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  Joe cued me. “Ready? In three…two…”

  I nodded and plunged into the show as the music started.

  Get through it.

  Taking my time, I read each sentence, careful to enunciate and inflect my voice.

  “A thirty year-old Atlanta man died after he was shot in West Macon Thursday night. That’s according to the Bibb County Coroner. Jones was wounded while standing near the corner of Ell and Chappell Streets off Eisenhower Parkway. He was pronounced dead hours later at The Medical Center of Central Georgia.”

  By the fourth sentence, I was pacing myself better, breathing in the right places. I kept reading. Several stories later, near the end of the segment, I was in a good rhythm.

  “Stay tuned for weather and sports. WSGA will be right back.” I set down my script and pen, relieved to be through it.

  Joe’s voice filled my earpiece. “What’d you think?” he asked.

  “I think it was okay,” I bit my lip. “What about you?”

  “Let’s run through it again,” said Joe.

  “Okay.” My pulse sped up. I tried not to frown into the camera.

  “You need to relax your shoulders, move your arms apart, give me a natural smile,” Joe replied. “To tell you the truth, you’re a little stiff. And your voice is a little wobbly.”

  I checked the cord to make sure it was still attached.

  “Melissa?” Joe was patiently waiting for me to decide. “You don’t have to be perfect. Maybe this will help. Just think about the stories. How you’d want to hear them as a viewer.”

  “Um,” I stalled. Alyssa sprang to mind, but I didn’t want to be fake and plastic. There was Amy Robach from NBC, Megyn Kelly from FOX. What about Samantha Brown from the Travel Channel ? That was it.

  “Hey, you. Melissa,” Joe said. “You’re over-thinking this.”

  “You’re right. Give me a sec.”

  He understood. Joe was someone I really trusted. The lines on the teleprompter flew backwards.

  Shoulders down, arms relaxed at my sides, hands laid lightly on the desk, I was ready.

  “All set?”

  I thought about beaches in California, my daughter Kelly, and smiled into the camera.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 21

  Sunday morning, my emotions bounced from thrilled to worried and back again. Where was Chris? How would Monday night go?

  I cleaned the house. I finished the laundry. Talked to Kelly, twice. I straightened and re-arranged my closet. Again.

  By the time I started dinner, my excitement and anxiety had softened to manageable level. There was something therapeutic about chopping carrots and peppers into bite-sized pieces with a huge knife.

  Mid-slice, the door to the kitchen creaked open. His footsteps echoed in the hallway.

  “Hi,” I waved from the counter.

  He came to a dead stop. “What’d you do to your hair?” I couldn’t tell if he was shocked or impressed.

  “Needed a change,” I said casually, reaching for the wok.

  “You look great,” Chris exclaimed. “I mean it.” He grabbed a carrot and popped it in his mouth, then came closer to get a better look. “Any new developments at the station?”

  I concentrated on making loops of oil in the pan, then tossed vegetables into the wok. “Not that I know of. I’m counting on Monday being a little crazy.”

  If you’d returned my phone calls … I bit my lip instead of saying the words. I wasn’t about to ruin the only decent conversation we’d had in a while.

  Chris grimaced. “Yeah, work’s been nuts for me, too.”

  “How was Montgomery?”

  Chris hoisted himself up and sat on the counter. “It was a good. Very productive. I think we landed a new client. A marketing firm that specializes in corporate imaging.”

  “So they make companies more likeable?”

  Chris nodded. “In a nutshell. And hopefully more profitable because of it.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Um, sure.” Chris unfolded himself from the countertop, ambled over to the loveseat, and sat down.

  I pursed my lips. “Drew’s bringing back Rick Roberts in Tim’s place. You remember him, right?”

  My husband nodded and shrugged.

  “And I told you, someone has to replace Alyssa. I’m filling in, but I’m not sure it’ll be permanent. Or that I want it to be,” I added quickly. “I’m not sure.”

