Stay Tuned Page 6

  “That is so…Life Law Number Eight: We teach people how to treat us,” Candace exclaimed, rustling through the pages of a book. To my best friend, Dr. Phil’s word was like the gospel; she simply shared his wisdom.

  “Here it is. Dr. Phil says, ‘If you’re involved in a relationship in which someone is abusive—’”

  “Wait a minute.” It was my turn to interrupt. “Candace, are you carrying that book around with you?”

  “No!” she answered. “It was right here the whole time. You’re interrupting.”

  I usually teased Candace about Dr. Phil and gave her a hard time about being a full-fledged, dyed-in-the-wool disciple, but deep down, I loved it. His observations made sense.

  “Dr. Phil would say, ‘Alyssa acts like that because Tim lets her,’” Candace continued. “And the people at the television station allow her to.”

  “Well, maybe,” I said slowly. Alyssa did get her way and practically had permission to behave like she did because she was talented and beautiful. And because of the ratings.

  Okay. Dr. Phil was right.

  Candace, even before Dr. Phil, had always been gifted in the people-analyzing department. Counseling was almost certainly her true calling.

  Now that she was starting to quote the man verbatim, she could probably do seminars in her spare time. “You really should go back to school,” I remarked, trying to keep my tone light. “Finish your degree.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Miss Smarty-Pants.”

  “It’s true,” I protested.

  “We’re not talking about me,” Candace retorted huffily. “We’re talking about your TV station and its human resources issues.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled.

  “Melissa! You put up with it, too. You’re forced to be a producer and find stories and check video and who knows what else.” Candace sniffed. “What’s next? Running a daycare at the station once Tim and Alyssa have babies?”

  “Not in this lifetime,” I tossed back, although I could easily see the truth in what she was saying. I kicked at a pebble in frustration and watched it bounce off the cement of the building. Temper tantrum-referee did not fall under my official job responsibilities, but somehow that was exactly what I was required to handle.

  “I just know Dr. Phil would tell you to make some change. Shake things up.” Candace exclaimed, defending her position. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, you deserve more, and better people to work with. You’re smart, talented—”

  “Okay, okay, uncle.”

  “All right.” Candace relented a bit. “And Drew needs to wake up, see the big picture, and hire adults.”

  I think Drew realizes that now.

  Exhausted, trying to concentrate on the sound of Candace’s voice, I found myself longing for a nap. My head started to throb. My skin was sticky to the touch. And I still had Drew’s meeting to get through. I glanced at my watch. Five more minutes.

  I stretched my neck back, blinking a speck out of the corner of one eye. The stars above my head twinkled back at me in between the wisps of smoke from a restaurant down the street. The smell of golden fried chicken wafted by, accompanied by the boom-boom funk of someone’s overpriced Bose speakers pumping out trashy phrases I didn’t want to repeat.

  Trying to focus, I blinked up at the station’s towering twelve stories. The structure cut an imposing shape against the sky, red brick against the deep, dark blue of night. A century ago, the building housed the city’s only hotel. It had been a respite for weary travelers on their way to Atlanta or Charleston.

  Back then, ages ago, I’d be checking in to this hotel right now. Then, as soon as possible, my head would be on those overstuffed pillows.

  The sound of the hip-hop driver and his stereo faded into the night.

  Candace whistled long and low into the phone cradled to my ear. “What’s going to happen now? Will Alyssa and Tim get the boot?”

  I shrugged and bit my lip. “Maybe. Probably,” I answered, glad I wasn’t in charge of that decision. “It’s really up to Drew.”

  In most circumstances, Drew held true to the theory that any publicity was good for business. That’s because when you connected with an audience and brought in stellar ratings, as Alyssa and Tim did, bad behavior tended to be overlooked. Poor attitudes were reprimanded gently. Laziness was brushed off.

  But that was nothing compared to this. No catfight, argument, or recent break up, had been quite as awful—or as public—as tonight’s fiasco.

  In retrospect, we should have seen it coming. All the warning signs were there: Nasty glances, inappropriate comments, black roses last Valentine’s Day. Even Drew joked that their relationship should have arrived packaged in a red bag slapped with OSHA warning labels. Stop! Toxic Waste! Dispose of Properly!

