Sunny Says (2 page)

“Forgive me,” she said. “I
should’ve recognized you at once. It’s an honor to meet such a renowned
newsman.” She offered her hand, and this time he took it. “Your aunt Ravinia
talked about you all the time. Please accept my condolences. We all loved Ravinia
and were devastated by her death. I’ll miss her.”

“Although I didn’t see her much
in the past few years, I’ll miss her too,” Kale said, a shadow further
darkening his solemnity. “She was   . . . unique.”

“Unique” was a mild term for Ravinia
Irene Parrish, Sunny thought. Not that she was one to throw stones. Sunny
herself had been called worse. Perhaps that’s why the two women, despite the
disparity in their ages, had formed an instant affinity. She truly would miss
the eccentric owner of KRIP, but at least when Ravinia’s time came up she’d
died with panache. Two weeks before, Ravinia’s plane had crashed in the
Himalayas
. The
only remains were ashes, a few pieces of twisted metal, and, miraculously, the
gold ankh she always wore. Sunny noticed that the Egyptian symbol of life now
hung in the opening of Kale’s wrinkled pink shirt.

A childless widow, Ravinia had
left everything to her two nephews, Kale Hoaglin and Foster Dunn. The station
had been abuzz with speculations about KRIP’s fate. Foster and Ravinia had
rarely agreed about anything, especially local programming. His aunt had always
dismissed his objections with a chuck of his cheek, a lilting laugh, an
imperious flutter of fingers flashing with the oversized rings she favored. “Humor
an old lady,” she’d said to those who challenged her unconventional ideas. “My
way is more fun, and I can afford to indulge my foibles.” Then she’d be off,
trailing a cloud of Shalimar, on her way to attend yoga class, to care for her
bromeliads, or to jet to
San Francisco
for an AIDS benefit or
Paris
for the spring showings.

Sunny doubted that the dour Kale
Hoaglin would be content with Ravinia’s broadcasting philosophies either. She
suspected that the veteran hard-line newsman would instigate some massive
changes.

Hulon Eubanks cleared his
throat. Foster introduced him to Kale, clapping him on the back and saying, “Hulon
here has been filling in as news director and anchorman since we lost our last
one a couple of months ago.”

“And I need to speak with you
about my position, Foster. You, too, Mr. Hoaglin.”

“Later, Hulon, later,” Foster
said, brushing him aside and steering Kale toward Estella Jones’s desk. “I’d
like for you to meet our sportscaster.”

When the beautiful
coffee-skinned woman stood, Sunny stifled a giggle at Kale’s gaping expression.
Estella was very tall, towering two inches over Kale with her heels on, and
very, very pregnant.

Before she laughed out loud,
Sunny fled to the lounge to make the repairs needed for the evening telecast.
She changed into a spare outfit she kept at the station, tended the damage to
her hair, and was applying the heavier cosmetics needed on camera when Estella
Jones strolled in.

“Well, roomie,” Estella said,
easing her cumbersome body into the next chair at the long makeup mirror, “what
do you think of our new boss?”

Sunny shrugged and continued
applying her lipstick.

The tall woman, who was Sunny’s
best friend and housemate, laughed and reached for a powder puff. “For a moment
there, I thought I was watching the reunion of soul mates.”

“What in the world are you
talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and Kale Hoaglin.
I’m talking about enough sparks to kindle a bonfire. Honey, I’m talking about
enough signals to alert the entire Pacific fleet.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve
ever heard of. I think Ed’s been gone too long.” Lieutenant Edward Jones,
Estella’s husband and a navy pilot, was on a six-month tour of duty on an
aircraft carrier.

Estella stroked her rounded
belly. “It has been a long time, but I’ve seen that look in Ed’s eyes too many
times not to recognize it.”

“You’re imagining things. Why,
the man was furious with me. That’s what you saw. I thought he was going to eat
me alive.”

A slow grin spread over Estella’s
face. “Uh-huh.”

