A Reason to Stay (18 page)

She stood. “My goodness, Geary. You shouldn't have to.” She marched around the room. “Your family has absolutely no boundaries. None!” Her fists clenched. “This is
my
house, and none of them seem to recognize that fact.”

He looked up. “Faith, I don't think you're being entirely fair.”

“Not fair? Are you kidding me?”

“What I meant is, maybe you're overreacting just a little.”

She stomped her foot. “I soaked my pant legs because your brother-in-law helped himself to my bathroom and placed plastic wrap on the toilet seat.”

Geary bent and picked up her bathrobe off the floor. “He meant that as a joke,” he argued as he walked over and hung the garment on a hook mounted on the wall.

“Well, it wasn't funny. Not even a little.”

“Look, Mom felt horrible. She didn't mean to walk in on us.”

Faith drew a breath and puffed it out quickly to regain composure. “Look, I'm tired. I'm going to bed.”

He brushed his hand through his hair. “I still need to pack.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Well, you're going to have to do that in the morning, because I'm going to bed.”

His eyes shifted into the same expression she'd seen in his truck weeks before. “Fine,” he said, heading for the bedroom door.

“Fine,” she popped back.

He walked out and shut the door much harder than necessary.

Alone again, Faith growled and dropped full-length onto the bed. She covered her face with her hands.

That was certainly
not
the memorable evening she'd had in mind.

S
weeps week inside a newsroom closely mirrored homecoming on many southern campuses. Not only was strategic planning vital to win the ratings game, but the entire news team hoped to make first string.

Head coach Clark Ravino huddled with his producers, copy writers, reporters, and anchors for weeks leading up to the critical rating period, planning the lineup that would lure viewers to tune into KIAM-TV.

Rumor had it Clark pulled an enormous compensation package when coming on board to run the news division. He had a lot to prove to the station owners and to the industry as a whole. Everyone was watching.

So when he gathered everyone in the conference room and announced her story idea would be second in the lineup, Faith could hardly believe her good fortune. Neither could DeeAnne Roberts, who accidently tipped over her Styrofoam cup of coffee when she heard.

The lead would be a special report on Houston ranking in the fasting-growing cities in America, despite declining economics.

“The recent oil surge going on in Texas is generating major job gains,” Clark reported. “And Houston is at the center of that
phenomenon.” He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. “We'll incorporate that data you collected,” he told DeeAnne, throwing her a bone.

Faith, on the other hand, was told she'd get a dateline package that would run nearly fifteen minutes.

“The economic lead will segue beautifully into Faith's piece, which we plan to title ‘Where's the Monet?'” Clark leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and steepled his fingers. “We'll go with live shots on-site and integrate interview pieces with VO segments.”

Faith clasped her hands on the table to keep from applauding. She was jumping inside, but on the outside she displayed the professional demeanor of a polished, career-minded news journalist.

Hiding her true feelings was becoming her art form lately, especially at home. Not wanting to escalate the building rift in her marriage, she'd gone along with Geary's act the morning following their big argument over his mother. Like her husband, she simply pretended everything was fine. What good would it do to hash over an argument? Especially when doing so might start another one.

Instead she smiled and thanked him for the cup of coffee he offered and nodded when he reminded her he wouldn't be home for dinner. “If I don't get out of Toledo Bend in plenty of time to make it all the way home, I'll text you,” he said, brushing her cheek with a kiss before heading out.

Why wouldn't he
just call?
she wondered. Even their electronic communication seemed to be getting more distant.

Over the weeks that followed, she'd been buried with work while pulling this piece together. Geary too had been busy, traveling the circuit.

On the rare nights they were both home in the evening, they acted cordial, even pleasant. But the crisp brightness of their early relationship had dimmed.

She could scarcely admit it, but the luster had rubbed off their
shiny new marriage. Without intention, they'd somehow traded a Corvette for a slightly dented Ford Taurus they now kept parked safely in the garage.

On the night her big program aired, Faith stayed at the station to watch. Those not involved in the live broadcast were gathered with her in the conference room. Catered hors d'oeuvres were spread down the table and bottles of water chilled in buckets of ice.

Large monitors covered one wall, tuned to every channel in their market.

Cathy Buster reached for a stuffed mushroom. “I hear Channel 2 is doing a story on renovation of the downtown area. With Houston set to host Super Bowl LI, officials hope to accelerate the project to have it ready by February of 2017.”

Mark Grubie, their station manager, shook his head. “I agree with Clark. Faith's story is fresh and will appeal to the critical early evening viewers, mostly women in the forty-five to sixty-five age bracket.”

