The Cinderella Hour (16 page)

The vehemence of the thought startled her. Equally startling was
the hostility toward Blaine the vehemence implied. Misdirected hostility, she
told herself. She might have put her thoughts about Luke on hold, but her
emotions had been churning. She was feeling a little angry—quite angry—at the
so-called friend who had chosen to hide so much.

“I’m sorry, Blaine.”

“For what?”

“Questioning you.”

“I want you to question me. I would love to be able to admit
I was wrong to be so worried about Vivian. There is a time, Mira, when I’d really
appreciate your being with her—without letting her know in advance. She’d decline
the offer if you did.”

Sad though it made her, Mira knew that was true. “I’ll be
with her. When?”

“Tuesday night, while I’m on the air with Snow. I won’t be in
the studio. But my Tuesday evening clinic will prevent me from making it home
before the interview’s scheduled to begin. I’ll do it from my office. Unless
Vivian insists on driving down to be with me—which I’m going to encourage her
not to do—she’ll be alone at home.”

“She won’t be alone, Blaine. I’ll be there.”

When Wendy Hart’s nurse learned from the sheriff that the
orphaned girl’s legal guardian was a physician at Grace Memorial, she phoned a
nursing-school classmate who worked in pediatrics there. The classmate knew the
salient facts about thirty-eight-year-old Thomas Vail. Gorgeous. Single. Great
doctor. Unlikely father.

Wendy’s nurse wasn’t about to question Daniel Hart’s dying
wish. She could even argue that, from Wendy’s standpoint, the transition from
one single male parent to another single male parent would be easier than being
transplanted into a home with a mom, a dad, and other kids.

The nurse did decide to do whatever she could to make the
transition as smooth as possible. While Thomas was driving across the state,
she oversaw the gathering of necessities and comforts for Wendy. She would have
done as much for any of her patients. But the willingness of others to help
underscored how Daniel’s death had affected the town.

He hadn’t needed to volunteer during the flooding. He could have
remained on his pumpkin farm with his daughter, keeping watch over his
high-ground property on the off-chance the waters rose.

But Daniel had volunteered, and it had cost him his life. If
his arms hadn’t been so badly broken, he would have been able to cling to the
rescuer who clung to Wendy. Both father and daughter would have been saved.

When—if—Daniel’s body was found, he would be given a hero’s
burial.

In the meantime, those whose lives and property had been
spared because Daniel had chosen to join the war against the floods did what
they could for his daughter.

There were even those, the nurse discovered, who felt as much
gratitude to Wendy as they did to Daniel.

While her father was on the front lines, Wendy was
demonstrating her own generous spirit in the community center gymnasium.

She was the first to hug newcomers to the temporary shelter, the
ones in need of hugging, regardless of their age. And she was surprisingly good
at making assessments of what each evacuee needed most—food, warmth, privacy,
companionship—and leading them to the appropriate corner of the gym.

Those in most dire need, the children, were escorted by Wendy
to snuggle with a remarkably amiable ball of fluff named Eileen.

The kitten’s name prompted whispered discussions among the
adults in the shelter. Eileen was the name of the mother Wendy had never known.
Wasn’t that a little weird? Macabre even? What had Daniel been thinking? What
kind of father was he?

The questions were answered by Wendy’s behavior before she
spoke a word. He must be a good father, a wonderful one, to have raised such a
lovely daughter. She was a happy child, too, not one whose life had been
shrouded by Daniel’s sadness, Daniel’s grief.

Any lingering skepticism about the environment in which Wendy
had been raised was put to rest by Wendy’s own explanation of the kitten’s
name.

Upon discovering that Daddy had a name other than Daddy—“He’s
Daniel!”—she had asked him about Mommy’s other name. She couldn’t ask Mommy.
She was in heaven, loving her and smiling down at her from the stars.

Mommy’s other name was Eileen. A perfect name, Wendy decided,
for her kitten. She was sure it would make Mommy smile even more
brightly—though, at first, Daddy didn’t seem to agree. But he changed his mind
when he saw the stars shining over the pumpkin field that night.