*    *    *

Kale sat in Foster’s plush
office watching the
six o’clock
news with his cousin. As Hulon droned on about one of
the seemingly endless pieces of fluff that was supposed to pass for local news,
Kale rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I knew I was tired,” he said, “but this crap
would put anybody to sleep.”

Foster nodded. “Now you know why
KRIP is in the cellar of local ratings. We can’t even sell advertising to the
Boy Scouts. When Aunt Ravinia came up with this absurd idea, I tried to tell
her that nobody wanted to hear only good news. It’s dull. The public likes
blood and sensationalism, murder and mayhem, conflict and chaos. Perhaps it’s a
sad indictment of human nature, but it’s true.”

Kale rubbed his forehead,
thinking that Foster’s ideas seemed to be as extreme as Ravinia’s. “At least
people deserve to be informed. News can’t be a series of human-interest
stories. And Eubanks can’t even make those sound interesting. The man looks as
if he’s in pain.” He glanced back at the set where Estella was extolling the
charitable deeds of a National League pitcher. Kale groaned. “Unbelievable.
Where did Ravinia dig this one up? Big Bird would have more credibility. And
why in the hell isn’t she reporting the baseball scores?”

“I think Ravinia met Estella in
yoga class. Actually her credentials aren’t bad, but when I complained about
this segment, our dear auntie said that reporting sports scores condoned
competition. ‘Imagine how the poor losers feel, darling,’ were her words, as I
recall.”

Kale groaned again.

“Now do you understand why I
pleaded with you to come? Half of KRIP is yours, and I can’t get this mess
straightened out by myself,” Foster said.

“The place is a zoo. The easiest
thing to do would be to fire everybody and start from scratch.”

“Can’t. What you see is what we’ve
got to work with. Ravinia renegotiated everybody’s contract two months ago—with
raises, I might add. Except for Sunny.” Foster nodded toward the screen.

“Ah, our daring Little Miss
Sunshine. Is she holding out for pitons and a grappling hook?”

“Not exactly.” Foster squirmed
in his chair.

Kale watched as Sunny recounted
the day’s weather, using the latest in colorful graphics. In her well-modulated
voice, she reported the high and low temperatures. Given her perky, cheerleader
looks, he’d been expecting a cutesy, saccharine performance, but he was
surprised. She seemed knowledgeable and professional as she described
upper-level troughs and low-pressure systems. In fact, she had a phenomenal TV
presence.

He leaned closer, captivated.
Her big blue eyes sparkled with life, and her deep dimples flashed as she
related the water temperature off
Padre
Island
. Kale grew fascinated with her pale
blond hair, wondering if it felt as silky as it looked. Her blouse curved
enticingly as she pointed out a patch of thunderstorms on radar, and he
stirred, remembering how those soft curves had felt when he’d held her against
him.

“She’s good,” Kale said. “Damned
good.”

Foster nodded. “Would you
believe that the last five-minute segment of the show is the only thing that’s
keeping us alive? People watch news on the other channels in town, then switch
to Sunny for the weather report.”

Puzzled, Kale said, “That’s
strange. I mean, she far outclasses the rest of the tripe on KRIP, but, hell,
one weather report is pretty much like another.”

“Well. . . not exactly. Watch.”

“And for tomorrow’s weather, the
National Weather Service predicts continued cloudiness with an eighty percent
chance of rain. But “—she paused to beam a golden smile that charmed the camera
and bored into Kale’s midsection—”the skies will clear before dawn, and
tomorrow is going to be a bright, sunshiny day with highs in the mid-nineties,
so don’t forget your sunscreen.”

“Good God!” Kale exploded. “Why
did she have to blow it with that outlandish prediction? Is the woman nuts?”

Foster punched off the program
with the remote control and stood. “Sounds crazy, but she’s always right.”

Dumbfounded, Kale stared at his cousin.
“What the hell are you talking about? How can that slip of a girl know more
than the National Weather Service?”

Foster shrugged. “Beats me. I
think it has something to do with her left ear itching.”

