When Day Breaks (5 page)

W
hy was it, Boyd Irons wondered, that whenever Constance bossed him around, it always sounded like she was calling him “boy”?

“Get me Linus on the phone, Boy.”

“Boy, would you go out and get me an iced coffee?”

“I have a prescription to be filled, Boy. Run over to the pharmacy, would you?”

As he watched Constance stand by his desk flipping through the avalanche of messages he’d taken this morning, Boyd was convinced she thought of him as her hack, her lackey, her slave. And just like a callous overseer, Constance had no regard for the human being who worked for her. As long as a warm body showed up to labor at her beck and call, she didn’t care a whit about the servant’s name, workload, or personal life.

Boyd had heard that Constance hadn’t always been like this. People who’d been at KEY News for years said that she had actually once been a nice person. But Boyd found that hard to imagine, because in the entire thirteen months he’d worked as her assistant, Constance had been a shrew.

“Boy, I think you should go ahead of me to the restaurant and make sure everything is all right.”

“There’s a
d
on the end of that,” Boyd muttered.

“What did you say?” Constance asked sharply.

“Nothing.”

Constance looked down again and continued reading through her messages. “Once everyone has arrived, call me and I’ll come over.”

“Do you think it might be a better idea for you to be there from the beginning to welcome your guests?” Boyd asked, trying to be helpful.

“If I thought that was a better idea, I’d be doing it.” Dismissing her minion, Constance turned and walked into her office.

She wants to make her grand entrance,
thought Boyd,
have the spotlight all to herself.
It didn’t matter to Constance that everyone was going to the luncheon to honor her. If she came late, she wouldn’t have to make polite small talk with the guests, wouldn’t have to extend herself too much. She could envelop herself in that protective cocoon of hers and still be the center of attention.

Boyd knew he should be glad that Constance wasn’t taking him with her to
Daybreak.
He should be relieved. He hated coming to work each day. Constance could be so thoughtless and insensitive about the hurtful things she said. She was utterly self-absorbed, wanting what she wanted when she wanted it and never considering how her demands affected him. Still, Boyd had done the best he could to please her.

At first, knowing that she didn’t think enough of him to invite him to go with her to
Daybreak
hurt. Lately her rejection angered him.

He had worked twelve-hour days and had given up weekends and vacation time. Sick and tired of last-minute disappointments and canceled plans, his lover had broken up with him. Boyd hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in over a year, waking in the middle of the night and lying there till dawn, his mind and stomach churning over another one of Constance’s belittling remarks or unreasonable demands. His doctor said he had the beginning of an ulcer, and the mirror told him he had less hair on his head than the year before.

The phone sounded. Boyd answered politely, put the caller on hold, and buzzed his boss.

“Stuart Whitaker is on line two, Constance.”

Boyd heard an exasperated sigh.

“What’s the matter with
him
?” Constance snapped. “Hasn’t he gotten it yet? Oh, well, just tell him I’ll get back to him as soon as I can.”

What the hell,
thought Boyd.
She’s leaving, and I won’t be working for her anymore.
“He’s called a dozen times, Constance. I’m not going to lie to the poor guy again.”

He hung up and watched the phone pad. The light for line two stopped blinking, signaling that Constance had taken the call. Boyd got up from his desk and walked down the hallway. When he entered the men’s room, B.J. D’Elia was standing at the sink washing his hands.

“So it’s her last day, huh?” B.J. grinned. “I bet you’re gonna miss her.”

“Yeah, right. She’s busting my chops to the bitter end.” Boyd looked at his reflection in the mirror and shook his head in wonderment. “I’ve picked up her dry cleaning, made her doctors’ appointments, cleaned her cat’s damned litter box and fed it every weekend she goes out of town. I don’t even know why she has the cat. She pays so little attention to it. It might as well be mine.” Boyd turned to look at B.J. “I’ve booked her social engagements and lied for her when she’s wanted to get out of them. I’ve listened to her complain about the people she works with, the men she dates, her relatives, and her so-called friends. I’m always thinking of her and trying to protect her. For God’s sake, I didn’t even tell her that the pool-service guy called here this morning to say he found a dead dog in the woods at her country house. I wanted to spare her that ugliness on her last day.”

“That’s nasty,” B.J. said.

“Yeah, I just told the pool man to get rid of the dog right away. I’ve worked my ass off for Constance Young, and what do I get for it? A slap in the face and another bitch just like her coming my way as a new boss.”

“Steady there, brother.”

“You have no idea what it’s like working for Constance day in and day out.”

B.J. pulled a paper towel from the wall dispenser. “You’re right, and I count myself lucky,” he said. “But I get your drift. I’ve had to work with her on too many stories. She can be a nightmare. She found fault with every video I shot and every interview I set up. Constance is never satisfied.” He tossed the crumpled paper into the trash can.

