Tangled Vines (4 page)

“That blood on his shirt wasn't from a bloody nose,” Rory inserted, the camera still balanced on his shoulder.

“Load up, Brad announced. “We'll follow them to the hospital. There's another crew on the way here. They can cover this end. Give me what you've got.” He held out a hand for Rory's tapes. “I'll fire up the generator and edit on the way.” To Kelly, he said, “Make your script a minute thirty. As soon as we get to the hospital, we'll do your standup and cut a sound track.” The ambulance doors closed as Rory passed two tape cassettes to Brad. “All right, let's move it.”

He sprinted for the satellite van, a marvel of high technology complete with its own power generator and small control room packed with editing and transmitting equipment. Lugging the camera and sound gear, they trailed after him and piled into the station wagon. Kelly flipped on the dome light and started scribbling on the notepad as the vehicle swung onto the road, directly behind the departing ambulance.

Subconsciously aware that what read well in print often sounded awkward when spoken, Kelly silently mouthed the words she wrote, at the same time making sure her script allowed for an introduction by the anchor. She also kept in mind that her script had to relate to the scenes in the tape without becoming a verbal description of them.

Not an easy task, especially when she had to write blind. Brad Sommers was in the satellite van, selecting portions from the cassette tapes and putting them together in a single edited piece that she hadn't viewed.

She finished the first draft, conferred briefly with Rory and Larry, then made adjustments based on some of the more dramatic pictures that had been captured on tape. She had time to do a quick polish and that was all before they reached the hospital.

While Rory and Larry set up to record her standup, Kelly slapped on some powder, blush, and lipstick. The action wasn't prompted by vanity, but rather the knowledge that the camera was notorious for washing out flesh tones. And any reporter, male or female, who looked ashen-faced didn't project the kind of image that inspired a viewer's confidence and trust.

As soon as her makeup was retouched, Kelly made a fast check with the hospital to get the latest on the senator's condition, made the necessary changes in her script, did the standup and narration for the edited tape, then drew her first truly easy breath.

She took another now, this time her brow knitting together in a small frown, that initial feeling of pride and satisfaction gone.

“I wish I could have seen the pictures Brad used she murmured critically. “If only there had been time to review the tape.”

“You did fine, Kelly,” Larry assured her.

She shook her head. “I could have done better.” She ran through the script in her mind, seeing a dozen way ways she could have improved it – verbs she could have made stronger, more active, sentence fragments she could have used for dramatic impact, facts she could have tightened and punched up.

“It always has to be the best with you.” The words were offered by Rory as an observation rather than a criticism, and one that was wholly accurate. To Kelly, the best was equivalent to success, and success symbolized approval and acceptance, two things that were vitally important to her even though that was something she couldn't admit, not even to herself.

“No wonder you're leaving us,” Rory added, then paused to meet her eyes. “We're really going to miss you, you know.”

Warmed by that unexpected admission from him, Kelly smiled. “You make it sound like I'm moving to some far corner of the world,” she chided lightly to cover her own sudden surge of self-consciousness. “I'm only changing floors.”

“Yeah, from local to network. That's like being shot into the stratosphere.” He flipped his cigarette into the darkness, the glow of it making a red arc against the night shadows.

Network. It was a magic word. A goal she had strived toward ever since she graduated from college eight years ago. These last eight years had been hard ones, working sixty and eighty hours a week, making that long climb from a green television reporter at a small station in rural Iowa to being slotted to host a new magazine-style show on prime-time television. She had finally made it; she had her hands on the top rung – now all she had to do was hang on.

She felt a twinge of uneasiness at that thought, remembering the man she'd seen at the park earlier. Mentally she turned from it, forcing a lightness into her voice. “I haven't left yet, Rory,” she said. “You're still going to be stuck with me for another week.”

“True.” He grinned.

Brad Sommers came out of the hospital at a trot. “They want you at the, studio, Kelly.” He waved the driver into the station wagon. “Now.”

