It's News to Her (14 page)

Hunter knew that neither man was being morbid. It was only educated guesses based on rating patterns in the industry that supposedly showed what viewers would keep watching and what they'd flip the remote to, to escape pain or from boredom. Frankly, she thought the idea of watching someone's pain was only baby steps away from needing therapy, but if they were going to turn this into a whole viewers' event, then she knew what her role was.

“No wonder you want me to take off tomorrow evening,” she said with just a modicum of bitterness.

“Aw, Hunter, we're not being mercenary.” Tom pleaded. “We'll be giving viewers a piece of history—like when a president dies or Princess Di or the Pope. People bond through those memories.”

He was right, of course. “I'll try my best to give you what you need.”

“We've barely begun, and I can't wait for this whole circus to be over,” Fred said. “Anyone carrying any antacids? I've chewed up all of mine.”

 

By morning, Hunter woke grateful for the decision that she should pass her shift to Greg and whoever else they'd choose as a buffer. She probably didn't get more than an hour of sleep. When she wasn't making notes as to what and who to look for and mention at the service, her gaze kept wandering to her BlackBerry and then the phone at her nightstand, and her thoughts ping-ponged
to Cord. It got to the point that if she wasn't who she was at KSIO, she would rather have dealt with an airport full-body scan
and
intimate frisk than attend the service.

As Hunter dressed, the gray July day was already being touted on TV as rare for this part of Texas. Was the implication Henry's death would make the heaven weep? “Classy and intelligent—not,” she muttered under her breath as she reached for the mascara that it would take an act of Congress to remove. “Frank, if you start having me recite some Ides of March poem, that hernia won't be the only thing that needs operating on.”

Dressed in a sleeveless black sheath and carrying a silk black-and-red shawl in case the air-conditioning was cranked too cold in the church, Hunter drove herself to the service. Since Tom and Fred would return to the station and were bringing along a camera team, those were the logistics they'd agreed on.

As everyone expected, the church—next door to the funeral home—became a who's who of state and national notables. The VIP list even outdid yesterday's roster at the visitation.

Hunter stood outside and recited from her notes what would take place, who the most famous people were who were already here—clips to be inserted later by production—and a recap of the program. Not surprisingly, Tom had managed to get himself a copy.

Once the cameraman signaled he'd gotten the footage he wanted of her, she, Fred and Tom headed inside.
She was aiming toward a bench with adequate room for the three of them when a funeral official with a name tag stopped her and asked her to move forward to the family pew.

“Oh, I'm not family,” she whispered. “There must be a mistake.”

“Ma'am, Mrs. Yarrow requests your company.”

Dear Lenore, what could she be thinking? Hunter wondered. She must be feeling more insecure than she'd let on yesterday, maybe because Cord had to sit up on the altar for the entire service.

She began to apologize to Tom and Fred, but they hushed her and urged her on. Leave it to them to see this as a staging gift, she thought with more than a little resentment. At the front pew, she passed the Cummingses and touched Emily's hand, then found herself between Lenore and Catherine.

“Are you sure?” she whispered to the women. “I feel this is such an imposition.”

“Nonsense,” Lenore said, stroking her arm.

“It's quite all right,” Catherine assured her, her lips barely moving.

“Henry would have wanted this, and Cord agreed,” Lenore added.

He did? After acting so bizarrely yesterday? She'd felt as though, despite his admission of wanting her, he was trying to keep her his secret. Well, everyone would know her now because a KSIO photographer was taking pictures and one of their cameramen was shooting video. By noon every housewife in Omaha and every
bartender from New York to San Francisco would know her dress was Victor Costa, her shoes were Jimmy Choo and she wore no rings, raising speculation that she soon might be considered being made a permanent part of the family.

Keeping her gaze forward on Henry's steel casket covered with red roses, she could almost block out the sound of the whirring and clicking of the cameras—until she saw a side door open up on the altar and the minister and Cord emerged. They settled on a pair of lavish throne-like chairs upholstered in red velvet and gold trim. Cord leaned slightly toward the minister and murmured something, then he faced the audience, but his gaze didn't go beyond the front pew. In fact it locked on her. No emotion showed on his face, but his chest rose on a deep breath.