  But after months of breaking up and making up, everyone at WSGA seemed immune to the Alyssa-Tim rollercoaster. It was kind of like going to Disney World and riding Space Mountain every day for a month. The “wow” value wears off in a hurry. You just throw up and go on.

  A scrape of the station’s metal door interrupted me. I spun around in time to see Alyssa and Tim fly out, both making a beeline for the parking lot. Drew stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face darkened from the light of the hallway behind him.

  I shivered and took a step back.

  Alyssa stormed past on her stilettos, still sniffling. Tim, band-aid pasted across his once perfectly formed nose, uttered a gruff, “Excuse me,” under his breath but didn’t make eye contact.

  Both cars—his and her white BMWs—beeped open simultaneously. Tim climbed in first and gunned his engine. His broken taillight gaped open with jagged edges.

  Alyssa was seconds behind. Her tires screeched as she followed him out of the parking lot. I watched the dust settle behind them.

  A faint voice floated up from my cell phone. “Mel. Mel! Are you there?”

  Oh no. Candace was still on the line.

  “Gotta go,” I whispered and hoped she heard me. I hung up and gave Drew my most confident, everything-under-control nod.

  Stone-faced, he motioned me inside. But before I could take a step, Drew had already pushed open the door and disappeared down the hallway.

  I swallowed hard and fought away a tinge of anxiety. Be rational. No need to panic.

  After all, Drew had every reason to be angry. And upset. He had big decisions to make about the station. It was going to be painful. And personal.

  Chapter 14

  Drew paced the room near the small semi-circle of chairs in his office. I slipped in last and grabbed the only open seat.

  “We’re in the middle of a shit-storm, people,” Drew began, only to be interrupted by the phone. It jingled three times and then stopped. He frowned. “That’s about the hundredth call. Damn voicemail is overflowing. Does anyone have any migraine medicine?”

  Drew massaged his temples; his teeth were bared like a dog’s. The right incisor had a tiny chip in the corner, making it look slightly vampire-ish. How appropriate. From what I could tell, my boss was out for blood.

  Joe shook a few pills into his open palm. I wondered if he’d considered slipping Drew some anti-anxiety meds. On second thought, maybe everyone else at the station should take them instead. At least Drew might have some compliant, relaxed employees.

  Joe coughed and shot me a funny look. Several people shifted uncomfortably.

  “Our first full week of sweeps starts Monday.” Drew threw up his hands and let them fall to his sides. “And basically, we’re screwed.”

  No one argued back. No one said a word.

  Wait just a minute. This wasn’t like Drew. We needed decision-making, not wallowing in misery. WSGA was the number one station in the market. Stellar ratings and a solid reputation were the norm.

  Desperation pounded in my chest.

  I wanted to jump to my feet and grab Drew by the collar. Surely, there was a solution…an answer…something we could do…

 
; Drew stopped walking. “I fired them both.” He spit out the words like he had tasted poison.

  Someone gasped, and then murmurs of concern and approval swirled around the room.

  They were gone. Just like that. I swallowed hard and nodded to myself. It was a start. A decision. Thank goodness Drew wasn’t completely paralyzed by all of the stress and mayhem.

  Drew frowned heavily. “They actually resigned before I could fire them,” he admitted. “That’s the story the paper’s getting.”

  Translation: WSGA wasn’t the bad guy. And, Alyssa and Tim would keep a shred of dignity. Heck, they might even be able to get jobs in a back corner of Wyoming. But what was next for us? Where did that leave WSGA?

  I gathered my courage and spoke up. “So, what happens Monday?”

  Drew nodded in my direction, acknowledging the question. He folded his arms across his chest thoughtfully and stared at the plaques and awards displayed on the wall. Drew ran his eyes back and forth, up and down. Suddenly, he focused on one frame in particular.

  My pulse quickened. I strained to see what he was reading, but couldn’t.