Kelly tasted disappointment. This was her story; she had broken it, and she wanted to file her reports for the eleven o'clock news from the scene. But she didn't resist when Brad Sommers took her arm and propelled her to the station wagon. With her new job at the network only days away, this was no time to risk getting labeled hard to work with and temperamental.

Minutes later, the driver let her out at the Fiftieth Street entrance to the seventy-story building that would forever be called the RCA Building by New Yorkers despite its new owner's attempts to rename it the GE Building. With her shoulder bag bumping against her hip with each, quick stride, Kelly crossed the black granite lobby to the security desk.

The uniformed black guard on duty saw her coming. “Caught your special report, Miss Douglas.” He opened the gate for her. “How's the senator?”

“Still in surgery.” She stopped long enough to sign in.

“He's a good man. Be a shame to lose him.”

“Yes.”

As she swung toward the bank of elevators, someone called, “Going up?”

Kelly caught the small trace of an English accent and smiled even before she saw British-born Hugh Townsend holding an elevator for her. Slim and, as always, nattily dressed in a summer gray suit from his favorite Savile Row tailor, he had a lean and narrow face and an aristocratic fineness to his features. His neatly clipped hair was dark brown, bordering on black, with traces of silver showing up at the sides to give him an appropriately distinguished air. His manner could be aloof or charming, depending on the situation or the company. With Kelly, he invariably emphasized the charm.

“You're working late tonight, Hugh.” She was never sure how to describe him – friend, mentor, adviser, or, as senior producer for the new magazine show, boss.

“Actually I planned to leave an hour ago, but I stayed to catch the latest news on the telly.” He waited until she was inside the elevator, then punched the button for her floor and glanced sideways, his hazel eyes gleaming with approval. “Splendid work.”

“Was it?” She still had some misgivings about that.

“It was.”

The doors slid closed and the elevator started up with a slight lurch. Kelly made a mental note to get a copy of the aired report to review later in the privacy of her apartment. There she could play it over and analyze her mistakes whether in scripting, delivery, or facial expression. It was sometimes a painful way to learn, but she had found it to be the best.

“A pity, though, that the woman didn't wait until next week to shoot the esteemed senator. What an exit that would have made for you.”

“As well as great pre-publicity for the new show, right?”

His look matched her wryly amused glance. “That thought did cross my mind.”

“I thought so.”

“Join me for a late dinner when you finish and we'll celebrate your coup with a bottle of wine. ‘For wine inspires us, and fires us with courage, love and joy.'”

“You have a quote for every occasion, don't you?”

“Not every occasion.” Hugh paused reflectively. “Perhaps we should have a Margaux tonight. The eighty is a charming wine.”

“What? No forty-five Latour to celebrate?” Kelly mocked lightly.

He arched a dark brow, humor and challenge blending. “When you win me an Emmy, Kelly, that will be an occasion truly worthy of a forty-five Latour.”

“An Emmy? You do have high ambitions, Hugh.”

He met her glance, a half smile hovering around his mouth. “You surely didn't think you had a monopoly on that, did you?” The elevator stopped at her floor, the doors swishing open. “I'll have a car waiting for you downstairs.”

“Dinner sounds wonderful, Hugh, but she could already hear the sounds of frantic activity coming from the newsroom. “It's going to be a wild night. When it's over, I'll want to go home and crash.”

He slid a hand under the French braid, his fingers unerringly locating the tightly banded cords in her neck. “It will be hours before you wind down enough to sleep.” He gave her a gentle push out of the elevator. “Dinner.”

Dinner, she thought.

It was midnight when Kelly walked out of the building onto an empty sidewalk. All the street vendors had long ago wheeled their pushcarts home, and the panhandlers had given up their search for easy marks.

