Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 5

  Not tonight, I can’t deal with this tonight, she thought. Instead, she got out of bed and went over to her closet, which was the size of a small bedroom. Inside, grouped according to color, were dozens of blouses, skirts and slacks. There was a separate rack of suits, beginning with a white wool Valentino and, traveling through the color spectrum, a camel-colored Calvin Klein, a yellow Sarah Phillips, a red Bill Blass, all the way to several black Donna Karans. Joy had been sticking to the American designers lately, not choosing to wear any of the foreign ones at campaign appearances.

  Daytime dresses were another sizable grouping. A collection of short and long evening frocks had a wall to themselves.

  If we don’t win, I can always open a clothing consignment shop, Joy thought, shaking her head. She loved beautiful, well-made clothing. It provided her with confidence derived from the knowledge that she was cared for. Yet tonight, as she looked at the rows of neatly arranged leather shoes and tried to decide what she would pack for the trip next week, Joy couldn’t concentrate. None of it seemed to matter.

  Bill Kendall. That last time she had seen him was three months ago. Win had just finished out front in the New Hampshire primary. The press coverage intensified unbelievably when Wingard distinguished himself from the rest of the pack. It was then that Joy had realized that Win had a very good chance of becoming the next president of the United States.

  The morning after the primary, Win was interviewed by each of the network morning programs. The KEY location had been in front of a covered bridge. She remembered Win complaining before the interview about being outside. It was freezing. Nate Heller reminded Win of the importance of KEY coverage. “Just be glad you’re the guy they want to talk to out in the snow this morning,” Nate had remarked.

  Eliza Blake had conducted the interview for KEY to America. Bill Kendall arrived at the bridge location while Win was on the air.

  Joy remembered Bill coming up behind her and saying softly, “Looks like you’re in the big leagues now.”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “How does it feel?”

  “It changes some things. And other things have to end.”

  Joy didn’t get a chance to say more. Win’s interview was over and he and Nate Heller were walking toward them. Bill had smiled and congratulated Win. There had been some small talk and mild laughter and then Nate reminded the Wingards they had a plane to catch. Hands were shaken all around.

  The rest had been done on the phone.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door.

  “Joy, it’s me.”

  She unlocked the door. Win stood there smiling. “How’s the homework coming?”

  Joy shrugged. “Not too well, I’m afraid. I just couldn’t get into it tonight.”

  Win took off his tie and started to unbutton his shirt, still crisp at the end of a long day. Joy watched the man and wondered, How does he do it? The long hours, the media attention, the pressure of always being on. Win was unfailingly even tempered, steady and calm. He never lost his cool, even when they were alone. Joy reflected on those qualities—ones that would probably make for a good chief executive.

  She thought of the last miscarriage. She had been a wreck. Win had been a rock. He’d carried on with his schedule, making all the meetings, giving the speeches to which he was committed, dutifully making a point of spending some time each evening with Joy. She had cried and Win had told her it would be all right. He’d leave her tearfully falling asleep, eager to get downstairs and prepare for the next day’s senatorial work.

  That had been two years ago. After that, they stopped trying to have a baby. Joy had come to accept finally that she would not have a child of her own. But it still stung when she encountered other people’s babies and small children.

  “How did you and Nate do?”

  Win carefully lined up the creases of his pinstriped trousers. “More of the same, just sticking to it. I feel good about the way it’s going, but God, I’m tired.”

  “No wonder. You never stop. You’ve got to pace yourself.”

  The senator went into the bathroom. “Are you planning to watch the Bill Kendall special?” he called over the running water.

  “I was, but I can watch it in the den, if you want to get right to sleep.”

  “No, that’s okay. Let’s watch it together. Gives us a chance to spend some time with each other.”

  But halfway through the Washington local news, Win was sound asleep. Joy watched the KEY News special report anchored by Pete Carlson with the presidential candidate breathing evenly beside her.

