Stay Tuned Page 10

  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.

  Chapter 24

  “Melissa, what’s your e-mail address? The one here at the station?” Our graphics guy looked up at me expectantly. “For the show,” he prompted impatiently, looking at the clock, then back at me. “I have to load the info into the computer for your opening shot with Rick.”

  By the time I rattled it off, it dawned on me we had only twenty minutes until airtime. I threw myself into high gear. I snatched up my copy of the script and grabbed my earpiece.

  Around me, the station sizzled with energy. The scanner crackled with short bursts of police-speak. A new pot of coffee percolated—elixir of the gods to exhausted news people everywhere. I inhaled the roasted bean flavor, but decided my nerves didn’t need the extra caffeine jolt. I was plenty wired, all by myself.

  “The live shot’s not up yet,” Joe called over from his desk without waiting for a reply. “There’s a problem with the signal because of the wind.”

  That meant improvise if necessary, something that was less of a hassle the more you did it. No problem. I could handle it.

  I glanced at our rundown and flipped through the pages beneath. I had reviewed it all earlier with Rick. Today was the usual barrage of robberies, car accidents, and verbal warfare between members of the city council.

  In the midst of it all, my cell phone started to buzz, making tracks for the edge of my desk. I snatched it up before it plummeted to three feet and hit the floor.

  “Hello?” My mother’s voice crackled at me.

  “Hello, Mother. How are you?”

  “Could you get my daughter please? There’ve been people in my room again. I’m sure someone has stolen the message from Frank.”

  “Frank? Who’s Frank?”

  “Frank Sinatra, of course.”

  I sighed. My mother was back in celebrity author mode. This time it seemed Mr. Sinatra was her artist of choice. Despite her coldness toward my father and me, I really did miss her. The real her—the woman who went to Hollywood parties and mingled with important people, not the one whose memory played tricks on her.

  It started a few years ago. She’d gotten lost on the way to meeting with a long-time friend. Not to mention her house suffered major water damage after she left the tub faucet running for hours, and Mother landed in the ER with a case of food poisoning.

  The next week, neighbors found her in the backyard. She had fallen, broken her hip, and cracked three ribs, trying to pick peaches. That was when it struck me the hardest. She couldn’t be left alone.

  Chris and I moved her to a nursing home several miles away after a doctor confirmed our suspicions. Dementia was slowly and methodically stealing tiny bits of her mind.

  For Mother, an independent, self-made woman, this was more than difficult to accept. She admitted once, a long time ago, to complete bewilderment when she found out she was pregnant with me. My arrival was a mishap, a mistake, never part of the grand plan. With a flourishing career, at forty years old, a baby was the last thing on her mind.

  So, as a child, I was left with nannies or my father. I pined for my mother’s attention. When she came back from a trip, if I was lucky, we would go to the theatre or listen to classical music. Instead of playgrounds and parks, we visited museums and galleries. I was expected to be grown-up, even at eight years old. At the time, I didn’t care. I wanted to be with Mother.

  Joe’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Melissa Moore, you’re needed in the studio. Melissa.”

  “Love you. Bye,” I whispered, hung up, and tossed the cell phone on my desk.

  Okay. Deep breath. Get to the studio. Get ready to make a good impression on viewers with the “new me.”

  Taking the steps two at a time in heels, I reached the studio door with five minutes to spare. A tiny rush of excitement bubbled up in my chest.

  Behind the desk, I plugged in my earpiece and ran my hand along the shiny oak top. It was rounded and long enough for four adults to sit behind. For now, it was just two of us. Rick nodded at me as I adjusted my seat. I tried not to stare. His face was perfect, the curves and angles caressed by the lights. How was it possible to look better than you did a few hours ago?

  “Hey,” I leaned over to get Rick’s attention. “How’s your first day going?”

  “Fantastic,” he answered with a wry smile. “Feel right at home again. Like I never left. Too bad they didn’t update the set while I was gone. Same Nevada brothel appeal.”

  I had to laugh. The studio did trend toward gaudy, with its gold trim and red backdrop. But somehow, across the airwaves, the space around us transcended into something much more important and impressive.