The heat had eased and the traffic had thinned, leaving the streets quiet – as quiet as they ever got in Manhattan. A garbage truck lumbered along Fiftieth making its nightly rounds. A few blocks away, a siren screamed, accompanied by the deep-throated blast of a fire truck's horn.

Kelly pulled the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, breathing in the rough night air that was New York. She spotted the lone car waiting at the curb and headed for it. When she reached it, the driver was there, holding the rear door open for her. Kelly slung her heavy shoulder bag onto the seat and slid in beside it.

Softly over the rear speakers came an old song by Hall and Oates. Mentally she tuned it out, dug in her bag and took out a bulky folder. Crammed inside were pre-interview notes and a lengthy bio on a Harvard professor-turned-author she was scheduled to interview on tomorrow night's “Live at Five” report. His weighty tome chronicling the country's economic woes was also in her bag. Kelly flipped on the reading light and searched through the sheaf of papers for the bio, as always filling what otherwise would have been idle time with work.

The car turned onto Park Avenue and joined the scattering of taxis and limousines speeding along the thoroughfare, past darkened shop windows and closed stores. Not five hours ago the street had been clogged with traffic, drivers bad-tempered from the heat and noise.

Within minutes the car arrived at an upscale address off Park Avenue. Sighing in vague irritation, Kelly cast a distracted glance at the canopied entrance to the elegantly understated French restaurant, then gathered her things and stepped from the car.

Inside it was cool and quietly pastel, precisely the sort of restaurant that would appeal to Hugh Townsend. Subtly chic without being trendy, the lighting subdued, the walls covered with pate florals, the atmosphere was one of polish not glitz. She breathed in the scents of French cooking – burgundy, thyme, sage.

The maitre d' recognized Kelly. “Good evening, Miss Douglas. Mr. Townsend has been expecting you. This way, please.”

From his chair at a corner table, Hugh Townsend watched her cross the room, his attention drawn to the way she walked. There was nothing particularly sexy or flirtatious about it, yet it was the kind any man would notice. Her strides were long and graceful, the swing of her hips subtle, her head up and her eyes ahead.

Kelly Douglas had changed considerably from the first time he'd seen her. That had been on tape. Actually he'd heard her before he saw her. He'd caught the rich, mellow sound of her voice as he was passing the editing room. His curiosity and interest aroused, he had looked in.

His initial reaction to the female on the monitor had been totally negative – dark, lank hair falling straight past her shoulders, tortoiseshell glasses, strong yet rather bland features, a mannish jacket. But that voice – he had stepped into the room and listened to her speak intelligently about the plight of the homeless, becoming impatient when other people and voices took over the screen.

Gradually he had noticed the hint of red in her hair, the dark green of her eyes behind the corrective glasses, a complexion that was the delicate porcelain of a true redhead, the slim figure beneath that severely tailored suit, and the energy – the intensity – that crackled from her. He had been intrigued by the potential he saw, even if she did look like some repressed librarian.

“Who's the girl, Harry?” he had asked the editor.

“Kelly – something or other.” He had reached over and checked the cassette box. “Yeah, Kelly Douglas. She's with our affiliate in St. Louis. She sends her pieces regularly. Wants to break into network, I guess.” The editor had paused then and flashed Hugh a grin. “Helluva voice, eh?”

“Indeed,” Hugh had murmured thoughtfully, then said, “Mind if I take the tape? I'd like to review it later.”

“Be my guest.” The editor had punched the eject button and handed him the cassette.

Hugh had been between projects at the time, and bored. After playing the tape several times, he had found little to fault in her journalistic skills, and he had remained captivated by her voice, its warm, calm pitch and subtly authoritative ring. But her appearance had offended his own innate sense of taste and his producer's eye.

Countless times in the past he had advised his paramour of the moment on clothes, hairstyle, makeup, to the resentment of some and the gratitude of others.

In the end, he had called and arranged for her to come to New York, ostensibly for an interview. A week later she had been in his office at NBC while a part of him had stood back and mocked him for playing the role of Henry Higgins.