  Joy viewed the highlights of Bill Kendall’s career and listened to his colleagues’ reactions and observations on the man. The final piece on the show had no narration. It was a montage of short pieces of video showing Kendall walking with different world leaders and then shots of him volunteering with kids at the Special Olympics all set to the theme music of the Evening Headlines. The last shot showed Bill with his arm around the shoulders of his son, William, both of them smiling happily. A touching piece of work.

  Joy got out of bed, careful not to wake her sleeping husband. She walked down the carpeted stairway, through the living room and out to the veranda and the cool night air. Joy pulled her robe close around her, sat down on a heavy wrought iron bench, looked up at the stars and sobbed.

  Chapter 12

  Judge Quinn sat in his paneled den drinking a third glass of chardonnay when he heard Eliza Blake’s announcement of Bill Kendall’s death. At the close of the show, Dennis switched off the set, stretched out on the plaid sofa, closed his eyes and smiled.

  He was off the hook!

  The nightmare that had begun when Kendall started demanding those damned payments was over. Now Dennis would not have to worry about Kendall making any sort of waves when the federal judgeship came up, and he’d have $5,000 extra in his pocket each month. How nice that would be.

  It had been tough putting the money together each month—it really cramped his style. After all, a Superior Court judge only made about a hundred twenty grand a year, and after taxes took away a large chunk and he paid Kendall $60,000, there wasn’t much left.

  A guy had to live—and a judge had appearances to keep up. Of course, there was the money he’d told Kendall was gone, the money he’d stashed away. But he tried never to touch that. That had to be saved—for the bigger goal. After all, half a million didn’t go as far as it used to. He’d already used $100,000 to contribute to the county political chairman, leading to Quinn’s appointment to the Superior Court bench. Before that, contributions had gone to the president of the town council to insure Dennis’s appointment to the Westvale Municipal Court. All money well spent.

  There was still some left, a lot of it. And it had been gathering interest. It couldn’t be used to pay back the debt; it was earmarked for Nate Heller and the Wingard campaign. Then after the election, the federal appointment was going to come through. He’d have the respectability he deserved. His mother was going to be so proud!

  And now he didn’t have to worry. When the federal appointment came through, Kendall wouldn’t be around to get all patriotic. The FBI vetting was going to be a breeze now. No one who’d taken the payoffs would be volunteering any information to the feds.

  Dennis lifted himself from the couch and surveyed the room.

  Now he’d be able to afford to get some things done around here. The place had become tired-looking. He’d call in a painter right away, maybe order some new wall-to-wall carpeting. On second thought, oriental rugs. Yes, orientals would be more fitting for a federal judge.

  Having Bill Kendall out of the picture was going to make life a lot more pleasant.

  Chapter 13

  Pete Carlson wondered if he had appeared appropriately subdued as he anchored the special tonight. It had been a real performance to seem somber on the happiest night of his life. He groaned inwardly that he still had more faking to do in the hours to come.

  Yelena Gregory and
Pete were the only ones left in the Fishbowl, the rest of the production team having wearily headed home after the trying evening. Yelena was on the phone with the overnight producer of KEY to America, going over some plans for tomorrow morning’s broadcast.

  “Yes. I do think we should devote a segment in each hour to Bill, but no more than that. After all, he wasn’t the Pope.”

  Impassively, Carlson observed the large woman as she mentally weighed situations and gave directives. Professionally, she was impressive. At one time that had been enough. He needed her power and position to get to where he wanted to go. But now, it was getting harder and harder to psych himself up to perform with Yelena.

  Eliza Blake. Now, that was another story. As much as he resented the competition she increasingly created for him, Pete wished he was going to Eliza’s apartment tonight. That would be a fitting way to celebrate his victory.

  Yelena hung up wearily and turned to him. “You ready?”

  “Yup.” Pete opened his leather briefcase to toss in his earpiece, which he had forgotten to remove at the close of the special. Yelena caught sight of a copy of The Mole resting on top of the papers in the case. She groaned and shook her head.

  “What are you doing with that piece of garbage?”

