Stay Tuned (9 page)

At home, I added a few ideas to my grand re-invention plan. Joe would help, I assured myself. He was on my side. I dialed his number.

His gravelly voice answered on the third ring.

“It’s Melissa. Sorry to bother you on a weekend.”

“Hey, aren’t you off today?” Joe lectured. “That means not thinking about work—”

“I know, I know. Can’t help it,” I protested. “I have a big favor to ask.”

“Anything for you, dear.”

“All righty.” I paused, and then let the words spill out. “I’m coming into the station to look at some demo DVDs, that is, if Drew didn’t throw all of them away. I have to try and find some anchor candidates.”

Joe gave an, “Mhm,” and continued to listen.

“But in the meantime, until we find someone, I need some help. Could you meet me at the station later?” I hesitated. “I need to brush up on my anchoring before Monday night. I’ll bring goodies. Coffee from The Daily Grind? Anything you want.”

“You’re not worried about this, are you?” Joe teased. “I mean, I know how you like things to go right…”

“Er, no. I mean yes. A little.” I scrambled for the right words. “But, I want to look professional and don’t want to embarrass anyone. I want to be comfortable on set.” I paused.
As comfortable as a person can be when he or she is thrown into this weird, awkward situation.
“And I trust you. To give me some pointers, I mean.”

“I’ll be damned,” Joe coughed and cleared his throat. “Someone wants my opinion…”

I held my breath.

Joe was a gruff guy, way underappreciated. But he knew his on-air talent. “If that’s what you want, count me in,” he said. “Give me an hour or so.”

I hung up with a flash of panic. An hour to get ready, stop at The Daily Grind, and get to the station. Thank goodness for new clothes:
 
Form-fitting jeans, a black top, cropped jacket. Very nice. Now, for the rest of it. I lined up all of the little pots of MAC makeup and tried to touch up what Candace had done. Subtle changes from my normal routine made all the difference, she had reminded me. A touch of creamy-white on the brow bone. Darker lips. Light eyebrow pencil.

Not bad, I nodded at my reflection. Not bad at all.

The last thing my nerves needed was a shot of caffeine, but I couldn’t resist ordering a caramel latte when I arrived at The Daily Grind. The manager, Dino, a small, wiry man from Italy, and a teenage girl bustled behind the counter. The delicious aroma of coffee beans, steamed milk, and cinnamon permeated the air. Instantly, I perked up.

I waited in line patiently, glancing over at the couples chatting over mugs of hot, steamy drinks. From the doorway, a man with a build like my husband caught my eye and smiled.

Unnerved, I blushed carnation pink and shifted from foot to foot.

“Do you have the time?” Another man in front of me, dark and thin, turned abruptly and caught me off guard.

“Um, sure.” I fumbled the sleeve of my new jacket up to find my watch and looked up at the stranger’s green eyes watching me. “Just after three-thirty,” I offered, then stared at the floor.

“Don’t I know you?” he began, and then stopped. “Sorry. That didn’t sound right,” he grinned, making his eyes crinkle up nicely at the corners.

I turned a darker shade of pink and shook my head. The teenage girl behind the counter tapped her pen impatiently, directing her glare at me.

“You’re next,” I pointed out gently, trying to ignore the glowering looks from the other customers. The Daily Grind natives were apparently more caffeine-deprived than usual.

“Sorry,” the man apologized to the people in line behind us. “You distracted me,” he winked and whispered before turning around.

I glowed warm inside at the compliment, then made myself focus on the thick, moist slices of coffee cake behind the glass. Aside from the calories, at least coffee cake couldn’t get you in trouble. If this flirting kept up, I’d never make it to the station on time.

“Excuse me?” A male voice prompted me. Here we go again. I braced myself to brush off any attempts at casual conversation, deep, sexy eyes or not.

“Ma’am?” the voice repeated in a familiar polite tone. “Pleeze, can I help you?” I wrenched my eyes to the counter.

Dino, with his weathered smile, waited for my order.

“Caramel latte, grande, low-fat milk, please. Four tall coffees. All to go.” I stopped and checked the shelves behind the glass again. “A dozen chocolate chip cookies, six poppy seed muffins, also. That should do it.”

He nodded and busied himself with my order.

“How are you, Dino?” He looked up again. This time, his eyes flickered with recognition.

Dino clasped his bony knuckles under his chin. “Mees Meelissa. Es you!” Dino laughed and clapped his hands. “Bellissimo. You are be-you-tiful.”

“Um, t-thank…” I stammered.

