Air Time (8 page)

Sally laughs, quietly, and shakes her head. Her coppery curls don’t budge. “My husband—my ex-husband—is God knows where. If he did know about my side business, he’d probably try to take back the alimony checks. Such as they are. Anyway, are you finished in the bathroom?”

Rule one rules. And has also provided me a way into Sally’s confidence and into purse world. “Oh, don’t I know it,” I say. I hold out my left hand, showing it’s ringless. “I’m in just the same boat. Men. The worst.”

“I hear that, girlfriend,” she says. She eyes me. Up. And down.

I don’t even flinch.

“How does all this work, you wanted to know,” she says. “Why’d you want to know that?”

“Oh, you know.” I try to make Elsa sound calculating but uncertain. “Money. You know. My guy left me with nothing. In fact, took most of what I had. You know.”

“Poor thing,” she says, nodding. “And you like purses, huh? Like I do.”

I look up and down the hall again, then put on a conspiratorial face. Now that we’re sisters in man-hating, perhaps she’ll think we can also be sisters in crime. “Can I—talk to you briefly? Go for coffee, maybe? Somewhere? I’m thinking maybe you could help me get started on my own.”

“Yes, she’s meeting me here at the mall,” I explain to Franklin. I’m holding my cell with one hand, and with the other, I’m trying to jam sugar packets under the annoyingly uneven table at the food court in the Lee Discount Mall. My disgusting faux-latte from Coffee King has already almost tipped over several times. They can copy a complicated purse for cheap. Why is perfectly simple coffee so tough?

“I told her I was interested in getting into the purse biz, and she seemed open to discussing it. So, we’ll see.” I sit back up and rescue my latte once again. Watching both ways down the halls of the bustling mall, I scout for Sally. She’s almost late.

“I’ll see if I can get some kind of a lead from her, you know? Find out her source. Listen, anything new on Katie Harkins? Have you heard from Detective Yens?”

“Nothing,” Franklin replies. “Are you on your cell? You’re breaking up. Just tell me, before I completely lose you. Did you get the shots? Purses?”

“Yup. Can you hear me now? I got a great D-M copy, just like the ones we have, and the fakest Burberry you’ve ever seen. The place was a madhouse. Money out the wazoo.”

“Did you get the money shots?”

“Are you kidding me? You’re talking to the undercover queen.” Then, down by the entrance to Macy’s, I spot an unmistakable copper mop of curls. “She’s here,” I whisper to Franklin. “Bingo.”

By the time Sally arrives at my table, my cell is tucked into my bag. My bag is sitting on a chair. The lens is carefully pointed right where I hoped Sally would sit.

She yanks her chair to the right, right out of range. I scoot around, pretending to give her more room, moving my purse at the same time. She’s already in full sales pitch, a nonstop, slang-heavy staccato. I can’t record her audio of course, but this video could cover the part of our script that’ll say “One woman who admitted she’s made thousands of dollars selling counterfeit bags told us…”

“Legal? We don’t even go there,” Sally is saying. “We’re talking purses, ya know? It’s not like we’re selling, I don’t know, guns or something. This is harmless, right? What’s a purse or two going to hurt?”

“Sure,” I reply, playing along, remembering what Lattimer said. “That’s what I thought, too. And you know how it is, money and all. Anyway, I’m so glad you could meet me. Because, you know I was wondering…”

I was actually wondering how one casually asks a person engaged in a criminal enterprise how you sign up to be part of it. Especially how you have that discussion in the center of a crowded discount mall, surrounded by
bargain-hunting tourists and drooling babies and teenagers showing off their piercings. It seems outrageous. And, then, suddenly, I’m clutched by fear.

What if Sally’s FBI? And they, of course, don’t know anything about me, Charlie, being undercover. Sally thinks I’m Elsa. So wouldn’t it be one for the books if I’m secretly taping her? And she’s secretly taping me? And the real bad guys are getting away with it? Laughing all the way to the bank?

“We don’t say outright the bags are fake.” Sally’s talking right over me. “So that makes it legal. Ya know? The way the law works, if you don’t make a promise, you can’t break a promise. And everyone is happy.”