Glass windows separated the conference room from the producer pod in the center of the newsroom, where carefully managed chaos signaled only minutes to air.

She had a sudden case of nerves.

Swallowing the bundle of anxiety growing in her throat, she dared a glance at her news director. He loosened his tie, then stood rigid, staring at the monitors with arms tightly crossed. His jaw twitched, and she knew he'd laid a lot on the line. In a few short minutes, it'd be make it or break it time—for both of them.

The familiar snappy SOT played while the station's logo circled on-screen. After the fade, the evening anchors welcomed viewers to the newscast and began the night's rundown with a cold open, followed by the leading story on economics and ending with a teaser for her piece. Then a cut to the first commercial break.

Clark rubbed his palms together. “So far, so good,” he said
before picking his buzzing cell phone up off the table. “Yeah,” he answered. “Yup, that's good. Uh-huh.” He clicked off the phone and dropped it in his shirt pocket before reaching for the bottle of water on the table in front of him. At the same time, he gave her a wink and a quick thumbs-up.

When the broadcast resumed, the single donut she'd eaten early that morning seemed to reappear, feeling like lead in her gut. She stood and poured herself a cup of coffee before settling back into the swiveling chair to watch.

Ignoring the commotion outside the glass window and the producers who scrambled into the conference room delivering copies of the rundown, Faith forced her attention back to the monitor on the conference room wall. Her breath caught when she appeared on-screen standing at the wrought-iron gate leading into one of the extravagant properties in River Oaks.

Work hard, take risks, maybe build your own business. That's the traditional route to financial success. Of course, there's an optional path young women are taking to acquiring wealth that isn't talked about quite as much these days.

Here in the land of conspicuous consumption, marriage isn't considered a lifelong commitment; it's the ultimate accessory.

For women hoping to marry into wealth, the River Oaks area of Houston means money. Real money.

A graphic appeared on-screen showing the high number of wealthy residents.

True, it's not politically correct to go hunting for a marital meal ticket, but consider the more pragmatic bonuses of the good life. No more studying to make magna cum laude, no striving to climb the corporate ladder or scrimping and scraping to make your annual Roth IRA contribution. And no more worries about where your children will get into college, or how to pay for it.

A seven-figure donation from your beloved to the school of your
choice and your kids are in the door, even if they're no smarter than grapefruit.

Sold? Many young women today are. But how realistic is it for ordinary-wage slaves, with no more ties to the jet set than a business trip to Cleveland last month, to even meet, much less marry, a billionaire?

KIAM-TV decided to find out.

Faith attempted on-screen interviews with several spouses. Mrs. Rhodes, the wife of a hedge fund manager, held up her palm to the camera and declined to comment. Same with Tippy D'Amato, the third wife of the owner of a shipping magnate.

Unfortunately, those who had already made it to Fat City refused to say how they got there.

The shot shifted to a woman's image on-screen. “I am just not telling,” said one billionaire's wife over her cell phone before hanging up.

Nonetheless, we did find some who were willing to talk.

Video of the girls she'd met up with in the spa appeared—the ones who looked like beauty queens with fake tans and no inner thighs. Faith's voice-over continued.

Marrying a billionaire is not beyond a very real possibility, as long as you're willing to work hard toward your goal. In a few moments, we'll find out just how it's done from the experts.

They broke to another commercial. Clark made a decision to limit this advertising spot in order to retain viewers, a bold move nearly unheard-of in a revenue-driven enterprise like their O&O. Even more than affiliates, owner-operated stations were hypervigilant when it came to the bottom line.

The program resumed with a warm open where she captured the two highly educated girls explaining to viewers how they'd accepted very lucrative job offers but considered hunting for Mr. Richie Rich their real full-time profession.

She segued to a shot of her standing in front of the River Oaks Country Club.

Over half of the billionaires in our study met their spouses at work.

They broke to an image of Melinda Gates, who was a Microsoft manager when she met her future husband Bill at a company press event.

Get an MBA. ASAP. To worm your way into a billionaire's business, and eventually his heart, we're told you need the right career.

“Arm candy is now seen as déclassé,” one of the girls noted. “These days, the more prestigious your credentials and the brainier you are, the better. You'll better your chances of marrying rich by taking an etiquette course, a wine appreciation class, study a second language, buy better running clothes, and by all means, get a personal stylist.”

KIAM-TV found a woman based in Houston offering $500-an-hour private sessions on how to marry rich. She claims that in her twenty years in business, 90 percent of her clients have landed multimillionaires.

