“Absolutely not,” Josh interrupts. “If you start asking questions, it will be obvious to everyone that the information came from me. And that’s the end of my career at Bexter.” He puts his coffee on the speckled-marble countertop, the ceramic mug clattering on the stone. It nudges the spoon, which falls to the floor.
We both reach for it. Both pull back. Look into each other’s eyes.
I don’t want an impasse. I want a solution. But I also want some answers. How would reporter-me handle this? She’s got more experience than fiancée-me. If Josh were a reluctant source, I’d pull back and push forward at the same time.
“Look, sweetheart, I absolutely promise I won’t do anything without letting you know.” That’s a promise I can keep. I hope. I pick up the spoon, put it in the sink. I can feel Josh relax.
Now the push forward. His job is important, too, of course, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it. I also can’t do anything to jeopardize mine. Until now, our skirmishes have been brief and simple and social. Low-caliber. A big story conflicting with a Bexter dinner party. But we’ve never had our personal life present a professional conflict of interest.
Used to be, my only interest was the truth. Now I’m also interested in the rest of my life. This is what they don’t teach you in journalism school.
“Just tell me this, though.” I fire the first shot. “Who knows about the calls? And what, if anything, are they doing about them?”
Josh pours another cup of coffee from the glass carafe, then leans against the counter, holding the steaming mug with both hands.
“Dorothy Wirt knows, of course. What’s she doing? Losing sleep, is what she says. Though she’d probably kill without a flinch if she thought one of her Bexter kids was in danger. Stab someone with her letter opener.” He smiles, looking up briefly, indicating that’s a joke.
I nod, silently acknowledging I get it.
“The Head,” he continues his list, “he’s doing nothing, far as I know. Waiting. The bursar came in while Dorothy was telling us the story. So he’s aware. And maybe Dean Espinosa. She’s Dorothy’s best friend. Maybe Dorothy told her. But maybe not.”
“Some secret,” I say, making a skeptical face. “That’s three, four people right there. Not counting you. And who knows who else each of them ‘confided’ in.”
I have another thought. “Does Penny know?”
“Do I know what?” Penny’s flip-flops slap onto the linoleum. She’s clutching Botox, who with one suicidal look at me writhes out of her arms and scampers away. Penny’s wearing red drawstring pajama bottoms printed with what look like Scottie dogs, a ruffled pink camisole and a sideways Red Sox cap. Still deciding on her image.
“Shoes?” Josh says. He reaches for her hat and Penny ducks out of his way. “It’s the bleak midwinter, pumpkin girl. School vacation doesn’t mean—”
“My feet aren’t even cold,” Penny retorts. “It’s inside. There’s heat, you know? And Annie wears flip-flops in
winter. Her parents let her. She’ll be here soon and I bet she’ll have flip-flops. You’ll see. Charlie Mac, when can we pick out my junior-bridesmaid dress?”
“Nice try on changing the subject, kiddo,” I say. I love my nickname. Penny came up with it; Charlie Mac evolving as her eventual compromise between her initial choice, “Um,” and the already-taken “Mom.” It took a year of negotiation and territory marking, but now we’re pals. I’d rather not let her know there’s a tiny bit of tension between her dad and me this morning. She’s resilient, but she’s already handled enough with her parents splitting. And now her new school. New home. And me.
“Go get shoes, as your dad said. Then we’ll discuss shopping for your dress. We’ll need to get your Bexter uniform, too.”
Penny hesitates just long enough to prove she’s not instantly obeying me. “Annie wears clogs sometimes, too,” she says. Then she flip-flops out of the room.
“Good one, ‘Charlie Mac,’” Josh says. He takes a step toward me and I meet him halfway. His arm circles my shoulders, mine slides around his waist. I smell lime and cedar and coffee. “You’re going to be a very successful mom,” he whispers. He kisses my hair with the briefest of touches and the oxygen is back in the room.
“Though somehow our Penny has promoted herself from flower girl to ‘junior bridesmaid,’” I reply. “Very smooth.”
“Annie’s idea, most likely. As always.”
We made it. We’re back. I can do this.
Penny sticks her head around the corner, her body still in the dining room, her feet out of sight. “Hey. I forgot. Do I know—what? What were you talking about?”
“Shoes,” Josh says. He points her away, then turns to me as we hear Penny’s footsteps heading upstairs. “Bexter’s not open for student orientation until next week.
