Changes (19 page)

“You are?” He sounded surprised, she hadn't mentioned it before, but where had there been time during her few days in L.A. “Where?”

“Bermuda.” She sounded pleased. She'd been looking forward to it for a long time. A television producer she knew had offered to rent Mel her house for a few days, and it didn't coincide with any school vacations for the twins, so she had just decided to go alone anyway.

He sounded nervous when he next spoke. “Are you going with friends?”

“No. By myself.”

“You are?” He sounded both stunned and relieved. “What an independent lady you are.” He admired her for that. He wasn't ready for a vacation alone yet. He would have been lost without the children, now that Anne was gone. But Mel had been alone for a lot longer than he.

“I just thought it might be fun. The girls are jealous as hell. But they have friends and a big prom that week.”

“I'm jealous too.”

“Don't be. It'll probably be very dull.” But it wouldn't have been with him. She forced the thought from her mind. “But it'll do me good.”

“Yes, it will.” He didn't begrudge her that. He just wished he could have been there with her, as crazy as the thought was. They were almost strangers to each other, although not nearly as much as they had been.

They talked on for a little while, and then he had to go off to surgery, and Mel wanted to go to the network to watch them edit some more of her film.

CHAPTER 12

The phone rang just as she was leaving the house the following Wednesday morning. She was in a hurry to get to Bloomingdale's. She desperately needed some more bathing suits, for the trip to Bermuda that week. She had looked over the ones from the summer before and they were all badly worn and stretched and faded. She lived in her bathing suits for two months, and every year they took a beating.

“Hello?”

“It's me.” It was Grant.

“What's up? I was just running out to buy some new bathing suits for my trip.” She was finally beginning to look forward to it. And she was leaving in two days. “Do you want me to pick anything up for you? I'm going to Bloomie's.”

“No, thanks. I forgot you were going down there. Need a butler or a male secretary while you're there?”

“No thank you.” She smiled at the phone, and he realized he'd hardly seen her since she got back from L.A.

“I just wanted to ask you a question about Marcia Evans.” She was the grande dame of legitimate theater and Mel had done an intimate interview with her six months before. “I'm having her on the show tonight.”

Mel cringed. “Good luck. She's a dragon.”

“Shit. That's what I thought. And the producer told me I had nothing to worry about. Any tips for my survival?”

“Bring along a snake-bite kit. She's the most venomous woman I've ever met. Just watch out that you don't piss her off. You'll see her coming.”

“That's a big help.” He didn't sound pleased, and he was furious with his producer for setting him up.

“I'll give it some more thought while I'm out shopping, and I'll call you when I get home.”

“Do you want to have dinner tonight, to give me courage?”

“Why don't you drop by to see the girls?”

“I'll try”—he grinned—“if nothing else interferes.”

“You and tits, Grant.” She laughed.

“I can't help it if I'm weak. I'll call you later, kid.”

“Okay.” He hung up, and she looked in the mirror and picked up her handbag. She was wearing a white linen dress with a black silk jacket and black and white patent leather shoes she had bought in Rome the year before. She looked very chic and she felt good. They had worked like demons for a week, editing the film on Peter Hallam and Pattie Lou Jones and she was just loving what they got as they went along. The piece was getting tighter and tighter, and as she reached the front door, the phone rang again, and she was tempted not to answer. It was probably the damn editor, wanting her to come in, and for once she wanted some time to herself to do her shopping. But it rang so persistently that she gave in and walked into the living room and picked up the white phone she had concealed in a nook there.

“Yes?” She waited, afraid she'd hear the editor's voice again. He had already called twice that morning. But it wasn't the editor at all. It was Peter Hallam again. He called her often.

“Hello, Mel.” He sounded hesitant after her gruff response when she picked it up and she was embarrassed.

“Hi, Peter, I'm sorry if I barked. I was just running out, but …” She felt young again, and nervous, just as she had when he'd called before. He had a funny effect on her, which seemed to cancel out her success and her self-confidence. She was just a young girl again when she talked to him … or maybe “just” a woman.” … it's nice to hear from you.” He hadn't called in a few days. “How's Marie?” Suddenly she was afraid that he had called to give her bad news, but he was quick to reassure her.

“Much better. We had a problem last night, and I thought she was going into a major rejection, but everything's under control again. We switched her medication. We think she might even be ready to go home in a few weeks.” It was something Melanie would have liked to see, but it didn't justify a trip West and her producer would never have let her go just for that.

“And the children?”

“They're fine. I just wondered how you were. I called you at the office but they said you weren't there.”

“I'm playing hooky.” She laughed and felt lighthearted and happy. “This is the weekend I'm going to Bermuda, and I needed to shop for a few things.”

“That sounds like fun. We're staying here for the long weekend. Mark is playing in a tennis tournament and Matthew's going to a birthday party.”

“The girls are going to that prom I told you about, and then to Cape Cod with a friend and her parents.” They seemed to hide a lot in talk of their children, and Mel found herself wondering how
he
was, not Pam and Mark and Matthew. And then she decided to ask him. “Are you all right, Peter? Not working too hard?”

“Of course I am,” he laughed, but he was pleased at the question. “I wouldn't know how to do anything else, and neither would you.”

“That's true. When I get old and wrinkled and have to retire, I won't know what the hell to do with myself every morning.”

“You'll think of something.”

“Yeah, brain surgery maybe.” They both laughed, and she sat down, as Bloomingdale's and the bathing suits slipped her mind completely. “Actually, I'd like to write a book then.”

“What about?”

“My memoirs.” She teased.

“No, really.”