The camera cut to another shot—this time of one of the girls from the spa standing in front of that magnificent church Faith had seen on the corner of Westheimer and River Oaks Boulevard, dressed in a stunning Chagoury Couture wedding gown. The segment wrapped with the girl's voice-over.

“Some may call me a gold digger, opportunist, or whatever other negative word they can find to describe my choice, and that's fine
with me. Marrying for love is admirable and brave, it's the stuff fairy tales are made of, but like I said before, life isn't all about fairy tales. While those people who married for love are arguing over rent and school fees and others are planning vacations they can barely afford to pay for, I'll be living far more than comfortably.”

The shot cut to Faith. She held the microphone firmly in place and looked into the camera.

There you have it. For several generations, women have been striving for financial independence from men, but in this tightening economy, a growing number are leaving that philosophy behind and choosing to marry well.

What does it matter? We'll leave that up to our viewers to decide.

Back to you, Mike.

The lights on the phone bank over on the sideboard lit up. Clark's phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket to his ear.

Faith leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She'd done it.

She opened her eyes just in time to catch Clark pumping his fist in the air. “We've hit our home run!” he shouted. “The rankings were skyrocketing the entire time we were running Faith's package.”

He rushed over and wrapped his arms around her, swinging her up from the chair. “This is great!” He patted her shoulders, then stepped to the doorway and shouted out, “KIAM-TV took the five o'clock.”

Noisy pandemonium broke out in the producer pit.

Mark Grubie walked over and shook her hand. “Good job,” he said, grinning. “Clearly, this story resonated with the women viewers we were targeting. You have great instinct . . . and a bright future at this station.”

“The idea may have been mine,” she offered. “But our entire team pulled this off. Such a pleasure to work with a talented and dedicated group.”

When the broadcast concluded twenty minutes later, a celebration broke out in the conference room. Someone popped a cork off a bottle of champagne. Faith could barely hear over the excited chatter.

The big party lasted over the next several hours until it was time for the ten o'clock. Because of a quick reshuffling, her piece would run again.

During the entire time Faith kept an eye on her phone, watching for a call from Geary.

A call that never came.

T
he party didn't wind down until after eleven, and still no call from Geary, who was in Emory at a small tournament on Lake Fork.
Surely
he
didn
'
t
forget
, Faith said to herself as she crossed the station's employee parking lot heading for her car.

“'Night, Faith. Way to kick the ratings off the roof.” Chuck Howell, the cameraman who had been with her from the beginning, from that fateful broadcast at the bass championship on Lake Conroe, waved. “I can say I knew you when,” he hollered into the balmy night air.

Faith waved back. “Thanks, but we still have a ways to go to get to the top, and you're coming with.”

“Absolutely—you bet!”

Cicadas buzzed in a clump of trees, and in the distance she could hear a siren, likely heading to nearby Hermann Memorial.

As she reached her car, she pulled her bag from her shoulder. Before she could reach inside, her phone rang.

Thinking it must be Geary, she quickly pulled the iPhone out. Seeing a number she didn't recognize, she frowned and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

No one responded. Yet something told her there was a person on the line. “Hello?” she repeated.

She heard what sounded like a sob. Alarmed, she said again, “Hello? Who is this?”

“Sis?”

Her heart stopped. “Teddy? Is this Teddy?” Her bag dropped to the ground, spilling the contents onto the pavement. “Teddy, talk to me. Is that you? Where are you?”

He sniffed. “Yeah, it's me.”

Tears immediately welled in her eyes. “Oh, it's good to—I mean, it's been a long time, Teddy. Where are you?” She hadn't heard from her brother since well before she met Geary. Rarely did she allow herself to think about him, wonder about him. It was just too painful. “Teddy, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm good. Look, I saw you on television. That was awesome, sis. I just wanted to call and tell you that.” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “Mom—she would've been really proud.”

“Teddy, I want to see you. Where are you?” she asked again, holding her breath in fear he'd hang up. “Please, let's—I want to see you.” She kicked at the pavement with her heel, listening . . . hoping. “I got married. I want you to meet him. Geary's a really great guy. You'll like him.”

Even though her brother was now an adult, in her mind he remained her little brother, the kid she tried to protect—and couldn't.

Teddy laughed. “Hey, do you remember that time Mom drug us to that funeral?”

Faith squeezed her eyes shut. “Yeah, I remember.”

“What was that old guy's name?”