“And I’ve heard that Lauren Adams can be a prima donna, too, and now I’m going to be
her
whipping boy.” Boyd groaned. “Another former beauty queen–turned–TV star. She finally stopped chain-smoking, but now she snaps her gum incessantly. She’ll drive me out of my mind. What did I do in a former life to deserve this?”

“Why don’t you quit?” B.J. asked.

“When I find something else, I will, believe me,” answered Boyd. “But until then I’m stickin’. I have rent to pay, and besides, it’s KEY News. Since I was a kid, I wanted to work in network-television news.”

“And you were a kid about…uh, ten minutes ago?”

“I’m not as young as you think,” said Boyd.

“Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-seven. It took me a while to even get a page job here.”

“You’re right, Boyd. You’re an old man,” B.J. said as he walked out the door. “And at thirty-four I must be ancient.”

Constance held the phone to her ear, leaned her head against the back of her ergonomically designed office chair, and looked up at the ceiling.

“How
could
you, Constance?”

“How could I
what
?”

“You promised me that you would never wear the unicorn in public. You promised you would only wear it when we were alone together.”

“Oh, Stuart, don’t be ridiculous. We’re never going to be alone together anymore, so if I kept the promise you say I made, I’d never get to wear the unicorn amulet at all, would I?”

“Please, my dear, I would like to have it back.”

“I never took you for an Indian giver, Stuart.”

“It really was not mine to give, Constance.”

“Meaning what?”

“When you admired it in the display case at the Cloisters, I was determined that you should have it.”

“Yes, and you told me you had a copy made for me.”

Silence.

Constance sat upright. “Didn’t you, Stuart?”

No answer.

“Don’t tell me it’s the real thing—the ivory unicorn that Arthur gave Guinevere. Don’t tell me you
stole
it!”

“I prefer to think I procured it for my lady love. It was a heroic deed of valor to win my lady’s heart.”

“Are you insane, Stuart? This unicorn is supposed to be at the center of that upcoming exhibit at the Cloisters. It’s priceless!”

“Yes, my dear, I fear I
am
insane. I am crazy
about you.
I am fifty-two years old, but I am like a teenager in love when it comes to you. I wake up thinking about you, go to bed at night thinking of you, and just about every minute during the day is spent wondering about you. With all the furor in the press over you right now, it has been fairly easy to track what you have been doing.”

“You’re scaring me, Stuart. You sound like a stalker.”

“Oh, Constance, forgive me. The last thing I would ever want to do is frighten you. You are my lady, and I only want you to feel safe and secure.”

“If you truly mean that, Stuart, you’ll stop calling me all the time,” said Constance in exasperation. “Let’s just remember the good times we had and be friends.”

“Of course I want to be your friend, Constance. This gentle knight pledges his total allegiance to you, forever.”

“Look, Stuart, I have to go now. I’ve got an appointment, and I have some things to take care of first.”

“I know where you are going, Constance. There is that big luncheon for you today. I read about it in the newspaper.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I was hoping I might get an invitation.”

Constance shifted in her chair. “It’s really just a business lunch, Stuart. Mostly people in the industry, not my friends.”

“All right, Constance. I have to believe that you would never lie to me. But let me ask you, again. Please, give me back the amulet.”

Constance felt the small carved ivory figurine that hung from a black silk cord around her neck. “Oh, Stuart, I hate to part with it. The unicorn is my talisman. I wore it all through my negotiations for my new job, and look at the good luck it brought me.”

Stuart’s voice rose an octave. “You are telling me you wore it in public more than just this morning?”

“Don’t worry. Nobody would dream where it actually came from.”

“I am afraid you are being naïve, my dear. Somebody, someone who either saw you in person or saw you on television this morning, will surely recognize that amulet.”

“You worry too much, Stuart,” said Constance, her mind racing ahead. If somebody did recognize the purloined unicorn, she would be able to say she had no idea it was stolen and point the person in Stuart’s direction. But if she gave it back to Stuart and somebody came looking for it after seeing her wearing it, Stuart would doubtless go into his pathetic diatribe about how he’d taken it for her because she’d admired it and he wanted to make her happy and that she’d given it back to him once he told her it was stolen. The cops would think she should have alerted them, and there would be hell to pay in the press. The adverse publicity would anger her new bosses. For the kind of money they were paying her, they expected her to be scandal-free.

But some publicity, if it cast Constance in a positive light, could be a good thing. As she thought about it, she came up with a plan. She didn’t want the amulet sitting in her jewelry case, a quietly ticking bomb ready to go off anytime the police got around to knocking. She would orchestrate things, continue to wear it in public, and force the authorities to come to her. Then she would explain how wealthy Stuart Whitaker had given the unicorn to her, that she’d had absolutely no idea it was stolen and had of course assumed he’d a copy made for her. She could imagine the headlines now: CONSTANCE YOUNG’S SMITTEN SUITOR STEALS IN THE NAME OF LOVE.