It wasn't often that she confessed her dreams to anyone, but he was easy to talk to. “I don't know, I think I'd like to write a book about being a woman hi journalism. It was tough at first, although it's a lot easier now, but not always. People resent it like hell when you make it. They're half glad, and half pissed. It's been interesting coping with that, and I think it's something a lot of women could relate to. It doesn't matter if you do what I do, or you do something else. The issue is crawling to the top, and I know what that's like, how much work it takes and what happens when you get there.”

“It sounds like an instant best seller.”

“Maybe not, but I'd like to try it.”

“I've always wanted to write a book about heart surgery for the layman, what it's like, what to expect, what to demand of your doctor, what the risks are in specific situations. I don't know if anyone would give a damn, but too many people are unprepared, and get screwed over by their doctors.”

“Now, that sounds like a good one.” She was impressed, there was a need for a book like that and it would be interesting to see what he did with it.

“Maybe we should run away to the South Pacific together, and write our books. When the kids grow up,” he added.

“Why wait?” It was an amusing fantasy, but it suddenly reminded her of the trip to Bermuda. “I've never been to the South Pacific.” And she had been to Bermuda. It was tropical and it was close, but it was definitely not exciting. Or maybe it was that going alone didn't excite her. And Peter did? That question was frightening to answer.

“I've always wanted to go to Bora Bora,” he confessed, “but I can never get away from my patients for long enough to make it worthwhile.”

“Maybe you don't want to.” It was something Anne had accused him of too, and it was probably true.

“You may be right.” Somehow it was so easy to be honest with her. “I'll have to save it till I retire.” There was a lot he had saved like that, and now Anne was gone and it would never be shared after all. He had put so much off for “later” that he regretted now. There was no later. At least not for them. And he wondered at the wisdom of continuing to save things for “later.” What if he had a stroke, if he died, if … “Maybe I'll go sooner than that.”

“You ought to. You owe yourself something.” But what? All he wanted lately was her.

“Are you excited about your trip, Mel?”

“Yes and no.” She had been to romantic spots alone before. It had its drawbacks.

“Send me a postcard.”

“I will.”

And then, “I'd better let you go. Call me when you get back from your trip. And rest!”

“You need it as much as I do. Probably more.”

“I doubt that.”

She looked at her watch then, wondering where he was. It was nine thirty in the morning in California. “Aren't you in surgery today?”

“No. The last Wednesday of every month we have conferences to bring the whole team up-to-date on new techniques and procedures. We discuss what's being done all over the country, and what we've each tried to accomplish in surgery that month.”

“I wish I'd known. I would have loved to have that on film.” But she had enough without it.

“We start at ten o'clock. And I finished my rounds early.” He sounded boyish too then. “Calling you is a treat I've been promising myself for days.” It was easier to say things like that on the phone, and he was suddenly grateful for the distance between them.

“I'm flattered.” He wanted to tell her that she should be, that he had never called another woman, in that sense, since marrying Anne, but he didn't say it. “I've thought about calling you a few times too, to see how Marie was, but the time difference was always off.”

“That happened to me too. Anyway, I'm glad I called. Have a nice weekend in Bermuda.”

“Thank you. You have a nice one too. I'll call you when I get back.” It was the first time she had promised that in just that way, and she was already looking forward to it. “Our film is looking sensational, by the way.”

He smiled warmly. “I'm glad.” But that wasn't why he had called. “Take care of yourself, Mel.”

“I'll call you next week.” And suddenly she knew that a bond had formed between them that hadn't been there before, and as she left to go to Bloomingdale's, she felt young and excited and carefree.

She tried on two blue bathing suits, a black one, and a red one, but red had never been a good color with her hair, and she bought a rich royal-blue one and the black one. They were a little bit risqué, but she felt exotic today. And as she stood at the counter, smiling to herself, holding her charge card and the two bathing suits, waiting to be helped, she saw a woman in tears rush toward her. “The President's been shot!” She screamed to anyone who would listen. “He's been shot in the chest and the back, and he's dying!” The entire store seemed suddenly shot with an electric current as people shouted the news to each other and began running, as though their frenzied activity would help. But Mel, operating by reflex, dropped the bathing suits on the counter, and ran down three flights of stairs and out the door. She climbed into the first cab she saw, breathlessly gave the studio address, and asked the driver to turn on the radio as they drove. And both she and the cabbie sat frozen in silence as they listened to the news. No one seemed to know yet for certain if the President was alive or not. He had been in Los Angeles for a day, conferring with the governor and assorted civic leaders in L.A. He was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance moments before, critically wounded, as two Secret Servicemen lay dead on the pavement next to where he had stood. Mel's face was pale as she threw a ten-dollar bill into the driver's hands and hurtled through the double doors leading into the network building. Everything was already in total chaos there from the lobby to the newsroom, and as she flew toward the bureau chief's desk, he looked at her with relief.

“Christ, I hoped you'd get here, Mel.”

“I practically ran all the way from Bloomingdale's.” At least she felt like she had, and she would have if she'd had to. She knew that the one place she had to be was here.

“Ί want to put you on with special bulletins right away.” He looked at what she was wearing and she looked fine, but he wouldn't have given a damn if she'd been stark naked. “Get some makeup on. And can you close your jacket a little? The dress is too white for the camera.”

“Sure. What's new now?”

“Nothing yet. He's in surgery, and it looks bad, Mel.”

“Shit.” She ran to her office and where she kept her makeup, and five minutes later she was back, hair combed, face on, jacket buttoned, ready to go on the air. The producer followed her into the studio, and handed her a stack of papers for her to read quickly. She looked at him a moment later, with grim eyes. “It doesn't look good, does it?” The President had been hit in the chest three times, and his spine seemed to have been affected, from the early reports. Even if he lived, he could be paralyzed or worse yet, a complete vegetable. He was in Center City, undergoing surgery right then. And Mel suddenly wondered what Peter Hallam knew about it that the press didn't, but she didn't have time to call before she went on the air.