I mentally hold my nose and jump in. What Sally’s saying of course, is absurd. And wrong.

“So, do you have more of the bags? Do you ever let—do you ever let anyone else sell them for you? Split the, um…” I pretend to be nervous, which isn’t all that difficult, since I’m still not one hundred percent sure I’m not the one being set up.

I lean toward her, almost covering my mouth with one hand, speaking through my fingers. “Do you worry about being…” I look both ways, as if making sure we’re not overheard “…arrested?” I whisper.

Sally eyes me, cagey. She crosses her arms in front of her T-shirted chest and tilts back in her chair, almost hitting the iPod-wearing teen in the chair behind her.

“Where do you live?” she asks, flipping the heel of one high-heeled strappy mule against the sole of her foot. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Connecticut. Hartford. I’m an artist, just visiting the Berkshires, you know, for the fall colors.” I shrug, embellishing my cover story. “Can’t make much money doing watercolors, you know? And my ex-husband…”

“What’s your phone number? Write it down for me.”

Ah. Now I’m going to have to think of a reason why I don’t look in my purse. Although why should I necessarily have a pen? I’m not a reporter.

“I—” I begin.

“Look. Don’t make a big deal out of this,” Sally says. Her voice gets tough, dismissive. She clunks her chair back down onto all four legs, and plops her purse—a fake Coach, I can tell—on the table. “You ever hear of some mom in the suburbs hauled away to the slammer for selling purses? It’s like Tupperware, ya know? Don’t get hot over it. You want to sell purses?”

That phony Coach had better not contain a hidden camera. She’d better not be taking my picture.

Before I can decide on my answer, she yanks open the drawstring, and digs around inside, talking the whole time. “Listen. Who cares if those snazzy purse makers lose a little profit? We wouldn’t be buying their overpriced stuff, anyway. It’s not our money they’re losing.” Apparently not finding what she wants, she turns the bag on its side and shakes the contents out onto the table.

And voilà. There’s no camera. She’s just purse-pushing Sally, suburban entrepreneur, and I’m the only one undercover. I feel my shoulders relax, and glance at my own purse. Even if the battery runs out now, I’ve got the shots we need.

Sally plows through her belongings, and finally finds a slim black plastic cardholder. She extracts two business cards. They look like the one Regine gave me.

She then selects a pencil, and offers it to me, eyebrows raised. “You want to work for me? Here’s the deal. I’m getting into this full-time. Frankly, it’s a gold mine. And perfect timing for you. I’m dumping my supplier and going on my own. You don’t need to know more than
that. But if this all works out, there’ll be plenty for everyone. So. Write your number on one card. Keep the other. So you have my number.”

She nods as I follow her instructions. One card has a phone number on the back, local area code, written in marker. I tuck that in my pocket. On the other, I write the number for the safe phone line Franklin and I have set up for exactly these occasions. And now, my “name.” Elsa, um. I consider using the last name Murrow, just for a little in-joke, then decide on Walters. Barbara won’t know.

Sally’s stuffing her possessions back into her bag. “Ever hear of a woman who said, sorry I don’t need another purse? My new supplier…” she pauses, still smiling. “Well, I’ll call you. Do what the message says. Soon you and I will be able to buy ourselves the real thing.”

“It’s in the bag,” I say. Nervous Elsa pretends to stifle a giggle at her bad joke.

“You got it, girl,” Sally replies, turning to go. “And you’re gonna love it.”

I watch the redhead wind her way through the rickety chairs and tables and out of the food court. I’m gonna love it? Flickers of suspicion are still flaring in my head, and I’m not sure how to extinguish them.

If Sally’s the real thing, I’m in.

If she’s not, I’m in trouble.

I

I just couldn’t stay away. But I can’t bring myself to call him. Again, high school.

The front windows of Josh’s house are dark. I can see one light, which I know is his study, still glowing out a side window of the first floor. I also know that’s on a timer and doesn’t mean he’s home. The garage door is closed, so I know his Volvo might be inside. Or it might not be. And if he’s not here, where is he?

