Easy on the Eyes (20 page)

What I don’t say is that joining
America Tonight
opened me to criticism from my former colleagues. It took me less than sixty days to discover that my new salary and star
power cost me dearly. The media demoted me, stripping me of my intellect.

And it’s funny, but Bob’s comment brings the old anger roaring back. I am not merely a host. I am still a journalist, and
a good one. I can put together a great story, and I know the right questions to ask in an interview.

Just a host?

Hell, no.

Thank God we land on schedule. Even better, Shey’s already at the airport gate, waiting. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail,
and she’s dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck and wearing oversize sunglasses. I’ve never seen Shey wear sunglasses inside
a building, and I’m about to tease her that she’s gone Hollywood on me when I catch a glimpse of her eyes from the side.

Her eyes are pink. She’s been crying. In twenty years, I’ve seen Shey cry only once and that was at Keith’s funeral when she
held me as I cried on Keith’s casket. She cried that day. And she’s crying now. What the hell is happening in her world?

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

She nods, but her lips are pressed thin.

My heart knots. I’m scared, scared for her, because this isn’t Shey.

We walk through the Sea-Tac terminal and down the escalators to baggage claim, where we find a driver in a dark suit holding
a sign with Shey’s name on it.

It’s not until we’re in the back of the town car, our bags stowed in the trunk, and the driver’s heading for the freeway that
Shey finally pulls off her glasses. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “John and I have separated. He moved out last weekend.”

I don’t know what to say. John and Shey were perfect together. I know there have been problems lately, but they were an amazing
couple and very much in love. “Why?”

Her thin shoulders shift. “We grew apart.”

“Shey.”

Her lower lip quivers and she bites ruthlessly into it.

I reach out and put my hand on her arm. “This might just be temporary. Things will work out. They always do— ”

“I don’t think so. Not this time.”

I don’t want to hear this. Don’t want to believe this. Shey and John’s relationship is solid. Rock solid. I hold them up as
my ideal, and if they can’t do it, who can? “Why not?” I cry, and I sound childish, almost desperate. But I loved them together.
I needed them together. I need to believe people can stay together.

She doesn’t speak. Tears film her eyes. Blindly she reaches up to wipe the tears before they fall.

My fingers squeeze her forearm. “Shey, you can’t quit! Don’t give up— ”

“It’s not me, though. I don’t want this.” She’s struggling to catch the tears before they fall but failing miserably. “John’s
the one who changed— ”

“No.”

“He loves the boys. He says he loves me. But he’s not in love with me anymore.”

“Is he seeing someone else?”

It takes her a long time to answer. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Yes, you can. This is me. Tits. Your best friend in the whole world,” I say fiercely even as tears fill my eyes.

“It’s just so impossible… so painful.”

I wait, blinking tears.

“Tiana, it’s… it’s… Oh God— ” She breaks off, gulps a breath. “It’s another man. A designer. John thinks… he thinks…” She
swallows hard. Her voice drops so low that I have to strain to hear her. “He thinks he might be… gay…”

“Gay?”

She looks at me, her expression haunted. “He wants to tell the boys, and I’m terrified. Coop’s already struggling. He’s already
self-conscious about his height and how thin he is. Bo’s dealing with depression. This will devastate all of them.”

How could it not?

I’m beyond dumbfounded, and we lapse into silence. I’m grateful for the silence, struggling to process everything. This isn’t
the world as I know it. It’s not the world as I want to know it. I can’t even imagine Shey’s pain. She’s such a traditional
girl. So small town and wholesome values. Her parents were married for fifty-three years. There’s never been a divorce in
her family. She never looked at another man after she met John.

If Shey’s rock-solid marriage has come to this, what hope is there?

What relationship lasts?

Ten minutes from Marta and Luke’s new Medina waterfront house, Shey puts in some eyedrops and applies fresh makeup.

By the time we arrive she’s smiling, and she keeps up the cheerful smile as Marta opens the door and welcomes us with fierce
hugs.

