Sunny Says (15 page)

Maybe he was a misanthrope, but
he’d learned to distrust human nature through bitter experience. He’d mucked
around in the cesspools of the world, encountered things that would shock her
sensitive spirit. He would move heaven and earth to keep the innocent sparkle
in her eyes, to keep her from having to confront the horror of atrocities and
disillusionment that stalked the unsuspecting.

He kissed her nose. “We’re home.”

Her big blue eyes blinked. “I
must have dozed off.” She yawned.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get
you inside. You’re exhausted. Want me to carry you?”

She shook her head. “I can walk.”

But she was decidedly slow on
her feet as he led her upstairs and to the connecting bath between their rooms.
It pained him to see her so fatigued. She was such a delicate, precious
creature that she deserved to be pampered and coddled and cuddled. Something
about her made him want to slay dragons and carry her on a silk pillow, a
distinctly new attitude for him.

He started the shower and
adjusted the temperature. When he turned back to Sunny, she was leaning against
the sink with her hands gathering the bottom of her sweater, a dazed look on
her face, as if she’d forgotten what she was doing.

Kale chuckled and began
undressing her. When he peeled her slacks and panties to her ankles, he said, “You’re
going to have to help me some here, love. Step out. There. That’s it.”

He quickly shed his own soiled
clothes and led her into the shower, where he washed her all over and shampooed
her hair.

“Mmmm,” she murmured as he
massaged her scalp. “That feels wonderful. I’d like to do the same for you, but
I don’t think I can lift my arms. I can’t imagine what’s wrong with me, but I’ve
run out of steam. I think the beer did it.”

“I’m not surprised. You didn’t
get much sleep last night, and you’ve had a busy couple of days.”

“Not any different from yours.”

“I’m used to it, and I don’t
require much sleep.”

As quickly as he could, he
washed his own body and hair, then dried Sunny and himself. She stood like a
sleepy child as he rubbed the towel briskly over her.

He lifted her into his arms, and
when she encircled his neck and snuggled against his shoulder, his heart
swelled with such strong emotion that he thought it would burst.

He slipped her between the
covers of his bed and crawled in beside her, drawing her close.

“Kale?”

“Hmmm?”

“I don’t have on my nightgown.”

“Don’t worry about it, love. I’ll
keep you warm.” He kissed her forehead and delicately veined eyelids.

“Kale?”

“Hmmm?”

“I don’t think I can . . . you
know.”

He chuckled. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She sighed and wiggled
closer, laying her head on his shoulder and her small hand on his chest. “I’ll
make it up to you tomorrow.”

His heart almost soared through
the ceiling with love for her. He whispered the words, but she was already asleep.

It was just as well. He’d
already become more involved with her than he should have. If he had any sense,
he’d pack his duffel and head back overseas before things got any more out of
hand. He wasn’t the right person for someone like Sunny, and he didn’t want to
see her hurt. Foreign correspondents had lousy track records in relationships.
Most of the guys he knew who’d been in the field for any length of time had
been divorced two or three times. Wives and lovers soon tired of men who were
always off on the next story, of partners who constantly flirted with danger
and became jaded by their experiences.

A white picket fence and
gingerbread in the oven weren’t in the cards for Sunny and him. Coming to
Corpus Christi
and meeting Sunny was like stumbling onto Brigadoon, an enchanted time and
place that came alive for a short time, then disappeared. He’d chosen his path
a long time ago. In a few weeks he’d be gone.

“Hulon, why are we sitting out
here this time?” Sunny asked. “I’ve been anchor for the news for two weeks—and
doing a pretty darned good job, if I do say so myself. Not once have you had to
appear before a camera, so that can’t be the reason.”

With a brisk breeze blowing in
from the bay, the fourth-floor ledge was a miserable place to be. Her hair
whipped every which way, and she had to fight to keep her skirt from billowing
up like Mary Poppins’s umbrella and sending her flying over rooftops. She would
have been enormously irritated with Hulon if he hadn’t looked so woebegone.

“You don’t know, do you?” Hulon
asked.

“Know what?”

“The station has been getting
complaints-stacks and stacks of letters and a deluge of phone calls. All about
you. The viewers are irate, especially after what happened over the weekend.
The switchboard has been jammed today. Even the mayor raised a stink.”

Sunny felt the blood drain from
her face. “I . . . I thought things had been going well. Everyone has been
complimentary.”

“No, no, not about your
anchoring. Indications are that the ratings are up. You’ve done a fine job,
certainly better than I ever did. Maybe better than any anchor we’ve had. No,
people have been complaining about the weather reports. Complaining vehemently.”

Surprised, she said, “This is
the first I’ve heard about it. Roland has been doing pretty well. Of course,
the predictions have been off a couple of times, but—”

“Four times in two weeks,
including his Friday night forecast for the weekend. As you well know, instead
of being fair, as he predicted, it rained all day Saturday and Sunday. Planned
family outings were a bust, the golf tournament at the country club was a
disaster, and the mayor’s daughter locked herself in her room and cried all day
because her garden wedding was a washout. Everyone is furious with Roland. They
want you back doing the weather.”

Hulon looked as if he were about
to cry, but he continued. “Viewers felt that you would have warned them, and
they could have made contingency plans. I’ve just come from a meeting with
Foster and Kale. Our advertisers are threatening to pull their accounts. The
owners have to do something.”

A terrible sinking feeling
flooded Sunny as she realized why Hulon was back on the ledge. What hadn’t been
said, but what she surmised, was that Kale and Foster were going to restore Hulon
to the anchor position and transfer her back to the weather. The whole notion
formed a heavy knot of despondency that sat in her stomach like a huge black
lump.