  Then finally, Drew cleared his throat, turning slowly and deliberately to face us, the smallest smile playing on his mouth. “A few of you might remember this.” Drew pointed at a plaque. “And this and this.” He touched a few other frames. “All of these awards, thanks to the one and only Rick Roberts.”

  No one moved. My brain raced. What was Drew doing? Would Rick even come back?

  “I’ve already made the call. He’s considering it.”

  Rick had been the station’s main anchor for twenty years. He’d caused major upheaval in Macon’s social circles when he left his wife to run off with a young, lithe Pilates instructor, the heiress to a major timber fortune in a far-flung part of Georgia. The last I’d heard, they were traveling the Greek Isles and paying huge lumps of alimony every month to the ex-Mrs. Roberts.

  Enter Tim, along with a series of short-lived female co-anchors, then Alyssa.

  By now, the Rick Roberts scandal had all but died down. Tonight’s mess would cement that. Rick would look like a golden boy compared to this little mess.

  I held my breath and looked around the room. Everyone nodded. Slam-dunk.

  “As for a co-anchor…” Drew hesitated.

  “Why not let him handle it alone?” Joe said gruffly. “People can get used to that.”

  I agreed. Don’t rush into anything. Safe was good.

  Drew paused and replied evenly, his eyes unblinking, confidence re-charged. He shook his head vigorously. “No. Especially for the six. WSGA viewers are used to seeing two anchors. We need two anchors.”

  He rested one hand on the nearest pile of resume DVDs. “Unfortunately, these are crap.” Drew scooped up the pile, held it over the garbage, and dropped them in. The cases clattered against the sides of the metal can. “So are these.” The rest of the DVDs suffered the same fate.

  Drew walked to the front of his desk and looked straight in my direction, as if he needed to validate his point. “Melissa, Joe, you’ve seen most of these.”

  We nodded. Hours of DVDs watched, not much to show for it. Drew gave most applicants a thirty-second look. Maybe twenty. Joe chuckled. No one was going to argue.

  “It’ll take a month to find decent candidates. Maybe a few weeks if we get lucky.” Drew continued to outline his ideas as they flowed into his head. “If I snap up someone between jobs or a superstar fresh out of college, they won’t have to give a two-week notice. If I beg corporate, I could spring for a hotel while the new person finds a place to live.”

  A new team, a fresh start, all in less than a month. Drew was known to move at the speed of light when money and ratings were concerned. I let my mind start to drift, thinking about the possibilities while Drew continued to talk.

  “Melissa, I need you to anchor—at least until we can find a suitable replacement.”

  Wait a minute. What was that? It was several more seconds until I realized what Drew had said. My breath caught in my throat like a bubble.

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  Drew cleared his throat. “Oh, and thanks for getting on set tonight. It was the right decision,” he continued gruffly. “You’re filling in. Two weeks, minimum.”

  It took a second to find my voice. I forced my hands into my lap. “Maybe there’s another option we could explore?” I managed, my thoughts immediately jumping to our stable of young reporters. Surely, Drew hadn’t watched every single DVD in the garbage can.

  Joe elbowed me to shut up. I flushed, bent my head, and played with my watch. It glinted and winked at me like it knew a secret. My head started to throb. My stomach churned.

  “I don’t think so. You’ll be fine,” he continued. “Of course, you’ll continue to produce both shows, keep things rolling, right?” Drew asked but didn’t wait for a reply. He kept talking.

  Of course, I would say yes. I always did. Enthusiastic employee, super-mom, and supportive spouse. Organized-living queen and steadfast friend. Throw in psychologist, accountant, and chef. Mix with slightly insane schedule. Subtract vacation time and tan lines.

  Candace teased that my life was a cross between June Cleaver and Martha Stewart, sans prison time, of course. This, however, wasn’t juggling groceries and paying the bills.

  In the midst of my silent worrying, everyone else swarmed for the door. I looked over at Drew. Was he finally finished talking?

  “Melissa,” he called out. “A word?”

  A few employees lingered by his desk. I shrugged and smiled as I walked over. Probably some detail or reminder about tomorrow’s show. In typical Drew fashion, he didn’t waste any time.

  “Boss?”

