It's News to Her (11 page)

Somewhat dazed, she went around the condo pulling drapes over the sheers for the night and headed for her bedroom. There she turned on the bedstand lamp before heading to the bathroom to change. The shoes went first.

In the mirror, her reflection made her pause. She looked how she felt—never more alive, yet confused… Very kissed—she touched her full lips—but wanting…hopeful, but anxious. Turning away from the mirror, she knew that it would be a miracle if she slept at all tonight.

As soon as she changed into the teal satin sleep shirt hanging behind the door, she returned to the bedroom and checked the clock. If it was 10:42 p.m. in Texas, it was an hour later on the East Coast. She knew at least one person she wanted to speak with who should still be awake.

Going into the phone's directory, she kept clicking until the right name came on the screen. Then she punched the green button and brought the phone to her ear. It rang once…twice…

“This is a nice surprise.”

“Hi, Mom. How was the performance tonight?” She knew her mother's summers were busy; she had the pamphlet with the symphony's schedule on her bulletin board in the second-bedroom office.

“Don't ask. I broke a string.”

“Oh, Mom. I'm sorry.” Hunter knew incidents like that were common enough in her profession. “When?” she asked, meaning at what point in the performance.

“Three-quarters through, which wasn't bad. I could have struggled through the rest on three, except I had a solo coming up. I also couldn't leave and put a new string on because you know how long it takes to wear in a new one.”

“I remember you telling me that. It would be awful for it to go out of tune right in the middle of your solo.” Then she realized what her mother was going to say. “Oh, my gosh, Willem handed you his instrument.”

“And finished as best as he could on mine.”

Willem Burchfield sat in the second chair, and theirs was a complex relationship. He and M.K.—as Marnie Kay was known professionally—rarely even spoke, ever since her mother had turned down Willem's dinner invitation. Hunter had seen him in a few photos and on a televised concert. She thought him an attractive man in a Steve Martin kind of way, his mouth usually curved in a smile that suggested accessibility—except where her mother was concerned.

“Of course, you thanked him after the performance, didn't you?” Hunter asked. She all but held her breath waiting for the answer.

“Not graciously enough, it would seem.”

“Mother!”

“What? I said thanks.”

And probably that brusquely, too, Hunter thought with an inner groan. “But, Mom, he saved your performance.”

“Yes, he pointed that out just before he announced that the least I could do is buy him a drink.”

Hunter clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Her mother was a beautiful woman and regardless of her resistance, she did wish she could find happiness with someone again. “You better do it. You know full well that lightning
can
strike twice and next time you have a string break, he might not be so generous, and you could end up with an inferior instrument.” She had learned from her mother how difficult it could be to adjust to someone else's piece, but Willem's happened to be a near twin to M.K.'s—something that had a near perverse effect on her mother.

“Let's change the subject, please. It's all too distressing.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. How's Grandma? I hope I didn't wake her?” she asked.

“I can hear her TV locked to the Weather Channel. I'll go shut it off in a minute.”

Smiling at the picture of her grandmother sleeping soundly as her TV blared, Hunter said, “When she wakes in the morning, give her a hug for me.”

“Will do. How are you, dear? How's poor Henry?”

Hunter had called her mother to report the news the
day she'd learned the worst. “He's still critical,” she said. “Mom, keep that to yourself, okay?”

“I understand. And you? How are you?”

“You know the news business—crime is everywhere, and corruption is jealous and trying to play catch up.”

“I didn't ask about work, Miss Evasive. I do keep up with your schedule as well as you do mine and I know you didn't anchor today. But you were on my mind. You know what that means,” she said pointedly.

“The Russians are coming?”

“Hunter, dear…stop beating around the bush. What's happened?”

“Oh, just another little stumble in the vacation resort known as Life. It's no big deal.”

“Says my child who was born 40 and is now more adult than her mother. Tell me. If you bother to even admit to something, I know it will keep you up all night if you don't talk it out.”

