get my hands to stay still. Ron will probably think I’m some sort of crack junkie. Just as I’m about to try putting them on the table again, so I can use the right one to take notes, he enters the room.
“Good morning, you guys!” he sings.
“Hey, Ron,” everyone chants back.
Ron looks exactly like he does on television, only taller. He comes across as the ideal dad: smart, trustworthy, handsome and in control. His hair is short, dark gray and parted to the side. He’s wearing beige pleated trousers and a navy collared sweater. He places his steaming mug of coffee at the head of the oval table and sits down.
“Everyone excited for today’s show?” he asks, scanning the table. His gaze rests on me. “You must be Gabby. Welcome to the team.”
My cheeks flush when he says my name. I’m not surprised he knows who I am, but the familiarity of my nickname catches me by surprise. “Thanks, Ronald,” I say, trying to sound smooth and praying I don’t stutter. “It’s a pleasure to be working for you.”
He smiles, and I’m surprised to see that he has two dimples. “How do you feel about the cold, Arizona? No dry heat here, is there?”
He’s so sweet. And what a cute new nickname. “It’s a bit of a shock to my system.”
“Wait till January. You’ll be wanting to get on the first plane back to Phoenix.”
I don’t need a plane for that. I just have to fall asleep. “I doubt that,” I say, smiling. I am bantering with Ronald Grighton!
“Wow, what a great smile,” he says.
My smile gets even bigger.
Curtis rustles through her portfolio. “Welcome to Ron’s Report, Gabrielle. Now let’s get started on today’s show. Since we can’t get the kidnapped girl—I just heard she’s talking to Paula Zahn—”
Groans from the table.
“—I think we should stick to our program. We’ll do the segment about the elections first. Then the hurricane in the Bahamas. We have the director of the National Hurricane Center and the governor-general scheduled. Then we’re supposed to go to—”
Suddenly my bag begins to vibrate. What the hell?
In a split second, everyone at the table whips out his or her BlackBerry, apparently the cause of said vibrating.
“They lost the Cookie Cutter,” Curtis says.
Murmurs around the table. The Cookie Cutter is Jon Adams, heir to Cookie Creams, the chocolate-chip dynasty, who was arrested for raping and fatally stabbing three women in Spanish Harlem. “How did that happen?” asks Michael, an associate producer. “He was in custody.”
“He jumped bail,” she reads. “We have to run a story on this today.”
Ron sips his coffee. “Who can we get to talk?”
“The district attorney is doing a press conference at noon,” Curtis says. “We’ll need to cover that. Let’s speak to someone from the defense team. Do you think the Adams’ parents will talk to us?”
This all happens so fast, I barely have time to think. I need to add something. What can I say? “What about interviewing the victims’ families?”
Ron grins and taps his mug on the conference table. “Definitely.”
Wahoo!
Curtis continues flicking through her BlackBerry. “The mothers are Puerto Rican and Dominican. Who speaks Spanish?”
“I do,” I say quickly. You don’t live in Arizona without learning the lingo. Some of it, anyway.
“Good,” says Curtis, nodding. “Go to it.”
My hands stop shaking. I’m going to do fine. No, I’m going to do great.
“The chicken pad thai,” I order at the Thai restaurant counter. “To go.” I’m starving. All I had for lunch was coffee, coffee and more coffee.
What a day. What an amazing, incredible, exhausting, overwhelming day.
The show went smoothly. My segment went perfectly. I called the mothers and convinced them (in Spanish) to come on the show, where I got them a proper translator. Both Curtis and Ron praised me for a job well done.
When my meal is ready, I return to my apartment. My doorman informs me that my mattress and frame are waiting for me. Micha, the porter, helps me carry them up to my apartment. I give him a twenty and then sink into the couch, turn on the news and dig into my chicken.
Heather is in her room, chatting on the phone, and doesn’t come out to say hello. If I weren’t so damn tired, I’d be insulted.
A picture of the kidnapped kid flashes across CNN and I feel a pang that she went to Paula Zahn and not us. My BlackBerry buzzes a few times, but it’s only sports scores. When I’m done eating, I strip off my clothes, wash off my makeup, replace the couch pillows, make my bed and then climb underneath the sheets. Tired and happy, I think about potential stories for tomorrow. Maybe the defense attorney will be willing to speak to us. Maybe someone will find the Cookie Cutter. What will happen with the hurricane? I cannot wait to chase these stories.
Crap. Tomorrow—maybe I should call it re-today?—I won’t be doing any chasing. More likely, I’m going to be getting chased. By my future mother-in-law.
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