It's News to Her (12 page)

Sitting across from Kevin Dalworth in his office on Monday morning, Hunter felt his energy grow contagious. “Who wouldn't? Does Greg still seem okay with his situation?”

“Seems to be thriving. His ratings aren't anywhere near what yours are, but they're inching up.”

Hunter's gaze dropped back to the folder on his desk. “It's amazing how fast you people put that publicity campaign together.” He had just given her a rundown of their newest project, which would commence immediately.

“Well, the truth is we'd started planning it at soon as Cord took over. With Henry's blessing, of course.”

“That's a lot of ads and commercials.”

“My wife spends our money. This is the only time I get to have any fun.”

Grinning at his long-suffering look, Hunter touched her pen to her temple in a salute. “You do it well.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Cord already gave you the right to refuse—well, within reason—if you feel a spot is awkward or overkill. Now, get on with you. Start paying for this stuff.”

Hunter had already been working. She'd arrived an hour earlier than usual, which was a good impulse since she found herself deluged with texts and calls. But she was up for it. Yesterday had been a gift and a battery charger all in one.

Henry had wakened.

His consciousness hadn't lasted long. But it had been a miracle. While Hunter ran to get Lenore, Cord had stayed with his grandfather. He said Henry didn't speak, but they'd squeezed hands. Henry did that again when Lenore arrived. And then he'd retreated into sleep again. Moments to treasure and to mine as they all tried to keep their faith strong.

“There you are,” Tom said as she exited the elevator at the ground floor. “Did you forget that our editorial meeting began ten minutes ago?”

“So why are you out here with me?” she asked, tolerant of his grumbling tone.

“I ran out of coffee for my machine.” He shook two foil packets at her with his free hand. In the other was a jug of filtered water. “And someone brought doughnuts. I need to send someone back to get them before the starving interns eat them all. My hands were full.”

“Send them to my office. Your box is on my desk. You're welcome,” she said at his happy expression.

“Go get them. I know your open-door policy and the petty thieving that goes on around here. You can't trust a soul.”

When Hunter finally made it to Tom's office, every seat was taken and the place smelled of brewed coffee
and anticipation. The reporters, researchers, writers, cheered her as she entered.

Holding up the box, Hunter said, “This bribery continues as long as you continue to make me look good.”

“Shoot, Hunter,” Don Tucker, a writer, said, jumping up to offer her his chair only to relieve her of the box. “We'll eat as long as you make
us
look good. You don't know what having your name on my resume sheet does for me.”

“She probably does, but why don't you explain it to me, Mr. Tucker?” Cliff Marcel, the news editor, drawled.

The young writer's face turned beet-red amid hoots, someone else declaring, “Brilliant, Tucker,” and another wise guy humming “Taps” through a rolled-up sheet of paper.

Taking pity on the young man who'd only meant to be complimentary, Hunter winked. “Everyone in this room knows what living by a threat employment-wise means. And for the record, anytime you need a letter of recommendation, you've got it.”

After that they got down to business. Discussion about stories and the plausibility of getting interviews or corroborating statements kept things lively. One reporter slumped in his chair as he lost the top story spot for tonight's first airing. Hunter knew why, but left that to Tom to explain later. She wasn't the headmistress any more than she was the paymaster. She just wanted people around her to be as curious and eager to report and inform as she was.

It was minutes after ten when things broke up and everyone charged off their assignments, triggering more excited conversations.

Hunter made a few last-minute notes in her notebook, picked up her coffee mug and waved to Tom, who was already reaching for the phone. “You know where I'll be,” she mused.

“Don't get twisted out of shape if a camera crew tries to take a few shots as you're working or conferencing.”

“Doughnuts didn't buy me a day's warning so I could get my dry cleaning and wear something better?”

“Stop. You know those photo fillers last for all of two seconds on the screen. And what do you care anyway? You look like a million bucks. How would you like to look like me? See what's left of this hair? I showered and I could still be a stand-in for a remake of
Bride of Frankenstein
.”

Hunter made it to the hallway before she gave in to a choking cough. Only steps down the hall, she heard Tom's door open behind her and spun around, wiping under her eyes hoping her mascara wasn't running.

“No more,” she entreated. “I'll have to redo—”

“Get in here.”

Tom's expression as much as his tone had her retracing her steps. She knew something big had happened, and her mind started to consider the possibilities to prepare herself for the worst.

“Cord just called me from the hospital,” Tom said as soon as she shut the door.

“No,” she whispered.

“Sorry, sweetheart. About twenty minutes ago.”

“I was there yesterday. He woke.”

“He woke?”

“Cord wanted to keep that quiet until the doctors had a chance to examine him today and make a new determination.”

“Sit down, Hunter. You look like you're about to collapse.” Tom came around his desk again and coaxed her to the nearest chair. “Cord wanted to make sure you knew next. Kevin just transferred him down to me.”

Dropping her things to the floor, she leaned forward to brace her elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands. There was no use trying to keep the tears back. They seeped through anyway. “Poor, dear man.”

“He was one of a kind, that's for sure,” Tom said, awkwardly patting her back.

“It's not fair. He was fighting to come back.”

Tom touched the top of her head and went back to his seat on the other side of his desk. “I'm calling for Fred. We need to get you on the air with an announcement ASAP.”

The thought almost made her ill.

Noting her silence, Tom eyed her from under his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Look at me. We have to do it first. Any delay and the hyenas start picking at us. They'll assume there's a hierarchy problem going on or any number of things that can make a station and a corporation suddenly look weak, no matter how strong they are.”

“Of course.” Hunter dug out a tissue from her bag and wiped her eyes. Then she reached for her notebook and pen. “Let's get to it.”