  I hoped he’d catch the hint and suggest that I go for it. Give me a vote of confidence. But being the left-brained guy he is, my husband didn’t pick up on the subtle suggestion.

  Chris rubbed his hands together and watched the screen. “Doesn’t Drew have the final say? And isn’t it subjective? For instance, who you like isn’t necessarily who I like.”

  “That’s true.” I pressed Chris again. “But why are people drawn to certain anchors? Is it being good-looking? Or the way they dress, a sense of humor, being professional?”

  “If I had to narrow it down, the ones who grab my attention are smart, interesting, and seem to care. They have a spark,” Chris said finally.

  “A spark?” I repeated.

  “Something special.”

  His phone buzzed.

  Part of me wanted to jump up and kiss him, get him to ignore the caller. The other part told me not to bother. Chris was already getting up from the table and checking his messages, ready to dash out the door.

  For once in my life, I wasn’t going to let him just leave. “What’s going on?”

  Chris froze in front of me.

  “Is it something urgent?”

  He shook his head, reluctantly moved back to his chair, his shoulders hunched up, eyes darting around the room.

  I forced myself to sit and wait. The silence was killing me. My heart wanted to pound out of my chest.

  When he realized I was serious, Chris heaved a sigh, leaned forward, and put both elbows on the table. “I guess I don’t understand.” Chris’s eyes flickered across my face. “It’s like…all of a sudden…Bam!”

  The sound made me jump.

  “I come home, and there’s a new Melissa. And now you want my in-depth opinion on who the station should hire?”

  My mouth dropped open. Chris ignored the look on my face and kept talking. “On the one hand, I’m flattered. On the other hand, I’m just confused. Since Kelly left, you’ve been different. I know it’s lonely and I’m gone a lot. But these changes—your hair, the makeup, the clothes—it’s all so sudden. Like you’re trying to be someone you’re not.”

  A chill swept over me. Before I exploded with frustration, I counted backwards from ten, something I used to do when Kelly threw childhood temper tantrums.

  I made my voice was calm and level. “Chris, you’ve hurt my feelings. I wanted your opinion on the anchors because I care about what you think.” I sniffed back a tear. “And, I didn’t plan this whole thing. I went shopping. And then Candace talked me into…It just happened.”

  A look of guilt began to creep across Chris’s face.

  My throat tightened.

  His phone started buzzing again.

  “Perfect timing.” I stood up and started walking out of the living room.

  “Melissa. I’ll just be a minute. Come back here,” Chris called, louder than his phone.

  My shoulders tensed. Ordering me around was not going to help. I turned and gave him the best haughty look I could manage in bare feet and a t-shirt.

  His hand, inches from answering his phone, stopped in mid-air.

  We were about six feet apart, but the space between us might as well have been the Grand Canyon, howling with wind. If I took another step, I’d end up at the bottom, in a gulch, with a donkey licking my face. And I wasn’t throwing Chris a line to get across to my side. I felt like the villainess in a movie, sawing away at a flimsy rope bridge with a knife.

  Chris’s phone continued to vibrate.

  “Go ahead, get it,” I said and pointed to t
he phone, daring him, then crossed my arms tight. “You can’t help yourself, can you? Work is more important than anything in the universe .”

  Chris looked like I’d stabbed him with a hot poker. He physically flinched, momentarily off-balance.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  “Look, I’m up for this promotion, but have to compete with cutthroat co-workers to get it. This Tyler will do anything.” Chris defended himself. The vein in his forehead pulsed, a sure sign his temper was just shy of maximum overdrive. “You don’t know the pressure I’m under—”

  “You’re right, I don’t,” I cut in before he had a chance to explain any further. “Like this weekend. You couldn’t yank yourself away from the newspaper to even hear what I was saying.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s made sacrifices in this marriage,” Chris snapped back at me. “I know you didn’t get to travel across Europe. I know you wanted another baby. Well, I wanted to start my own business, but it didn’t turn out that way.”

  Ouch. I didn’t realize it was still so painful for him. I swallowed hard.