So Hunter told her about Cord, who hadn't been part of their conversations since Denny left Texas. She began with what she hadn't told her mother about the trip to New Jersey and back and about Cord's behavior since—especially after tonight's dinner date with Jack. “Now, please don't say the obvious,” she said at the end. “Because I'm not breaking my contract, even for that amount of money.”

“I wasn't about to,” her mother replied. “It's never been about money or celebrity with you. You're your father's daughter, and it's the news for you, pure and simple. That job that—it's Jack, right?—Jack described
sounded like you could do in your sleep. There would be no job satisfaction in that.”

“You've just denigrated some of the most beloved names on television,” Hunter drawled.

Her mother's sigh reflected frustration. “Because they love what they do. I'm talking about my daughter, who for all of her wisecracking and pranks on the job, is a serious journalist. So, are you telling me that things aren't good with Cord? You're still worried about losing your job?”

“No,” Hunter admitted. “But good is subjective.”

“Then it's the idea of sleeping with your boss.”

“Give yourself a late-night slice of cheesecake.”

M.K. moaned at the suggestion. “Don't put that delectable thought in my head. My metabolism is creeping backward as it is.”

“Mother, you're two sizes smaller than the average American woman.”

“Stop trying to get me off point. So, granted, an affair of that kind is frowned upon in business, but it sounds like the man is in love with you.”

“If he is, that's also news to me,” Hunter said. “Nothing about love was mentioned. Lust was, which puts me back to square one. He's my employer.”

“Are you in love with him?”

Hunter dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I've been too busy despising him for that to happen.”

“Said like a little birdie who just flew into a window.”

Wincing at the awful image, she then rejected her
mother's suggestion. “He demands your attention, I'll say that, but sexual attraction is what it is.”

“Didn't you tell me that on that trip to New Jersey, you learned that he wasn't responsible for your broken engagement from Denny?”

“Yes.”

“Then there's been plenty of time to fall in love. Remember, I fell in love with your father the first time I met him.”

“I know, I know. You were coming from class at Julliard,” Hunter recited, “and there were so many people, your violin case was knocked out of your hand, and he risked his life snatching it out of the street before a delivery truck crushed it and him. You're the exception, not the rule. Usually it's just lust.”

“There was lust. But there was love, too, and we could tell the difference. The depth of that love is what alters with time.”

Hearing the change in her mother's voice from amused to aching triggered Hunter's guilt. “Oh, Mom. I'm sorry to bring up painful memories.”

“You didn't. You can't. They're a part of my every day. So are the good ones. That's just the way it is for the one left behind,” her mother added.

The words were spoken in the prosaic tone of someone who had accepted her situation. Nevertheless, Hunter hated that for her. “All the more reason to give Willem a chance. Go for that drink.” In the months since the man joined the symphony, replacing the violinist who had retired, Hunter hadn't missed a certain tension
in her mother's voice when she mentioned Willem's name. She suspected that her dislike for him masked something she wasn't willing to admit.

“Fine, I'll do it—right after you give Cord a break.”

“You're the only mother I know who would encourage her daughter to have an affair.”

“I play a lot of old music, but that doesn't mean my opinions are locked in another century. As long as things end in an engagement,” she added wickedly.

“You've been a load of help. I'm going to hang up now.”

“Don't waste any sarcasm on me,” her mother replied with some humor. “I'm just following my favorite sage's advice.”

“Who is…?”

“Dr. Seuss. He said, ‘Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.'”

Laughing, Hunter said, “I bow to your superior intellect.”

“Good night, dearest. Keep me updated about poor Henry, will you? And please give Lenore my best.”

“I will.”

S
ince it was past two in the morning when Hunter finally fell asleep, and she hadn't set her alarm because it was Sunday, she didn't rouse until after eight o'clock. Stretching as she slid out of bed, she first went to turn on her laptop computer in her office to prepare to check the online news, then detoured to the kitchen and her coffeemaker.

