Air Time Page 9

  Sally’s stuffing her possessions back into her bag. “Ever hear of a woman who said, sorry I don’t need another purse? My new supplier…” she pauses, still smiling. “Well, I’ll call you. Do what the message says. Soon you and I will be able to buy ourselves the real thing.”

  “It’s in the bag,” I say. Nervous Elsa pretends to stifle a giggle at her bad joke.

  “You got it, girl,” Sally replies, turning to go. “And you’re gonna love it.”

  I watch the redhead wind her way through the rickety chairs and tables and out of the food court. I’m gonna love it? Flickers of suspicion are still flaring in my head, and I’m not sure how to extinguish them.

  If Sally’s the real thing, I’m in.

  If she’s not, I’m in trouble.

  Chapter Nine

  I

  haven’t done this since high school. It was silly, as a teenager, to drive by Tommy Thornburg’s house just to see if he was home. Or if any cars were in his driveway. Or maybe, to see if cheerleader goddess and most-likely-to-succeed-at-everything Nancy Rachel Hartline’s convertible was in his driveway. To do it as a grownup is beyond explanation. Plus, driving barely five miles an hour past someone’s house at ten o’clock at night is probably illegal. It’s stalking, or reverse-speeding or something. I hope no Neighborhood Watch goon calls the cops. I just couldn’t stay away. But I can’t bring myself to call him. Again, high school.

  The front windows of Josh’s house are dark. I can see one light, which I know is his study, still glowing out a side window of the first floor. I also know that’s on a timer and doesn’t mean he’s home. The garage door is closed, so I know his Volvo might be inside. Or it might not be. And if he’s not here, where is he?

  I edge past number 6, driving toward the end of Bexter Drive. I’m still in my Elsa outfit and have a fleeting fantasy of knocking on Josh’s door to see if he’ll recognize me. He will, of course, and he’ll laugh, and I’ll laugh, and Penny will come running downstairs, and we’ll all laugh. And then everything will be fine again.

  Back to reality. Penny is with her mother. Two days ago, Josh stomped out of my apartment. I didn’t try hard enough to stop him. And now I miss him. I don’t need him, I insist to myself. I’m fine on my own. But that doesn’t mean I can’t miss him.

  I yank my steering wheel toward Beacon Hill and home.

  And when I get there, I see that Josh’s car is parked in front of my house. I blink in confusion, then blink again, my brain trying to register this unpredictable occurrence. While I was in front of Josh’s house, he was in front of mine.

  I hope it’s because he misses me, too. I hope he’s not here to pick up his toothbrush.

  My assigned parking space is in the back, in the lot behind my building, but I slide my Jeep in behind his car. My headlights illuminate his unmistakable shape in the front seat, his arms crossed over the steering wheel. He sits up as my lights hit him. Turns around. And opens his door.

  We connect on the deserted street, hands searching, lips meeting, devouring each other, remembering. My arms wrap around his neck, his hands move down my back. It’s not a toothbrush that he wants. We’re ignoring the spotlighting streetlights, ignoring any nosy neighbors watching from their brownstone windows, ignoring the necessity of breathing.

  “How did you know?” I finally tilt my head back, not letting go, not taking my eyes from him as I try to make sense of this. “When I would be home?”

  “I would have waited. As long as it took,” he whispers, eyes closed, and reaches up to touch my hair. He opens his eyes, smiling, and then his expression changes. He gently pushes me arm’s length away, keeping his hands on my shoulders.

  “My, my, Ms. McNally,” he says. He looks me up and down. Then up again. “I fear I must inform you the summer of peace and love is long over. And I must say, I’m not sure how your fans will handle the reporter as hippie look.”

  “It’s a long story,” I say, tucking my arm through his. I can feel the softness of his black sweater against my cheek as I curl closer to him. “How about if I tell you the whole thing—upstairs?”

  But once we get inside, I can’t ignore the flashing light on the message machine. Every muscle in my body longs for Josh. Every scintilla of my intellect understands that it won’t matter if I wait until tomorrow. That if there are messages still waiting, unlistened to at this time of night, it can’t possibly make a difference if they wait a few hours longer.