“Her ear? Holy hell! Now I’ve
heard it all. Our crazy aunt has turned this station into a damned sideshow!”
Kale shot out of his chair and strode to the door. “I’m going to Ravinia’s
house, down a double shot of Scotch, and fall into bed. After I’ve had about
two days of sleep, maybe I can deal with this mess. But not now.”

“Before you leave, there’s
something I should warn—”

Kale slammed the door on his
cousin’s words and stalked out of the building, muttering curses and
deprecations that would have melted the strings of Ravinia’s harp if she’d been
listening. How in the hell, in the two weeks vacation he’d scheduled, could he
even begin to bring order to this chaos? It sickened him to think that KRIP,
once the top-rated TV news station of
Corpus
Christi
and the surrounding area, had
turned into a bad joke.

*    *    *

Kale awoke feeling muzzy-headed
and disoriented. In the dim light of the drapery-darkened room, he squinted at
the furnishings, trying to get his bearings. Lord knows, in the past eight
years he’d awakened in an endless array of strange places, most of them dirty
and dangerous. When he caught the scents of potpourri and lemon oil and
recognized the heavy Victorian furniture, he relaxed on his pillow and glanced
at the ceiling. His old pinup poster of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit
model, curled around the edges now, was still there, a familiar relic from the
years when he spent summers in this room and worked at KRIP in its heyday.

He yawned, stretched, and
scratched his belly, thinking he couldn’t remember when he’d had such a relaxed
night’s rest. He’d been so tired the evening before, he’d merely stripped and
dropped into the big bed. How long had he slept? He checked his watch. Twelve
hours. It was
seven a.m.
on Saturday. He listened to the muffled patter of
rain and considered drifting back to sleep.

Rain? Sounded like Little Miss
Sunshine blew it. A shame, in a way, but not surprising. Thoughts of Sunny
brought a blurry recollection of his having dreamt about her, something vaguely
erotic. He tried to recapture the fleeting remnant, but it was gone.

Damn! What was it about Sunny
Larkin that hooked his attention, stirred him, made him feel . . . protective?
Was it her bright smile that tugged at him? Maybe it was the sweet sort of
innocence that shone from her big blue eyes, a sassy naivete that was missing
in the eyes of the women he’d encountered in the squalid, disaster-riddled
places he’d been lately.

Or maybe it was simply her cute
little tush that reminded him that he’d been a long time without a woman. He
threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom, eager to shed the grime he’d
toted halfway around the world.

*    *    *

Sunny stood under the pulsating
spray, humming softly and lathering her body with herb-scented soap. With a
sudden, clattering swish, the shower curtain flew open. Her heart jumped to her
throat, and her eyes widened in shock.

A naked man stood glowering at
her. She screamed bloody murder.

Sunny whipped the shower curtain
around her like a sarong. “What are you doing here?” She tried desperately to keep
her eyes on Kale Hoaglin’s scowling face and ignore the other impressive parts
of his anatomy, which he seemed to have no interest in covering. Had the man no
shame?

“This is
my
house. And I’m
about to take a shower in
my
bathroom. The question is, what are
you
doing here?”

“I live here. That is,
we
live here. I mean, Estella and I have been house-sitting for Ravinia. After her
death, Foster asked us to stay on and—what are you staring at?” she asked.

“The interesting array of polka
dots.”

She looked down at the widely
spaced, dime-sized dots decorating the clear curtain. They afforded about as
much coverage as a fly’s wing. Her face blazed. She spun around, presenting her
back to him and still gathering the transparent plastic to her with as much
dignity as she could summon.

“Mr. Hoaglin, if you’ll step out
for a moment, please, I’ll leave.”

“Don’t you think that ‘Mr. Hoaglin’
seems a little too formal for the situation?” he asked, stepping into the tub
beside her. “Call me Kale.” He tugged at the curtain clutched in her hands.

“What are you
doing
?” she
shrieked.

“Taking a shower.” He held out
the soap to her. “Mind washing my back?”