The Cinderella Hour (6 page)

Vivian had taken the toast in good humor. She was marrying
the man she loved. Later, she explained the ring Blaine wore. It had belonged
to his sister, she said. A sister who had died, more than thirty years ago, at age
twenty-three.

“Don’t worry,” Blaine said. “I love this feline side, Vivi.
Love
you
.”

Vivian put her left hand, with the seven-carat diamond he had
given her, over his, distracted for a moment by their love. Only for a moment. “When
did the billboard say her show—
The Cinderella Hour?
—was debuting? Monday
night? You know people at WCHM, Blaine. You’ve donated so much time appearing
on their shows. You could tell them what a monumental mistake they’re making.
Having Snow on their airwaves is beneath
the integrity in broadcasting
they stand for. And the show itself . . . what is it, anyway? The radio
equivalent of
Joe Millionaire?
Call-in Cinderella hopefuls vying for
some ersatz Prince Charming? How tacky can they get?”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of show. In fact, if I’m not
mistaken, I’ve agreed to be a guest on
The Cinderella Hour
Tuesday
night.”

“What?”

“The request came in yesterday afternoon. Louise took a
detailed message and called back with my reply. The show’s host was in transit
from Atlanta, but the producer wanted to line up a segment on postpartum
depression as soon as it could be arranged. The host—Snow—apparently has
complete editorial control. She was scheduled to be in town over a week ago,
but was delayed because of a crisis due to postpartum depression in someone she
knew. In the interest of being helpful—and, I imagine, in giving her a rousing
welcome to Chicago—the folks at WCHM booked her first week for her, a who’s who
of high-profile, feel-good guests. She threw them a loop by wanting to insert a
topic as serious, and potentially off-putting, as postpartum depression.
Frankly, I think that takes courage on her part.”

“
The Cinderella Hour
is a talk show?”

“I’m afraid so. And, more bad news, it’s a highly respected
one. The format’s the same as many drive-time shows, with topics ranging from
sports to psychosis depending on what the producers—or, in this instance, the
host—decides. As I already mentioned, your friend calls all the shots.”

“She is not my friend.”

“That’s coming through loud and clear. What’s not so clear is
why.”

“I told you.”

“Not really. Not in a way that makes sense.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. And, Blaine, I would like you
to get out of being on her show.”

“Much as I love you, Vivian, that’s something I won’t do
without a compelling reason. Your simply not wanting me to isn’t enough. Any
opportunity I get to enlighten the public about a preventable psychiatric
catastrophe is an opportunity I’ll gladly take. You know that, Vivi. I know you
do. Five minutes could save a mother’s life, a baby’s life, a family’s life.”

“I know, Blaine. I
know
. That’s very important to me,
too. It just infuriates me that she’s using you to boost her ratings.”

“She’s using the topic, maybe. Not me. And you have to admit
that postpartum depression is a risky choice for her first on-air week. But she’s
insistent on doing it. The WCHM powers-that-be have scrambled to adjust the
schedule accordingly. They believe she knows what she’s doing, and that she’ll discuss
issues all of Chicago wants to hear. She took her afternoon-commute show into
primetime in Atlanta—so successfully, the producer told Louise, she even lured
an audience from TV. The bet at WCHM is she’ll do the same here. Vivian?”

“What?”

“Not once in the eight months I’ve known you have I caught
you listening to nighttime radio. True?”

“True. And maybe no one else in Chicago will listen and she’ll
skulk away again.”

“Or maybe she’ll become the toast of the Windy City. And if she does, so what? It has nothing to do with you, or with us—does it?”

“No, Blaine, it doesn’t . . . except that you’ll be spending
time with her.”

“That can’t possibly worry you. Even if a radio studio was
the most romantic venue on the planet, which it isn’t, I’m not going to become
enthralled with Snow. Or anyone else. Although,” Blaine admitted, “you have
definitely piqued my interest in meeting her.”