There’s time. And we’ll have to wait and see. But no secrets. Not for either of us. Agreed?”
Ah. That doesn’t mean I can’t investigate what may be happening at Bexter Academy. It just means I’ll have to tell Josh when I do.
“No secrets,” I say. I know I can make this work.
“T
ough morning, Charlotte?” Franklin turns his head like an owl and keeps one hand on his mouse, clicking his monitor screen closed. He peers at me from under his glasses, then gestures at the battered wood-framed mirror we’ve got pushpinned to the office wall. “Unless you were actually going for the wet-poodle look. In which case, congrats.”
“It’s snowing, Franko,” I say, checking the mirror. He’s right. I deposit my waterlogged latte on my desk, then yank open my metal desk drawer.
Franklin’s file drawer contains files. Mine has a 1600-watt hair dryer, a round hairbrush, hair spray, nail-polish remover, black panty hose, a backup pair of black panty hose, nude panty hose, a backup pair of nude panty hose, contact-lens solution, a bag of almonds, a tin of tea bags, a thing of Tums and several thousand Advil. I pull out the dryer.
“Take off your coat, then I’ll tell you the news,” Franklin says.
“What news? Good news?” I ask, peeling off my soggy coat. “Progress on the car thing? Emmy in our future? Story for the February ratings sweeps? We keep our jobs and everyone lives happily ever after?”
I stash my wet boots under my desk and unzip my black pumps from my tote bag. At least they stayed dry.
Now Franklin needs payback for the unnecessary poodle remark. “Oh, I get it. You’re stalling. Because you can’t find anything.”
With a snap, Franklin swivels back to his computer, clicks his mouse and then taps his keyboard while he talks. “Yes, Charlotte, you’re so very perceptive. But before you find yourself a better producer, feast your eyes on this. May I present to you—” he pauses, apparently savoring his big reveal, “—the good news. The Web site of the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration.”
“NHTSA.” I say.
Nitsa.
“It’s all there? All we need? Right on the Web site?”
Franklin taps a finger to his lips. “Well, yes and no. Yes, I suppose, but in a rather needle-in-a-haystack kind of way.”
Franklin clicks me through the Web site, me leaning over his shoulder as he mouses through the pages of red, white and blue drop-down menus and links. “Here’s the bottom line,” he says. “The NHTSA site does contain every vehicle carmakers have admitted is defective and have been forced to recall. That’s what I mean by the haystack.”
“Does it tell how many of the recalled cars have actually been fixed? And which ones?” I turn to Franklin, hopeful for the second time today. What he’s telling me is possibly great news. “Fabulous. Then we can find the ones that’re not repaired. The ones that are still potentially dangerous.”
“Well, that’s the needle, Charlotte, finding the individual cars,” Franklin says. He’s moving his cursor across the screen. “See? This Web site only shows which makes and models have been recalled. Not what happened after that.”
“Really? That’s absurd,” I say. I turn away from the monitor and perch on Franklin’s black metal file cabinet. “Car owners get notices when their cars are recalled, right?”
Franklin nods. “It’s all on computer. Manufacturers find the car owners by looking up the unique Vehicle Identifi
cation Number of each car. And after the owners take them to the dealer to be repaired, the dealer checks it off as done, and puts the VIN into the same computer network.”
“Exactly my point,” I say. “So the feds absolutely know which cars have been repaired and which ones haven’t.”
And that makes me angry. I wave toward Franklin’s monitor. “So why isn’t all of it public information? The feds regulate all those recall notices, right? I think it’s their responsibility to keep track of who’s still driving a dangerous car. They know it, but they’re not telling? Ridiculous. Who knows how many accidents those cars have already caused? And how many are to come?”
The system is broken. Maybe we can fix it. This is what keeps me going. I point to the phone. “Call them, Franko. Try it the nice way at first. Maybe they’ll just hand the documents over. And tell them—”
Franklin’s holding up a hand to shush me. He’s already dialed, and wonder of wonders, apparently a real person has actually answered the phone. Score one for our tax dollars.
“This is Franklin Parrish, at Channel 3 News in Boston?” Franklin says. He’s using his most polite voice, and a remnant of his mostly erased southern accent. “I need to talk with someone about recalls, please.”
I can’t stand it. I scrawl instructions on my reporter’s notebook and hold it up. “Pssst,” I say, waving the page.