Ah, but the result of his efforts had stilled the laughter. Permanently.

As Kelly neared the table, Hugh stood up and waited until she sank into the chair opposite him, her oversize shoulder bag sagging to the floor.

“What's the latest?” He resumed his seat.

“Melcher is out of surgery. In critical condition but stable.” She picked up the menu and laid it aside, putting temptation out of her path. “The woman has been identified as one Delia Rose Jackson. Formerly Sister Mary Teresa and recently under psychiatric care after being arrested for trashing an abortion clinic and stabbing a nurse. No known association with the pro-life group.”

“‘Thou shalt not kill,”' he murmured.

“The sixth commandment.” Kelly picked up her water goblet and paused, holding it in midair. “You saw the broadcast.”

“No. But I would have been disappointed if you hadn't referred to it.”

“I used it over a family photo of her taken in a nun's habit.” She took a sip of water and lowered the glass, staring at the cubes of clear ice. “A police officer slain by a former nun. Ironic, isn't it?”

“And tragic.”

“Very tragic,” she said, barely containing a sigh. With an effort she lifted her head and mentally shook off the thought. Violence, tragedy, death – she dealt with such stories every day. She had learned not to let them touch her, not to let her feelings become involved. She glanced around the restaurant. “This is nice. I've not been here before.” The other patrons, she noticed, seemed to be from the after-theater crowd.

“The food is superb. And the wine list” -- He paused for effect, a smile curving the line of his mouth. “- is excellent.”

“The deciding factor in your choice, no doubt.” Kelly lifted her water goblet in a mock salute. Hugh Townsend had long been a wine connoisseur, a confirmed oenophile. Another irony.

“No doubt.” The corners of his mouth deepened with his growing smile. “We can order now if you're hungry.”

“Famished,” she admitted. A juice and bagel for breakfast, a spinach salad for lunch, and three spoonfuls of yogurt before the eleven o'clock newscast to ward off the shakes had been the sum total of her food intake in the last twenty-four hours or so. Which was just about,average.

Hugh signaled to their waiter, who came promptly to their table. “We'll order now.”

“Very good, sir,” he replied and turned to Kelly. “What would you like this evening, madam? I can highly recommend the rack of lamb. It's prepared with -”

“No, thank you.” She cut him off before her resolve weakened. “I'll have a green salad, no dressing. Broiled cod with lemon only, no sauce.” She ignored his pained look. “Coffee later. Decaffeinated, please.”

“You will ruin the wine.” Hugh arched her a look of sharp criticism, then addressed the waiter. “Bring Miss Douglas the coq au vin.”

“Hugh -“

He raised a hand, cutting off her quick protest. “We are here to celebrate. You can work off the extra calories tomorrow during your morning session with Rick,” he said, referring to her personal trainer.

As part of a strict regimen to keep her weight under control, Kelly went to a fitness center three times a week. In St. Louis she had run ten miles every day; in New York that was unthinkable. So Kelly routinely subjected herself to a series of grueling exercises, carried out under the supervision of her personal trainer, Rick Connors.

“The man is a sadist,” she said under her breath and raised no further objection to the change in her food order. Coq au vin was, after all, only chicken cooked in wine.

For himself, Hugh ordered the duck a l'orange, then asked for the wine steward. The sommelier arrived, wearing his chain and tastevin. With half an ear, Kelly listened while the two conferred on the wine list.

Wine was an obsession with Hugh.

Three years ago when he had asked her to come to New York, she had been eager – desperate – to make a favorable impression. Wine had proved to be the means....

From the background material she had read on Hugh Townsend, his office at NBC was what Kelly had expected it to be – leather chairs, a spotless oak desk, oil paintings on the wall, a definite air of understated elegance. The grainy photographs of him, however, had not done the man justice. They had captured his sharp features but missed the patrician fineness of them, just as they had failed to register the charming arrogance of his smile and the warm gleam of his eyes.

