The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (23 page)

Then the girl lifted her head, and a pair of tortured eyes met Laura’s. In a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the other end of a tunnel, she said, “I let someone die.”

A
T THE PRECISE MOMENT
Laura was learning about the untimely death of a certain Lyle Kruger, her younger sister, Alice, sat buckled beside her husband in his Bell 430 as it hovered over the CTN Building in downtown L.A. It was Tuesday, the third week in August, a little more than a month since they’d gotten back from their honeymoon.

It felt more like a year.

She couldn’t talk to Wes about her mother, so they talked about everything else instead. On the drive to the airfield it had been the problem with Marty Milnik. Marty’s drinking, to be precise. He always showed up on time, always pulled it off somehow, but behind the scenes it was a different story. He was abusive to staff members, and last week had even managed to offend a celebrity guest. As Stacey Fields, reigning queen of bubblegum pop, was standing up to have her mike unclipped he’d growled in mock jest, “Next time wear a dress that fits.”

The strain, not to mention this ghastly business with her mother, was really getting to her. She’d even started smoking again. Just one or two cigarettes a day—no big deal—but it was a sign, a
bad
sign.

The bull’s-eye loomed. Wes, buckled beside her in the pilot’s seat, calmly working the controls, seemed utterly oblivious to the helicopter’s roar, which even muffled by headphones was deafening.

It was the one thing she’d never get used to. In the car they’d have kicked around ideas, sounded off about various frustrations, but here they were limited to brief exchanges over headsets, mostly concerning weather and ETA. She missed the days when they used to drive. She missed their long conversations with only the cell phone to disturb them.

The helicopter rocked down to a perfect landing. Watching Wes ease back on the throttle, the back draft scuffing his silver hair into spikes, Alice experienced the same little thrill as when they’d first met. This was no ordinary man, she’d thought. Wes was the kind of boss employees emulated even while they groused, whose exploits were endlessly discussed, whose private life was fodder for constant speculation. Everyone at CTN had a Wes Carpenter story, told often and with great relish. Like the time magazine mogul Bryce Chesterton had unwisely attempted a hostile takeover. Wes, encountering him at a fund-raiser, in the men’s room of the Regent Beverly Wilshire to be precise, was said to have warned, “You want to show me how far you can piss, fine. Just remember who you’re dealing with, son.”

She watched him leap nimbly onto the roof and circle around to help her down, keeping a firm grip on her elbow. Leaving the Bell to the crew-cut man in overalls jogging toward them, they made their way to the elevator.

All but six of the CTN Building’s eighteen floors were leased to other companies. On the ground floor were a shopping mall and food court, complete with dry cleaner and shoe repair. The joke around CTN was that employees could go their whole lives without ever setting foot outside, which wasn’t far from the truth. Wes expected nothing less from others than he was willing to give himself. If that meant an all-nighter on breaking news, so be it. He liked to say he hadn’t built this network rushing home each night to dinner and the six o’clock news. At Cable Television Network they
were
the news.

The newsroom on the fourth floor was the usual madhouse. People dashing up and down between aisles that stretched the length of a football field, banked by desks on either side—each fitted with a computer and miniature TV. Over a chorus of voices, phones cheeped and keyboards rattled. The closed-circuit consoles over the control room flashed silent images from CTN broadcasts all over the world. In the glass-walled studio, the lights were on and the cameras rolling. From where she stood Alice had an unobstructed view of the back of Maureen McKinnon’s perfectly coiffed blond head, with the coil to her earpiece that her randy coanchor, Scott Ballard, liked to joke was the only thing ever to kiss Maureen’s lily-white neck.

Scott and Maureen, who anchored
Morning Headline,
would be followed by Lars Gunderson’s brief roundup of current events: half an hour of mostly boring sound bites solicited by a ponderous old ass more interested in hearing himself talk. Unfortunately, Wes had a soft spot for Lars, who’d been with him since the parting of the Red Sea. One of these nights, after a glass of wine, she’d talk to him about Lars. Meanwhile, she had her own headaches to deal with. Namely, Marty.

