Sweet Forgiveness (14 page)

Merlot de la Mitaine

Bluff View Drive

Harbour Cove, Michigan

The bedside clock flips to 4:00 a.m., and I'm actually relieved to get out of bed Monday morning. It's my first day back since my “holiday,” and Priscille, the station manager, has called a special department meeting to discuss a proposal. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what proposal she's referring to. She and Stuart have obviously gotten wind of my interview with WCHI and are calling me in to confront me.

I riffle through my closet in search of today's outfit. There's no way I can deny the Chicago interview, so I'll have to own it. I'll let them know Mr. Peters sought me out, rather than vice versa.

I choose a black Marc Jacobs suit, a white silk blouse, and a pair of three-inch heels that will have me towering over Stuart Booker. I need to appear confident today. I pull my hair into a tight clip and spray it flat, saving the sexy wisps for another day—or job. I don a pair of pearl earrings and spritz my neck with Must de Cartier, my least flirty scent. At the last minute, I decide to wear my glasses. Instantly, my girlish features become the face of a serious professional.

I'm the first to arrive at the station and head straight to the conference room, flipping on the overhead fluorescent lights. A rectangular table and twelve upholstered chairs on wheels take up the majority of the space. A whiteboard covers one wall, and a flat-screen television another. A black telephone sits on a corner desk, along with a cylinder of disinfectant wipes, a stack of Styrofoam cups, and the Keurig coffeemaker Priscille splurged on last fall. It is a space meant for decision making, not meal taking. But that doesn't stop me—especially when job security demands it.

I wipe down the table before placing a basket of my cherry almond bread in the center. Beside it, I position a bowl of wild cherry preserves and a stack of floral napkins. I fill the crystal pitcher I brought from home with fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and stand back to assess. Nice, if I do say so myself. But will it convey to Priscille my competence and gratitude, or have I just set the stage for “The Last Breakfast”?

It's no surprise when Stuart arrives next, eleven minutes early. The man never misses an opportunity to impress Priscille. But I'm a fine one to talk.

My gut clenches when Claudia Campbell follows Stuart into the room. What is she doing here? And then it hits me. This meeting has nothing to do with the potential position at WCHI and everything to do with my precarious position here at WNO.

Since Claudia's arrival at WNO two months ago, Stuart has been gunning for her to cohost my show. He cites Kelly and Michael, Kathie Lee and Hoda . . . award-winning duos who bring great ratings. Priscille hasn't bought into the idea. So far.

Is that what they want to talk about today? Will Claudia be my new cohost? My hands shake as I set a vase of daisies on the table. I absolutely cannot let this happen. Being paired with a cohost is a thinly disguised demotion. It would be a huge red flag to WCHI.

Why am I worrying about WCHI? Who knows if I'll even get that job? I have far more pressing problems. I cannot . . . will not . . . lose
The Hannah Farr Show
!

Stuart's face is smug as he watches me watching Claudia. “Morning, Farr.”

“Good morning, guys,” I say, forcing a smile into my voice.

“Hey, Hannah. What a beautiful spread.” Claudia looks over at Stuart. “You didn't tell me I was going to be fed.”

“I'm full of surprises,” he says.

And I'm doomed. Were the ratings higher last week when she substituted for me? Did the viewers love her? Tension knots in my neck. I'm busying myself by making coffee for Stuart and my future “foe-host” when Priscille arrives. Even in flats, she's six feet tall. She wears a black suit, much like my own. Her dark hair is knotted at the nape of her neck, mimicking mine. So why is it that she looks the picture of confidence, while I feel like a kid playing dress-up? I may as well have a giant nose attached to these black-framed glasses.

Stuart shifts into ass-kisser mode. “Good morning, Priscille. Can I get you some coffee?”

She lifts her WNO mug. “All set.” She takes her place at the head of the table. Claudia and Stuart scamper, claiming chairs at her right and left. I slide in beside Stuart.

“I invited Claudia this morning to help us brainstorm,” Stuart says. “She's full of great ideas, and let's face it, we need all the help we can get.”

My mouth drops. “Stuart, I've been offering you story ideas for months. You shoot each one down.”

“Your ideas are not commercial, Farr.”

I lean past Stuart to catch Priscille's reaction, but she's preoccupied looking over a stack of papers.