  But as I told Mom when she caught me, nine years old, reading the last chapter of my Nancy Drew first: I hafta know. And now, thirty-seven years later, thirty-eight, shouldn’t Josh understand that, too? I’m a reporter. Working on a big story.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” I say. My arm is still linked through his as we stand in my entryway. I hold tighter as we both stare at the blinking light on the living room phone. Botox is winding her way through our legs, meowing a combination welcome and complaint. Josh is silent, ignoring both of us. I can feel his body stiffen.

  “Why don’t you open a bottle of wine for us?” I continue. “And I’ll just see who it is.” It might be news about Katie Harkins. Franklin might have checked our outside line and might have news from Sally.

  “It’s just a message from me, sweetheart,” Josh interrupts. I can see the beginnings of a frown on his face. “I called you. I left a message, wondering where you were. I realized that I can’t remember the last time I didn’t know where you were. So. It’s me.”

  I can’t stop myself. “Two seconds,” I say, moving toward the phone. “Get the wine from the fridge and I’ll meet you on the couch.”

  Josh is still standing where I left him as I turn to pick up the receiver and begin punching in the number to retrieve the messages. “Two seconds,” I say again.

  I feel Josh standing next to me. He does not have a bottle of wine.

  The phone voice begins its techno-prompts in my ear. “To enter your mailbox, press…”

  “I think we need to talk, Charlie,” Josh says, at the same time. He puts his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Why is it that you’re so compelled…”

  “Please enter your code, followed by the pound sign…”

  “It’s just, well, this story we’re working on, I’ll tell you all about it. It’s why I’m wearing this outfit, you know? And yesterday the police came, they were investigating.” I’m talking to Josh and entering my code at the same time.

  “You have, two new messages and…”

  “The police?” Josh says. “So you finally did report that phone call?”

  I interrupt the prompt, pushing more numbers to retrieve my new messages. I know I don’t have any saved ones. “Well, no,” I say, “the police were here because…”

  “First new message, received today at 7:14 p.m.” There’s a pause as the message loops up from the digital recorder.

  “That’s me,” Josh says. “As I told you.” He reaches over and hits the orange button to activate the speaker phone.

  “Hello, Charlie.” Now we can both hear Josh’s tinny voice. It’s quiet, subdued. “I tried to call you at the station, but you’re not there, either.” There’s a pause, and we hear Josh sigh. “Do you think we should talk? I’ll try you later.”

  “I told you,” he says. “Now, can we please sit down?”

  “Second new message, received today at 9:56 p.m.” The computer voice says. The speaker phone is still on.

  There’s a beat. Then clicking noises. The same ones I heard in that first phone call, although Josh doesn’t know that. Then whoever it is hangs up. The silence echoes through the living room.

  “Ah, wrong number,” I say. I’m desperate to lighten the mood. Somehow this night is suddenly fragile and suddenly all the stakes seem high. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away. Right. That always works. “Oh, well, I guess that’s the good news, right? Let’s get that wine. And I’ll fill you in on my latest adventures.” I turn to Josh, my expression expectant and enthusiastic.

&
nbsp; No answer.

  “Josh?” I persist. “It’s my job. You know? If a student called you, or if there were some emergency at Bexter, you’d have to be available, right? So it’s the same.”

  Surprising me, Josh puts his arm around me, and shepherds me toward the couch. Botox bounces up beside us, and curls up on my lap. Maybe this will all work out.

  Josh takes my hand, examining my fingers. “You know, Charlie,” he says. “There’s a pattern here. Isn’t there?”

  I don’t answer, because I can’t come up with a good one.

  He sighs. “And the pattern is, when you have a choice, you choose your work.”

  “But I don’t have a choice.” I can hear the almost-whine in my own voice.

  “It’s all right,” Josh says. “It’s me who will have to change.”