Tell them we got a call from one viewer, no biggie.
Franklin looks over, reads it, and nods.
“We’re just researching a little consumer-education story,” Franklin says, his voice still mild and nonthreatening. “We got a call from a viewer, you know? And he just wondered how to find out whether his car has ever been recalled.”
I nod, this is good. Be polite. Ask an easy question first, and one we already know the answer to. I go back to my notebook while Franklin continues.
“Oh,” he says, all innocent. “You can look it up online? Terrific.”
“Pssst,” I say again. I hold up the notebook.
Can the viewer find out if it’s been fixed?
Franklin looks over again. This time, reading my note, he makes a torqued-up expression implying: Duh.
“That’s interesting,” Franklin says. “But, hey, quick question. If it has been recalled, can our viewer find out if it’s been repaired?” As if the thought just entered his mind. Franklin’s a pro.
“Pssst.”
Say he’s thinking of buying it in a used-car lot.
This time Franklin’s look verges on exasperated. Then as he reads the note, he gives me a thumbs-up.
“Yes, he’s shopping for cars, you know. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.” Franklin puts a hand to his throat, mimes gagging. This part of journalism often includes a bit of theater. It’s worth it for a good story.
And this might be a great one. There could be millions of unrepaired recalls in used-car lots. Like I said, time bombs, waiting to endanger unwitting drivers and their families. We have to find those cars. Warn people.
Get specifics,
I write.
“You know what,” Franklin says, sitting up a little straighter. I can hear his voice hardening. “You must have records of this, I’m sure. Instead of spending time looking for my viewer’s request, why don’t you send us the records for the past three years. All the cars that have been recalled but not repaired. By date, by manufacturer and by model type and year. We’d prefer to have the data sent electronically, not on paper.”
This should all be public information.
I hold it up, and then put it down.
It’s outrageous!
I scrawl in double-size letters. I hold up my instructions again. “Pssst.”
Franklin’s glare could curl my hair, if it weren’t already ridiculously curly. He swivels his chair away, all
drama, putting his back to me and covering his ear with his free hand.
An e-mail pings into view. It’s from Kevin O’Bannon. Cue the suspense music.
Come to my office. ASAP. Confidential.
Music up full. I glance at Franklin, who’s still deep into negotiations.
A summons to the news director’s office. A summons I’m not supposed to discuss. And what could be confidential? In an instant, my brain catalogs my recent actions. Do they think I’m taking too many pencils from the mail room? Have they found all the department store orders on my computer? Long-distance calls to my mother in Chicago? E-mails from wedding caterers? Maybe I won’t have to worry about balancing job and Bexter intrigue. Maybe I won’t have a job.
“Pssst.”
Franklin turns, wary, narrowing his eyes.
I give him my brightest smile and point down the hall toward the bathroom.
He flutters a wave and turns back to his call. I head into territory unknown.
“Have a seat,” Kevin says, waving me to his navy-and-burgundy tweed couch. He crosses to the office door. And closes it.
I sit. I worry. Something major is about to happen. Kevin’s door always stays open.
Half of the news director’s attention is always tuned to the clamor of pagers, beepers, Nextels and police radios buzzing and squawking at the four-person assignment desk just outside his office. If Kevin closes his door, he closes out the rest of the world. And news directors
can’t afford to do that. Unless it’s something really—I don’t have words for how big it has to be.
Kevin sits down beside me. Unheard of. The walls close in as I struggle to predict the future. Whatever he’s going to tell me has got to be life changing. For someone. But what if it’s not me? What if it’s Kevin’s life that’s changing? Maybe he’s dying?
No.
Maybe he’s quitting.
My fear evaporates as my instinct kicks in. Sometimes I just know things. And I’ve learned to trust those times.
Kevin is quitting. It’s not my job at Channel 3 that’s ending. It’s his.
Maybe.
I shift around to face him, trying to organize my legs and choose an expression.
Kevin adjusts his sleek tie of the day, this one covered with the tiniest of greyhounds, nose to tail. The greyhounds match his perfectly tailored gray pin-striped suit. Which matches his graying but salon-sleek buzz cut.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Charlie.” Kevin stops. Clears his throat. “Bottom line. Big picture. I’ve been offered a new job. In market one. New York.”
