News Blues (15 page)

“Bullshit, ” I interrupted. “I can tell by looking at you. Your eyes are black—completely dilated. Your hands are shaking
like you have Parkinson’s. And you’re grinding your teeth. I can hear them from here.”

“Okay, I tried it. One line. I didn’t even like it.” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and pulled one
out, as if daring me to say something about her smoking, too.

“So, you’re not going to do it again?” I asked, wanting desperately to believe her.

“Never, ” she promised. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” She made the crossing motions with her cigarette, grinning a little.
“Stick a needle in my eye.”

“Fine. I’m going to treat you as an adult and believe you, ” I said, too exhausted to pursue the subject further.

“But if I catch you one more time, I’m going straight to Dad.”

“You won’t. I promise.” Lulu gazed at me with a sincerely mournful-looking expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let you
down.”

Her sad face melted me. Against my better judgment, I held out my arms. “Come here, you.”

I didn’t need to ask twice; Lulu practically threw herself into my embrace. We hugged for what seemed like hours. A serene
sense of almost motherly love came over me as I stroked her bleached blond hair. I could do this. I could be a responsible
adult and help my little sister through this difficult time.

Maybe it really had been the first time she’d done meth, or Ritalin—whatever it really was. Most likely this event had been
Lulu’s way of crying for help. After all, both parents had essentially abandoned her. She was probably feeling confused. Lonely.
Unsettled. A rebel with a very legitimate cause. I’d simply keep an eye on her from now on. Step up to the parental plate
and make sure she didn’t go down the wrong path. After all, besides me, she had no one. She was a little lost angel with a
tarnished halo.

“I know you’ve been going through hell over Mom and Dad’s divorce, ” I said, smoothing her back with my hand. “I’m sorry I
wasn’t nice about you moving in.”

“And I’m sorry I trashed your house, ” Lulu replied, sounding a little choked up. “From now on, I’ll be a better houseguest.”

“Roommate, ” I corrected.

“Really?” She pulled away, her eyes shining with happy tears. “You consider me your roommate?”

“Sure, ” I said, feeling generous. “And I won’t even make you pay half the rent.”

“Oh, Maddy. Thank you. I’ll be the best roommate ever. I promise.” Lulu bounced up from the couch. “In fact, I’ll start right
now. I’ll clean up the house.”

“I’ll help you, ” I told her. “And then we’ll go out for ice cream.”

“Cool!”

I watched as Lulu skipped to the kitchen to grab a garbage bag and begin Project Apartment Cleanup. She looked so innocent.
Sweet. It was hard to believe she’d been up all night and day doing drugs.

It was all going to be fine, I told myself, quashing the worried gnawing sensation deep in the pit of my stomach. She’d made
a mistake. We’d both made mistakes. But now the time for mistakes was over and we could move on as two responsible siblings.
Together, we could take on the world and anything life threw at us.

At least, I hoped we could.

CHAPTER TWELVE

FROM:
“Richard Clarkson”

TO:
“Madeline Madison”

SUBJECT:
Too Much Terrance

Madeline,

I spoke with Jodi who said you’re out shooting Murderous Mail (sounds like a great topic by the way!!!) but when you return,
we need to discuss the “Cosmetics That Kill” piece.

I saw the finished product and I have to tell you, when I said we wanted the “Terrance Tells All” series to feature Terrance,
I didn’t mean to imply that Terrance had to physically be in every shot of the piece. Sure, a couple of shots sprinkled here
and there would be appropriate—after all, we do want to feature our talent. But to have Terrance appear in 43 out of 47 shots
seems like overkill.

Also, shooting the stand-up of Terrance applying the leaded lipstick to his own lips struck me as a bit on the disturbing
side.

Please make the appropriate changes (I do not want to see Terrance more than three times total) and bring the new version
for me to review.

Thanks for your hard work!

