Stay Tuned (7 page)

Drew paced the room near the small semi-circle of chairs in his office. I slipped in last and grabbed the only open seat.

“We’re in the middle of a shit-storm, people,” Drew began, only to be interrupted by the phone. It jingled three times and then stopped. He frowned. “That’s about the hundredth call. Damn voicemail is overflowing. Does anyone have any migraine medicine?”

Drew massaged his temples; his teeth were bared like a dog’s. The right incisor had a tiny chip in the corner, making it look slightly vampire-ish. How appropriate. From what I could tell, my boss was out for blood.

Joe shook a few pills into his open palm. I wondered if he’d considered slipping Drew some anti-anxiety meds. On second thought, maybe everyone else at the station should take them instead. At least Drew might have some compliant, relaxed employees.

Joe coughed and shot me a funny look. Several people shifted uncomfortably.

“Our first full week of sweeps starts Monday.” Drew threw up his hands and let them fall to his sides. “And basically, we’re screwed.”

No one argued back. No one said a word.

Wait just a minute. This wasn’t like Drew. We needed decision-making, not wallowing in misery. WSGA was the number one station in the market. Stellar ratings and a solid reputation were the norm.

Desperation pounded in my chest.

I wanted to jump to my feet and grab Drew by the collar. Surely, there was a solution…an answer…something we could do…

Drew stopped walking. “I fired them both.” He spit out the words like he had tasted poison.

Someone gasped, and then murmurs of concern and approval swirled around the room.

They were gone. Just like that. I swallowed hard and nodded to myself. It was a start. A decision. Thank goodness Drew wasn’t completely paralyzed by all of the stress and mayhem.

Drew frowned heavily. “They actually resigned before I could fire them,” he admitted. “That’s the story the paper’s getting.”

Translation:
 
WSGA wasn’t the bad guy. And, Alyssa and Tim would keep a shred of dignity. Heck, they might even be able to get jobs in a back corner of Wyoming. But what was next for us? Where did that leave WSGA?

I gathered my courage and spoke up. “So, what happens Monday?”

Drew nodded in my direction, acknowledging the question. He folded his arms across his chest thoughtfully and stared at the plaques and awards displayed on the wall. Drew ran his eyes back and forth, up and down. Suddenly, he focused on one frame in particular.

My pulse quickened. I strained to see what he was reading, but couldn’t.

Then finally, Drew cleared his throat, turning slowly and deliberately to face us, the smallest smile playing on his mouth. “A few of you might remember this.” Drew pointed at a plaque. “And this and this.” He touched a few other frames. “All of these awards, thanks to the one and only Rick Roberts.”

No one moved. My brain raced. What was Drew doing? Would Rick even come back?

“I’ve already made the call. He’s considering it.”

Rick had been the station’s main anchor for twenty years. He’d caused major upheaval in Macon’s social circles when he left his wife to run off with a young, lithe Pilates instructor, the heiress to a major timber fortune in a far-flung part of Georgia. The last I’d heard, they were traveling the Greek Isles and paying huge lumps of alimony every month to the ex-Mrs. Roberts.

Enter Tim, along with a series of short-lived female co-anchors, then Alyssa.

By now, the Rick Roberts scandal had all but died down. Tonight’s mess would cement that. Rick would look like a golden boy compared to this little mess.

I held my breath and looked around the room. Everyone nodded. Slam-dunk.

“As for a co-anchor…” Drew hesitated.

“Why not let him handle it alone?” Joe said gruffly. “People can get used to that.”

I agreed. Don’t rush into anything. Safe was good.

Drew paused and replied evenly, his eyes unblinking, confidence re-charged. He shook his head vigorously. “No. Especially for the six. WSGA viewers are used to seeing two anchors. We
need
two anchors.”

He rested one hand on the nearest pile of resume DVDs. “Unfortunately, these are crap.” Drew scooped up the pile, held it over the garbage, and dropped them in. The cases clattered against the sides of the metal can. “So are these.” The rest of the DVDs suffered the same fate.