I flutter a hand to my chest, then reach out to touch his arm. He’s quitting. I knew it. “Well, that’s—congratulations, Kev—”
“And that’s not all,” Kevin continues, ignoring my reaction. “I’ll be helming the news division of a new cable network. It’ll be the antithesis of everything that’s now on local TV. It’ll be all journalism, all the time. The depth of public TV, the production values of MTV, the nose for news of Murrow. No cute titles. No more pandering feature stories about puppies and pandas.”
“News nirvana, sounds like,” I say, smiling. “Really,
Kevin, congratulations. We’ll miss you. I haven’t heard of this, though. What’s it called?”
“No name yet. Rollout’s not till May. This point, it’s all confidential.” Kevin raises an eyebrow, conspiratorial. “I trust you, Charlie, as always, to protect your source. And keep this news to yourself. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, of course, I—of course.” My brain is churning, projecting my own future. The average life span of a local news director is about eighteen months. Kevin lasted a bit longer than most. Who’ll be my new boss? A man? A woman? Someone better? Worse? I’ll certainly have to prove myself all over again. And that makes me suddenly weary of the endless game. Maybe I should quit, too. Be a wife and a mother. Be my own boss. I steal a comforting glance at my ring, twist the stone to the back so Kevin doesn’t notice it yet. Maybe this is a sign. No more TV news for me. Maybe it is my life that’s changing.
Kevin’s up from the couch, headed back to his desk. He turns, leaning against the blond wood.
In the silence, I hear the electronic hum from the bank of television monitors flickering silently on his floor-to-ceiling shelves. The muted buzz of the newsroom.
“Charlie? I want you to come with me. Move to the Big Apple. Be my senior investigative reporter. It’s the big dance, kiddo. And I’m your ticket to the job of a lifetime.”
New York. Network television. Senior investigative reporter. As good as it gets.
The diamond ring on my finger suddenly weighs a million pounds.
I trudge up the two flights of stairs leading back to my office. My dreams have just come true. Journalism prayers answered. And yet, it would all be so much easier if I could go hide under my desk. Job of a lifetime, huh? Just when I thought I had my lifetime in order.
I promised Kevin I would give him my answer as soon as the February book is over. Yes. Or no. Stay. Or go.
I trudge a few more steps, regretting my cantilevered heels, yearning for coffee. I can’t discuss this with Franklin, since I’ve been ordered not to tell him about it. And that’s not really fair, since if I move to New York, his job will also change. And he should have some time to plan his own future.
I also can’t tell Franklin about the Bexter phone calls. I can’t tell Kevin, either. And that’s not really fair, since kids might be in danger.
How many secrets can one person have?
I shake my head, focusing. I don’t have to decide anything right now. Franklin will think I was in the bathroom and won’t ask any questions. Tonight at dinner, I can pump Josh for more information about Bexter.
When I tell Josh about the New York offer, he’ll—
I stop, hand clutching the banister, three steps from the top.
Kevin ordered me not to tell anyone. And I agreed. Does “anyone” mean Josh?
“You’ve got to love valet parking,” I say, sliding out into the snowy night. A navy-jacketed doorman, umbrella popped, is waiting to shelter us to the entrance of the Paramount Hotel. Huge marble lions, sphinxlike, stand sentinel in front of cut-glass and polished-brass revolving doors. Inside is old-world Boston—chandeliers and brocade settees and gold braid and burnished oak paneling, budget-shattering bouquets towering on curvy antique tables. The city’s most elegant place for a wedding. I’d confided the possibility to my mother, who, for perhaps the first time in our lives, agreed I might have a good idea.
“How long will you be?” A twenty-something in a
navy slicker slides past Josh into the driver’s seat. The back of his jacket says Beacon Valet. He slams the door, rolls down the window and clicks down the gearshift. “Overnight? Or just dinner?”
“Dinner,” Josh replies. He barely gets the words out before the valet steers the blue sedan into Boston’s Back Bay murk.
The maître d’ of the Brasserie flickers recognition as we approach her desk. Elegant in a navy suit, an updo and pearls, she says something into a silver-and-white phone before turning to greet us.
“Miss McNally, the Brasserie is delighted to welcome you.” There’s a trace of the Caribbean in her voice. Her name tag says LaVinia. She gestures us to follow her through the crowded restaurant, winding our way past white tablecloths, crystal decanters of wine and shimmering candelabra. “Your table is ready, of course. And Miss Tolliver is on her way.”