Love on the Air (3 page)

"No." Rick passed a hand roughly through his hair.
It added to that attractively tousled look. Stop it, she
thought. This man is about to squash your livelihood. "To be honest, Miss Becker," he was saying, "I wasn't
expecting you when you came in. And-"

"Well, do me a favor." Something rose up within
her, and she hoped it wasn't a bad thing. "Before you
make up your mind, please listen to my tape." She
was encouraged to hear her voice come out confident,
instead of plaintive, the way she felt. "I know I haven't
had a full-time air shift yet, but I did complete broadcasting school, and Alex Peretti thought enough of me
to recommend me." She prayed, once again, that
Alex's name held some clout with him. "Listen to the
tape, and if you like what you hear, give me a chance
to show you what I can do. I promise you won't be
disappointed."

She had his attention. At least he was looking at
her, although she couldn't read his expression.

"The `B' side of the tape has some commercial demos," she went on. "Of course, they're only dummy
spots I did at school. But I think you'll agree production is one of my strong points. I imagine that comes
in handy, especially on the overnight shift." She
smiled. "I've heard what radio deadlines are like." She
felt better. Much, much better. Oxygen was starting to
return to her lungs. And her brain.

Rick promptly deflated her. "Well, Miss Becker,
that's true. But we do our best to take care of that
during the day, when we can play the spots for client
approval."

"I'm very good with sound levels," she came back
quickly, but with less confidence.

"Yes. Well." He glanced down at her package
again, no longer handling any of the materials, and Christie had the feeling she'd already been discarded.
"I'll give your tape a listen. But I can't make any
promises. I'm sure you were a good student, or Peretti
wouldn't have sent you here. But there's really no substitute for on-air experience."

He stood, and she knew the interview was over. She
forced herself to stand and held out her hand one more
time. When he took it, she made sure to make eye
contact again. And tried not to sink into those contemplative gray eyes. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Fox."

"I'll give you a call," he said, and something in his
voice was a little softer. It sounded like the end of a
bad blind date.

Mr. Arboghast was nowhere to be seen as Rick
showed her back down the twisting corridors. She was
sure she was seeing the inside of the station, and Rick
Fox, for the last time. Annoyingly, the thought gave
her two pangs instead of just one. He hadn't even been
particularly nice to her.

The glass doors eased shut behind her. At least it
didn't hit her on the way out. A girl, that's what he'd
seen her as. A kid. She headed toward the parking
garage without looking back.

I shouldn't have worn pink, she thought.

Rick watched the rose-clad figure walk away with
her head held high, looking taller than she actually
was. The straight posture probably carried quite a bit
of injured pride along with it. But it couldn't be
helped. A loan processor with no on-air experience?
What was Ed thinking of, anyway? Still, a part of him was sorry to see her go. No redhead had the right to
look that good in pink.

But that wasn't the point.

Rick got into the on-air studio two minutes before
4:00 P.M. when his afternoon drive shift started.
Jonathan, the disc jockey on the air before him, had
stacked up all the CDs and commercials for the first
hour. It left Rick with little to think about until five
o'clock, when he'd start airing the news and traffic
reports. Then things would get hectic.

After the first song, he opened the microphone.
"KYOR-your station for the best songs of yesterday
and today," he said. "This is Rick Fox, taking you
through your afternoon drive." He had a vision of a
certain redhead hearing him on her car radio, ripping
the knob off the dash and throwing it out the window.

Guilt, he told himself. That was all it was.

Whatever it was, it sent him into his office, down
the hall from the studio, the first time he played a song
more than five minutes long. That would give him
enough time to listen to her tape. Enough of her tape,
at least, to confirm his opinion and ease his conscience. Keeping an eye on the clock above the door
of his office, he found the cassette and popped it into
the boom box on his desk.

Christie's voice came out at him-full, bright and
just a little stiff. Not bad for a beginner, actually. Not
bad at all.

The first side of the cassette was the air checkexcerpts of Christie's announcer breaks from an onair shift, with the songs edited out. It used up most of
his five minutes, but Rick listened all the way through it, telling himself he was nuts. He looked at the chair
across from his desk, where she'd sat less than half an
hour ago. The memory was so fresh that he could still
see her there, quiet determination in her green-hazel
eyes, legs crossed distractingly under the soft pastel
skirt.

Shaking himself, he got up, went down the hall and
started the next song. A moment later he was back to
flip the tape over and listen to those commercial demos
Christie Becker was so proud of.

She had a right to be. Unless someone else was
pushing all the buttons for her, and Rick somehow
doubted it, she had a wonderful feel for production.
She even worked in a few sound effects, without going
overboard, a common pitfall for beginners. And the
way she read the scripts was something no one could
fake for her. She sounded natural, confident and vibrant, far more seasoned than her brief training should
have allowed. Her voice was in the soprano range, but
not too high. It would make a nice contrast to the
lower, huskier voice of his midday disc jockey,
Yvonne. Their commercials could go back-to-back
without sounding anything alike.