Drew walked to the front of his desk and looked straight in my direction, as if he needed to validate his point. “Melissa, Joe, you’ve seen most of these.”

We nodded. Hours of DVDs watched, not much to show for it. Drew gave most applicants a thirty-second look. Maybe twenty. Joe chuckled. No one was going to argue.

“It’ll take a month to find decent candidates. Maybe a few weeks if we get lucky.” Drew continued to outline his ideas as they flowed into his head. “If I snap up someone between jobs or a superstar fresh out of college, they won’t have to give a two-week notice. If I beg corporate, I could spring for a hotel while the new person finds a place to live.”

A new team, a fresh start, all in less than a month. Drew was known to move at the speed of light when money and ratings were concerned. I let my mind start to drift, thinking about the possibilities while Drew continued to talk.

“Melissa, I need you to anchor—at least until we can find a suitable replacement.”

Wait a minute. What was that? It was several more seconds until I realized what Drew had said. My breath caught in my throat like a bubble.

“I don’t think that’s—”

Drew cleared his throat. “Oh, and thanks for getting on set tonight. It was the right decision,” he continued gruffly. “You’re filling in. Two weeks, minimum.”

It took a second to find my voice. I forced my hands into my lap. “Maybe there’s another option we could explore?” I managed, my thoughts immediately jumping to our stable of young reporters. Surely, Drew hadn’t watched every single DVD in the garbage can.

Joe elbowed me to shut up. I flushed, bent my head, and played with my watch. It glinted and winked at me like it knew a secret. My head started to throb. My stomach churned.

“I don’t think so. You’ll be fine,” he continued. “Of course, you’ll continue to produce both shows, keep things rolling, right?” Drew asked but didn’t wait for a reply. He kept talking.

Of course, I would say yes. I always did. Enthusiastic employee, super-mom, and supportive spouse. Organized-living queen and steadfast friend. Throw in psychologist, accountant, and chef. Mix with slightly insane schedule. Subtract vacation time and tan lines.

Candace teased that my life was a cross between June Cleaver and Martha Stewart, sans prison time, of course. This, however, wasn’t juggling groceries and paying the bills.

In the midst of my silent worrying, everyone else swarmed for the door. I looked over at Drew. Was he finally finished talking?

“Melissa,” he called out. “A word?”

A few employees lingered by his desk. I shrugged and smiled as I walked over. Probably some detail or reminder about tomorrow’s show. In typical Drew fashion, he didn’t waste any time.

“Boss?”

Drew gave my outfit a thorough once-over. “Just so we’re clear. Don’t even think about wearing
that
on-air again.”

At six the next morning, I unfolded the
Telegraph
.

In full color, Alyssa and Tim’s huge, smiling head shots stared back at me, along with a massive headline:
 
Anchor Brawl Top Story at WSGA-TV
.

Knots forming in my stomach, I scanned the article. The seven paragraphs contained a play-by-play description of the knockout punch and conjecture that the fight stemmed from Alyssa and Tim’s long-standing romantic involvement. The story said that both anchors resigned. Drew was quoted at the end.

He called it an “unfortunate incident,” and wished Alyssa and Tim “the best of luck in future endeavors.” Drew was quoted further as saying, with the change in on-air talent, WSGA-TV would be moving in a “new direction.” No surprise there.

In the last part of the article, the reporter speculated on who would replace Alyssa and Tim. A few names were mentioned, including mine as a temporary stand-in. Anticipation of Chris’s surprise bubbled up in my chest.

“Honey,” I interrupted and held up the newspaper. “Chris, take a look at this!”

The
WSJ
wavered the slightest bit, pushed by the light breeze from the ceiling fan.

“Chris,” I repeated.

My husband finally dropped the paper. Brow furrowed, he set down his coffee cup, making a puddle of brown liquid slosh over his fingertips.

“Damn.” Chris frowned at the mess and started mopping it up with his napkin. “I’m sorry, what happened?”