“Hannah, your ratings were only slightly better last month,” Priscille says. “I was hoping for a bigger bounce after your interview with Brittany Brees, but a bounce is a bounce. I'll take it. To sustain it, we'll need some killer shows.” She folds her hands on the table and turns to Claudia. “So, Claudia, tell us about this fantastic idea of yours.”

Stuart cuts to the chase. “Claudia scored an interview with Fiona Knowles.”

Wait, hosting Fiona was my idea! Okay, so it was for another station, but still!

Priscille's face lights up like a Macy's parade. “This is big,” she says. “Really big.”

I need to say something, but what? I certainly can't tell Priscille and Stuart I proposed the idea for a job in Chicago I'm hoping to land. But if we host Fiona here and WCHI finds out, it won't be my original story any longer. They'll discover it was Claudia's story, and assume I stole
her
idea!

Claudia straightens. “Octavia Bookstore is hosting Fiona Knowles on April twenty-fourth. I read about it in the
Times-Picayune.
”

I clench my teeth.
Sure you did—in the article I'd clipped—you big snoop!

“I knew we had to move quickly, so I connected with Fiona on Twitter. We've actually gotten to be pretty good buds.”

Buds? Well, I happen to be an old classmate of Fiona's, and one of her original thirty-five, so take that!
But I can't say this, either. The damn Chicago job has me in a stranglehold.

“Do you know that thousands of people are now sending virtual Forgiveness Stones on Facebook and Instagram?” Claudia says. “It's crazy!” She says
crazy
with three syllables—
ca-ray-zee
—and I cringe.

Priscille taps her pen against her coffee mug. “But a three-minute spot on the morning news is a goddamn waste. I see where you're going here, Claudia.” She nods, her brain twelve steps ahead of everyone else's. “You're absolutely right. This interview is much better suited for Hannah's hour-long format.” She points her pen at Claudia. “Good thinking.”

“Uh, thanks.” Claudia's smile twitches and she looks over at Stuart.

“Actually,” Stuart says, “I'm suggesting Claudia guest-host this episode.”

Guest-host? Alone? As in, hostile takeover? And I was worried about the two of us cohosting! I turn to Claudia, but she looks straight at Priscille, refusing to meet my gaze.

“Just this one time, of course,” she says.

“I—I'm not sure I like this idea,” I say. Duh? Of course I don't like it. Who in their right mind would want the poised and polished Claudia Campbell dipping her French-manicured hand into their well? And she stole my idea! I look to Priscille for support, but she nearly glows with excitement. Oh, God, I need to stop this train wreck!

“I realize I went out on a limb when I approached Fiona,” Claudia says. “I'm sorry if I overstepped my boundaries. It was completely spontaneous. She and I are both really excited about the interview.”

In an instant I weigh my options. I need to preserve my job here in New Orleans at all costs. I cannot let Claudia weasel her way into my show.

A flash of genius comes to me. I'll contact Mr. Peters, tell him what's happened, and hope he believes me. I'll let him know I'm not sharing the tale of my mother's abandonment. That's their story, just as I'd promised. I've got another personal angle I can use here. Yes! I am holding the trump card in my hot little hands.

“My friend Dorothy Rousseau,” I blurt out. “She received the stones a few days ago.” I plow forward before I have time to think this through. I tell them about Patrick Sullivan and how he copied Dorothy's essay. “We could have an actual testimonial, you know, from someone who's been tagged to continue the circle. Both Patrick and Dorothy could be guests on the show.”

“I like it,” Priscille says. “These two could have a separate show, the day before Fiona's appearance. A warm-up act, so to speak. Patrick can talk about how it felt to live with his lie all these years, and Dorothy can tell us about the ability to forgive. People adore stories of redemption.”

Stuart rubs his chin. “A two-part series, one a testimonial, prepping viewers for the second program, the big show, when Fiona appears.”

“Exactly.” Priscille is talking quickly, the way she does when she's excited. “We'll get the marketing team on it, have Kelsey create some buzz on social media. We don't have much time. The Dorothy/Patrick show will air a week from Wednesday.”

“This might work,” Stuart says, and turns to me. “You're sure these two will participate?”

“Absolutely,” I say, completely unsure. “As long as I'm hosting.”

“A
bsolutely not,” Dorothy tells me over the phone.

My stomach sinks. But I promised. And it would have solved everything. I stand behind my desk, the door to my office wide-open for all the station to hear. I was so confident she'd say yes, I didn't even close the damn door. I keep my voice low, hoping Stuart—aka Mr. Ears—isn't lurking in the hallway. “Just think about it, please. Run it by Patrick, see how he feels about coming on the show.”