She headed down the hall to her office, the source of her very first argument with Wes. He’d wanted her to move to a larger one with a view, but she’d insisted on staying put. Her favored status had caused enough resentment. Such a move would only make it worse. In the end, though, staying put had been the wrong decision. Except for a cadre of loyal friends her fellow workers didn’t stop resenting her just because she wasn’t quite as comfortable as she could have been. If anything, they resented her more.

As she breezed into the staff room, lost in thought, she was only peripherally aware of her senior production assistant, Christy Kim, crouched over her desk with the phone to her ear, signaling to her frantically. Whatever it was could damn well wait, she thought, until she was sitting down. Preferably with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

She pushed open the door to her office, and stopped short. A woman sat huddled in the chair opposite her desk. Marty’s much younger wife, Brandi—clearly the object of Christy’s frenzied signaling. Her eyes were red from crying, and she clutched a wadded-up tissue in one hand.

“You’ve got to talk to him. He’s really gone off the deep end this time.” Her little girl voice didn’t match her hard-bitten blond looks.

Alice’s heart sank. She didn’t have to ask what the problem was; it was the same old story every time. She lowered herself into her chair. “Did you call that number I gave you?”

Brandi dabbed delicately at her reddened nose. “Sure, I did,” she sniffed.

“What did she say?” Her old friend Carol Avery was in charge of admissions at Betty Ford. If anyone could deal with Marty, it was Carol.

Brandi began shredding the tissue into her lap. “She said I should get everybody together—all his, you know, well,
everybody
—and we’d all take turns telling him how his drinking makes us feel.” She smiled uncertainly. “But you know Marty—he
hates
surprises.”

“That’s the whole
point.
”

“Still, it seems kinda mean. Ganging up on him like that.”

Alice blew out a breath. Jesus. It was too early in the day for this. “What did he do this time?”

“Nothing much—just tossed every stick of furniture into the pool.” A nasty edge crept into Brandi’s voice. “That was
after
he almost pushed my friend Jack in, too.”

Alice could see it as if she’d been there: Marty, bellowing from the balcony of his six-million-dollar spread as he heaved chairs and tables, lamps and sofa cushions over the railing into the pool. She chose her words carefully. “Sounds like a cry for help.”

“Oh, he was crying all right. But it wasn’t for help.” Lines had appeared on either side of Brandi’s mouth, making her look years older than the thirty-four she claimed to be.

Alice’s phone was blinking. She ignored it. “Look, would you like
me
to talk to Carol?”

“I’d like it even more if you’d talk to Marty.”

There was a foxy glint in her eye that Alice didn’t much like. She recalled that Brandi, Marty’s fourth wife, had been a Las Vegas blackjack dealer when they met. “It won’t work.” She toyed idly with the small plastic action figure on her desk: Xena, Warrior Princess, a gag gift from her sister. “I know, because I’ve tried. A number of times.”

“He’s
got
to listen. You’re his producer.”

“I won’t be much longer if he doesn’t sober up.” Alice leaned forward, fixing a stern gaze on Brandi. “Look, do both of us a favor. Call Carol back. Tell her it’s
urgent.
She’ll walk you through the rest.”

Marty’s wife shot her a petulant look. She looked as if she wanted to argue, but all she said was “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I wouldn’t waste any time, if I were you.” Alice’s tone was firm. “There’s talk of Marty’s show being canceled.”

Brandi snorted. “Yeah, like
that
would ever happen.”

“It’s not entirely up to me.”

“Oh come on.” Brandi’s gaze fell pointedly on a framed photo of Wes and Alice, arm in arm on the Pont-au-Change—last summer’s trip to Paris. “You’re married to the boss, aren’t you?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Alice replied coolly.

“Yeah, sure. Like I don’t know the score. Come on, who are you kidding?” The weepy little girl’s voice had been replaced by that of the tough blackjack dealer.

Anger rose in Alice. “Look,” she said, “I’m willing to help out here. I’ll even take part in an intervention. But I am no longer in the business of covering Marty’s ass.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s ’cause you’re too busy covering your own.”

Alice straightened, her hand tightening about the figurine. She could feel it poking into her palm like small, sharp teeth. “I’m not going to respond to that,” she said.