  “No, you don’t,” I interrupt. “We can—”

  “We can’t.” Josh puts my hand back on my own knee, and gives it a lingering pat. “Was it just two days ago? I wrote a new address for you on that card? I thought our lives were coming together, and I was so eager to share, well, everything with you. I came to see you, decided I had been unfair the other night. That phone call was disturbing, Penny had been upset going to Victoria’s…” He stops, and looks at the floor. “Whatever. So I thought, let’s try again. Charlie’s worth it. And then you chose your messages.”

  I’m staring at the floor, too. Afraid to hear what may come next. Dumb, dumb Charlie. Married to her job. Tears well in my eyes. And then I decide. No. Dammit.

  I stand up, dumping Botox onto the couch. Whirl around and face Josh, who’s looking at me, bewildered.

  “I did not. Choose my messages. I did not.” Anger, or disappointment, or loss, is selecting my words, not me. “You have to balance your daughter, your job, even Victoria and what’s-his-name. Your students, now that Bexter’s back in session. Your parents in Annapolis. I have to do the same thing with my life. We’re trying to add each other and trying to keep the balance. And…and…and—”

  I feel my fists clenching. I bite my lip, fearing this might be goodbye. “Maybe it’s just not easy. Maybe it takes some practice. Or maybe, it can’t work. No matter how much you want it to. No matter how much you try.”

  Josh stands, his face inches from mine. “We’re new at this, aren’t we? Grown up and acting like spoiled teenagers. Wanting everything, maybe not wanting to work for it.”

  “I’m trying to work at it. It’s just—old dog? New tricks?” I say. I reach up and touch his face, see his eyes close for a brief second. “And as for wanting…”

  My heart is beating so fast, my chest is so tight, it’s difficult for me to get the words out. “Want” is hardly enough to describe it. And then, I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. Josh’s kisses are soft and strong and full of tomorrow. And of right now.

  “Shall we just take it slow?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper. “One day at a time? No plans? No predictions? See what happens?”

  He pulls one end of the tiny ribbon bow that’s keeping my peasanty blouse civilized. As gauzy fabric drops from both my shoulders, I close my eyes, and feel his lips exploring my neck.

  “Mmm,” I murmur. “I think I can predict what’s going to happen now, at least.”

  Chapter Ten

  “W

  hat kind of animal?” I say to Franklin. We’re in our office, desk chairs pulled up to our video monitor, watching my shaky pictures from the purse party. Video from a hidden camera is about ten per cent usable. Most of it turns out to be upside down, sideways, all swoops and blurs, or has someone’s hand over it. Basically, a lot of it looks like someone’s shooting out of focus movies on a storm-tossed ship. Screening raw video can make you seasick. That’s why I’m having a bit of a difficult morning. I’m still the tiniest bit hung over from the late-night champagne that my almost-fiancé and I shared to celebrate the beginning of part two of our relationship. I’m also the tiniest bit distracted by residual twinges and tingles from that same late night in places it’s inappropriate to discuss with my colleagues at work.

  So I’m trying to hide my potentially embarrassing physical infirmities and focus on our story. And my mind keeps going back to the anonymous phone call. I finally told Franklin about it, including my worry about who might be on the other end. He agreed I don’t need to run to the police.

  “What do you mean, what kind of animal? That’s what mob types call themselves, you know? They all have nicknames,” Franklin answers, not taking his eyes off the screen. He’s making a shot-sheet of everything that’s usable, noting the time codes and a brief description so we can easily find it all later. “Billy the Animal, Steven the Rifleman. You’ve seen the court transcripts. Lattimer thinks the purse syndicate is terrorist-connected. Or mob. But that doesn’t mean Billy the Animal called you. Whoever it was probably wasn’t even referring to the purse story. I mean, how would anyone know about it? And the second call, the hang-up? Probably a wrong number, as you said. I suggest we just see. Are you comfortable with that?”

  Franklin always seems to understand me, even when I pick up a conversation in the middle.

  “Okay,” I reply, still watching the video. So far we’ve seen great shots of the mounds of purses, women shopping, and lots of cash changing hands. And my close-ups on the money box worked perfectly. Sally is there from all angles: tight, medium and wide.