“Don’t! Please, Blaine. Stay away from her. Please
promise
me.”

The plea was so
un
Vivian, so not in control, that all
remnants of Blaine’s teasing disappeared.

“I’ll do the interview by phone. I promise. But, Vivian, you
need to make a promise to me in return. There’s more to this story. We both—we
all—know that. You need to figure out why Snow is still so upsetting to you and
let it go. I’d be happy to help you. And I’m sure Mira would be, too. Isn’t
that right?”

“Of course.”

Mira’s reply was mechanical. And truthful. She would help
Vivian at any time and in any way. But Vivian wouldn’t come to her with even a
slightly personal problem, much less one that made her more vulnerable than
Mira would have ever imagined Vivian could be.

Mira
could
reconsider her own plans involving Snow.
Could. But didn’t. She would merely risk incurring Vivian’s wrath as well as
Luke’s.

Her plans weren’t going to change, any more than Blaine was going to rescind his agreement to appear on
The Cinderella Hour.

Dr. Blaine Prescott was committed to the psychiatric
enlightenment of Chicago.

Mira’s commitment was a bit narrower in scope. The
enlightenment of Snow herself. About Luke.

“Vivian?” Blaine asked when only Mira had concurred with his
suggestion that Vivian resolve her unresolved issues regarding Snow.

“I promise,” she replied. “It was silly of me to let this
upset me—and worthwhile to figure out why. A nice Sunday afternoon of
soul-searching, while you and Mira exchange emails about a lunatic who’s actually
worth worrying about, ought to do the trick. Unless . . .”

“Unless?”

“She would have to disguise her voice—as Mira’s caller has.”

“You’re saying Snow is making the calls?”

“I’m saying she could be. It’s no secret that she was obsessed
with Luke Kilcannon and was willing to go to any lengths to snare him. Maybe
she thinks Luke is living in the rebuilt version of his boyhood home, and Mira,
the female voice who answers the phone, is his wife. Or maybe she’s just making
obscene phone calls to the address . . . and to the past.”

“She would have to be pretty delusional to be harassing an
address, Vivian, much less a past. That kind of dysfunction would be incompatible
with the success she’s obviously achieved. As stunning a case report as it
might make for the psychiatric literature, I’m afraid it would be rejected on
the grounds it was pure fiction. And for someone who’s made a career of being
fully informed on a wide range of topics, I have to believe that if she wanted
to know where Luke Kilcannon was living, she would simply go online and find
out.”

“Maybe Luke’s getting obscene phone calls, too.”

“Maybe he is. In which case, the police will sort it out. In
the meantime, Viv, you need to sort out your feelings about Snow.”

“I will.”

“That’s my girl. Who knows, maybe Snow will decide her
listeners need to hear all about what’s new in family law and you’ll be her guest.”

“No.” Vivian’s voice was harsh. She made an obvious effort to
lighten it. “I mean, let’s not go crazy here, Doctor. I can assure you, in the
most mentally healthy way, that I will never see Snow Ashley Gable again. I’ll
never want to . . . and never will.”

“Snow Ashley Gable?”

“It sounds like a stage name, doesn’t it?”

“But it isn’t?”

“No. Well, her mother was a bit of an actress, I suppose you
could say. She might have made it up for Snow somewhere along the line. But it’s
the name Snow had when she left. I guess she decided not to change it before
coming back.”

Mira was a few beats behind in the conversation, trying to
make sense of what Vivian had said. Vivian’s hatred of Snow was obvious and
surprising. Also surprising—and wrong—was Vivian’s contention that Snow was
obsessed with Luke. But most surprising was the fact that Vivian had anything
at all to say about Snow. Or Luke
.

Like Vivian, Luke had been a Larken High senior when Snow was
a sophomore. But, until this evening, Mira couldn’t recall Vivian ever
mentioning his name.