“Leonard Walters, I think.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, Leonard Walters. What a trip. Who was that guy?”

“We didn't know him,” she told her brother. The cicadas' loud buzzing stopped.

“Classic. We went to a funeral of some guy we didn't even know.”
He paused. “What was Mom's deal anyway? She wouldn't even let us go to Dad's funeral.”

“Yeah, I remember that too.” She also remembered holding tight to her little brother's hand, whispering for him to turn his head when their mother made them pass by Leonard Walters's open casket. Teddy had pulled his hand from hers and looked anyway.

Faith's phone beeped. She glanced quickly. It was Geary.

“Did we know that guy?” her brother repeated.

Faith looked up into the black sky. “No, no, we didn't know him.” She wiped at her tear-filled eyes. “Teddy, are you using?”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she was sorry she'd said them. Faith quickly said a prayer, the kind you utter in your heart without words. “Look, I'm sorry. That doesn't matter. I mean, of course it matters—you matter.” She was rambling now, not making sense. “Teddy?”

“Look,” he said, a sadness creeping into his voice. “I just wanted to tell you I saw the show. I'm proud of you.”

“Don't go,” she pleaded. “Teddy, what Mom did—it wasn't your fault.”

“Love you, sis.”

“No—Teddy, wait.” The phone clicked and she knew he was gone.

Her lip quivered as she bent to pick up the contents of her bag. She heard the back door open. In the light, she could see Scott Bingham, the production engineer.

“Faith, you're still here?”

She quickly swiped at her eyes. “Yeah, just heading out. Good night.” She unlocked her car door, then slid inside and started the engine with trembling fingers.

For a brief moment, she thought of calling Teddy back. Or even storing the unidentified number in her phone. But she knew it would be no use. She would never find him. He didn't want to be found.

He'd seen her on television. That meant he watched her.

She might not like the fact, but for now, that one-way connection would have to be enough.

She'd just pulled onto the freeway when Geary called back.

“Hey, Faith, I'm sorry. I called as soon as I got off the lake and in range. How'd the show go?”

A space inside her hollowed. He'd missed seeing her big report.

“Mom recorded your piece for me. When you didn't pick up, I called and she said everyone was so excited and proud. Their phone hadn't stopped ringing. Everyone from Lake Pine had been calling her all night.” His voice took on a slight edge. “Seems we have a star in the family.”

She listened, not quite sure what to do with his lack of true enthusiasm or the fact he hadn't yet seen the segment.

“They want to celebrate, take us out to dinner tomorrow night. Before I said yes, I told my folks I needed to confirm with you.”

Her mouth drew into a tight smile. “Sure, that would be fine.”

“I mean, you don't have to if you've got something going or anything.” He sounded like a pup trying to jump into her lap after wetting the floor.

“No, I'd like to go,” she assured him. “So, where are you now?”

“We didn't get off Fork until late, so I decided to stay over. It's just a little over three hours from Lake Fork to home, so I should be back by noon tomorrow.”

Faith merged into the left lane in order to pass a slow-moving semi. “The tournament—did you place?”

“Second. Didn't mean a lot in terms of cash, but points are racking up.”

“That's great, Geary.” She wished she meant it.

Teddy's face appeared in her mind. If things had been different,
he and Geary might've become buddies. There was a time when Teddy liked to fish . . . before.

“Faith . . .”

“Yeah?” She blinked away sudden tears.

“Everything okay? You sound really tired.”

Faith let out a heavy sigh. The call from Teddy had drained her capacity to feel excited—even about the wild success of her broadcast. “Yeah, big night. I'm ready to crawl into bed, though.”

“Yeah, me too.” He paused. “Faith?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I'm really glad things went well tonight.”

Later, when she unlocked the door and walked into their dark condo, she let the evening in the newsroom resonate in her heart again. What she'd pulled off with that story was quite the journalistic feat. She'd taken a fluff story and transformed it, revealing a subtle and dangerous turn in young women's minds. One that could easily catch on as young women across America bailed on the hard work necessary to be a success, instead taking an easier route to the good life.

Tonight, viewers across their market had seen a confident reporter who worked hard, knew her stuff, and presented a polished image. She'd proven with her determination she could accomplish almost anything.

After talking with Teddy on the phone, she realized something else was just as true. A fact she kept hidden, sometimes even from herself.

Yes, she was Faith Marin—a rising media star with bright years ahead. But at times, she was still that little girl at a stranger's funeral who'd let go of her baby brother's hand.

Now it seemed her marriage was slipping away as well.