Eileen, the kitten, would be accompanying Wendy to her new
home. The same townspeople who filled boxes with clothes, dolls, and bedding
for Wendy packed toys, food, and kitty litter for Eileen.

Thomas was grateful for the packages. And for the kitten, for
Wendy’s sake. As he told the women who greeted him when he arrived at
4
:
00
a.m., he also appreciated hearing who Wendy had been before
the tragedy. And it was good to know where the little girl believed her mother
to be.

Thomas wondered, as he went to get Wendy, what kind of man he
would have become had he been told his family was in heaven, smiling down on
him, their love aglow in the stars. He had been told an ugly truth, instead.
His loved ones had been slaughtered, victims of a civil war, and thrown into a
mass grave.

Wendy’s sleeping face was
illuminated by lights from the hospital hallway.

Her brow furrowed as Thomas watched, a frown at a dream, then
smoothed as whatever flickered across her subconscious was replaced by happier
imaginings.

How he dreaded her awakening to a nightmare she couldn’t
possibly understand.

Her eyelashes moved, then opened to the false moonbeam that
lit her face and the man who hovered nearby.

She squinted into the light. “Daddy?”

No, baby. I’m so sorry. I’ll do my best, I promise.

“
Daddy
?”

Thomas heard her terror and felt his own. What if his best
wasn’t good enough?

He scooped her up, blankets and all, and cradled her close.
She didn’t resist. Cradled in strong male arms was a familiar place to her. He
prayed that his voice, muffled by blankets, would soothe her.

“You’re fine, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”

“Fine,” she murmured.

“That’s right, Wendy. Just fine. You’re a sleepy girl, aren’t
you? Yes, you are. Go back to sleep, honey. Back to dreams. By the time you
awaken, we’ll be home.”

Snow had every intention of
spending Sunday morning doing what the host of
The Cinderella Hour
was
supposed to do: read the newspaper’s every word.

It was one of the techniques by which she achieved such success
in Atlanta. She kept her fingers on the pulse of what mattered to people there,
the big-ticket items and the little ones, and talked about them on air.

And, as with postpartum depression, she also chose less obvious
topics, things she felt her listeners needed to know.

Fortunately, her first week’s on-air schedule was set.

Her ability to concentrate on what she was reading in the
Sunday paper was zilch. She could go back online, read another hundred or so
articles on postpartum depression—and see how uncannily they applied to her—but
that would feel like coals to Newcastle. More burning embers to her heart.

What if she gave the fireman himself a call? And confessed to
him the most searing truth of all?
I love you, Lucas Kilcannon. Still.
Always. You.

“I can’t.”

Snow spoke the words aloud. It was something she did often. A
symptom of solitariness, she told herself, not of madness.

It was also exercise for her vocal cords. Three on-air hours
five nights a week required practice. If she didn’t talk to herself, especially
on weekends, her voice would rust with disuse.

Not madness.

Just loneliness.

Snow was pushing away from the unread newspaper when the
phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Snow. It’s Helen. I hope it’s not too early to call.”

“Helen. Hi. No, it’s not too early.” Snow glanced at the
clock. Noon. She would have guessed nine. She routinely lost track of short
snippets of time, fifteen minutes here, forty-five there, while researching a
show. But three hours . . . She was not, she assured herself, on the verge of
losing the days, weeks, and months that had been consigned to the oblivion of her
depression sixteen years ago. “No time is too early, Helen. Or too late.”

“Great. I thought we should touch base about the other guest
for Tuesday night, the one following Blaine. That second slot had been kept open
for the winner of the silent auction.”

“Luke.”

“Oh! You already know?”

“We know each other from Quail Ridge. I saw him last night.
He said he thought he would have the winning bid.”

“I’d say he made sure of it, to the tune of twenty-five
thousand dollars. Did he tell you what he wanted to discuss?”

“Fire safety.”

“Yes. That’s what he wrote on the note attached to the bid.”

“Do you have concerns about that, Helen?”

“No. It just means having two very serious topics on the same
night. Of course, going from postpartum depression to something light and
fluffy would feel strange.”

“I agree.”

“Okay. So I’ll find out if eleven-thirty until one on Tuesday
night works for him. If not, I’ll schedule a time that does.”