Richard

News Director, News 9

The next day at work, I sat down at my desk and clicked open my e-mail. I hadn’t realized I’d been secretly hoping for a note
from Jamie until I realized there wasn’t one. Only spam and more work drama, joy to the world.

I wondered if Jamie had gotten in to work yet. I dreaded seeing him, facing him, working side by side with him, but what else
could I do? It seemed too immature to ask Richard for a new photographer. He’d want to know why. And then what would I say?
Besides, Jamie was a great photographer and I needed his expertise for my big Mexican shoot.

Tonight, fake-purse-seller Miguel had volunteered to lead us to the Mexican entrance of the drug tunnel. He knew a guard,
he said, who could give us an inside look. It had the potential to be the smoking gun-type video we needed—the best video
in the story. I couldn’t exactly leave my photographer at home just because he didn’t want to be my boyfriend. I needed to
grow up. We were both adults, both professionals. We could do this.

The ride home from Calla Verda had been torturous, though. Of course, Jamie was perfectly polite, cordial. Thanked Jodi for
giving him a lift and offered her gas money. But he didn’t say a word to me. And when later in the trip I got up the courage
to ask him a direct question, he pretended to be asleep. Even though I knew for a fact he couldn’t be, since no one on earth
could possibly sleep through the antics of Jodi’s ultra-hyper dogs.

I turned back to my e-mail, trying to put him out of my mind. The first message was from Terrance, talking about how “utterly
fabulous” the “Cosmetics That Kill” piece turned out. The second came from Richard, instructing me to make major changes to
the aforementioned utterly fabulous piece—namely by taking out the utterly fabulous Terrance. And the third was from poor,
tortured editor Mike, who begged me to tell Richard that it wasn’t his fault that the plethora of Ter-rance shots had made
it into the finished product. (Ter-rance had evidently verbally abused him for a full hour and a half, until he, as a man
facing torture is wont to do, crumbled and gave the male diva everything he wanted and then some.)

I groaned. They called me a producer. Peacemaker would have been a more apt term. Or maybe crisis negotiator. I’d be so happy
when “Cosmetics That Kill” finally got on the air and I never had to deal with it again.

I gnawed on the end of my pen as I contemplated how to inform Terrance that we needed to “de-Terrance” the piece before it
aired.
Blame it all on Richard
, I thought. Make it seem as if I were as broken up over the whole thing as Terrance must be.
You know how news management
is
, I’d say.
They simply don’t have their finger on the pulse of
the community.
Or some such bullshit like that. Heaven forbid he found out I completely agreed with Richard’s assessment.

Satisfied with my idea, I opened up a blank e-mail, deciding it would be easier to break the news electronically. But before
I could so much as type “Dear Terrance, ” Jamie waltzed back into my life.

I stared at my computer monitor, not turning around as he made himself at home in David’s chair. I tried silently Jedi-mind-tricking
him to go away, but he was either immune to the ways of the Force or I needed more lessons from Master Yoda.

“Hey, Maddy, ” he said in a casual tone. “What’s up?”

I told myself to stay calm, even as bile churned in my stomach. How dare he say “Hey, Maddy, ” as if nothing happened between
us? As if we were just casual coworkers? Seriously, I wanted to whirl around in my chair and punch him in the face. That or
kiss him senseless. One or the other. That guy who wrote the song, “Love Stinks, ” really was on to something.

“Oh, hi there, ” I said instead, attempting to mimic his casualness without much luck. Dammit, I didn’t want him to know how
far he’d gotten under my skin. It was too embarrassing. Too pathetic. I picked up my phone, pretending I had to make a call.
Maybe he’d leave, go bug some other lovelorn producer. But of course, I was the only lovelorn producer in Jamie’s life.

“Wait, Maddy. Before you get on the phone . . . can we talk for a second?”