  “And it’s true, of course,” I continue. “‘Billy the Animal’ isn’t that scary, if he’s like, a hamster. Or, you know, Billy the Bunny.” I burst out laughing, suddenly carried away by my own wit, then wincing with the noise level. I turn forty-seven and suddenly my body can’t hack late hours and champagne? Advil. I need Advil.

  Franklin hits the pause button, stopping the tape, and turns to look at me. Confused. “Charlotte. Do you need some Advil?” he asks.

  “Did I say that out loud?” I reply. Now I’m the one who’s confused.

  “Nope, but you’re, how shall I put this delicately? You’re a little greenish this morning. And may I say you might be well-advised to get one of those refrigerated cold-packs for your eyes.”

  “Hey, Brenda. Hey, Flash. What’s up in snoop-land? Getting any bad guys?” Maysie Green leans against the doorway to our office, her still naturally brown ponytail tucked into her Red Sox cap. Her maternity wardrobe consists of black clingy stretch leggings with one of her husband Matthew’s shirts. Works fine for her weekday all-sports drive-time radio talk program. Sunday nights, she has to dress up a bit more for her TV show. Titled, much to her dismay, Maysie Green, the Sports Machine. “Catch any ballplayers in the act? I could use some of the video for this Sunday.”

  “Hey, Mays,” I say. “How’s the new kid?”

  “Hey, Machine,” Franklin says at the same time. “Welcome back from the road trip. This has got to be your last expedition before little number three arrives,” he adds, pointing to her stomach.

  He hates it when she calls him Flash. I’m not that hot on Brenda, either, since Ms. Starr is even older than I am. And only exists in the comics. But my bff Maysie has called me Brenda from the day we met, years ago, and I know she means it affectionately. She’s ten years younger than I am, and she somehow manages to juggle career, husband and two-going-on-three children. She adores Josh, and insists we wait until after her new baby is born to get married. Right.

  I really need to talk to her.

  “Little Poppy or Theo is fine,” Mays says, patting her five-month bump. “Matthew still wants another M name to match Max and Molly. I suggested Maris or Mantle to get him to back off. And nope, the Sox are off to Yankee Stadium. Can’t miss that. So I’m headed out tomorrow for a triple header, then off to Tampa Bay. Anyway, I just came to see if anyone wants to grab Mexican food for a farewell lunch.”

  I almost fall off my chair. Franklin saves me.

  “Our Charlotte is in a somewhat delicate condition, I fear, this morning.” He smiles. “How about if I go fetch some tea from the caf? And leave you
two a moment to catch up?”

  “Thanks, Franko,” I say. “I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do,” he says. “Pop that video. We’ll watch the rest when I get back.”

  I’m on the phone when Franklin arrives. I only got about halfway through giving Maysie the scoop on my Josh dilemma when the phone rang. And now eyes are growing wider with each word I hear from the other end.

  “What?” Franklin asks. He puts a paper cup of steaming tea on my desk, the tag on a string draped over the side. Constant Comment. Always a comedian.

  I put down the phone and stand up. Moving Maysie and Franklin aside, I look down the hall toward the double-door entrance to our special-projects unit.

  “That was the intern in Kevin’s office,” I say. The doors open. And I see the intern was right. “Look who’s here. McGruff the Crime Dog.”

  Detective Christopher Yens, now in a sleek charcoal suit, tie loosened and carrying a black briefcase, advances confidently toward our office. Behind him, like a frantic little parade, a pencil-skirted Susannah pointing—at me—and struggling to keep up. And news director Kevin O’Bannon, navy double-breasted suit jacket flapping, talking intently into his cell phone.

  Yens looks like he’s on a mission. Kevin and Susannah are not happy to be conscripted into service.

  “What the holy hell,” I whisper to Franklin. Nothing like the cops arriving with your news director to snap your brain back from leftover lust.

  “See ya when I get home, and can’t wait to hear the rest about phase two,” Maysie says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. She cocks her head at the hallway. “As for now, I know when I’m not wanted.” She flutters a wave at Kevin as she heads away to safety.