Twenty minutes later, fully awake thanks to the caffeine and confident that she had a good handle on the latest goings-on in the state, country and world, she checked KSIO's website for viewer emails and to update her blog. She referred readers to the site set up for a family whose house had burned down after a gas line explosion and posted the phone number for the animal shelter for those wanting to adopt a dog or cat. Once
again, she thought about adopting one herself, but with her hours, she felt it would be cruel to leave an animal by itself for most of the day. Better for her to just pat the neighbor's cat, who climbed the fence to visit with her when time allowed Hunter to sit on the back porch to open mail and browse through catalogs.

After that, she headed for the shower. Usually, she would do her chores—laundry and cleaning the townhouse, then work on the wish list of stories she'd like to run by everyone during the Monday editorial meeting—but knowing that Cord had undoubtedly told Lenore that she would be visiting, she had to get moving to get to the hospital.

There were no other messages on her answering machine but several on her BlackBerry. She texted answers to those from the station—minor feedback to researchers and to tell Tom that she was fine with postponing an interview with the district attorney to Tuesday instead of Monday to help D.A. Folsom. Mondays were always a madhouse at the station anyway. But the two new messages, one from the Anthonys and one from Jack, she deleted without listening to or reading. Let them all sweat, she thought. She had done her share of fretting because of them.

At the hospital, outside of Henry's room, she found Cord talking to two people, a man and a woman somewhere around his age: Lenore's niece and nephew, she quickly discovered.

“Hunter,” Cord said, extending his arm to welcome
her to their little group. “Come meet Emily and Joseph Cummings. Lenore's niece and her husband.”

She shook hands with the bookish, pink-cheeked couple with matching ash-brown hair and kind eyes. “I heard you'd arrived. Lenore has to be so relieved and grateful for your support.”

“Aunt Len has been a second mother to me,” Emily replied. “When my mother was dying of cancer, Aunt Lenore made sure I didn't drop out of high school and kept up my grades to get into college. We owe her a lot. We're looking forward to seeing you on TV,” Emily added, looking at her husband with excitement. “We've never met a celebrity before.”

“Well, you still haven't,” Hunter told them, although with a smile. “These days, I think journalists are one rung below ambulance chasers in popularity.”

They laughed, but Cord only gave her a mild look and shook his head.

“All the money we spend on station promotion, and you try to undo our efforts,” he drawled.

“Sorry, boss,” she said with a hound-dog glance, although she knew he was no more serious than she was.

“My aunt says you're Uncle Henry's favorite,” Emily assured her. “We always thought he knew his stuff.”

Thanking them, Hunter glanced at the closed door. “How is he today? Any change?”

“No, I'm afraid not,” Cord said. “As you've probably surmised, Lenore is with him now. She's putting aloe lotion on him to keep his skin from drying out
from the air-conditioning and to try to stop the onset of bedsores.”

With attention deflected, she covertly inspected Cord. He looked tired, but far more relaxed than he did last night at the hotel. Part of his mood might have to do with the fact that he had yet to remove his hand at the small of her back and was caressing her with his thumb. Despite wearing a black boyfriend jacket and white T-shirt with her jeans, the slow strokes made her feel as though she was wearing nothing at all.

“I wish she would have let me help her,” Emily said. “She needs massaging herself after days of bending and stooping over a hospital bed.”

Hunter nodded, understanding completely. “On the other hand, she's undoubtedly relishing this time with him, and there's no denying that such human contact, that ‘pressing of human flesh' as someone put so well in an old, favorite movie of mine, has its own nurturing effect.”

“Well put,” Cord murmured, continuing his ministrations.

“Silly me. I hadn't thought of it that way,” Emily said.

“Maybe you can spoil her later, back at the house,” Hunter continued. She gauged that Emily was around forty, and her husband a year or two older. “Do you have children?”