Oh, no. Stop right there. I was
so
not going to fall for that one again. I deliberately placed the receiver back into its cradle and turned in my chair to face
him. “What?” I demanded, my tone way too venomous for the situation. But really, the nerve of him! To sit down in my cubicle
at work and insist on more talking? What, was he going to try to apologize? Say he didn’t mean what he said? Well, I would
have none of that.

“Yesterday, I—”

“Listen, Jamie, ” I interrupted. I was going to nip this in the bud. Right now. “I’d prefer if we didn’t rehash this weekend’s
conversation all over again, no offense. I think you made yourself pretty clear, and I can accept how you feel. I’m sorry
I was angry, but I’ve thought a lot about it and I believe it’s all for the best.”

There. That told him. I was firm. In control. He’d see that I wouldn’t stand for his hot and cold bullshit. That I wasn’t
pathetic and desperately in love with him.

He frowned. “Maddy—”

“Oh, and if you’re worried about me telling Jen, don’t be, ” I continued with a bitter laugh. “You guys can live happily ever
after and I’ll never tell. Okay? As far as I’m concerned, it’s water under the bridge. And anyway, it’s not like I ever had
any deep feelings for you.” Okay, now the words were spilling from my lips like a cauldron bubbling over. I knew I should
turn down the heat and simmer, but I couldn’t stop. “You were just something to pass the time. A minor amusement.” I paused.
“I mean, just so you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess it’s good to know where I stand, ” he said in a quiet voice. “But if you’ll let me get
a word in . . .”

I held up my hands. “Go right ahead, ” I said. “Say what you came to say. I just wanted to let you know where I was coming
from. I am not at all upset about your decision to stay with Jen. I hope you have a long and happy marriage with many babies.
And live to a long age and . . . stuff.”

“Uh, right. Okay. Thanks. I appreciate those, um, well wishes. Now, as I was saying . . .” He reached into his pocket, pulled
out a folded piece of paper and held it out to me. I frowned down at it, not willing to accept whatever peace offering he’d
come up with.

“What is that?” I asked with disdain.

“The property record for the oil refinery, ” he said simply.

Oh, dear.

My face burned as I stared down at the paper. This is what he was trying to tell me the whole time? And I had gone off and
said . . . Oh, man! I seriously contemplated crawling under my desk and dying on the spot.

Misunderstandings That Murder:Tonight at 11.

I looked up. “Jamie, I—”

He offered a small smile. “Don’t worry about it, ” he said. “I understand.”

I stared back down at the property record. It was so nice of him to have gotten it. For an utter jerk, he sure was thoughtful.
Or at the very least, way dedicated to his job.

I, on the other hand, was a major bitch. And a sucky producer to top it off.

“I was going to give it to you in the car yesterday, ” he informed me. “But I knew you were keeping the drug tunnel story
a secret. Wasn’t sure if Jodi was in on it or not.”

“Thank you for getting this, ” I said, not knowing what else to say. I wanted to apologize for my tirade, but wasn’t sure
how. “I mean, it was really, really great of you. It would have sucked to have to go all the way back, and, well . . .”

“No prob, ” he said with a shrug, looking a bit embarrassed.

I cleared my throat. “Look, Jamie, I’m—”

“So, uh, it says that the refinery is owned by a company called Reardon Oil, ” he interrupted, effectively giving me an invitation
to change the subject. I stared at him for a moment, unable to read the emotion behind his beautiful eyes.

At last I gave up, keeping that last shred of dignity intact. I glanced down at the letter, forcing my thoughts to focus on
more important matters than my doomed love affair.

“Reardon Oil, huh?” I repeated, giving it the old college try. If Jamie could be professional, so could I. “Never heard of
them.”

He shook his head. “Me, neither. But then, I’m not really up on the whole oil industry, obviously.”

“True, true. Let me see what I can find out.”

I turned back to my desk for some computer-assisted reporting. Last year I’d taken a course on how to use online resources
to help research stories, but had never gotten a chance to put any of my newfound knowledge to use.

“So, uh, ” Jamie said, still awkwardly lingering. “They found my bike.”