I edge past number 6, driving toward the end of Bexter Drive. I’m still in my Elsa outfit and have a fleeting fantasy of knocking on Josh’s door to see if he’ll recognize me. He will, of course, and he’ll laugh, and I’ll laugh, and Penny will come running downstairs,
and we’ll all laugh. And then everything will be fine again.

Back to reality. Penny is with her mother. Two days ago, Josh stomped out of my apartment. I didn’t try hard enough to stop him. And now I miss him. I don’t need him, I insist to myself. I’m fine on my own. But that doesn’t mean I can’t miss him.

I yank my steering wheel toward Beacon Hill and home.

And when I get there, I see that Josh’s car is parked in front of my house. I blink in confusion, then blink again, my brain trying to register this unpredictable occurrence. While I was in front of Josh’s house, he was in front of mine.

I hope it’s because he misses me, too. I hope he’s not here to pick up his toothbrush.

My assigned parking space is in the back, in the lot behind my building, but I slide my Jeep in behind his car. My headlights illuminate his unmistakable shape in the front seat, his arms crossed over the steering wheel. He sits up as my lights hit him. Turns around. And opens his door.

We connect on the deserted street, hands searching, lips meeting, devouring each other, remembering. My arms wrap around his neck, his hands move down my back. It’s not a toothbrush that he wants. We’re ignoring the spotlighting streetlights, ignoring any nosy neighbors watching from their brownstone windows, ignoring the necessity of breathing.

“How did you know?” I finally tilt my head back, not letting go, not taking my eyes from him as I try to make sense of this. “When I would be home?”

“I would have waited. As long as it took,” he whispers, eyes closed, and reaches up to touch my hair. He
opens his eyes, smiling, and then his expression changes. He gently pushes me arm’s length away, keeping his hands on my shoulders.

“My, my, Ms. McNally,” he says. He looks me up and down. Then up again. “I fear I must inform you the summer of peace and love is long over. And I must say, I’m not sure how your fans will handle the reporter as hippie look.”

“It’s a long story,” I say, tucking my arm through his. I can feel the softness of his black sweater against my cheek as I curl closer to him. “How about if I tell you the whole thing—upstairs?”

But once we get inside, I can’t ignore the flashing light on the message machine. Every muscle in my body longs for Josh. Every scintilla of my intellect understands that it won’t matter if I wait until tomorrow. That if there are messages still waiting, unlistened to at this time of night, it can’t possibly make a difference if they wait a few hours longer.

But as I told Mom when she caught me, nine years old, reading the last chapter of my Nancy Drew first:
I hafta know
. And now, thirty-seven years later, thirty-eight, shouldn’t Josh understand that, too? I’m a reporter. Working on a big story.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” I say. My arm is still linked through his as we stand in my entryway. I hold tighter as we both stare at the blinking light on the living room phone. Botox is winding her way through our legs, meowing a combination welcome and complaint. Josh is silent, ignoring both of us. I can feel his body stiffen.

“Why don’t you open a bottle of wine for us?” I continue. “And I’ll just see who it is.” It might be news about Katie Harkins. Franklin might have checked our outside line and might have news from Sally.

“It’s just a message from me, sweetheart,” Josh interrupts. I can see the beginnings of a frown on his face. “I called you. I left a message, wondering where you were. I realized that I can’t remember the last time I didn’t know where you were. So. It’s me.”

I can’t stop myself. “Two seconds,” I say, moving toward the phone. “Get the wine from the fridge and I’ll meet you on the couch.”

Josh is still standing where I left him as I turn to pick up the receiver and begin punching in the number to retrieve the messages. “Two seconds,” I say again.

I feel Josh standing next to me. He does not have a bottle of wine.

The phone voice begins its techno-prompts in my ear.
“To enter your mailbox, press…”

“I think we need to talk, Charlie,” Josh says, at the same time. He puts his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Why is it that you’re so compelled…”

“Please enter your code, followed by the pound sign…”

“It’s just, well, this story we’re working on, I’ll tell you all about it. It’s why I’m wearing this outfit, you know? And yesterday the police came, they were investigating.” I’m talking to Josh and entering my code at the same time.

“You have, two new messages and…”

“The police?” Josh says. “So you finally did report that phone call?”

