’s great! I didn’t even have to throw in the country club membership.” He paused for dramatic effect and lowered his voice. “It seems the new Mrs. Roberts is driving him a little bonkers with all of her tennis lessons and shopping sprees.” Drew went on about the details of how much money she was spending, where they had traveled, and the inside scoop about her prescription medication.

“Drew, maybe I don’t need to know—”

“Anyway,” he said proudly, wrapping up his monologue, “I think he’ll actually be
saving
money by coming back to WSGA.” Drew stopped to shuffle through papers on his desk.

I took a quick breath. “Well, let me know what you think about the DVDs. We’ll probably get a few more tomorrow. I’m checking TV Jobs, too. And MediaLine.”

Drew nodded. “Hey, I’m not worried. You’ve got a good eye. Run your top candidates by Joe if you have a chance. We’ll find someone.”

“Thanks boss.”

Drew rubbed his forehead. “Someone stable. Without a criminal record.”

“Check.”

“Just remember, we need the real deal. Someone with class, with some style. That something special, right?”

“Got it.”

He pointed at me. “Anyone can sit behind the prompter and do the job.” He crossed his eyes and smothered a chuckle. “Well, anyone, except Alyssa.”

I pressed my lips together. I was not saying a word.

Not. One. Word.

“Hey, and don’t let me forget. We have to do something about Judd. He has another ‘issue.’” Drew made quotation marks with his fingers when he said the last word.

Our sports anchor, Judd Carol, had some personal challenges. We’d dealt with his over-eating by hiring a professional hypnotist; we’d handled his gambling addiction by sending him to a therapist who specialized in shock therapy.

Of course, the “we” usually meant “me” fixing the problem. Or trying to. But before I could ask for details, Drew had summoned the entire staff by loudspeaker to an urgent ratings meeting.

“What is it now?” I pressed him.

Drew covered his mouth with one hand and grimaced. “Coke.”

“What?”

“Shh,” he warned and turned his back to grab a folder.

That was Drew. Drop a bomb like that and call a meeting.

The staff filed in, and one of the reporters threw an admiring glance in my direction. “You look great!” she said. I smiled for the first time that morning, glanced down at the new clothes I was wearing and straightened up taller. Oh, right. The new me.

“Love the haircut,” she whispered. A few of the other girls nodded in agreement.

“Thanks,” I mouthed.

Drew stopped to survey the room then held up the latest viewer ratings book. “Folks, we have to fix this. We’re losing touch with our key audience. DMA ratings for women, twenty-five to fifty-four, have dropped two rating points from November and three points from February of last year. We’re still number one, but just barely.”

Assuming Alyssa and Tim were part of the problem, I was anxious to hear his solution.

The second hand on the wall clock ticked while he gathered his thoughts.

He whirled around, glaring at each of us in turn, and shouted, “Unacceptable, that’s what it is! Unacceptable!” He lowered his voice to a growl. “But I have a plan. Our viewers
will
believe in us again.” I almost expected an, ‘Amen.’

I’d bet he’d had his speech all worked out nights ago. But Drew was a master at sounding eloquent and off-the-cuff. The temperature of the room seemed to spike twenty degrees. All of a sudden, I was sweating. I imagined my makeup sliding off my face.

Drew ruffled papers. “Melissa. We’re making some adjustments for sweeps. The series you and what’s-his-name put together is a concern.”

What’s-his-name being Tim. Drew’s selective amnesia surfaced when someone pissed him off. As for the series, I’d expected a few last minute changes. Too long, too short, too many sound bites—Drew was bound to tweak something.

“
Get Out Alive!
is scrapped. We’re not running it.”

All eyes in the room landed on me. I flushed red and almost choked. I saw my life—or at least the last month of it—flash before my eyes. Adjustments I could deal with. Giving up the whole idea and starting over was ridiculous.

I focused my emotions and leveled my voice. “Could you explain why?” I did some quick addition. “Between shooting, writing, and editing, we’ve invested more than thirty hours so far. We have promos set to air
this week
. Besides, isn’t this the series that
corporate
came up with?”

It was a bold statement. I was teetering on the edge of Drew’s last nerve.

Everyone swiveled to stare at Drew. I didn’t know whether to cry or run out of the room. If my math was right, we had five days to pull off a new series, plus the weekend, provided I didn’t end up in jail for killing Drew first.

A knock on the door momentarily saved me from intentional homicide.

Drew cracked the door open an inch, and peeked out as though some deranged maniac was on the other side. Then, he laughed and shook hands with whoever was on the other side.

The whole room erupted into murmurs.
What was that all about? Is that Tim? Or Alyssa? What’s going on? How long is this going to take?
Joe and I exchanged a look across the room.

I waited, trying to control my worry by tugging at my earlobe. A flash of gold and diamond whizzed by my cheek.
Sugar!
Hesitating for a second, I tossed aside any shred of dignity, kneeled on the floor, and searched the carpeting for my lost earring. Crawling around, I wondered if anyone would miss me if I hid under Drew’s desk.

A glint of sunshine revealed the missing piece of jewelry inches away from the door. As I moved toward it, I heard the distinct creak of hinges opening further. I reached out my hand and plucked the earring from certain destruction as a size twelve Johnston & Murphy stepped forward.

Red-faced, on my hands and knees, I looked up as the shoe’s owner entered the office.

