“Speaking of shenanigans, what’s the deal with the female deputy and the two men …” I heard a snap, then again, a thumb and index finger clicking against each other. “What are their names?”
“David Harris and Wade Gage.”
“And the girl?”
“Donna Vesey.”
“Vesey, that’s it.”
“The two guys are pretty smitten with her. Should we focus a bit more on that angle? I also hear Gage’s mother has shown up and, from what we’ve overheard from Lisa Leann, there’s not a lot of love lost there.”
“Sounds good … sounds good. See what you can drum up.” Pause. “Oh, and what’s the skinny on the deputy and that Creole guy?”
“I don’t think it’s anything except a very good-looking guy who knows he’s very good-looking trying his hand and a cute little deputy who is just not all that interested.”
Pause. Just long enough for me to realize I’d stopped breathing. Unless I wanted to be found lying face down and blue on the carpet, I decided I’d best start up again.
“Tell your lead cameraman—”
“Mike.”
“Mike … tell him to stay on Deputy Blondie. And tell … what’s the little assistant’s name?”
“My assistant?”
“Yeah.”
“Amy.”
“Amy. Tell her to see what she can stir up between the two of them … between the sexy Creole and the officer I’m sure every single man in Colorado wouldn’t mind being pulled over by.”
“That’s a sexist comment if I ever heard one, Jay.”
A deep chuckle followed by a female’s. “All right then, Ms. Sebastian …”
I heard the sound of human rising from leather, the shuffling of papers, the rolling of casters against a chair mat. I turned quickly and headed back the direction in which I’d come.
I opted for taking the stairs versus waiting for the elevator. When I’d made it to the first floor I shot out of the stairwell door into the lobby and then out of the building before I had a chance to think beyond the moment. Outside, I headed for the sidewalk extending up one side and down the other of 5th Avenue, where I slipped into the morning crowd of Starbucks-sipping New Yorkers on their way to work at the start of the week.
I pulled my cell phone out of my purse, nearly dropping it my hand was shaking so. I dialed a familiar number, then waited. After a few rings a very sleepy-sounding deputy from Summit View, Colorado, answered. “Lizzie?” she asked, no doubt having read her caller ID.
“Donna,” I said, nearly breathless and my voice trembling. “Girlfriend, we need to talk.”
Henry had been pretty quiet since last night’s meeting. Though “quiet” was not an unusual state for him. In fact, he’d been quiet for most of our marriage. In the past couple of months, since we’d been meeting with the pastor for some much-needed marriage counseling, I no longer saw Henry’s silence as him having nothing to say. I saw it as a cloak he hid behind.
So help me, it was a cloak I hoped to rip open.
Last night, with the lights off and Henry scootched to the edge of our bed, I’d said, “Henry, do you remember that old sitcom
Get Smart
, from the sixties?”
“Sure.”
“Despite our red hair, my sisters and I were always pretending we were the glamorous ‘Agent 99.’ ”
Henry actually chuckled. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Do you know what image keeps replaying in my mind?” I’d waited for him to answer, and when he didn’t, I plowed ahead. “Whenever Maxwell Smart and the Chief needed to talk secretly, the Cone of Silence would drop over them.”
When Henry still didn’t respond, I said, “It was a large plastic bubble that came down like an old-fashioned hairdryer, remember?”
“What about it?” Henry asked.
“Well, since the girls and I have been in New York, we really haven’t had much privacy. I mean, you never know when Mike or one of his crew might be in our faces. For all we know, the show’s execs are listening in on our conversation right now.”
“Something tells me you’d welcome that.”
I dropped my voice to a whispered reproach. “No, I wouldn’t, Henry.”
Henry turned to face me. “Then why are you even here in New York?”
I sighed, knowing we were about to rehash our old argument, which I decided to abbreviate. “You know … the contracts … Nelson. What could I do?”
Henry turned back to his edge of the bed without a reply.
“You know what I wish?” I said. “I wish the Cone of Silence would lift off our marriage. I wish you would talk to me, like you used to.”
“Did we ever really talk?”
“Of course,” I whispered. “We’d sit late into the night, talking about your job, our children, and the funny things that happened to me as I tried to organize my favorite projects at church. Remember how we’d laugh together?”