I interrupt the prompt, pushing more numbers to retrieve my new messages. I know I don’t have any saved ones. “Well, no,” I say, “the police were here because…”

“First new message, received today at 7:14 p.m.”
There’s a pause as the message loops up from the digital recorder.

“That’s me,” Josh says. “As I told you.” He reaches over and hits the orange button to activate the speaker phone.

“Hello, Charlie.” Now we can both hear Josh’s tinny voice. It’s quiet, subdued. “I tried to call you at the station, but you’re not there, either.” There’s a pause, and we hear Josh sigh. “Do you think we should talk? I’ll try you later.”

“I told you,” he says. “Now, can we please sit down?”

“Second new message, received today at 9:56 p.m.”
The computer voice says. The speaker phone is still on.

There’s a beat. Then clicking noises. The same ones I heard in that first phone call, although Josh doesn’t know that. Then whoever it is hangs up. The silence echoes through the living room.

“Ah, wrong number,” I say. I’m desperate to lighten the mood. Somehow this night is suddenly fragile and suddenly all the stakes seem high. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away. Right. That always works. “Oh, well, I guess that’s the good news, right? Let’s get that wine. And I’ll fill you in on my latest adventures.” I turn to Josh, my expression expectant and enthusiastic.

No answer.

“Josh?” I persist. “It’s my job. You know? If a student called you, or if there were some emergency at Bexter, you’d have to be available, right? So it’s the same.”

Surprising me, Josh puts his arm around me, and shepherds me toward the couch. Botox bounces up beside us, and curls up on my lap. Maybe this will all work out.

Josh takes my hand, examining my fingers. “You know, Charlie,” he says. “There’s a pattern here. Isn’t there?”

I don’t answer, because I can’t come up with a good one.

He sighs. “And the pattern is, when you have a choice, you choose your work.”

“But I don’t have a choice.” I can hear the almost-whine in my own voice.

“It’s all right,” Josh says. “It’s me who will have to change.”

“No, you don’t,” I interrupt. “We can—”

“We can’t.” Josh puts my hand back on my own knee, and gives it a lingering pat. “Was it just two days ago? I wrote a new address for you on that card? I thought our lives were coming together, and I was so eager to share, well, everything with you. I came to see you, decided I had been unfair the other night. That phone call was disturbing, Penny had been upset going to Victoria’s…” He stops, and looks at the floor. “Whatever. So I thought, let’s try again. Charlie’s worth it. And then you chose your messages.”

I’m staring at the floor, too. Afraid to hear what may come next. Dumb, dumb Charlie. Married to her job. Tears well in my eyes. And then I decide. No. Dammit.

I stand up, dumping Botox onto the couch. Whirl around and face Josh, who’s looking at me, bewildered.

“I did not. Choose my messages. I did not.” Anger, or disappointment, or loss, is selecting my words, not me. “You have to balance your daughter, your job, even Victoria and what’s-his-name. Your students, now that Bexter’s back in session. Your parents in Annapolis. I have to do the same thing with my life. We’re trying to add each other and trying to keep the balance. And…and…and—”

I feel my fists clenching. I bite my lip, fearing this might be goodbye. “Maybe it’s just not easy. Maybe it takes some practice. Or maybe, it can’t work. No matter how much you want it to. No matter how much you try.”

Josh stands, his face inches from mine. “We’re new at this, aren’t we? Grown up and acting like spoiled teenagers. Wanting everything, maybe not wanting to work for it.”

“I’m trying to work at it. It’s just—old dog? New tricks?” I say. I reach up and touch his face, see his eyes close for a brief second. “And as for wanting…”

My heart is beating so fast, my chest is so tight, it’s difficult for me to get the words out.
“Want”
is hardly enough to describe it. And then, I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. Josh’s kisses are soft and strong and full of tomorrow. And of right now.

“Shall we just take it slow?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper. “One day at a time? No plans? No predictions? See what happens?”

He pulls one end of the tiny ribbon bow that’s keeping my peasanty blouse civilized. As gauzy fabric drops from both my shoulders, I close my eyes, and feel his lips exploring my neck.

“Mmm,” I murmur. “I think I can predict what’s going to happen now, at least.”