She returned his stare.
What do you want? Why are you doing this to me?

Of course, there was not even a hint of a reply. Just when she began to feel that she couldn't stay there, the Yarrows' minister stood and began the service, opening with a prayer.

The choir seated above and in back sang two of Henry's favorite hymns—“Amazing Grace” and “Abide with Me.” That was followed by the minister again, who introduced himself as Pastor Timothy Cook, the Yarrows' spiritual friend and teacher for almost thirty years. He cited Henry's great faith, compassion and humanity. Then Pastor Cook spoke of Henry's love for Lenore and their great partnership. He made the attendees
laugh as he recited his one problem with Henry, his insistence to keep most of his donations anonymous. “Well, I've finally got one over on you, old friend,” Pastor said to the casket. “Go ahead and threaten me with duct tape for saying too much now.”

He relinquished the floor to Cord, who didn't go to the dais, either, but stood in the middle of the altar, behind the casket. He took out no notes, only unbuttoned his black suit jacket, slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke as though casually conversing.

“Many of you knew Henry Yarrow only as part and parcel of all he accomplished. Some of you were on the losing side of his achievements, a few of you became thorns in his side because you bested him in business contests. He loved his friends, but he enjoyed his business enemies more.”

“Don't I know it,” someone in the audience muttered.

The attendees laughed and some applauded.

“Once in a while you got an earful from him if you didn't do what you said you would do,” Cord continued. “But you didn't often get overt praise if you did—except if you were a member of the gentler sex. Grandfather used any excuse to hug a pretty lady, as my Grandmother Lenore can attest.”

As he winked at her, Lenore shook with silent laughter.

“My gramps was a man, not a saint, and he built his empire with pure enjoyment. But his intent was to leave the world a better place than he found it. He had the good fortune to have loved deeply twice. Well,
three times if you count the young woman he wished had been his granddaughter. I promise you, if she had been, my job would be in jeopardy.”

This time, as people laughed, Cord looked directly at Hunter. It wasn't his words that made her eyes burn; it was his tender expression.

“But let me tell you what most of you didn't know about him. He was a frustrated musician. If he could have been anything other than what he was, he would have been a rock star—he would have to have been because his ego was just that large. Thankfully, he couldn't carry a tune, his voice cracked more than Rod Stewart's and those pudgy hands that are the one thing I'm grateful I didn't inherit held a golf club better than guitar.

“As much as he loved toe-tapping, hip-rocking music, nothing touched his core like the purest ballads, and I'd like for us to say goodbye to him by asking Chris Healey to come up and play the song that I found in Gramps's desk earlier this week. You'll know it as soon as you hear it. He had a whole CD with nothing but this song playing over and over with various artists' renditions. I think it captures the spirit of Henry Yarrow, the man I'll spend the rest of my life thanking and trying to honor—at once a man not afraid to work hard, love completely and wrestle through his doubts. This was, he said, what life is all about. Effort from the heart and at the end of the day, praise. Ladies and gentleman, Chris Healey, accompanied by Neil Evans.”

As Cord nodded to them, two slender young men
moved up the far side of the church. Dressed like any street musicians, upon taking their spot on the altar, they began Leonard Cohen's “Hallelujah.”

Hunter didn't know how everyone else in the audience was reacting to the performance, but it was the most beautiful and heartbreaking rendition she'd ever heard. Her throat ached with emotion, and she stroked Lenore's arm as the older woman wept quietly into a bundle of tissues. On Hunter's right, even Catherine wiped her eyes and leaned closer to Charles.

She didn't want to look at Cord for fear of what she would see, but when she gave into the need, she saw that he sat with a serene smile on his face. His eyes were undeniably full, too, but gone was the haunted look that had been dragging him close to some private hell since all this began.