“How are you feeling?” I ask Marta as Luke enters the hall with Zach in his arms.

Marta pats her stomach, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Good. Better now that I’ve hit the second trimester.”

She does look good, and clichéd as it might be, she has that glow.

Eva arrives a minute later and lets out a scream as she throws herself at me and then Shey. A couple of years ago, Eva practically
shaved her head in a fit of frustration, but her thick dark hair, the same shade as Marta’s, has grown and now hangs below
her shoulders. She’s a sixth grader now and still lanky thin, but she’s so sparkly and full of life that I don’t know any
girl more beautiful or wonderful.

We head to the living room, and we don’t move for hours. Luke has Chinese takeout delivered, and we sit on the floor of their
living room eating and talking while baby Zach sits in his swing rocking back and forth.

I must admit, I’m smitten with Zach. He’s a big, bouncing boy with wide blue eyes and soft apricot cheeks. His hair has a
touch of red in it, and as he gurgles and waves his baby fists, you can see his dad in him.

This is what I want, I think, entranced by Zach’s gurgles and coos. Family, home, baby. With a man I love. A man who loves
me for me, the real me, not the one everyone sees on TV.

Marta sees me watching Zach. “You can take him out of the swing, if you want. He’d probably love a chance to grab your hair.”

I don’t need a second invitation. After stopping the swing, I undo the strap in front of Zach, unhook the harness, and lift
him into my arms. He’s heavier than he looks, and his forehead puckers as he gazes into my face. I bounce him a little. His
expression clears. He likes that. I bring him closer against me, my arms snug underneath his padded diaper bottom. The top
of his head grazes my cheek. He’s warm and smells of baby powder. “Aren’t you gorgeous, Zach Flynn?” I whisper in his ear.

He coos. He’s so firm in my arms. So sweet.

My heart turns over.

And then I look at Shey. She’s curled up on the couch, talking earnestly to Eva, and my heart turns over again.

This is so life. This is how it is. Up and down and rough and smooth and good and bad. It’s wonderful and terrible and forever
unpredictable. And I don’t mind unpredictable as long as it doesn’t hurt my friends. But right now it is hurting Shey, and
it doesn’t seem fair that just when Marta gets her dream, Shey’s world falls apart.

Late that night, I lie sleepless in my guest room bed. I’m sharing a room with Shey, but Shey’s finally, thankfully, asleep.

I’m worried about Shey. She barely ate, and even though she kept smiling all evening, I could see the confusion and shock
in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. She reminds me of me after I got the call that Keith had been killed. I
couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Keith had to come back. He said he’d be back. He promised.

And John adores Shey. He has since they met on the
Vogue
photo shoot, and that was what? Fifteen years ago?

I know affairs happen. Mistakes get made. But this… this… how could he now love a man instead? It doesn’t make sense. People
don’t change like that.

Do they?

And what happens to Shey and the boys now that John wants to try something new?

The baptism Saturday morning at Sacred Heart in Clyde Hill is beautiful. It’s a big modern church with large modern stained-glass
windows and a soaring ceiling. Zach squawks when he’s dipped into the baptismal pool and then howls when his head is touched.

That afternoon, once we’ve returned from brunch I log on to my computer to check my e-mail and discover a message from Peter
Froehlich, a German member of the foreign press. He’s e-mailing to ask if I’d be interested in attending the Globes dinner
and awards ceremony with him on January 11.

Peter’s a lovely man in his fifties and very kind. We met at a Golden Globes pre–awards show dinner my first year hosting
America Tonight
and hit it off and have been friends ever since.

I’m not sure I should say yes, though, not after I’ve taken a hiatus from
America Tonight,
but before I can answer, I get a call from Max. He’s just returned from a Swiss ski trip and discovered that I took a leave
of absence from
America Tonight
.

“Have you lost your mind?” he roars. “Are you mad?”