  Drew gave my outfit a thorough once-over. “Just so we’re clear. Don’t even think about wearing that on-air again.”

  Chapter 15

  At six the next morning, I unfolded the Telegraph .

  In full color, Alyssa and Tim’s huge, smiling head shots stared back at me, along with a massive headline: Anchor Brawl Top Story at WSGA-TV .

  Knots forming in my stomach, I scanned the article. The seven paragraphs contained a play-by-play description of the knockout punch and conjecture that the fight stemmed from Alyssa and Tim’s long-standing romantic involvement. The story said that both anchors resigned. Drew was quoted at the end.

  He called it an “unfortunate incident,” and wished Alyssa and Tim “the best of luck in future endeavors.” Drew was quoted further as saying, with the change in on-air talent, WSGA-TV would be moving in a “new direction.” No surprise there.

  In the last part of the article, the reporter speculated on who would replace Alyssa and Tim. A few names were mentioned, including mine as a temporary stand-in. Anticipation of Chris’s surprise bubbled up in my chest.

  “Honey,” I interrupted and held up the newspaper. “Chris, take a look at this!”

  The WSJ wavered the slightest bit, pushed by the light breeze from the ceiling fan.

  “Chris,” I repeated.

  My husband finally dropped the paper. Brow furrowed, he set down his coffee cup, making a puddle of brown liquid slosh over his fingertips.

  “Damn.” Chris frowned at the mess and started mopping it up with his napkin. “I’m sorry, what happened?”

  “Alyssa and Tim got into a fist fight during the show.”

  Chris did a double take, as though he hadn’t heard me correctly.

  “They’re gone. Drew let them resign so he wouldn’t have to fire them,” I explained. “I have to fill in on the anchor desk. I’m a little worried.” I paused and gathered my courage. “I was trying to ask what you thought.”

  The words didn’t exactly spill from my mouth in the smooth, silky way I had intended. More like boulders bumping their way down a mountainside. In a thunderstorm.

  When he didn’t react, I spelled it out. “I’m going to be doing the six and ten o’clock news, at least for a while.”

  Chris he
sitated. “Um, okay. Good.” He gave me a little smile. “You’ll be fine.” He toyed with the edge of the newspaper. “I’ve got that meeting in Montgomery. Be back tomorrow.” He checked his watch. “I’m leaving in an hour. Can you still pick up the dry cleaning?”

  Sweet Jesus. He didn’t just say that. He might as well have hit me with a hammer. A flash of indignation pierced my heart.

  “Get your own dry cleaning,” I snapped at him.

  I expected Chris to say something, anything. Yell back at me, at least. Instead, with a hard look, he turned, picked up his keys, and walked out of the room. The front door clicked shut behind him.

  I stomped up the stairs two at a time. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. In the safety of the bedroom, I locked the door and threw myself on the bed. Face buried in the sheets and blanket, I couldn’t breathe. I raised my head and sucked in air. Suffocating myself was not an option.

  Ugh! I rolled over on my back. Hands on my head, I stared at the tiny bumps on the ceiling. The ceiling above the bed we were supposed to share. Share? That was a joke. I wasn’t sure we shared anything except a mortgage anymore. One thing was certain. I didn’t know my own husband. He didn’t know me. He’d rather be at work. Or in Montgomery. At a meeting he didn’t bother to tell me about. Again.

  What if he wasn’t going to work…?What if he’s not…?

  Stop being so paranoid. It was a misunderstanding. He’s distracted. You’re stressed.

  In a gold picture frame, Chris’s face gazed at me from the top of my dresser. His perfect white teeth gleamed at me from across the room. Without thinking, I took a pillow and aimed for his chin. The soft plush padding bounced off the wall, missing my husband’s photograph by a good two feet. I reached for another pillow, and then stopped myself. I was no better than Alyssa if this was how I was going to react.

  Okay, I promised myself. I would be positive. I would figure out what was bothering Chris. I would focus on work and make the best of it—with grace and confidence.

  With renewed purpose, I pushed myself off the bed and looked in the mirror. I brushed a strand of hair from my eyes and smiled at my reflection.