“Two girls finishing up their nursing degrees at the University of Mary Hardin Baylor.”

“Ah,” Hunter noted respectfully, “I did a story on
UMHB not long ago. They're the top nursing school in Texas and at least the third in the nation. They have their own prerequisites, right? Don't accept other schools? That's how I remember it. And if you get a C, that's as good as failing and you repeat. But students are so inspired, there are no failures.”

“It's a tough school,” Joseph agreed. “But when graduates apply for positions, they usually get to avoid entry tests due to the school's excellent reputation.”

“So I learned,” Hunter said. “The kids almost need agents, they're competed over and grabbed up so quickly. I was blown-away impressed.”

Once again Emily and Joseph exchanged proud glances.

“Hunter makes sure that for every celebrity interview she has to do, she gets to do a bone-marrow-deep story,” Cord replied. “I'd lock her in the research department if I didn't need her in front of the camera more.”

As the Cummingses laughed, Hunter saw Lenore emerge from Henry's room. She looked exhausted, but her eyes brightened when she saw them.

“What a nice picture you all make. Hunter, I'm so glad you could come. I wanted you to meet my darlings.”

Hugging the woman who seemed like she'd lost several pounds since this all began, Hunter said. “It's been a pleasure. You must be so proud of your great-nieces, as well.”

“Oh, over the moon. But with their schooling, I don't get to see them enough these days.”

“How are things inside?”

Lenore sighed. “I talk. I will him to feel my touch. I remind him of all we have left to do. He just lies there…so still. And those horrible machines give me nothing, either. I know they're all miracles of technology, but the same monotonous beep doesn't lend itself to encouragement.” Lenore ducked her head. “I'm getting scared.”

Hunter embraced her again. Then she said to Emily and Joseph, “You were here first. Please, go ahead and I'll wait. Maybe Cord and I can get this one to sit and take a cup of tea,” she said, hugging Lenore to her side.

As the Cummingses went inside, Lenore said, “I'll go freshen up in the lounge.”

Once she was out of earshot, Hunter allowed herself to meet Cord's gaze. “And how are you?”

“Better now that you're here. I started second-guessing myself and wondered if you'd change your mind about coming.”

She pretended an accusatory glance, then a pitying shake of her head. “Still looking for warts, are we?”

“Behave, or I'll haul you to the nearest supply closet or empty room and kiss you senseless.”

Too adept at picturing that, Hunter cleared her throat. “Yes, sir.” She also noted how similarly they'd dressed. He wore a navy blue designer sports jacket over a crisp, white silk shirt and jeans, but he had on Western boots while she wore sandals. The loss in height made her feel almost petite compared to him.

Taking a deep breath, Cord grew serious again. “Word is getting out about how bad Gramps's condition
is. I can't pinpoint where the leaks are coming from, but I suspect it's at least partially from the staff here.”

The news came as no surprise but was distressing nonetheless. “That would be my first guess, too. Don't forget, it's a status symbol for them to have a Yarrow here regardless that it disrupts your family's privacy. I'm sorry.”

“There's also a strong rumor that we may be losing a big sponsor.”

Hunter couldn't believe it. “Why? It's never been a secret that you would step into Henry's shoes. And continuity and consistency is what ensures YCI's reliability.”

Cord shrugged. “That's logical, but sometimes a move is about something else.”

“Okay…are you going to tell me who we're talking about?”

He mentioned an athletic-gear vendor. At first Hunter didn't know what to say. The company had been buying large blocks of time for the five and ten o'clock news since shortly after she'd started anchoring. That triggered a thought, and she clutched Cord's arm again.

“Oh, no. Yesterday, Jake downplayed his success by claiming that he was happy if he got an old jock a gig. That's as near a quote as I can remember it. Paul immediately began singing his praises, and Jack barely made an effort to pretend modesty. What if he or someone he's connected to was given permission to brag—albeit prematurely—that he was about to succeed in a coup that would cut deeply into KSIO ratings?”