He didn’t stop there. “Audra,” he called to the wisp of a teenager behind him as he busied himself with my latte. “Come, look. Mees Meelissa.” Hands in the air, he gestured at my new look, tracing my face and shoulders with his hands. “Ah, your eyes sparkle.”

Audra gave me a dutiful once over, smiled blandly, and went back to making cappuccino. Obviously, I didn’t have the same impact on teenage girls, which I later rationalized was a positive thing.

Dino stood mesmerized, my to-go cup in hand. Audra almost bumped him out of the way with the coffee carrier.

“Thanks. Could I please have the cookies and muffins, too?” I smiled apologetically. “We’re working a little overtime…and my friends are really looking forward to the sweets.”

With a sweeping bow, Dino set the latte on the counter, put the coffees in a carrier, and bagged the goodies. I handed him two twenties, told him to keep the change.

Behind me, Dino blew kisses.

I couldn’t help but feel flattered. How long had it been since anyone, let alone a sixty-year-old man, fell all over me and complimented my looks?

Bellissimo
, I repeated, rolling the word around. Why did it always sound sexier in another language? Right. Italians. Language of love. They were all pros.

By the time I strolled through the door of the station, I was feeling pretty good.

I’d go through some DVDs, check the mail for new ones, see if I could retrieve some boxes from Drew’s wastebasket. He always kept his door open and unlocked.

Except today.

I tried the knob. It didn’t move. I peered through the glass, just in case Drew was in there sleeping. Pitch black. No news director.

There went that idea.

Voices floated from the control room out into the hallway. Joe, legs stretched, cowboy boots on his desk, was in the midst of telling a joke when I walked in.

“…and so, when he opened the door, there was a big hairy man, wearing nothing but tennis shoes and a sign around his neck saying, ‘If I catch you, I can do anything I want…’”

The room erupted in laughter so loud no one noticed me standing in the corner, balancing my drink, the guys’ coffee, bags of treats, my just-in-case makeup bag, and purse.

Joe stood up so fast he looked like a giant wasp had stung his backside. He knocked over a bag of pork rinds, which scattered across the floor like pieces of Styrofoam. The look on everyone’s face was identical, sheepish, and a little shocked, like they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar—or better yet, dirty magazines.

“Hey there,” I said to break the silence, and laid the bags and coffee cups on the desk.

“Hey,” they chorused. Joe bent his mammoth body to pick up a few stray pork rinds. I sank to my knees to help.

“How can you guys eat this stuff?” I teased, eyeballing the bag of boiled peanuts on the counter. “Do your wives know?” My eyes narrowed in a mock look of concern.

“Aw, Melissa,” one of the guys started to explain.

I waved for him to stop. “Just kidding. Here’s some more junk food so we don’t run out.

And what’s the deal with Drew’s door being locked?”

“Um, Alyssa-alert,” Joe rolled his eyes. “Someone said they saw her outside the building yesterday. Drew’s worried Alyssa might do something crazy.”

“I saw her in her car this morning. She drove by the station three or four times,” someone else chimed in.

“Say no more,” I said and held up both hands.

Agreement was murmured all around the room. Joe stood, reached over, and shoved his hand in the bag. He fished out a muffin and took an enormous bite.

“Y’look good,” Joe managed between mouthfuls. He raised his eyebrows and took a closer look. “Mm-hmm. Mighty nice.”

Once more, a hum of approval circulated through the room. Someone coughed and suddenly the group tried to look busy, pushing buttons, adjusting lights in the studio, and checking equipment.

“Ready to go?” Joe asked.

“If it’s not too much trouble…” I started, gauging Joe’s reaction. He shook his head. “I was hoping I could run through Friday…I mean Thursday night’s show.” Better to forget about Friday night.

He nodded. Easy as that.

Without another word, Joe jumped into action. With a few clicks on the keyboard, the script from Thursday evening sprang up on the teleprompter screen. I took a few minutes to glance it over on the computer screen while Joe printed a copy for me to have on set.

“Ready when you are.” Joe handed me the script.

I nodded and went out the door.

In the studio, I glanced down at my outfit, briefly thinking I should have put something bright and flashy on. No, that was trying too hard. I was only filling in. And I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.

The lights snapped on and warmed up as I blinked to adjust to the brightness. I slid my earpiece in, clipped on my microphone, watched as one of the guys adjusted the camera, and felt a little thrill run through me. This was nothing like going on set Friday night during an emergency with only a few seconds of airtime—no time to prepare, no time to think. Now I had to do both.
This
could be fun.