That kind of publicity would get even more viewers to tune in during the crucial first weeks of her new gig. She was definitely going to wear the unicorn amulet to the luncheon and try to bring things to a head, sooner rather than later.

“Constance? Are you there?”

“Yes, Stuart. But I really have to go now. I’ll give you a call later. I promise.”

E
liza made sure to give herself enough time to get to Barbetta before the first guest arrived. As she and Paige entered the open-air garden at the rear of the old brownstones that housed the restaurant, Eliza inhaled the scent of magnolia. Flowering bushes and century-old trees edged the courtyard. In the center of the garden, stone cherubs sprayed water as they frolicked in a beautiful fountain. Arrangements of pink tulips graced the white table linens on a dozen round tables, each set for four people. It was all more reminiscent of a grand country estate than a city garden.

“Everything looks so pretty, Paige. You did a wonderful job arranging this,” said Eliza. “And I’m so glad we have such a beautifully warm day. It would have been a shame to have had to move the party inside.”

KTA
producer Annabelle Murphy and cameraman B.J. D’Elia were the first arrivals. Eliza walked over to greet them. As they chatted, Eliza’s gaze kept shifting from the entrance to the garden. She was growing concerned that guests were only trickling through the French doors.

“God, where is everybody?” Eliza checked her watch. “I hope that everyone is coming.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Annabelle. “They’ll be here, but they’re not in a hurry. I’m afraid everyone is coming to this luncheon more because you’re hosting it, Eliza, than to honor Constance.”

B.J. swiped a flute of prosecco from a waiter’s tray. “It’s Friday, and I don’t have to go back to the Broadcast Center, so I can really celebrate.” He held up his stemmed glass. “And man, do we have something to celebrate.”

“Cut it out, B.J.,” said Annabelle, nudging him, as Eliza went to welcome the woman who stood uncertainly in the doorway.

Eliza was struck by the family resemblance, though Constance’s sibling looked considerably older and heavier than her sister. When they shook hands, Eliza felt the rough skin of someone who did her own housework, or at least didn’t take care of herself enough to apply hand cream. As they made small talk, Eliza found herself sympathizing with Faith Hansen and speculating on how hard it could be for her to be the sister of the glamorous and famous Constance Young. Probably very hard.

“How many years are there between you and Constance?” asked Eliza.

“She’s three years older than I am,” Faith answered quietly. “I know I don’t look younger, but I am.”

Casting about for a tactful response, Eliza wished she hadn’t asked.

“We all look older than Constance,” she said. “She never seems to age.” Changing the subject, Eliza asked Faith about herself.

“I’m a stay-at-home mom.” Faith smiled. “I have two boys, seven and eight. They keep me pretty busy.”

“I’ll bet,” said Eliza. “I have a six-year-old daughter.”

“I know. I read that article about you in
Good Housekeeping.
How do you do it all?” Faith asked. “I guess you must have lots of help.”

“Yes, fortunately, I do. I have a wonderful housekeeper, some great baby-sitters and neighbors, and my daughter’s grandparents live close by and spend a lot of time with her. Janie loves them, and they adore her.”

“I wish my kids had that,” said Faith. “But they only have my mother, and she’s in pretty bad shape. Some days she doesn’t even know who they are.”

“That must be tough,” said Eliza. “Where does your mother live now?”

“With me.”

“So you really do have your hands full, don’t you?”

Faith nodded, and her eyes welled up.

“I’m so sorry,” said Eliza, reaching out and touching Faith’s arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I know how hard it is to watch as someone you love slips away.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Faith as she dabbed at the corner of her eye. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“No you aren’t. You aren’t ridiculous at all,” said Eliza, smiling at the worried-looking woman and wondering how much her sister was doing to help her.

Slowly but surely, the garden filled with people. Most of the guests were KEY News staffers. Eliza went from group to group, making a point of introducing Faith around. Constance was aware that Faith wouldn’t know people, thought Eliza. The least she could have done was be here to make her sister feel at ease.

Eventually the executive producer and the new cohost of
KEY to America
arrived. Linus Nazareth’s arm was around Lauren Adams’s waist as they walked though the French doors.

“God, they aren’t even trying to hide it anymore,” whispered Annabelle to B.J.

“It paid off for her big-time, didn’t it?” B.J. sneered.

“Well, you can’t really blame Linus for going for her,” said Annabelle. “With her hair swept up like that, she looks just like Audrey Hepburn.”

“Everybody says that,” B.J. acknowledged. “But I don’t see it.”

Annabelle watched Lauren take a glass from a waiter’s tray. “What I wouldn’t give to have a figure like that!” she said.

“I like my women thin,” said B.J., “but she’s
too
skinny. There’s nothing to hold on to.”