Drew followed, continuing his speech. “So, as I was saying. Melissa, I’ve got the replacement series all planned out. I’m calling it,
Changing Yourself, Changing Your Life
. We’ll use a dermatologist, a plastic surgeon…”

Drew’s voice trailed off as he saw me on the floor. His face flashed from mortification to confusion. I couldn’t have bounced up faster if I using a trampoline.

An amused Rick Roberts met me eyeball to eyeball. “Rick Roberts,” he said, reaching out a hand to steady me. I caught my breath.

“Nice to meet you.” I said, making my way back to my seat as gracefully as possible.

Drew offered his seat to Rick, who, with one more look in my direction, sat down and made himself quite at home. While Drew checked the ratings book and gathered his thoughts, Rick picked up paper clip after paper clip from Drew’s desk and bent them out of shape.

I stifled a laugh. Rick winked in my direction. He was well put together, I noted, and had a devilishly handsome smile. No wonder both Mrs. Roberts had found him endearing.

Drew cleared his throat and began to pace the room. “Back to the task at hand, folks,” he said. “As I was explaining to Rick, viewers want youth and beauty. It’s a movement away from so much negativity and hard news.”

Ouch.
Like my
Get Out Alive!
series.

The room was suddenly silent. Stifling. Everyone nodded in unison, like zombies.

I bit my lip and looked around. Were we in
The Twilight Zone
? Alfred Hitchcock could come back from the dead anytime now. I glanced around and caught Joe’s eye. He shrugged. It was his way of saying, ‘Just go along with it.’

Drew usually wanted last minute changes, but he’d never scrapped a series completely. Then again, corporate was probably ramping up the pressure. The dip in ratings meant hundreds of thousands of advertising dollars lost, enough to make anyone break into a cold sweat.

So, in the search for a quick fix, or something to blame it on, Drew had probably found some online research or an article predicting a new trend toward the softer side of journalism. Coupled with the Alyssa-Tim incident, Drew was feeling some stress. Okay, probably a lot of stress. I
could
live with that. I
understood
that. What I couldn’t live with was all of that hard work down the drain. The trick was getting my boss to see that before it was too late.

“This new series should be a snap,” Drew added. “We’ll help viewers get their youth and beauty back. I’ve sketched out a promo. Melissa, look at it before the six, okay?”

Uh-oh. “Drew?” I desperately tried to gather my thoughts into a cohesive sentence that would explain why his idea was completely awful and off base.

“Oh, and Melissa,” Drew checked the calendar. “You and Rick clear your calendars for the Boys and Girls Clubs of Central Georgia Gala, okay? Black tie, gown, you know the drill.”

I looked at Drew blankly.

“You do have a…dress, don’t you?” he asked me, brows knitted together like he was asking
if I was sure
I was wearing clean underwear.

“Of course,” I said quickly, trying to visualize what dust-covered eighties frock I could unearth from the back of my closet. Nothing came to mind.

“You don’t
have
to go,” Drew added hastily, through obviously not convinced. “It would be great if you could, but Rick can handle it alone.”

Rick nodded in agreement. The same Rick, who I was sure, had several tuxedos. Bought and paid for, not rented.

“It’s no problem,” I reassured them both. “I
want
to be there.”

Drew looked relieved. “Then it’s settled.” One of several gadgets on his desk started vibrating and flashing. “Got to run, people. Another meeting.” Drew waved a hand in my direction. “Melissa and Rick, one more minute, please.” The office was empty in seconds.

Drew stuffed his briefcase full and slung it over his shoulder, wincing at the weight.

I rolled the loose earring between my fingers. I needed to explain my issues with the format changes to Drew, and fast—without him freaking out.

Drew slapped Rick on the back. “Sorry to run out on your first day.”

I faked a cough and frowned.

“About the series,” Rick cut in. “I like appealing to our viewers’ softer side. It’s on the right track with industry trends.” He looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “But such a drastic change would be, well…too radical.”

Drew cocked his head and wrinkled his forehead.

As if he were reading my mind, Rick continued, “We have to be careful with viewers. We don’t want them tuning into WSGA only to find they’re watching an entirely different news format.”

Drew was listening with a stern expression.

“For now,
Get Out Alive!
fits who we are,” Rick explained. You can always push the series back a week or so. Give the viewers time to get used seeing me. And Melissa.”

“Whomever the new female anchor ends up being,” I cut in awkwardly.

Neither man answered me.

“So,” Rick pulled Drew aside. “Let’s keep the idea about recapturing youth and work on it for the summer. I’ll make sure it gets developed with the time and attention it deserves.”

Damn, he was good. Regardless of what Drew decided, Rick had already scored points in my book. He came to my rescue. A refreshing change from the other man in my life.

Drew blew out a big breath of air. I held mine. As he walked out the door, he tossed Rick a backward glance. “Okay. Make it happen.”

Nice. “Wait, Drew,” I sprinted after him. “What about Judd’s ‘issue’?”

“Get him to switch to Diet. Or water.” Drew kept walking. “He’s going to gain fifty pounds chugging two-liters of Coke before every show. And the belching…”

And I thought we had a real crisis.

“Hey, I’ve got it! Melissa, do this. Pour the caffeine-free diet stuff into the Coke bottles. He’ll never know.”

That, I had to admit, was genius.