“How he feels about admitting he received a scholarship under false pretenses, live on air?” Dorothy says.

She's right. Who in their right mind would want to do that? Problem is, if I don't deliver, Claudia will host my show without me. And she'll be wildly successful. And I'll be . . . I massage my forehead, hoping to rub the image from my mind.

“Look, we'd be gentle on him. After all, he only copied yours so that the two of you could be together.”

“Out of the question. I don't give a hog's hind end what Paddy did sixty years ago. And I won't allow his accomplishments to be marred. And that's exactly what would happen. Paddy would be vilified, and I'd come out looking like Saint Dorothy. It's an unfair setup.”

“Okay.” I let out a breath. “I can't argue with that. You're a good woman. I'll tell Priscille and Stuart it's a no-go.”

“I'm sorry, Hannah Marie.”

I hang up the phone. What a fiasco. And to top it off, I still have to e-mail Mr. Peters. My job here feels more precarious than ever, so I cannot blow it with WCHI. I stare into my computer screen, biting my lip. How will he respond when he hears we're hosting Fiona Knowles? I position my fingers on the keyboard.

Dear Mr. Peters,

As you are probably aware, Fiona Knowles is making the talk show circuit, appearing everywhere from GMA to
Today
to
Ellen
. She will also appear on
The Hannah Farr Show
on Thursday, April 24.

In no way does this compromise my commitment to WCHI, should we choose to film my proposal. Our show here at WNO will not include my personal story of receiving the stones and forgiving my mother. That's a WCHI exclusive.

My finger rests on the send button. What the hell am I doing? I'm doubling down, insisting again that I will host a show with Fiona and my mother, should I get the job. What happens if WCHI actually demands it?

“Hannah?”

I look up to see Priscille standing at my office door. Shit! I press send and quickly close my e-mail.

“Priscille. Hi.”

“Just wanted to confirm the Patrick and Dorothy piece. Did you speak with her?”

My heart rushes. “Uh, I . . .” I shake my head. “I'm sorry. Dorothy isn't available.”

Priscille's face falls. “You assured us you'd make it happen, Hannah.”

“I know. I tried, but . . . look, I'm hoping to find a replacement. I
will
find a replacement.”

My phone rings and I peek at the caller ID.

“It's Dorothy again,” I say.

“Put her on speaker.”

Something tells me I shouldn't, but I do as I'm told.

“Hi, Dorothy” I punch the speaker button and glance at Priscille. “You're on speaker.”

“Marilyn and I would love to appear as your guests.”

“Marilyn?” I remember the Forgiveness Stones Dorothy set aside for Marilyn. A doozy, she'd said about the secret she wanted to confess. But when I arrived the following day, Dorothy had only three sets of stones for me to mail, none of which was addressed to Marilyn.

“You sent Marilyn the stones?”

“No. I couldn't send them. This apology needs to be made in person. I've been waiting for the right time.”

I feel Priscille's gaze on me. I hold my breath, half hoping Dorothy's about to tell me she'll make a live apology, and half hoping she won't.

“I think perhaps an apology on the air would be appropriate. On your show. What do you think?”

I think it would save my ass. I think it would be a great story. I think . . . it could backfire.

“Look, that's very generous of you, but a live apology is too risk—”

Priscille crosses the room. “I love it,” she says into the speaker. “Dorothy? Priscille Norton here. Can you get your friend to agree to come on the show?”

“I believe I can.”

“Perfect. Let's let her think she's coming on the show to talk about friendship. How does that sound? Then, once the two of you are onstage, you can make your apology.”

Good Lord! She's turning the episode into a reality show, and setting up my dear friend for a horrible fall.

“I think that's fitting. Mari deserves a public apology.”

“Terrific. I've got to run, Dorothy. We'll see you on the twenty-third. I'll leave you to Hannah now.” Priscille gives me a thumbs-up before walking out the door. I lift the phone, taking it off speaker.

“Oh, Dorothy, this is a horrible idea. We're setting you up—and Marilyn, too. I cannot let you do this.”

“Hannah, dear, I've been waiting nearly six decades for the right opportunity to apologize. You cannot begrudge me that.”

I drop farther into my chair. “So what is it you want to apologize for?”

“You'll find out on the show, same time Mari hears it. And speaking of apologies, how are you coming along with your assignment?”