Brandi rose, bits of tissue drifting to the floor. Her eyes—too blue to be anything but contacts—glittered coldly. “You think you’re smarter than me? Well, at least I know what gives.” Her mouth curled in derision. “Guys like Marty and Wes, they can have anyone they want. The only way you know they’re getting older is the wives keep getting younger.”

Alice walked to the door, and held it open. “The offer is still open if you decide to take me up on it.”

Brandi swept past her, her hard gaze taking in the stubbornly utilitarian little office the way it might have a hand of cards. “I’ll think about it,” she said. Then, with a twitch of her boyish behind and a toss of her platinum mane, she was gone.

“Have you talked to Marty?” Wes asked.

They were seated outdoors, sipping after-supper brandies. The light was on in the pool, casting the patio in a swimmy aqua glow and silhouetting the trees in the canyon below. Overhead, stars were strewn like dice from a bottomless cup. From the sliding glass doors to Wes’s den drifted the sound of Placido Domingo singing the aria from
La Traviata.
The only thing missing, Alice thought, was a cigarette.

“Not yet,” she said, groaning a little. “But I shouldn’t have threatened his wife with canceling the show. Whatever he’s done, it was… unprofessional.”

Wes didn’t disagree.

“Just for argument’s sake,” she ventured cautiously, “what would happen if we
did
cancel? Assuming we could buy Marty out of his contract, that is.”

“He’d land on his feet. Even drunk as a skunk, he always does.”

“I wasn’t talking about Marty.”

“I know.” Wes set his glass on the table with a hard little clink. Lit from below, his face was an eyeless mask. “To be completely honest, Alice, I’ve been wondering if maybe you’d be happier somewhere else.”

“You’re joking, right?” A weak little laugh died on her lips.

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you firing me?” she asked softly.

“Don’t be silly, darling. Of course not.” Wes’s tone was mild, even faintly jocular. “You know how I feel about us working together. I don’t like seeing you get hurt—either personally or professionally. And let’s face it, it wasn’t just today, and it’s not just Marty.”

He was right, of course, but that only made it worse. “Since when do you decide what’s best for me?”

“I wouldn’t have said anything if it weren’t for Marty.”

“I said
if
the show were canceled.”

“Ratings are down,” Wes went on in that same infuriating tone. “I just think we should consider very carefully what your next move should be. With your résumé—”

She cut him off before he could dig any deeper. “Why is it,” she wanted to know, “that whenever you talk about
us
deciding something, it’s really just
you
?”

As she wrapped her thickening tongue around the words, she realized that perhaps she was a little drunk.

She sipped her brandy carefully, struggling to regain control. The night was so warm she’d changed into a little silk dress she could have threaded through her wedding ring. Now, as she sat with her feet propped on Wes’s chair, toes curled under a strap, she wondered how it had come to this. As a little girl she had envisioned married life to be sophisticated, adult, and never, ever boring. And life with Wes was surely that. What she hadn’t counted on was what happened when two strong people went head to head.

Wes frowned. “You know that isn’t true.”

“Do I? Let’s look at the facts.” She dropped her feet to the patio and leaned forward, the slate cool against her soles. “I work for you. I live in your house. I spend your money.”

He put a hand over hers. “Careful,” he warned. “Don’t say anything you’ll be sorry for.”

She snatched her hand away. “God, I’m so sick of this.”

“Of what?” His voice remained even, but she caught a flicker of something hard in his expression.

“I don’t
know
” she cried. “All I know is that unless you plan on firing me, there is no
we.
It’s
my
decision.”

“I see.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” She stared at the unyielding mask that minutes before had been her husband’s face. It seemed to ripple in the queer undersea light. Had she tried too hard to please him? Because God knew any one of the dozens of women in line behind her would have been only too happy to take her place. Maybe she’d only convinced herself the decisions they’d made were a two-way street, thinking how nice, how
convenient,
that her own wishes meshed so perfectly with his. “I
love
you, dammit. I’m just sick and tired of
you
making all the rules.”

“I didn’t know that’s what I was doing.”

“Men like you never do.” She set her glass on the table, and dropped her head into her hands in a useless attempt to stop it from spinning. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just…it seems like everything is coming apart all at once. My job. My mother.”