 
“Alyssa and Tim got into a fist fight during the show.”

Chris did a double take, as though he hadn’t heard me correctly.

“They’re gone. Drew let them resign so he wouldn’t have to fire them,” I explained. “I have to fill in on the anchor desk. I’m a little worried.” I paused and gathered my courage. “I was trying to ask what you thought.”

The words didn’t exactly spill from my mouth in the smooth, silky way I had intended. More like boulders bumping their way down a mountainside. In a thunderstorm.

When he didn’t react, I spelled it out. “I’m going to be doing the six and ten o’clock news, at least for a while.”

Chris hesitated. “Um, okay. Good.” He gave me a little smile. “You’ll be fine.” He toyed with the edge of the newspaper. “I’ve got that meeting in Montgomery. Be back tomorrow.” He checked his watch. “I’m leaving in an hour. Can you still pick up the dry cleaning?”

Sweet Jesus.
He didn’t just say that. He might as well have hit me with a hammer. A flash of indignation pierced my heart.

“Get your own dry cleaning,” I snapped at him.

I expected Chris to say something, anything. Yell back at me, at least. Instead, with a hard look, he turned, picked up his keys, and walked out of the room. The front door clicked shut behind him.

I stomped up the stairs two at a time. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. In the safety of the bedroom, I locked the door and threw myself on the bed. Face buried in the sheets and blanket, I couldn’t breathe. I raised my head and sucked in air. Suffocating myself was not an option.

Ugh! I rolled over on my back. Hands on my head, I stared at the tiny bumps on the ceiling. The ceiling above the bed we were supposed to share. Share? That was a joke. I wasn’t sure we shared anything except a mortgage anymore. One thing was certain. I didn’t know my own husband. He didn’t know me. He’d rather be at work. Or in Montgomery. At a meeting he didn’t bother to tell me about. Again.

What if he wasn’t going to work…?What if he’s not…?

Stop being so paranoid. It was a misunderstanding. He’s distracted. You’re stressed.

In a gold picture frame, Chris’s face gazed at me from the top of my dresser. His perfect white teeth gleamed at me from across the room. Without thinking, I took a pillow and aimed for his chin. The soft plush padding bounced off the wall, missing my husband’s photograph by a good two feet. I reached for another pillow, and then stopped myself. I was no better than Alyssa if this was how I was going to react.

Okay,
I promised myself. I would be positive. I would figure out what was bothering Chris. I would focus on work and make the best of it—with grace and confidence.

With renewed purpose, I pushed myself off the bed and looked in the mirror. I brushed a strand of hair from my eyes and smiled at my reflection.

I could handle my job at the TV station and my husband. For the rest, I needed reinforcements, maybe a small army. I needed my best friend.

As luck would have it, Candace didn’t answer. Calling or going to see my mother might only make things worse. And even if I had Dr. Phil’s personal cell phone number, I doubted he or his staff would take my calls.

My heart ached. I was kidding myself about everything being fine. Chris and I had really drifted apart. We were standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall off or get pushed. When had this happened?

My memory archives gathered a hazy blur of dirty diapers, baby spit up, fights about sex or no sex. Not to mention Chris’s too-frequent business meetings and my stubborn desire to go back to work—which he didn’t support—once I realized five-year old Kelly wasn’t the least bit fazed about spending her days in the classroom.

No
ah-hah
moment sprang to mind. Just a steady stream of his-and-her obligations. It seemed like I blinked, and Kelly graduated from grade school, Chris moved up in his firm, and I took on more responsibility at work. I blinked again, and Kelly was driving her red VW Bug out of the driveway to Berkeley.

I liked my life. I loved my husband and my daughter. And if Chris was miserable, he certainly hadn’t mentioned it.

But like the movie
Groundhog Day
, our lives had become a Bill Murray re-run. These twenty-four hours of our marriage would be a repeat of every other twenty-four hours we’d had for the past ten years. And so on, and so on.

When was the last time we talked? Really had good discussion about meaningful things?