 
“Give me a level, Melissa.”

Here we go.
I made myself take a deep breath. “Mic check. Mic check—”

“Okay, thanks.” Joe cleared his throat. “All set?”

I nodded, and then focused on the teleprompter. All of a sudden, the words seemed to swim in circles, white against black. My mouth went dry, the flutter in my throat intensified, and the clench of nerves in my stomach tightened. I gripped the desk to keep my hands from quivering, and whispered a quick prayer.

Joe cued me. “Ready? In three…two…”

I nodded and plunged into the show as the music started.

Get through it.

Taking my time, I read each sentence, careful to enunciate and inflect my voice.

“A thirty year-old Atlanta man died after he was shot in West Macon Thursday night. That’s according to the Bibb County Coroner. Jones was wounded while standing near the corner of Ell and Chappell Streets off Eisenhower Parkway. He was pronounced dead hours later at The Medical Center of Central Georgia.”

By the fourth sentence, I was pacing myself better, breathing in the right places. I kept reading. Several stories later, near the end of the segment, I was in a good rhythm.

“Stay tuned for weather and sports. WSGA will be right back.” I set down my script and pen, relieved to be through it.

Joe’s voice filled my earpiece. “What’d you think?” he asked.

“I think it was okay,” I bit my lip. “What about you?”

“Let’s run through it again,” said Joe.

 
“Okay.” My pulse sped up. I tried not to frown into the camera.

“You need to relax your shoulders, move your arms apart, give me a natural smile,” Joe replied. “To tell you the truth, you’re a little stiff. And your voice is a little wobbly.”

 
I checked the cord to make sure it was still attached.

“Melissa?” Joe was patiently waiting for me to decide. “You don’t have to be perfect. Maybe this will help. Just think about the stories. How you’d want to hear them as a viewer.”

“Um,” I stalled. Alyssa sprang to mind, but I didn’t want to be fake and plastic. There was Amy Robach from NBC, Megyn Kelly from FOX. What about Samantha Brown from the
Travel Channel
? That was it.

“Hey, you. Melissa,” Joe said. “You’re over-thinking this.”

“You’re right. Give me a sec.”

He understood. Joe
was
someone I really trusted. The lines on the teleprompter flew backwards.

Shoulders down, arms relaxed at my sides, hands laid lightly on the desk, I was ready.

“All set?”

I thought about beaches in California, my daughter Kelly, and smiled into the camera.

“Let’s go.”

Sunday morning, my emotions bounced from thrilled to worried and back again.
Where was Chris? How would Monday night go?

I cleaned the house. I finished the laundry. Talked to Kelly, twice. I straightened and re-arranged my closet. Again.

By the time I started dinner, my excitement and anxiety had softened to manageable level. There was something therapeutic about chopping carrots and peppers into bite-sized pieces with a huge knife.

Mid-slice, the door to the kitchen creaked open. His footsteps echoed in the hallway.

“Hi,” I waved from the counter.

He came to a dead stop. “What’d you do to your hair?” I couldn’t tell if he was shocked or impressed.

“Needed a change,” I said casually, reaching for the wok.

“You look great,” Chris exclaimed. “I mean it.” He grabbed a carrot and popped it in his mouth, then came closer to get a better look. “Any new developments at the station?”

I concentrated on making loops of oil in the pan, then tossed vegetables into the wok. “Not that I know of. I’m counting on Monday being a little crazy.”

If you’d returned my phone calls
… I bit my lip instead of saying the words. I wasn’t about to ruin the only decent conversation we’d had in a while.

Chris grimaced. “Yeah, work’s been nuts for me, too.”

“How was Montgomery?”

Chris hoisted himself up and sat on the counter. “It was a good. Very productive. I think we landed a new client. A marketing firm that specializes in corporate imaging.”

“So they make companies more likeable?”

Chris nodded. “In a nutshell. And hopefully more profitable because of it.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Um, sure.” Chris unfolded himself from the countertop, ambled over to the loveseat, and sat down.

I pursed my lips. “Drew’s bringing back Rick Roberts in Tim’s place. You remember him, right?”

My husband nodded and shrugged.

“And I told you, someone has to replace Alyssa. I’m filling in, but I’m not sure it’ll be permanent. Or that I want it to be,” I added quickly. “I’m not sure.”

I hoped he’d catch the hint and suggest that I go for it. Give me a vote of confidence. But being the left-brained guy he is, my husband didn’t pick up on the subtle suggestion.

Chris rubbed his hands together and watched the screen. “Doesn’t Drew have the final say? And isn’t it subjective? For instance, who you like isn’t necessarily who I like.”