And then it was over. Applause was sometimes frowned upon in a church, but there was no stopping it this time, or the cheers. People began to stir and the great church was abuzz with praise and comments. Hunter hugged Lenore, knowing she and the Riverses would be taken through a side exit to the back for the loading of the casket and ride to the cemetery.

“Come with us,” Lenore said.

“My car is here. And Tom and Fred want me to help them get some footage and do a brief recap outside for tonight's news.”

“They're asking too much of you. I don't think Henry would have wanted to put you through all of that.”

“You heard Cord. He would have been a rock star. We'll try for Texas legend and national treasure.”

Welling up again, Lenore squeezed her hands. “All right, but we'll see you back at the house, yes? A little reception. Catherine, please help me convince her.”

“Catered,” Catherine added as though that was all that mattered. “Do come. I know Charles would enjoy having a chance to converse more, wouldn't you, dear?”

“Pardon?” Busy people-watching, Charles focused on Hunter. “Yes. Very good to meet you, too.”

“Oh, Charles,” Catherine moaned.

Turning back to Lenore, Hunter said, “I'll try. But I really need to get to Tom and Fred now.”

“All right, dear. I know you will do your best, and I do respect your dedication.”

Once outside, she was quickly and protectively circled by the crew. The teasing—low-key out of respect, of course—was expected.

“I thought they would stuff you into the limo like a lapdog, Legs,” Fred said.

“What's life look like on the first row, Hunter?” Jimmy, her favorite remote cameraman, asked, waiting in the background.

“The air is thin up there, and because you've got hundreds of eyes zeroed in on the back of your head, the hairs on your nape keep rising like those of a nervous porcupine,” Hunter replied. “So what do you boys have in mind? Let's try to keep this as brief and dignified as possible. I can tell straight off that our audience will prefer seeing as much of Chris and Neil's performance
as they can rather than listening to me. And if you can resist close-ups, I'd appreciate it,” she added, already reaching for her cosmetic bag to repair what damage she could.

“That was a moving performance,” Tom said in agreement as he inched closer. In her ear, he whispered, “Try not to react, but Denny is here.”

Hunter did stiffen for a second but then continued with her repair work. “You've got to be kidding? What for?”

While the guys still didn't know how personal her relationship with Denny had become, they did feel he'd dumped his on-air partnership with her faster than a gentleman should have.

“To rub your face in his success, I guess,” Fred replied.

“Now, now, good knight,” Hunter teased. “More people can find Hollywood on a map than Afghanistan.”

Fred had a few choice comments about that. “We pretty much gave him the cold shoulder and chased him off, but even with a silicone-enhanced blonde hanging on him, he's insistent about seeing you.”

“Then let's get this done so I can make my getaway,” she replied.

They took several moving shots of the crowd and the church, then Hunter ad-libbed a recap of the memorable service. No sooner was that done than she spotted Denny at the parking lot talking to the blonde the guys had referenced. He put her into a top-of-the-line rental car and then started back toward them.

“Okay, I'm gone, guys. Denny's heading this way, and that's a reunion I have no desire to participate in.”

Whatever the men said back to her was lost in her determined escape to her car. But before she reached it, she felt a hand on her wrist, and she was spun around.

“So great to see you, sweetie. You're looking—” he whistled softly at her black sheath dress.

Hunter wouldn't deny that
he
was as pretty as ever—sea-blue eyes and sun-kissed hair just mussed enough in that I-love-to-touch-me style and a spray-on tan. It was reassuring to realize that her tastes had matured, or refined. The Barbie doll in the rental could have her Ken for all she cared.

As he leaned closer to kiss her, Hunter reared back and jerked free. It wasn't her most graceful moment, since she stumbled over gravel. Considering where they were, his behavior was already inappropriate. Add in that the woman in his rental wasn't clearly along for cerebral inspiration, and Hunter was disgusted at his familiarity.

“Let go, Denny. Not only do I suspect your reasons for paying your respects, but we have nothing to say to each other.”