“Linus doesn’t seem to think so.” Annabelle nodded in the direction of the executive producer and his new star. Lauren was staring adoringly at her boss-cum-boyfriend, and Linus was basking in the glow of her attention. “That’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

Inside the brownstone Stuart Whitaker sat at the long wooden bar nursing a glass of wine and waiting for his lady love to arrive. It wounded him to think that Constance had not respected his wishes by wearing the amulet. Even more, it worried him. If anyone at the Cloisters recognized the ivory unicorn, Stuart knew that its disappearance from the museum case could eventually be tracked down to him. He had to get the amulet back from Constance and somehow return it to where it belonged. Since Constance gave him no satisfaction on the phone, Stuart hoped a face-to-face appeal would work.

A young man took a seat three places down and pulled out a cell phone. “Okay, Constance. Everybody’s here. You can come on over.”

The young man flipped the phone closed and gestured to get the bartender’s attention. “I’ll have another Bloody Mary, please.”

Stuart watched the fellow stir his drink with a celery stalk. “Excuse me.”

“Yes?” The young man didn’t look up from his drink. His brusque answer left little doubt he didn’t really want to be bothered.

“Are you Boyd?”

The young man lifted his head and stared at Stuart. “Do I know you?” he asked warily.

“I am Stuart Whitaker. I overheard you speaking just now to someone named Constance, and I know there is a luncheon here this afternoon for Constance Young. And I also know she has a male assistant named Boyd, with whom I have spoken many times on the telephone. I was wondering if that would be you.”

The expression on the young man’s face softened. He smiled as he leaned over the intervening barstools to shake Stuart’s hand. “Ah, Mr. Whitaker. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, too, Boyd,” said Stuart.

Boyd moved to the stool next to Stuart, sat down, and crossed his legs. “Yes, Mr. Whitaker. She is on her way over, but I know you realize she’s coming here for a party in her honor.”

“Don’t worry, son. I am not going to make a scene. I just want to talk to her for a moment.”

“I don’t think this would really be a good time, Mr. Whitaker.”

Stuart looked at the young man and managed a weak smile. “There is never a good time, is there, Boyd? Constance does not want to have anything to do with me, does she?”

Boyd was silent.

“I did not think so,” Stuart said quietly.

“Maybe I could help you, Mr. Whitaker,” Boyd offered.

Stuart took a swallow of wine. “You have always been very kind to me on the telephone, Boyd. I appreciate that.”

“Of course, Mr. Whitaker.”

“You would be surprised at the bad manners some people have, Boyd.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be surprised at all. I encounter bad manners every day.”

“Terrible, is it not?”

“It sure is.”

“People have so little consideration for other people’s feelings, Boyd.”

“You can say that again.”

“I don’t want to be part of that, Boyd. The last thing I would want to do is ruin this special day for Constance. I do not want to hurt her feelings.”

“Of course you don’t.”

There was an earnest expression on Stuart’s face. “Maybe you
could
help me, Boyd.”

“If I can. How?”

“This is a delicate situation, Boyd.”

“What is it?”

“I gave Constance something, and I need to get it back.”

Boyd stared at Stuart and waited for him to continue.

“I need to get back the unicorn amulet she has been wearing.”

“Why don’t you just ask her for it?”

“I have.”

Boyd let out a low whistle. “And she doesn’t want to, right?”

Stuart nodded. He put his elbows on the bar, folded his arms, and rested his head on top of them. “But if you get the unicorn amulet back for me, Boyd, I will certainly make it worth your while.”

Thirty seconds passed. Boyd looked nervously at the restaurant entrance, expecting Constance to walk in at any moment. “I’ll help you out, Mr. Whitaker.”

Stuart lifted his head and turned to Boyd. “You would do that for me?”

“Yes, sir. I know what it’s like to have Constance give you a hard time.”

On the sidewalk in front of Barbetta, a gaggle of reporters and paparazzi awaited the arrival of Constance Young. As she alighted from the car, cameras whirred and clicked as reporters shouted out questions.

“Are you going to miss KEY News, Constance?”

“Do you think Lauren Adams will be able to fill your shoes?”

“Will you finally confirm how much you’ll be making in your new job?”

“How does it feel to ruin people’s lives, Constance?”

Constance looked in the direction of the last questioner. The man who stood near the steps that led to the restaurant looked vaguely familiar. His face was long and thin, his hair dark and tousled. He wore a corduroy sport jacket, an open-necked shirt, and a pair of wrinkled chinos. Unlike the other reporters gathered around her, he held no microphone or notebook.

“I asked you a question, Constance. How does it feel to ruin another person’s life?”

Constance glared at the man, then passed by him.

After she had disappeared into the brownstone, one of the reporters pulled the man aside.

“You’re Jason Vaughan, aren’t you?”

“I was,” answered the man before he skulked away.