He picked up the phone and punched an extension number but kept voicing his thoughts. “We'll keep it short for now and use a good portion of your early report to do the real tribute—barring the end of the world coming first,” he muttered.

“It feels like it already has,” she croaked.

Nodding, Tom held up a finger. “Hey, Frank—my office pronto, pal. Code Red.”

 

By the time she was on her way back to her office, Hunter was debating on whether or not to call Cord. She knew it was impossible to hear his voice and still go on the air in minutes to make an announcement. She would end up looking like someone had punched her in each eye. She decided on texting him for the moment.

 

We're all devastated here. Our hearts are with you. Have to get on the air.

 

She went live as Tom designated, during the ten o'clock news. By then she had steeled her emotions to get through the formal but soft-spoken announcement.

After that the switchboard lit up and many in the building were juggling calls from fellow journalists, former employees, friends, political leaders, stars and anyone else who had spent more than five minutes in Henry Yarrow's presence. Danica tried to get through
in the midst of all that. Hunter methodically deleted her message.

When her mother tried her luck shortly before she went on the air at five, she felt that she'd run two marathons. “Mom, I'm sorry, but I'm on the air in sixteen minutes.”

“Just tell me that you're all right?”

So this wasn't a simple check-in after their chat late Saturday night. “No, I'm not. This is as bad as when we lost Gramps.” She was thinking “Dad,” but knew her mother wouldn't understand.

“It's a testament to his imprint on the country that they're reporting this on every channel. Repeatedly.”

“He deserves every tribute.”

“Oh, sweetheart…I can hear your pain. I wish I was there so I could help you through this.”

Hunter couldn't help feeling a bit of irony about that. Her mother wasn't a hugger or toucher, except when it came to her violin and sheet music, which she had been known to caress like a breathing entity.
Except
when it had come to her father. Hunter hadn't felt neglected, far from it. But she no longer yearned or ached for what was never hers to receive.

“It's helped enormously that you called. Give Gran a hug for me.”

“She's baking bread. She's decided she's tired of sitting and knitting, and she's acting like she's going to start her own soup kitchen or something. I don't know. At least she's having fun, and the apartment smells divine.”

Smiling at the image of her equally feisty grandmother, Hunter said, “I'll call in a few days when the dust settles, okay?”

“Anytime, dear. We'll be thinking about you.”

When Hunter went on the air, she was wearing a black suit and the gold rose pin that Henry had given her. She'd raced home to change. It was her most nerve-racking moment since her first day on television six years ago. But by then, all of the KSIO crew knew the news and their compassion and care saw her through the night. Her second message was only slightly longer than the first announcement.

“This morning KSIO and everyone connected with Yarrow Communications lost a piece of their hearts with the passing of our founder and inspiration, Mr. Henry Yarrow. Only days ago upon his retirement we did a tribute, and we'll replay it in a moment. But first we wish to extend to Lenore, his beloved wife, his daughter Catherine and grandson Cord, as well as the rest of the family that I've been privileged to meet, our heartfelt sympathies.”

She didn't know how she got through the rest of the program. On the contrary, she thanked each and every writer, researcher, director, technician and producer afterward. It was the encouragement that she saw in their faces that kept her in focus.

It was a relief to get home. Only then did she let herself break down. But her sobs hurt almost more than they relieved the terrible pressure she'd carried
all day, and she forced herself to stop against the threat of becoming violently ill.

Although she'd already arranged for flowers, she penned a note to Lenore which she packaged with a delicate handkerchief her grandmother had embroidered for her when her father had died. She intended to send it via a courier from the station tomorrow morning.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed trying to convince herself to change and get into it when her phone rang. Her heart jolted as she saw that it was Henry's number. Cord…?

“Hello?” she said cautiously.

“I'm sorry if I startled you, dear.”

“Lenore. I was sitting here thinking of you.”

“I couldn't sleep and I wanted to thank you for the beautiful words on the news tonight. I'm sorry if Caller ID almost gave you a heart attack.”

“It's all right. Using Henry's BlackBerry was the most expedient way for you to get my number. How are you holding up?”

“As best as one can under such circumstances, as you know only too well. We're all so grateful to you and everyone at the station and KCI, Hunter. But especially to you. Emily and Joseph were also deeply touched by your remarks.”

Although she tried not to say it, Hunter couldn't resist, “And how is Cord?”

“I'm very worried, dear. He's closed himself in Henry's office. No one really ate dinner, but he didn't even come out for the pretense.”

“I see.” That didn't sound like Cord at all. At the very least, he would put Lenore's health before his own and check on her to make sure she was all right, even if only pecking at her food.

“I don't mean to snoop,” Lenore continued, “but I'd wondered if you'd talked to him?”

“No. I texted him when I got the news, but I needed to keep it together, so I knew not to try until I was off the air for the evening.”

“Of course. I don't know how you brave people in the industry manage when there's such terrible news. But…will you try now? Call him?”

He hadn't responded to her text and he was home, alone. What's more, he knew when she usually got home, Hunter thought, losing the last vestiges of her confidence. If he wanted to talk, he could have called already.

“Maybe we just need to give him some space,” Hunter said, all but crossing her fingers in the hope that Lenore would agree. “He could very well have passed out from sheer exhaustion what with everything he's gone through during the transition, too.”

“I suppose you're right. You will be at the viewing Wednesday, won't you?” Lenore asked.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, dear. And God bless.”

After she hung up, Hunter stared at her phone. Did he want to hear from her? If it was still yesterday, she would think, yes, instantly. Now things had changed. Everything could have changed.

But he'd specifically told Tom to make sure and let her know when he'd called with the terrible news.

Before she could talk herself out of it again, Hunter brought up his number in her BlackBerry's directory and triggered it. After three rings, the recorded voice asked her to leave a message.