  Chris frowned. “You didn’t see the article.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “Which article?” He couldn’t be talking about WSGA. It had to be something else.

  “The one about Macon Financial. And Tyler,” Chris said. “The wonderful addition to the team, blah, blah, blah.” He rubbed his chin. “You don’t realize it, but I’m struggling to keep up with all of Tyler’s ‘great’ ideas. It’s all about who can work harder and longer.”

  “I’m sorry,” My voice faltered.

  Chris ran a hand through his hair. “Melissa…”

  His phone rattled again. My eyes flew to the slim, rectangular piece of metal.

  Don’t answer it .

  But he did. My husband turned his back to me. “Chris Moore.”

  My will to fight dissolved in the pit of my stomach.

  Beaten by a cell phone. Who was I to compete with unlimited nationwide minutes and reliable coverage?

  Chapter 22

  A load of DVDs landed on my desk Monday morning. I spent the first hour of the day going through them and had narrowed the candidates to three possibilities. There was a perky brunette from Albuquerque, a redhead from Meridian, Mississippi, and an exotic Hispanic woman now anchoring at a tiny station in South Florida.

  I knocked on Drew’s door. The huge plasma screen in front of him blared with sound, as did the two smaller televisions flanking it. Intent on catching even the tiniest fragment of breaking news, Drew simultaneously watched CNN, MSNBC, and Fox with the intensity of a gambler betting his last dollar on a long-shot horse race.

  After all, that’s what the news business is about. Every morning, the contest began to see which station could grab the biggest stories. Same challenge the next day, and the next. National news or local, the game was played the same way. And Drew played to win.

  In his tenure as a reporter, Drew had crisscrossed the country, covering stories like Waco, Columbine, and the Oklahoma City bombing. He was brilliant, but his temper and tendency to micro-manage sent him tumbling down from the big markets instead of making a steady climb. Those who needlessly challenged him were chewed up and spit out. To top it off, there were rumors of five ex-wives and bouts with rehab.

  But Macon was home for Drew. He had a family tree that dated back as far as the most esteemed Georgians could verify. That carried substantial weight in our smaller, tight-knit community—almost as much as his many political and social connections.

  Beneath all of the bluster and anger, I knew he had a soft spot for producers. And he watched out for me. Which meant I looked out for him, too.

  “What is it?” Drew asked, not bothering to look up. “Damn stock market analysts,” he continued, his back hunched like he was caught in a windstorm.

  “Can you take a look at a few candidates?” I rattled the DVDs.

  “Yeah, yeah.” After another minute, Drew pointed the remote at the loudest television, rubbed a hand on his head, and spun around. He did a double take. “Damn!”

  His reaction caught me off guard. Did “damn” mean good or bad? Was he talking about my hair? Or maybe he was saying “damn” about the stock market and it wasn’t about me at all.

  “Nice change,” he added for emphasis. He leaned back in his chair. “It suits you.”

  I felt a tiny ripple of satisfaction.

  Unlike other men, Drew was in tune with hair, makeup, and clothing trends, mostly because they affected ratings. Countless focus groups were devoted to dissecting an “audience friendly” appearance—the kind of look that makes men want to date you and women want to be your friend. Too much emphasis either way was bad for business, Drew explained. It was a delicate balance.

  Alyssa had never quite carried off the girl-next-door look, he had joked. Now it didn’t matter if she was Miss Universe.

  I handed over the DVDs. “Want to watch now?”

  “Nah,” he waved a hand and shoved them into his briefcase. “I’ll take a look tonight.”

  Drew, instead, started ranting about the buzz WSGA had generated from the on-air fight. He was particularly focused on the huge number of viewer phone calls, leading me to believe that the situation might not have been as devastating for WSGA as I first thought.

  “Since Friday night, calls hit over the two hundred mark, counting my cell, work, and home phone. A few people actually found it amusing,” he shook his head.