“You're saying the network that wanted to hire you has already gone after them? They'd benefit the most,” Cord murmured.

“Too simplistic?”

“I have nothing better to suggest.”

“You tell the client that their ‘person in the know' blew it, and you'll have your answer as to the who, why and how it happened.”

Cord gazed deeply into her eyes. “I know you really do hate the marketing side of this business, but we need you to lead our news family in a hefty ad campaign.”

She knew that was coming, even without the potential loss of an advertising client. “I understand. But please, no more walking through fields of bluebonnets arm in arm like the lot of us have just come from a line-dancing lesson.”

Although he clearly enjoyed her analogy, he replied, “That was gorgeous film. Not cheap, either.”

“It would have been even costlier if one of us stepped on a copperhead or rattler—or broke an ankle dropping into a gopher hole.”

Lenore returned, which put a temporary end to the subject. Hunter led Henry's wife around the corner to the waiting area they'd used the other day and seated her. “I'm going to get you that tea now.”

“Oh, please, no. I'm quite warm from working on Henry.” Lenore kept hold of Hunter's hands and pulled her down to the couch cushion next to hers. “Sit with me for a few minutes and tell me how you've been since I saw you last.”

At least her hands were, indeed, warm, but there was no way Hunter could explain her last two days, so she passed on her mother's good wishes and told Lenore about the broken-violin-string episode and her mother's interesting relationship with her major competition. She wasn't telling secrets—Hunter suspected the entire orchestra was waiting for that relationship to either erupt or blossom—plus she hoped it would get Lenore's mind off her fears for a few moments.

“What a feat to get through such an ordeal, but how exciting, too.” Lenore leaned closer. “Is he nice-looking?”

“Bookish, kind. Rather wounded, as mother is.”

“Keep after her, Hunter.” Lenore patted her hand. “I know she's a talent, but she's even more special for having produced a lovely daughter like you.”

“I'm going to leave if you keep embarrassing me,” Hunter warned.

Only steps away, Cord drawled, “Believe her, Gran. I stay in hot water with her all of the time.”

Emily and Joseph came around the corner, and Hunter kissed Lenore's cheek. “I won't intrude but a few moments. I know he needs his rest.”

“I'll come with you,” Cord said. A few steps farther from the others, he continued. “I know you don't want to do this.”

“It can't be easy for you, either. Sometimes I think it was a blessing not to see my father at the end. The casket was bad enough.”

“That's why I'm coming with you. And when you see him—Hunter, I think we're losing him.”

“Cord!” His premonition had Hunter stopping outside of the room, and when Cord took her hand again she was the one to squeeze. Hearing the pain in his voice made it all the more difficult to open the door.

Although it was a blindingly sunny day, the room looked as though the sun was already setting and lights would soon be necessary. Machines clicked and hummed. The oxygen tank whispered like a stern nun whispering, “Shush, shush.”

Hunter made herself release Cord's hand and stepped to Henry Yarrow's bedside. With the bandages covering most of his head and the oxygen mask doing his breathing for him, he could be anyone. Gone were his robust cheeks, and his twinkling eyes were hidden by lids that were sinking in, as well.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she touched her cheek to his. “I miss you,” she whispered. “Know you're loved so very much.”

As she rose, the emotions she'd held in threatened to surface, and she made the mistake of looking at Cord. He immediately held open his arms, and she went to him. There, it was easier to fight the impulse to hyperventilate. Cord didn't try to reassure her with words. The truth was evident in the way he brought her tightly against him: he needed someone to comfort him, too. So they just stood there in the somber but peaceful artificial dusk and offered and accepted strength from each other.

It was a slight change in machinery sounds that had Cord lifting his head from where it rested against hers, and Hunter glanced over at the bed. And there was Henry Yarrow, eyes open and watching them. The gentlest smile lit his face.

 

“So things are looking up? You're happy with the solo format?”