There used to be a time when we never ran out of things to say. Now, I couldn’t seem to keep a conversation going more than a minute.

I began to panic. Candace would have a plan. Candace would have solid, definitive advice. Candace needed to answer her phone.

Wait. I took a moment and channeled my best friend, like we used to when we were kids. We’d practice sending mental signals to each other when it was too late to talk on the telephone. Our secret, pretend channels included WWCD (What Would Candace Do) for boys, gossip, and parental crises, and WWMD (What Would Melissa Do), a dedicated line for algebra test prep and biology answers.

So, WWCD?

I started to laugh. Of course. Her personal philosophy was, “If you’ve big problems to solve, you might as well look great dealing with them.”

The answer, at least temporarily, was shopping.

My own closet was a disaster. Drew had practically told me so. And, hey, it might get some positive attention from Chris. Within minutes, I showered, tied my hair back in a low ponytail, dressed, applied a dash of mascara and a dab of lip-gloss, then bounded down the stairs.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of
Posh Couture
, one of the most exclusive shops in town. Society wives, bank president’s daughters, and other prominent women in the community shopped here. Everyone who was anyone.

The owner had a savvy sense of style, bought from chic designers in New York, and carried only a few pieces of each, not dozens in every size. The price tags were exceptional, too.

I sat in the car with the engine running, staring at the window display before I moved a muscle. A tall, slender mannequin, draped in a saffron-colored chiffon blouse, black cigarette pants and four-inch heels stared at me.

My chest tightened.

A tap on my window caused me to shriek like a child at a scary movie. Before I could catch my breath, a tiny blonde with a huge grin appeared, motioning at me. Once my pulse was normal again, I rolled the window down and managed a bright smile.

“Good morning,” the blonde chirped. “Did you think we were closed? I forgot to turn on some of the lights. I’m new. I’m Cher. Come on inside.”

This woman—who didn’t look anything like Cher the singer—wasn’t taking no for an answer. In a wink, she had pulled open the door, taken my arm, and guided me inside
Posh Couture
. Soft jazz music played in the background. The smell of spiced candles tickled my nose.

Inside was a lush array of fabrics and textures. I brushed my hand along a washed silk suit, and then let my fingertips rest on a cherry red linen jacket. A soft, fluid dress in chestnut brown caught my eye.

“BCBG,” Cher whispered, nodding in approval. Her cheeks flushed pink with excitement as if she were the one doing the shopping.

I glanced at the price tag and felt faint. Cher either didn’t notice my reaction or didn’t care. I steadied myself on a mannequin in a pink Trina Turk sheath.

“Special occasion?” Cher asked, circling with ballerina steps. “Are you a size four?”

“Size eight,” I corrected her, then paused and changed my answer. “Maybe a size six.”

Cher shook her head, her earrings jingling. “Can’t be.”

I caught myself before I disagreed again. “Okay,” I replied in a whisper. “Anyway, I’m going to be anchoring at WSGA, at least temporarily, and I need to look the part.”

Cher nodded thoughtfully, her finger on her lips, as if this was a regular dilemma her customers faced at
Posh Couture
.

“All right.” Her arm plunged into a rack of blouses. “I’ll get you a few things to try on.”

While she perused the store, we talked about children, family, and school. She’d recently adopted a little girl and was active in the community. She had good manners, and occasionally, even in Macon, that superseded gossip.

Cher steered me to the dressing rooms, plucking items deftly from shelves and countertops as we walked. I started to protest, and then stopped.
Why not
let someone else worry about what I needed?

Door shut, a palette of colors dangled in front of me. A quick scan of the labels was enough to make me shiver. Tahari, Dolce Vita, Marc Jacobs. I shivered with anticipation, put my back to the mirror, and with a shimmy, tossed my clothes to the floor.

A few minutes later, I was in heaven. A black Ralph Lauren ruffle-front blouse and trousers that clung in all the right places. I fell in love with a jacket, pants and sheer blouse, all Calvin Klein. A bright tangerine Milly cardigan and pants looked divine when I spun around in front of the three-way mirror.