Luke had, of course, mentioned knowing Vivian in high school.
It had been an offhand remark and an expected one. Everyone at Larken High had
known Vivian. She was the queen bee. And Harrison Wright, Vivian’s senior-year
boyfriend and the first of her two fiancés, had been captain of the swim team.

Mira would have been content to brood in the back seat. But
as Vivian’s assertion that she would never see Snow again registered, she felt
obliged to speak.

“I’m not so sure about never seeing Snow again, Vivian.”

“I am.”

“She may be there tonight. At the Harvest Moon Ball.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because one of tonight’s auction items is a guest stint on
WCHM’s hot new radio show.”

“
Her
show?”

“Yes.
The Cinderella Hour.
I remember wondering about
the name.”

Mira was wondering something else, a possibility she wouldn’t
have considered if she hadn’t just witnessed the crack in Vivian’s
ever-confident veneer.

Had Vivian failed to even glance at the auction program?
Because it was a too painful reminder of the only thing she had ever wanted
that had been denied to her?

From a very young age, Vivian had been told that Larken &
Son would never be hers. She wasn’t Trey’s firstborn son. Case closed. The
auction house dynasty would end with Trey.

But it seemed Vivian hadn’t truly heard. She majored in art
history at Stanford and also earned a business degree. She would work at Larken
& Son, she decided, and prove herself capable of assuming the reins. She
made her intentions clear. With matching clarity, Trey said it would not happen.
A week after Vivian’s graduation from Stanford, he announced that his
retirement—and Larken & Son’s closing—would take place at year’s end.

The auction house enjoyed a flurry of activity during its
remaining months. Everyone who planned to
someday
have Larken & Son auction
their art, jewels, antiques, and collector quality memorabilia realized that it
was then or never.

Vivian spent those months working at the auction house, and hoping
Trey would change his mind?

Mira didn’t know. She had been in college during Larken &
Son’s billion-dollar swan song. On the few occasions she had seen Vivian that
year, the veneer had been intact, as if the closing of the auction house doors
didn’t feel like the slap in the face it truly was.

But maybe that was exactly how it had felt to Vivian. Maybe
that was why she had declined a spectacular job offer from Sotheby’s and
enrolled in law school instead.

And maybe that was why she hadn’t looked at the Harvest Moon
auction brochure.

“Blaine,” Vivian whispered, “I
cannot
see her.”

It didn’t take psychiatric training to hear the depth of
Vivian’s distress.

“All right,” her husband reassured her. “It’s all right. You
don’t have to. But tonight’s event is a benefit for the medical center. I
really have to attend.”

“I know you do. And I understand. Just please understand that
I can’t.”

“I do. I’m also very concerned about the reason why. You’ll
be missed, Vivi, but Mira and I will make your excuses. We’ll say you’ve come
down with what we hope is a twenty-four-hour flu. When we get to the hotel, I’ll
arrange for a limousine to take you home.”

“Thank you.”

“I may meet her tonight,” Blaine added quietly. “If she’s
there, and someone from WCHM sees me, it’s only logical that the two of us
would be introduced. We may even have a chance to discuss my Tuesday-night
appearance on her show. Okay?”

Vivian’s reply, a resigned nod, coincided with their arrival
at the hotel. Mira remained in the car with Vivian while Blaine organized
Vivian’s transportation back to Quail Ridge.

After more than three decades of virtual separation, the
Larken sisters’ lives had collided at the intersection of Luke and Snow. And it
wasn’t a minor fender bender. Vivian was a wreck. Had she been a wounded
stranger, Mira would have offered assistance the second Blaine left the car.
But three decades of knowing Vivian only as the confident golden girl kept Mira
at bay—as did Vivian herself. Everything about her screamed
leave me alone
.

Mira was debating whether to heed the warning or to follow an
entirely different command—
she’s your sister, she needs you
—when Vivian
spoke.

“I wonder if Luke . . .”

“If Luke what, Vivian?”