“That’s true.” I pressed Chris again. “But why are people drawn to certain anchors? Is it being good-looking? Or the way they dress, a sense of humor, being professional?”

“If I had to narrow it down, the ones who grab my attention are smart, interesting, and seem to care. They have a spark,” Chris said finally.

“A spark?” I repeated.

“Something special.”

His phone buzzed.

Part of me wanted to jump up and kiss him, get him to ignore the caller. The other part told me not to bother. Chris was already getting up from the table and checking his messages, ready to dash out the door.

For once in my life, I wasn’t going to let him just leave. “What’s going on?”

Chris froze in front of me.

“Is it something urgent?”

He shook his head, reluctantly moved back to his chair, his shoulders hunched up, eyes darting around the room.

I forced myself to sit and wait. The silence was killing me. My heart wanted to pound out of my chest.

When he realized I was serious, Chris heaved a sigh, leaned forward, and put both elbows on the table. “I guess I don’t understand.” Chris’s eyes flickered across my face. “It’s like…all of a sudden…Bam!”

The sound made me jump.

“I come home, and there’s a new Melissa. And now you want my in-depth opinion on who the station should hire?”

My mouth dropped open. Chris ignored the look on my face and kept talking. “On the one hand, I’m flattered. On the other hand, I’m just confused. Since Kelly left, you’ve been different. I know it’s lonely and I’m gone a lot. But these changes—your hair, the makeup, the clothes—it’s all so sudden. Like you’re trying to be someone you’re not.”

A chill swept over me. Before I exploded with frustration, I counted backwards from ten, something I used to do when Kelly threw childhood temper tantrums.

I made my voice was calm and level. “Chris, you’ve hurt my feelings. I wanted your opinion on the anchors because I care about what you think.” I sniffed back a tear. “And, I didn’t plan this whole thing. I went shopping. And then Candace talked me into…It just happened.”

A look of guilt began to creep across Chris’s face.

My throat tightened.

His phone started buzzing again.

“Perfect timing.” I stood up and started walking out of the living room.

“Melissa. I’ll just be a minute. Come back here,” Chris called, louder than his phone.

My shoulders tensed. Ordering me around was not going to help. I turned and gave him the best haughty look I could manage in bare feet and a t-shirt.

His hand, inches from answering his phone, stopped in mid-air.

We were about six feet apart, but the space between us might as well have been the Grand Canyon, howling with wind. If I took another step, I’d end up at the bottom, in a gulch, with a donkey licking my face. And I wasn’t throwing Chris a line to get across to my side. I felt like the villainess in a movie, sawing away at a flimsy rope bridge with a knife.

Chris’s phone continued to vibrate.

“Go ahead, get it,” I said and pointed to the phone, daring him, then crossed my arms tight. “You can’t help yourself, can you? Work is more important than anything in the
universe
.”

Chris looked like I’d stabbed him with a hot poker. He physically flinched, momentarily off-balance.

The phone stopped ringing.

“Look, I’m up for this promotion, but have to compete with
cutthroat
co-workers to get it. This Tyler will do anything.” Chris defended himself. The vein in his forehead pulsed, a sure sign his temper was just shy of maximum overdrive. “You don’t know the pressure I’m under—”

“You’re right, I don’t,” I cut in before he had a chance to explain any further. “Like this weekend. You couldn’t yank yourself away from the newspaper to even hear what I was saying.”

“You’re not the only one who’s made sacrifices in this marriage,” Chris snapped back at me. “I know you didn’t get to travel across Europe. I know you wanted another baby. Well, I wanted to start my own business, but it didn’t turn out that way.”

Ouch.
I didn’t realize it was still so painful for him. I swallowed hard.

Chris frowned. “You didn’t see the article.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Which article?” He couldn’t be talking about WSGA. It had to be something else.

“The one about Macon Financial. And Tyler,” Chris said. “The wonderful addition to the team, blah, blah, blah.” He rubbed his chin. “You don’t realize it, but I’m struggling to keep up with all of Tyler’s ‘great’ ideas. It’s all about who can work harder and longer.”

“I’m sorry,” My voice faltered.

Chris ran a hand through his hair. “Melissa…”

His phone rattled again. My eyes flew to the slim, rectangular piece of metal.

Don’t answer it
.

But he did. My husband turned his back to me. “Chris Moore.”

My will to fight dissolved in the pit of my stomach.

Beaten by a cell phone. Who was I to compete with unlimited nationwide minutes and reliable coverage?