Henry softened his tone. “I do remember.”
I moved closer. “Remember how we used to make love?”
Henry turned to face me then. “That was when there was only the two of us.”
“There’s only the two of us now,” I said.
Henry’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “And Clark makes three.”
I shuddered at the mention of his name. “Clark was the biggest mistake of my life.”
“If you really feel that way, why are you flaunting your affair for the world to see?”
“I am doing no such thing.”
“Really? Didn’t you do a segment for your beloved
The Great Party Showdown
program called
An Affair to Remember
?”
My breath caught. “The theme choice of our party had nothing to do with my mistake with Clark.”
“After that segment aired, the blogs painted a pretty ugly picture of you. You know that, right?”
“It was only idle gossip.”
“No, it was the worst kind of gossip; what they insinuated was true. Which reminds me, Lisa Leann, have you spoken to our son to explain that gossip, like I requested?”
“Well, no …”
“Why not?”
“Well, Nelson’s seen it, but he doesn’t believe it. There’s so much trash talk about different members of our team, he thinks it’s nothing but lies.”
“Trash talk?”
“You know, they’re saying that Donna’s pregnant by Bubba from Wild Cajun Cooks, that Evie had a sex change, and that our son and Gianne are having an affair.”
His tone dry, Henry said, “How do you know Gianne and Nelson aren’t having an affair?”
I sat up in bed. “Henry, what kind of son do you think we raised?”
“It’s just that the apple never falls far from the tree.”
His verbal slap startled me. “That was unkind.”
“I guess. Sorry.” Henry climbed out of bed and snapped on the floor lamp by the lounge chair in the corner. He reached for a copy of the latest Grisham book, which he’d left on the writing desk. “Do you mind if I read for a while? I’m finding it hard to relax.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” I said as I rolled over to hug my edge of the bed. “I guess there’s nothing else to do anyhow.”
With the dawn, I found Henry standing at the window of our room, holding aside one of the heavy cream drapes as he stared into the New York skyline.
I climbed out of bed and walked up behind him and gave him a hug. “Sorry about last night.”
He glanced down at me then back at the high-rises blushing in the early morning sun. “Me too.”
I patted his arm. “Ready for me to make a pot of coffee?”
He nodded.
“Good. The Spanish omelets I ordered from room service should arrive soon. I hope you’re hungry.”
He nodded again. “I am.”
“Henry, for what it’s worth, I know I can never make you forgive me, but I really am sorry.”
Henry looked down at me. “I know.”
I felt faint hope stir my heart. “Does that mean you’ve decided to forgive me?”
“I would, if your betrayal didn’t hurt so much.”
I wrapped my arms around my husband and rested my head on his chest, my voice barely audible. “It hurt me too. I’m so sorry.”
He slowly accepted me into his arms as he breathed into my hair. “It’s just that I don’t think it’s within my power to forgive you.”
I buried myself deeper into his embrace and whispered, “But it’s within God’s power. Have you asked him to help you forgive me? To forgive me through his power?”
I could feel our hearts longing for reconciliation as he said, “If only that were possible.”
My tears soaked into his terry robe. “Maybe if we could pray together and ask God for help.”
He looked skeptical. “Maybe.”
I blinked my lashes free of my tears. “How about we pray right now?”
He slowly shook his head, then stared out the window. “I’m not ready.”
“Do you mean you’re not ready
now
or do you mean you’re not ready
ever
.”
His grip loosened, though he continued to hold me. “I dunno.”
We stood in our pitiful embrace, each wondering if our marriage could ever be restored, unsure if we were clinging to one another because we were trying to say good-bye or if we were trying to hold on. It was only when room service knocked at our door did we pull ourselves away, the moment as broken as my heart.
When Lizzie called to tell me about what she’d overheard at Kat’s studio office, I was stunned. “Let me get this straight,” I said as I stared out my hotel window to look down on the streets teeming with yellow cabs, some thirty stories below. “You’re telling me that Kat and company are about to turn the heat up? On me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I turned and stomped a few paces toward the middle of my room, wishing I still had Vonnie to talk to, though glad she was enjoying her visit with Fred. “Then how do I investigate Bubba without being caught on tape?”