Cher paired a Diesel jacket over a leather Michael Kors skirt—fun, but too much for small town TV. Jones New York, DKNY, and Ellen Tracy all started to blend together. An array of jeans, shoes, flats, heels, and sandals decorated the floor of the dressing room.

After two hours, I was exhausted and exhilarated. Customers had come and gone, the cash register sang, the bells on the door jingled, the phone rang.

“Help,” I laughed to Cher. “Get me out of here.”

Cher stopped and put her hands on her hips. “What’ll it be?” A smile played on her lips. She was no pressure and I loved that.

“I adore everything. You have a gift!”

Cher blushed. “The clothes are perfect for you!” She winked. “And your job.”

“Thanks. But the job is short-term, at least for now. I have to do a lot of convincing.” With a heave, I lifted part of my new wardrobe onto the counter. “This is a major part of it. A fresh start. The
new
me.”

Cher scurried behind me, snapping up loose shoes and skirts from chairs and the floor. “Can I be honest?” Her face took on a serious expression.

I nodded and shrugged, handing her my credit card. Before she could take it, I changed my mind and offered Chris’s plastic instead.

She was probably going to tell me I didn’t have a prayer in the world of anchoring full-time in Podunk, USA, let alone here. A face for radio. What everyone always said about anchors who looked a little horsey or weren’t quite thin enough.

Cher took a deep breath and started ringing up the clothes. A few customers floated by, we made small talk. When the last pair of shoes had been rung up and bagged, I strained to see the total. Instead, Cher came around the counter to where I was standing.

“You see, the thing is.” Cher’s voice strained to a stop. “My sister owns this shop.”

I felt a tug of empathy while she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

Cher swallowed hard and tried to continue. “Five years ago, I was drifting from job to job, crashing with friends when I could, practically homeless.” Cher’s eyes welled up with tears.

Her confession threw me. I blinked and tried hard to hide my surprise. “Oh,” was all I could manage, trying to picture the petite girl in front of me sleeping in the streets. It was horrifying. What if this was Kelly? I shook off the thought, promising myself she was fine.

Cher wiped at her lashes with the back of one fingernail.

“My sister gave me a second chance when no one else would,” she continued. “She made me finish my degree and had me come live with her. She helped me re-invent myself. Just like you said, a fresh start. I adopted a little girl, bought a house. I have a good life.”

Tiny goose bumps dotted my arms. Re-inventing Melissa.

“When I talked about change, making over my life, my sister always used to remind me that it’s what’s inside that really counts.” Cher pointed to her heart. “So, the clothes will help.” She touched my hair lightly and cocked her head. “Highlights and a great cut would make a big difference. But true change comes from within.”

I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. I winced, stepped back, and frowned, biting my lip at how right she was.

Cher patted my hand and went back around the register, putting three feet of counter between us. “Sorry, I always talk too much. My sister says I should have been a talk show host or a psychologist. It’s none of my business.”

Her apology softened my initial reaction. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not off the mark.” I ruefully ran a hand over my ponytail. “My hair could use some updating,” I admitted.

We grinned at each other.

“I believe this. If you make change for the right reasons, everything else will fall into place,” Cher added. “It did for me.”

Believe. Was it that simple? And what were the right reasons?
Because it was a challenge? Did I have something to prove to Chris? Did I think my mother might be impressed?

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, thinking that this was turning out to be one of the strangest and most expensive shopping trips I’d ever had, and Chris would ever pay for.

Cher stretched out her arm and handed me the receipt and a pen. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes before looking at the total.

She giggled and slapped her hands together. “It’s not that bad. I promise.”

How could she promise? She wasn’t paying for it. I opened one eye a slit and looked at the black line above where I needed to sign my name.

She was right. Not bad. Not bad at all. Chris might only need blood pressure medicine, not hospitalization for heart failure. Eyes twinkling, Cher winked again. “The fifty percent family discount does wonders.”