  His cheeks seemed to redden. “I’m embarrassed that you caught me with it, Yelena. It was circulating around the bureau in Washington today and I just threw it in my bag to read on the flight up. I probably should have left it behind on the plane, but you know I just didn’t want to give that filth about Eliza a chance to spread further.”

  Sure, thought Yelena, nodding expressionlessly.

  She buys it, thought Pete.

  Chapter 14

  Four A.M. came too soon. Eliza forced her eyes open, rolled over and quickly switched off the alarm, ever conscious of her young daughter sleeping in the bedroom next door. Eliza knew there was something major to recall before she remembered what it was. In an instant it came to her. The death of Bill Kendall. She felt a wave of heart-sickness roll in.

  A few hours of fitful sleep, full of troubled visions. She tried to remember her dream. Bill was walking down a hallway. Pete Carlson was coming menacingly up behind him. Eliza was trying to warn Bill . . . of what? That was all she could recall.

  She willed herself out of bed and walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen. She switched on the flame under the kettle and poured a glass of orange juice. She cracked open the kitchen window and then lit a cigarette.

  As always, the first inhale and exhale felt great, the second left her feeling guilty. All those health stories she had worked on, all the public awareness, all the accusatory, distasteful looks and remarks of nonsmokers sure took away a lot of the pleasure. But not enough to make her quit.

  She blamed some of it on the stress of her profession. Newsrooms were traditionally filled with smokers. Eliza had started to smoke during an internship at a local television station while she was in college. One or two cigarettes during the course of the afternoon quickly escalated to a pack a day by the end of the semester. And over the years since college graduation, Eliza had continued to smoke as more and more of the people she knew gave up the habit. Never buying a carton at a time because that would mean she was a hard-core smoker, Eliza always meant to quit but didn’t quite get to it.

  She knew she could. She had stopped, cold turkey, the moment she had learned she was pregnant. Through John’s deathwatch and funeral she hadn’t dared one drag, knowing that if she took just one puff she would never be able to stop. But once Janie was safely delivered, Eliza had gone back to the cigarettes. Consoling herself that she never did it around the baby, telling herself that her life was very stressful and she would quit one day. At Carrier, she had really smoked up a storm.

  Carrier. Something caught in her throat as it came back to her mind. The Mole story. Having her privacy invaded like this was sickening, having that chapter of her life viciously distorted was terrifying. What if it hurt her at work? What if the ratings slipped? Although perversely, she knew the ratings would probably go up, people would be curious about the “cocaine-addicted anchorwoman.” Wonderful.

  The kettle whistled and she whisked it from the burner. She stubbed out a second cigarette, halfway smoked. As she stirred the instant coffee, Eliza turned her thoughts back to Bill. It was Bill who had recommended Dr. Karas.

  The anchorman had come to see her in her office. She was eight months pregnant, John’s funeral had been just two weeks before. She had forced herself to come to work, knowing she would go mad if she stayed in the apartment. Bill took one look at her and gave it to her straight.

  “Look. I read once about a ranking of life’s big stress events. Buying a new house earns points, so does getting a new pet. But some of the biggest stressors are having a baby, starting a new job, an illness in the family and”—he hesitated, looking into her pained, makeup-less face—“the death of a spouse.”

  She’d said nothing.

  “Eliza, listen to me. You’re having everything come down on you at once. You should be talking to someone about it.”

  “I’m not getting on that psychiatric merry-go-round. I know people who have been ‘in therapy’ for decades. Not me. I just need some time to work all this through.”

  Bill hadn’t given up. He wrote down Dr. Karas’s name and phone number on a card. “I saw Karas when William was young and I needed some help,” he confided. “He’s good and he can help you.”

  But Eliza wasn’t ready. Then. She put the card in her wallet.

  It was two months later, after Janie was born and she found herself staring at her baby daughter in her bassinet, afraid to pick her up and crying more than the baby did, that she pulled out the card Bill had given her.