“Welcome to New York, Miss Douglas.” He came around the desk to shake hands.

Kelly was nervous, and equally determined not to let it show. “Thank you, Mr. Townsend. It is truly a pleasure to be here.” She paused a beat, then reached in the small shopping bag she carried and removed the boxed gift. “This is forward of me, perhaps, but I grew up in Iowa. We have this custom of always bringing a little something to our host.”

An eyebrow shot up. “A gift?”

“A way of thanking you for the interest you've shown in my work,” Kelly replied.

He waved her to a seat. “May I open it now?” he asked, his curiosity plainly piqued.

“Please.” She sank onto the leather chair and forced herself to appear relaxed.

There was no careless tearing of the wrapping paper and encircling ribbon. Instead he used a knife-sharp letter opener to slice through the ribbon and securing tape, freeing the box from the tissue. She watched while he opened it and lifted out a wine bottle. When she saw his hand glide over the bottle in a near caress, she allowed herself one deep, sweet, long breath.

His glance ran to her, sharp with question and interest. “This is an historic wine.”

“I know.” Confident now, Kelly settled back in the chair. “The ‘seventy-three Stag's Leap cabernet sauvignon was the first California wine to outscore Haut-Brion and Mouton-Rothschild in a blind tasting held in Paris in 1976. Many, though, consider the ‘seventy-three Rutledge Estate cabernet to be superior to Stag's Leap, but it was unfortunately not entered in the competition.”

Thoughtfully he set the bottle on his desk and cocked his head. “How did you know I enjoyed fine wine?”

Kelly smiled. “I did my homework.”

“Obviously,” he replied and waited for a further answer.

“One of your biographies mentioned you were a member of a distinguished wine society,” she explained. “I took the chance that you were not one of those total wine snobs who turns his nose up at our premier California wines.”

“You took quite a gamble, Miss Douglas.” He negligently leaned a hip against the desk and folded his arms, regarding her with frank interest.

“You took a gamble on me, Mr. Townsend,” she countered.

“Perhaps we shall both be winners,” he said. “Tell me, how do you know so much about the Stag's Leap wine? More homework?”

“In a way. I was born in Napa Valley,” It had been years now since the day she left the valley had she admitted any connection to California. She had created a new past for herself, one that held none of the embarrassment pain, and humiliation of her real one. But this time her place of birth could be a definite asset.

“Really? For some reason, I thought you were born and raised in Iowa.” Hugh glanced at his desk top, clear of all papers, as if to recheck her resume.

“Few people grow up in the same community where they were born. Moving from place to place seems to be an American trait. In my case, the move was to Iowa.” Kelly thought she had handled that very effectively without actually lying. “Years ago, when I was in high school, I became curious about my birthplace and wrote an article about the wine country of Napa Valley for the paper. I think you'll admit, wine – the making of it and the drinking of it -has a certain cachet that fascinates everyone.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “I would be curious to read that article of yours.”

“I'll dig out my scrapbooks and send you a copy,” she lied. She didn't have the article, and even if she had, she wouldn't have sent it to him. “But I warn you, the writing is very amateurish. It was done back when I had aspirations of becoming a print journalist.”

“That was before you discovered television, of course.”

“Of course.”

“What are your aspirations now?”

“My goal is to become a national correspondent by the time I'm thirty,” Kelly replied.

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You still could make it. Nodding, he straightened from the desk and came around it to face her, his arms still folded in front of him. “If you throw out those glasses, do something with your hair, and trade that mannish business suit for something more stylish. Your schoolmarm look may play well in St. Louis, but it will never make it on network.”

Kelly stiffened, stung by his sudden and blunt criticism. She curled her fingertips into the chair's leather arms to keep her hands from flying defensively to her tortoiseshell glasses and the big black – sophisticated, she thought – bow that held her long hair together at the nape of her neck.