Eva is sprawled on the bed next to me, and I bend down, kiss the top of her head, and head out of the bedroom and out the
front door, where I can talk without anyone hearing us. It’s raining, a steady gray cold drizzle, and I bundle my arms across
my chest. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t think I needed permission to take a break for a couple weeks.”

“You have to know this is the worst time possible to take an extended vacation. Contract negotiations are just beginning.
The award show season is about to descend. This is when you need to be present and visible!”

“I’m not sure I want to return to the show.” I sit on the front step and stretch my sweater over my knees. “I’m using this
time to consider my options.”

“What options?”

“I think, Max,” I say carefully, “that is your job.”

“You have a great gig going, doll. People would kill to be in your shoes.”

“Maybe I’m ready for a new challenge.”

“Like what? Where would you go?”

“I don’t know. That’s the whole point of this exercise.”

“I’m going to call Glenn first thing on Monday and I’m going to tell him it’s hormones, a perimenopausal thing, and that you’ll
be back to work start of the New Year— ”

“No.”

“Are you listening, doll? You hearing anything I’m saying?”

“Yes, every word, and I think I’ve heard enough. This isn’t working.”

“What?”

“This isn’t working. I think we’ve come to a fork in the road and I’m ready to head in a different direction. I appreciate
everything you’ve done, but— ”

“You’re firing me?”

“— I no longer need you to represent me.”

He’s finally speechless. Good. About time I shut him up. “But I thank you, Max, and I’m glad we had these years to work together.”

He finds his voice. “You can’t fire me! I got you that job, I made you Tiana Tomlinson— ”

“No, Max, you didn’t make me. It’s my work. My talent. I made me who I am. I’ll follow up with a formal letter, but I think
this is it for us. Good-bye.” And resolutely, I hang up the phone.

A moment later I appear in the enormous living room, cheeks flushed, emotions high. Marta’s nursing Zach, and Shey is sitting
next to her on the couch. They both look up at me. “I just fired Max,” I say brightly.

Shey’s grim expression eases, and she looks happier than I’ve seen her in the last two days. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She jumps up and gives me a high five. Our palms smack so loud that Zach pops off Marta’s nipple and looks around with interest.

“I hated him,” Shey says. “He was a jerk.”

“I know.” I glance at Marta, who is trying to get Zach to latch back on, but he’s smiling a milky smile at me. I suddenly
laugh with relief. With hope. Things are looking up. Which reminds me: I need to e-mail Peter back. I think I’m going to go
to the Golden Globes after all.

Back in Los Angeles, my stylist, Shannon, comes over the first week of January to show me several gowns that would be good
options for the Globes. One is a pretty strapless orange pleated gown, rather Grecian and very soft and flowing, and the other
is a bold corseted gown the color of spilled red wine. The deep red gown’s beaded bodice is intricately designed, tightly
fitted, with two hidden zippers and dozens of little hooks. The neckline plunges low, and the skirt is smooth to the top of
the hips and then turns full. A hint of fine black tulle peeps from the gown’s hem.

I think of Max, who had to control me. I think of the show’s executive producers, who want to minimize me by adding Shelby
as my co-star. I think of Trevor, who played me while he was sleeping with Kiki.

And then I think of Michael, who watches me with that glint in his eye and that sexy crooked smile. I can’t imagine Michael
ever telling me to be good, be quiet, be silent, be grateful. He’d tell me what Keith used to tell me: Go big or go home.

My fingers caress the soft orange Angel Sanchez gown and then the primal crimson Oscar de la Renta.

I’m wearing red.

E
ight a.m. Saturday morning, the day before the Golden Globes, Christie calls to invite me to go skiing with her family. They’re
heading to Snow Summit at Big Bear, and they’ll meet me where Interstate 10 East intercepts Highway 38. We’ve done this before,
where I’ll park in a lot on Orange Street and then jump in their massive luxury Range Rover and Christie’s husband will drive
us the rest of the way. I’m not very confident driving in snow and ice, although Christie said conditions are good today.