“They did?” I exclaimed, turning around again. So much for keeping the conversation professional. “That’s great!”

I wanted to hate him. Wish for his misfortune. But instead, seeing the relief in his eyes, I realized I only felt delight
that he’d gotten his precious motorcycle back.

“Yeah, ” he said. “Someone evidently took it on a joyride, then dumped it a few miles away. A patrolman spotted it and called
it in. Only a few scratches. No major damage.”

“That’s great, Jamie. Really great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic as my heart pounded at the awkwardness between us. It was
as if we were strangers now. Next thing you knew he’d be bringing up the nice weather we were having lately. I couldn’t bear
it.

“So, um, tonight we’re scheduled to go to Mexico, ” I informed him, trying to turn the conversation back to work-related stuff
before I broke down. “My whistle-blower, Miguel, is going to take us to the other end of the drug tunnel. You up for it?”

“Sure, ” he said easily. “Actually, I could use the overtime.”

There were probably a million reasons he could use the overtime. Rent. Fixing the scratches on his bike. A cool computer he
saw advertised on Craigslist. But there was only one reason my brain could latch on to.

Wedding expenses.

Jamie was getting married. To Jen. To have and to hold, ’til death did they part. I swallowed hard and attempted to will away
the ache in my heart. I had to accept this. Start seeing him as just another coworker. A soon-to-be-married coworker. Otherwise
I was seriously going to go crazy working with him. I felt my throat constrict as regret threatened to consume me.

If only I had left him alone to begin with. Not allowed myself to start something I knew in my head could only lead to disaster
and heartbreak. But, no. I’d pursued a man who was unavailable. I deserved this misery.

“Um, right now, though, I have nothing for you to do, ” I said hastily. I could feel the tears prick at the corners of my
eyes, threatening to fall. I needed him to leave. Fast. Before he saw the hurt. Before he saw how much he meant to me. “You
should go check in with News. They probably have some fires for you to chase or something.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No!” I retorted, throwing him a glare. A glare to hide my embarrassment at being called onto the carpet. “It’s just that
. . . Richard . . . um, told me if I didn’t have anything for you to do, I should give you to News. They can always use an
extra photographer.”

“Fair enough.” Jamie rose from his seat and headed out of the cubicle. “Have a good day, Maddy.”

I waited for a moment, until I heard his footsteps fade away, then put my face in my hands. I rubbed my eyes in frustration,
probably ruining my eye makeup. Why did this have to be so hard?

“Madeline!”

What now? I looked up, surprised, as Terrance entered the cubicle. He sat down in David’s chair. Oh great. I wiped my eyes
with my sleeve. The last thing I wanted was for Terrance to see me crying. He was the biggest gossip on the planet.

“Did you see the piece?” he asked, his eyes shining his enthusiasm. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, ” I told him. “And I’m sure it is wonderful—Mike’s a great editor. But—”

Terrance huffed. “Mike is a pain in the ass, if you ask me. I had to sit in there the whole afternoon, telling him how to
do his job. If it weren’t for me, that piece would look completely different.”

I was pretty sure he was right about that one. But perhaps not in the way he meant.

“Anyway, Madeline, you were
so
lucky I had some time to spare to teach Mike how to do his job. I mean, did you really plan to simply leave him alone to edit
without any guidance? What would you have done if I hadn’t stepped in? Though, I have to say, my efforts paid off handsomely.
The piece looks—”

“Fabulous. I get it.” I sighed. “But, Terrance, do you think maybe that you might have just perhaps possibly added one too
many, um, shots of a certain kind?”

Terrance scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. Obviously I couldn’t be subtle here.

I swallowed. “What I’m trying to say is, we need to take out some of the shots of you.”

“Some of the Terrance shots? You can’t take out the Terrance shots, ” the anchor exclaimed, shocked. “A Terrance piece must
have Terrance in it! The audience expects it. The fans demand it.”