  This morning, after about twenty phone calls to Atlanta, he had convinced the corporate types everything was under control, despite the fact that Alyssa was threatening to sue the station while Tim’s attorney had requested that every station copy of the “incident” be handed over or destroyed. Any new developments were sure to warrant coverage in the Telegraph .

  Drew snorted a laugh. “The whole thing ended up better than reality television.”

  He had a point. Let’s face it; Survivor contestants who all got along and sang campfire songs together wouldn’t sell a lick of airtime. In essence, Alyssa and Tim had been voted off the island. Who was next?

  The perplexed look on my face triggered Drew’s next comment.

  “Don’t worry,” he comforted me. “No one else is getting fired.”

  Whew.

  “Any chance Alyssa’s coming back? Some of the guys said she’s been driving by the station.” I tried to make the questions sound nonchalant. Inside, I was quivering.

  “Not a chance,” Drew shook his head, then pointed at me. “But watch your back. That girl’s crazy. We’ll get a restraining order if she doesn’t quit lurking around.”

  I offered my boss a brave smile. “Okay.”

  “Well, I do have some good news. It’s official that Rick Roberts is coming back,” Drew rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I talked him into it. He’ll be here soon.”

  “That’s—”

  “I know, I know,” Drew gloated. He rubbed his hands together in glee. “It’s great! I didn’t even have to throw in the country club membership.” He paused for dramatic effect and lowered his voice. “It seems the new Mrs. Roberts is driving him a little bonkers with all of her tennis lessons and shopping sprees.” Drew went on about the details of how much money she was spending, where they had traveled, and the inside scoop about her prescription medication.

  “Drew, maybe I don’t need to know—”

  “Anyway,” he said proudly, wrapping up his monologue, “I think he’ll actually be saving money by coming back to WSGA.” Drew stopped to shuffle through papers on his desk.

  I took a quick breath. “Well, let me know what you think about the DVDs. We’ll probably get a few more tomorrow. I’m checking TV Jobs, too. And MediaLine.”

  Drew nodded. “Hey, I’m not worried. You’ve got a good eye. Run your top candidates by Joe if you have a chance. We’ll find someone.”

  “Thanks boss.”

  Drew rubbed his forehead. “Someone stab
le. Without a criminal record.”

  “Check.”

  “Just remember, we need the real deal. Someone with class, with some style. That something special, right?”

  “Got it.”

  He pointed at me. “Anyone can sit behind the prompter and do the job.” He crossed his eyes and smothered a chuckle. “Well, anyone, except Alyssa.”

  I pressed my lips together. I was not saying a word.

  Not. One. Word.

  Chapter 23

  “Hey, and don’t let me forget. We have to do something about Judd. He has another ‘issue.’” Drew made quotation marks with his fingers when he said the last word.

  Our sports anchor, Judd Carol, had some personal challenges. We’d dealt with his over-eating by hiring a professional hypnotist; we’d handled his gambling addiction by sending him to a therapist who specialized in shock therapy.

  Of course, the “we” usually meant “me” fixing the problem. Or trying to. But before I could ask for details, Drew had summoned the entire staff by loudspeaker to an urgent ratings meeting.

  “What is it now?” I pressed him.

  Drew covered his mouth with one hand and grimaced. “Coke.”

  “What?”

  “Shh,” he warned and turned his back to grab a folder.

  That was Drew. Drop a bomb like that and call a meeting.

  The staff filed in, and one of the reporters threw an admiring glance in my direction. “You look great!” she said. I smiled for the first time that morning, glanced down at the new clothes I was wearing and straightened up taller. Oh, right. The new me.

  “Love the haircut,” she whispered. A few of the other girls nodded in agreement.

  “Thanks,” I mouthed.

  Drew stopped to survey the room then held up the latest viewer ratings book. “Folks, we have to fix this. We’re losing touch with our key audience. DMA ratings for women, twenty-five to fifty-four, have dropped two rating points from November and three points from February of last year. We’re still number one, but just barely.”

  Assuming Alyssa and Tim were part of the problem, I was anxious to hear his solution.