“If anyone can do it, Donna, you—”
“Hold up. You also believe, as you explained last night, this contest is more than likely rigged?”
“Right.”
“Maybe my next move should be to take the next plane to Denver.”
Lizzie sounded shaken. “You can’t!”
“You know me well enough to know that once I make up my mind, nothing can—”
“But we need you here, Donna. As your friend, I’m asking you not to abandon ship, at least not yet. Think of the church, think of the legal entanglements, for everyone.”
I sighed and flopped into the overstuffed chair. “Okay. I’m willing to stick around another week. Besides, maybe we’ll be voted off the show on Wednesday and we can all escape this circus.”
Lizzie muttered, as if under her breath, “We can pray for that.”
I allowed a smile to twitch my lips. “If two agree on anything in my name …” I said, referencing Matthew 18:19.
Lizzie giggled. “I’m so with you. But Donna, what are you going to do?”
“Do?” I leaned back and crossed my ankles. “Well, I’m hoping to make a date with Bubba to see if he’s willing to, as they say down on the Gulf, spill his red beans and rice.”
After I hung up, I thought about the possibilities of how to pull off a rendezvous with Bubba. Being it was Monday, the day before our show aired, the teams who weren’t taping their parties had the day off, including Team Potluck and the Wild Cajun Cooks. So, even with the bus tours that Lisa Leann had set up for us, there was plenty of time to see if I could get Bubba alone. It wouldn’t be all that hard to reach him, especially as he’d slipped me his cell number only a few days ago. “Call me,” he’d pleaded.
Instead, I decided to text him.
4 your eyes only. Meet me 2nite at Café Camelot @ 9? Potluck Donna
Two minutes later, my phone chimed a texted reply.
Bebe, I b there 4 u
.
I texted back. Keep this secret.
Yes. This is hot hot!
I sat my phone down on the desk and grimaced. Bubba sounded a little too eager. Surely he wouldn’t try to pursue me romantically. He had his hands full with Amy. Right?
Later that evening, I applied a bit of makeup and slipped into my one nice pantsuit, a black number I wore on special occasions. I grabbed my pocketbook—the one Lisa Leann and Evie had sort-of-illegally bought for me in some back room—then headed down to the lobby. Without stopping I slammed through the double doors to the curb, where a doorman signaled a cab for me. Twenty minutes later, I got out of the cab in front of Café Camelot.
The café was nothing more than an all-night diner, a little on the seedy side. But even so, it appeared inviting as warm light spilled through its windows and onto the sidewalk. Before I pushed open the glass door, I scanned the area, hoping no one from the studio had actually taken the time to follow me. I mean, we still hadn’t figured out how they’d followed and taped Lizzie’s off-site adventure last week. So I was on red alert.
When I was satisfied I was alone, I stepped inside the restaurant as the bells over the door gave a jingle. I momentarily froze as all eyes turned my way.
If I’d had any sense, I would have taken that as the cue to abandon my mission, but instead, I squared my shoulders and walked inside.
Bubba, who looked fine in a red golf shirt and jeans, waved from a far booth in the corner.
When I arrived at his table, he reached for my hand then kissed it before saying, “Bebe, what took you so long?”
“I’m not late,” I said, pulling my hand away and glancing at my watch.
“Ah, but I have been waiting for you my whole life.”
“Lay off the charm, Bubba,” I groused as I slid across the tan cushions that padded my wooden bench.
Bubba’s eyebrows arched over a pair of intense brown eyes feathered with long black lashes. He leaned toward me, his elbows resting on the tan Formica tabletop as he cradled his chin on top of his hands. “Ah, but this is a date, no?”
The gray-haired waitress wearing a maroon bibbed apron approached with a couple of menus, which she handed to each of us. “Can I get you anything to start?”
Bubba looked up at her. “Coffee for me.” His eyes caught mine. “For you too?”
I nodded. “Make that two. Oh and …” I reached into my pocketbook and pulled out a photo and one of my personal business cards, which listed my name and cell number. “I’m looking for an old friend.” I handed her the photo and then my card. “Thelma Horn? I heard she might be working here.”