Eleven-thirty until one. The precise time Luke had chosen to
spend with Vivian—instead of her—on the night of the Glass Slipper Ball.

Snow had never been with Luke at the Cinderella hour.

Not even on the night of the inferno on Meadow View Drive.

It had been nearing midnight when she wove through the crowd
and climbed into the pool. But Luke sent her away . . . as if he knew she would
turn into someone at midnight he didn’t want to be around.

“That would be fine, Helen.” Eleven-thirty until one. On
Tuesday, November first. The anniversary of the fire. She and Luke would be
together at midnight. Or would they? “Will it be an in-studio interview?”

“I’ll set it up however you like. I can arrange a phone-in,
like we’re doing with Blaine, or ask Luke if it’s convenient for him to come to
the studio. Do you have a preference?”

“In studio.” Luke would assume that a face-to-face rendezvous
meant she was going to tell him what he wanted to know. And she would. The
sixteen-year-old truth, complete with its long-hidden ghost. As for the
contemporary revelation, the truth he didn’t want to hear? Unless they both
became very different people when the clock chimed twelve, her admission that
she loved him would remain unsaid.

“Will do. I’ll try reaching him today, as difficult as that
may be.”

“Difficult?”

“His phone will be ringing off the hook, unless he’s taken it
off himself. I guess you haven’t seen today’s paper. There’s an incredibly
dramatic photo of firefighter Lucas Kilcannon dangling from a helicopter as he
rescues a four-year-old girl.”

Snow looked at, but didn’t reach for, her unread paper. “Does
it give the girl’s name?”

“Hold on. I have the paper right here. The picture’s pretty
easy to find. It’s directly opposite the full-page ad for
The Cinderella
Hour.
Just a sec. Okay. I’ve got it. Her name is Wendy Hart. Her father
wasn’t so lucky. He died before he could be rescued. What a tragedy.”

“Yes.” A tragedy for all concerned . . . including Luke. He
had rescued the little girl named Wendy. But he had failed to save Wendy’s
father. It would torment him. Was tormenting him. She had seen the haunted look
in his tired green eyes.

“Anyway, when I do manage to get through to Luke, I’ll ask
him to come to the station Tuesday night. While I’ve got you, I wanted to tell
you something else I’m working on. As you know, the show will be available in
real time online, and also archived online and via audiotape. But I’m thinking
your interview with Blaine should be replayed. With your permission, I’d like
to ask the morning and afternoon hosts if they’d be willing to air it on their
shows. I’m sure they’ll agree.”

“That would be wonderful, Helen.”

“My sister-in-law is pregnant. It’s her first baby. She and
my brother are over the moon. She’ll be a fabulous mom, and he’ll be a terrific
dad. But she’s had really bad PMS for years, the kind where my brother jokes
about hiding sharp objects. From what I’ve read this morning, I realize that’s
a risk factor for postpartum depression. It makes sense. The heightened
sensitivity to hormonal fluctuations. My next call is to them, to tell them to
listen to and download Tuesday’s show. And to talk to her doctor. This week. I
want that kind of preventive information—or intervention—for every pregnant
woman out there.”

“So do I.”

“I know. Well, that it’s for now. Except . . . are you
planning to watch this afternoon’s Bears’ game? If so, you’re more than welcome
to watch it over here. My husband and his buddies would be delighted to share
their color commentary with you.”

“That’s the most gracious reminder any producer has ever
given me. And don’t worry. I’m definitely planning to watch the game. I know I’ve
got an interview with the coach tomorrow night. But I think I’ll stay here and
finish unpacking during the commercials. Thank you, though.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, one final thing, just to give you a
heads-up. When I was checking on the winning bid for the show, one of the
fundraisers mentioned another offer. Miranda Larken, a veterinarian from Quail
Ridge, wants to donate fifteen thousand dollars for the pleasure of taking you
to lunch. The fundraiser will be calling you with the details later this week.”

“Miranda Larken.”

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

“The fundraiser said she seemed very nice.”

I’m sure she is, Snow thought as she remembered that once upon
a time the very nice Mrs. Evans had looked forward to the day when she and Mira
would meet.