  Dr. Karas had seen her though the worst of everything. Sensitive to her need for privacy, he’d steered her out of the city, tucking her away at the Carrier Clinic, an hour and a half from Manhattan. She’d stayed for twenty-one days. Three weeks of antidepressant medication, counseling and relaxation techniques in a peaceful environment. Though he wasn’t her attending doctor while she was at the hospital, Dr. Karas had driven out to see her three times each week. When she came home, she’d continued seeing him on a weekly basis for almost two years. She thought now of making another appointment. Bill’s death, the Mole story, she needed to talk.

  She had cared for Bill, cared for him very much. It always impressed her that he seemed remarkably open for someone whose life was under constant scrutiny. Eliza guarded her privacy fiercely. She had been ambivalent about all the stories done since she landed the KEY to America anchor spot. It seemed the public had a voracious appetite for tidbits about all the morning shows’ anchor-women. Katie, Lisa and Jane lived with it. But, at first, Eliza had not been prepared for her turn. There had been a big media focus on her status as a widowed, single mother. Story after story dramatically recounted the details of John’s sickness and untimely death. Some of the stories got the details right, others went to great lengths to play up any fascinating, gruesome elements. Untimely death. They all got that part right. A bright, funny, virile, handsome, thirty-nine-year-old man is not supposed to die. Until now, nothing had been published about her hospitalization. It had all happened while on her maternity leave and not many people even at KEY News knew about it.

  Eliza freely admitted that she loved the recognition and some of the perks that went with being on a pedestal. She despised invasions of her privacy. She had gone to Bill Kendall for some advice. “It goes with the territory,” he told her, smiling.

  “Do you ever get used to it?” she’d asked.

  “Probably not. But you will learn how to handle it. How to take care of yourself and make parts of your life that are completely your own, which no one can touch except those you choose to let in. It takes time to learn to say no, to be firm, not to worry so much about what people will think. But you’ll learn. Because if you don’t, you won’t be able to survive in this business.” />
  After that, when she had seen him in the hallway at the broadcast center or on a remote, Bill would ask, “How’s the learning coming?” Eliza would smile and wink back.

  She wished she could go to Bill now and talk over this Mole thing. She remembered vaguely some references to Bill making the tabloids at various times, but she couldn’t recall exactly what they were about. See? Maybe Harry Granger was right. Nobody paid attention to those stupid stories.

  I’m going to miss him, she thought. Eliza took pride in her affiliation with KEY News and Bill Kendall was its figurehead. It occurred to her that everyone on the staff in some way identified with Bill Kendall, even if they never worked directly with him. He was KEY News. She knew the impact of his death would be far reaching.

  Eliza showered and washed her hair. She dressed quickly, selecting a well-cut navy suit and large pearl earrings. No bright, perky colors this morning. Her hair and makeup would be done at the studio. A driver was waiting downstairs.

  She heard Mrs. Twomey let herself into the apartment and gave yet another silent prayer of thanks for the warm Irish woman who took care of her little girl. Each morning at five o’clock Mrs. Twomey arrived and Eliza left for the studio. Mrs. Twomey straightened the apartment and had breakfast waiting for Janie when she woke up at 6:30. Janie liked to watch her mommy on TV at seven, but usually tired of KEY to America by the first commercial. A Barney tape was the preferred alternative. By eight o’clock, Mrs. Twomey had the little girl washed, dressed and ready for the three-block walk to preschool. Then the housekeeper returned to the apartment to do whatever cleaning or laundry needed doing and prepare some sort of easy dinner for Eliza to slide in the oven. It was important to Eliza that Mrs. Twomey be at the apartment while Janie was in school, available to drop everything if an emergency call came. At 11:30, Mrs. Twomey, often with a sandwich and juice box packed in her bag, waited patiently on the sidewalk as Janie came swaggering proudly out of her morning session. They headed right to the park, for lunch, fresh air and a ride on the swings. Then it was home for a nap and, on the days when it was possible, Eliza could be home by 2:30 when Janie awoke, warm, quiet and sleepy-eyed. Once Eliza was safely back, Mrs. Twomey went home to her own place.