  “Give me a level, Melissa,” I heard Joe through my earpiece. “Two minutes.”

  “Mic check, mic check. Five, four, three, two,” I answered. The teleprompters on each of the three cameras came to life.

  Our opening music filled the room. It was a cross between country and hip-hop and finished with an upbeat classical musak theme. Something to appeal to most audiences, Drew had explained when it debuted last year.

  My director’s voice again. “Here we go…ready in three, two …”

  I smoothed my jacket, took a sip of water, and waited for Rick.

  “Good afternoon. Thanks for joining us for WSGA News at Six. I’m Rick Roberts.” He looked at me and smiled like a movie star.

  My cue. “And I’m…M-Melissa Moore. Here are s-some of the stories we’re following for you tonight…” What was the matter with me? I made a fist under the desk. Flubbing my lines was not part of the plan.

  Voiced-over video from one of the reporters rolled across the screen.

  “Live shot’s up, Melissa,” came through my earpiece.

  I was ready this time. “We have a live report tonight from the scene of a fatal accident on the north side of the city…”

  Rick readied for his one-shot as I tossed to our reporter in the field. Story after story, the rest of the A-block ran without a hitch. I started to relax. We were getting into a decent rhythm.

  It all fell apart during the first commercial break. As the two-shot faded to black, I could hear Joe cue what should have been the Boys and Girls Clubs of Central Georgia Gala promo. What came up was anything but.

  An instrumental version of, “Let’s Talk about Sex,” blared as video of scantily dressed women and male models rolled across the screen. A Faith Hill twin rolled around on a sheet like something out of her “Breathe” video. Next, fireworks exploded, followed by the words, “Changing Yourself, Changing Your Life,” written across the screen. Drew’s voice followed. Watch Melissa Moore’s series next week on WSGA News at Six. It’ll change your life.

  I shut my eyes, somewhere between wanting to scream or hide, followed by what felt like a rush of heat from a nearby blast furnace.

  Rick pushed back from the desk and shook his head in disbelief. “Guess I really made my point with Drew.”

  “Melissa, you okay?” I heard from Joe. “Get her some water. Melissa, someone’s gonna bring you some water.”

  I leaned over and grabbed my bottle, holding it up. “Thanks, got some,” I answered. I took a swig, feeling tipsy wit
h anxiety, wiping off half my lipstick with the back of my hand.

  Joe’s voice filled the studio. “Drew called. He forgot to pull the promo. It’s been killed.”

  Not soon enough. My internal heat wave subsided some, leaving me in Sahara Desert state instead of Earth’s total annihilation from the sun. “Just a little shocked, that’s all.”

  Rick chuckled. Suddenly, I felt the warmth of his hand on mine under the desk. A jolt of electricity shot up my arm. He squeezed my fingers and let go. It happened so quickly I wondered if I imagined it.

  We were back on camera. It was my turn to read.

  “G-Georgia’s State School Superintendent is applauding charter school educators and founders, calling their recent achievements an integral part of the education system.”

  I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus.

  “Charter schools receive public money, but are not held to public school rules and regulations. Instead, they must achieve specific results outlined in each school’s charter.”

  Somehow, I made it through the rest of the news, sports, and weather. But I couldn’t shake a lingering feeling of curiosity. Rick’s gesture had completely thrown me.

  Questions bounced around in my brain like ping pong balls. Was he just being friendly? Was it a silent show of support? Was he trying to tell me something?

  I was so focused on figuring out Rick’s motive that I wasn’t even surprised when the kicker story was a complete disaster. The wrong video ran, Rick read my lines by mistake, and we had less than ten seconds to say a hurried goodnight.

  As we went to commercial, relief rushed through me. We were done! We had made it! Okay, it was a little rough, but we could smooth it out.

  As I tugged on my earpiece, lost in thought, Drew appeared in the doorway. “Melissa. Rick. Control room. Post-mortem.” He didn’t wait for us to follow.

  As my heels clicked down the hallway after Rick, I talked myself into being calm. This was standard procedure, especially after the first few shows. Everyone lived through it. A critique of the good, the bad, and the ugly.