He'd told Christie a half-truth. They did try to get
commercials recorded during business hours, for client
approval, but "try" was the operative word. A lot of
production did get done after hours for approval the
next day, often after the spots had already started airing.

When Christie's commercial demos ended, the
sound of blank tape hiss filled the room. Well? it
seemed to prod him.

Sitting back in his chair, Rick picked up the glossy
color photo he'd teased her about. The young woman
in the picture looked back at him, her chin resting on
her hands, eyes sparkling with a pixie's smile. Trouble, his mind flashed. What was it about her? He'd
worked around pretty women before, and he'd always
had enough sense to keep it professional. He'd never
gone out with any coworker, let alone one who worked
under him. At this station, it wasn't just a bad idea. It
was an ironclad company policy: no dating between
supervisors and employees.

Since his divorce, it had become a reflex for him to
keep his feelings in check, both in and out of the office. So why worry about Christie?

No reason, he decided. It just bothered him to see
someone like her, with a decent career already under
way, charging headlong into a business that had cost
him so much. A business that had cost him his marriage. A business he'd tried to walk away from once,
and failed. Because once it got into your blood, that
was it.

Do you know what you're getting into? he asked
her silently.

Her smile sparkled back at him, unfazed. Rick was
sure he would have gotten much the same reaction if
he'd asked her the question in person.

And then he remembered he had a song about to
fade, if it hadn't already. He bolted for the studio.
Dead air, as he told all his employees, was the eighth
deadly sin.

He made it back just before the music ran out.

An old movie. A cup of hot tea. A bowl of popcorn
and M&Ms. Comfort foods.

Christie lined them all up as she settled into her
apartment that night to lick her wounds. She curled up
on the couch under the pink and gray afghan her aunt
had crocheted for her when she was in high school.
Tomorrow was another day at the loan office, another
day of being professional and civilized, surrounded by
men in suits fifteen years older than she was. The suits,
probably, as well as the men. Tonight she'd be a kid
again, and shut out the mental replay of the disastrous
interview-all the things she'd said wrong, all the
things she hadn't said but should have. She was a kid
who wanted her mother, but she hadn't called her yet.
Talking about it right now would just be another way
of reliving her failure.

Alex Peretti had been nice enough to recommend
her and she'd blown it. Her one chance to work at the
only radio station within a workable driving distance.
Now it was time to search for a job on her own, the
way she should have in the first place. Start sending
out tapes to stations in other areas. Not Los Angeles;
she didn't kid herself that she was ready for a market
that size. Which meant, if she was going to find a radio
job, she'd have to face the prospect of relocating.
She'd known that when she enrolled in broadcasting
school. Expecting to end up at the one station right in
her own back yard-well, she'd been dreaming.

If it weren't for the stupid hill between the station's
transmitter and Orangewood, where she lived and
worked, at least she would have known Rick Fox was
there. Then she would have been prepared for the pos sibility of meeting the voice from her college days.
But even that wouldn't have prepared her for the way
he looked. If he'd been just as unreceptive, but twenty
years older, would she have been so rattled?

She picked up the remote control and started the
movie. The point of this night was to forget all that
for a while. She'd start on plan "B" tomorrow, a little
older and wiser.

Bette Davis had barely killed her sister when the
phone rang.

Christie sighed. She'd forgotten to bring the cordless phone in with her. She paused the movie and padded to the kitchen in her worn fleece slippers.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Christie Becker, please." No telemarketer sounded like that. The voice on the other end
was bigger than life. Christie recognized it immediately, but she couldn't believe it.

Deep breath. Bring your voice up from your diaphragm. "This is she," she said, putting a note of question into her voice. As if she didn't know which
big-voiced male might be calling her apartment atshe glanced at the clock above the stove-seven-thirty
at night? Of course. He would have just gotten off the
air.

"This is Rick Fox from KYOR. We were short on
time this afternoon, and I'd like to go over a few more
things with you. Can you come back in?"

And so it was that the next day, Christie found herself back where she'd never expected to be again: sitting across the desk from Rick Fox.

She'd traded in yesterday's rose dress for a navy
blazer and slacks, hoping to erase any impression of
a ditzy girl. Maybe it helped, because this time, as she
sat down, he offered her coffee.

"No, thanks. Coffee makes me bounce off the
walls."

"Okay. But if you take this shift, you may find yourself wanting to bounce off the walls by six in the
morning."

A joke, and a reference to possible employment,
right off the bat? Must not be the same man.

Rick sipped his own coffee from an impressivesized black mug with a huge handle. As he looked
across the desk at her, his eyes were quietly assessing,
but definitely more approachable than yesterday. Christie shifted her gaze back to the giant coffee cup,
determined this time not to be distracted by a simple
case of good looks. Focusing on the cup, she noticed
two things: Rick Fox was left-handed, and he didn't
wear a wedding ring.

"You're here on your lunch break?" he asked.
Christie nodded. "Okay. I'll try to keep it short. I
wanted to go over a few things with you again, so if
I repeat myself, please bear with me."