Roland Cantu was bound to be
disappointed too. He’d been extremely excited about his promotion. And with his
degree in meteorology, Roland was much more qualified for the position than
Sunny, who merely had a couple of college courses in the subject. She’d taken
those only because of a logical curiosity and as an alternative to biology and
cutting up frogs.

She felt like joining Hulon in a
good cry. Was she, because of this crazy ability that her grandmother had
called a gift, going to be chained to weather reports forever?

Despair squeezed her throat. She
stared out over the harbor marina, feeling like one of the sailboats tethered
there in tight slips, eager to break moorings, fill sails, and run with the
wind. But she wasn’t the type to run away from difficulties.

Irritation began to shove aside
despair. Why hadn’t Kale mentioned the problem to her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t
seen him. Except for the few hours that their work separated them, they’d spent
every moment of the last two weeks together. He had helped her film and edit
the interviews for the special on gangs. They had laughed together, played
together, eaten together, slept together, made love endlessly, and talked about
everything under the sun—except the fact that he might jerk the magic carpet
out from under her.

Damn his hide!

Just when her career was getting
on track, moving in the direction she’d envisioned, he was going to throw up a
roadblock. Irritation blossomed into fury. Well, we’ll just see about that,
Mister Kale Hoaglin!

Eyes narrowed, lips pursed,
steam practically coming out of her ears, she crawled along the ledge to the
window. “Get your butt inside, Hulon Eubanks,” she called over her shoulder, “and
stop being such a wimp. We’re not giving up without a fight.”

She went downstairs, sailed
passed the secretary Foster and Kale shared, and banged on Kale’s door so hard
that she almost skinned her knuckles. She planned to tell him a thing or
two—loudly.

“He’s not in,” the secretary
said. “He and Mr. Dunn just left for a dinner meeting.”

“Shoot! I forgot he was speaking
at the Rotary Club in Robstown tonight.”

Deflated, Sunny went back upstairs
to prepare for the
six o’clock
news. No matter how lousy she felt, she would psych
herself up for the camera.

After the broadcast, her
disquiet returned and a sense of loneliness almost overwhelmed her. How she
missed having Estella to talk to. She was considering calling her friend at her
parents’ house in
San Antonio
for a gripe session when Hulon walked up, looking
like a whipped dog. He patted her back and said, “Maybe we can find a way to
work things out. Why don’t you join me for dinner?”

“Isn’t your wife expecting you?”

“No, tonight is her ceramics
class, and I don’t feel like being alone.”

“I know the feeling.”

Sunny grabbed her purse, and
they walked the short distance to the Water Street Market and ate soft-shell
crabs at one of the restaurants. She even indulged herself with dessert—a huge
brownie, warm and filled with pecans, topped with a big scoop of ice cream. It
was better than a second glass of wine and infinitely more comforting.

As she licked the last dollop of
ice cream from her spoon, an idea struck her. “Hulon, it just occurred to me
that we’re not approaching this problem creatively.”

“How do you mean?”

“Exactly what are viewers
complaining about?”

“About your not doing the
weather.”

“No,” she said, “I mean
specifically.”

“Specifically, the forecast.”

“Right. I think I know how to
kill two birds with one stone. Are you game to try something on the
ten o’clock
news?
Kale and Foster aren’t around to tell us we can’t. And, after all, you are the
news director.”

*    *    *

At ten-twenty-six, Roland Cantu
said, “And that’s tomorrow’s forecast according to the National Weather
Service. Let’s hear what Sunny says about it. Sunny?”

“Thank you, Roland,” she said,
smiling into the camera. “Sunny says that I agree with the forecast one hundred
percent. But the tropical disturbance building off the west cost of
Africa
near the
Cape Verde
Islands
could bear watching over the next several days.” She
did a quick teaser for the last news story, then led into a commercial.

After the break, Sunny launched
into the kicker, a brief human-interest story that occupied the last time
segment, and then signed off.

Hulon ran over, grinning and
clapping his hands. “Beautiful!”

Sunny laughed and leaned back in
her chair. “I believe it will work. Roland, what do you think?”

“I like it. I can see it
stirring up even more viewer interest when we don’t agree,”

“Right,” Hulon said. “We can
create a kind of friendly rivalry. The idea has all sorts of possibilities.” Hulon
bit his lip. “I only hope the owners will agree with us.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,”
Sunny said. “I’m not without influence.”

A few minutes later, as she was
gathering her things to go home, the phone on her desk rang. “Hello.”

“Is this the weather lady?”

“Rico?”

“I’m not sayin’. You want some
action shots of a big slam? Be at the
Old
Bayview
Cemetery
at
eleven o’clock
.”
Click
.

“Hello. Hello.” She jiggled the
hook futilely, then hung up. “Rats!”

She knew from her research that
a slam was the term for when gangs confronted each other, often with serious
results. Was this a hoax, someone playing a joke, or was it for real? Should
she call the police? She hesitated to send the cops on a wild-goose chase.

At least she could check it out.
She noted the time and wished Kale was around. Carlos. He lived on the way to
the cemetery. She quickly punched in his number.

“Carlos? Sunny. I may have a hot
story, and I need you. I’m bringing a van, and I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.
Can you make it?”

“I’ll be waiting at the curb.”

She hung up and tried to think.
She’d promised Kale that she wouldn’t go on any gang interviews without him. Of
course this wasn’t an interview, but she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate the
finer points of her argument. He should be back in town any minute, but dammit,
he wasn’t here now, and this wouldn’t wait. She hesitated to call him, knowing
he would probably blow a gasket if she told him where she was going, so she did
the next best thing. She texted him, then dashed for the door. The phone on her
desk rang, but she didn’t take time to answer it.