“My assignment?”

“Have you contacted your mother?”

Obviously, Dorothy has lost all sense of time. I just spoke to her about this Saturday. A pit forms in my stomach. Last night, as I lay in bed tossing and turning, I convinced myself once again that I'd been right all along. There is no need for an apology. I didn't do anything wicked. I was the victim once again, a role that's grown comfortable, where I know my lines and every nuanced gesture. But now, under these bright fluorescent lights with Dorothy hanging on the line, I'm questioning myself again. What, exactly, happened that night? And do I have the guts to find out?

“Um, yes, I'm . . . I'm working on it.”

“So what's your plan? When will you see your mother?”

I rub my temples. This is complicated . . . way more complicated than Dorothy realizes.

“Soon,” I say, hoping the vague response will suffice.

“I didn't intend to make this conditional, Hannah, but your reluctance concerns me. I assured your boss that Mari and I would appear on your show. Now I need your assurance that you'll contact your mother.”

What? She's giving me an ultimatum. Why is this so important to her?

She waits silently on the other end of the line. Like we're two boxers in a ring, she has me cornered and the clock is ticking. The show is set to air in ten days, and even though I'm reluctant, Priscille is counting on her, and so is my career. I need to seal the deal. Now.

“Michael,” I say, more to myself than to Dorothy. “It's time I tell him exactly what happened that night.”

“Splendid, my dear girl! Telling Michael is a wonderful first step. And then you'll talk to your mother?”

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

When I make a promise, I do everything in my power to make it happen. Maybe it's because I let my father down all those years ago when I returned to Georgia without my mother. “Pull out all the stops,” he'd told me. And I did. I truly did. And still, I fell short of getting my mother back home. So now, as an adult, I treat every promise as a contract, a way of making up for the huge pledge I defaulted on in my youth. Which is why I'm kicking myself for promising Dorothy I'd make peace with my mother.

It's Wednesday night, and Michael and I sit at a small table in the parlor of the Columns Hotel, listening to a local singer-songwriter. The musician strikes the last chord of his guitar.

“Thank you,” he says. “I'm going to take a short break.”

Waiters enter the parlor, and the room takes on the lively hum of table chatter. I sip my beer, mustering the courage to tell Michael about the Forgiveness Stones, and Dorothy's request, and the truth—or what I question is the truth—about that night.

I lean in and touch Michael's hand. “Dorothy thinks I need to make peace with my past.” I tell him about the Forgiveness Stones and her insistence that I continue the Circle of Forgiveness.

“I'd say that's your call, not hers.” Michael summons the bartender for another beer. “Let me guess. She thinks you need to forgive Jackson.”

“No,” I say, feeling a fresh sting at the mention of his name. “I've forgiven him.”

“Then who?”

I slide a finger down my beer mug, creating a rivulet of water droplets from the condensation. “My mother.” I look up and wait for the recognition in his eyes. Yes, he remembers the story, I can tell. He takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair.

“And what did you tell Dorothy?”

“I told her I would—reluctantly. I had no choice. She's doing me a huge favor by coming on my show. I owe her.”

“Think it over, sweetheart,” Michael tells me. “This isn't Dorothy's decision to make.”

Michael is trying to protect me, just as my father did for half my life. To these two men, forgiving the woman who stepped out of my life without so much as a backward glance is out of the question.

“But ever since I visited Harbour Cove, I can't stop thinking about my mom. Which makes me feel like a traitor after all my dad did for me. He'd be so hurt if he knew I was questioning the past.” I scoot my chair closer to his. “But Dorothy planted this seed, and I can't seem to stop it from growing. What if my father inadvertently forced my hand back then, you know, by making me choose between the two of them?”

“That seems childish.”

He was childish
, I almost say, before I'm smacked with shame. How can I be so ungrateful? “He needed me, Michael. Even though I was just a teenager, I was his caregiver. I made sure he got up every morning and got to work. I kept track of his practice schedule and games, I pretty much ran his life.”

“His substitute wife,” Michael says.

“Yes, which means he didn't want to lose me. It got easier when I started college and he met Julia. But what if he was wrong, or . . .” My voice trails off. I can't bring myself to say the word
manipulative
. “What if my mother was right and she really did love me? What if I'd jumped to the wrong conclusion that night and she knew it?”

“Wrong conclusion?”

I force myself not to look away. I need to witness his reaction. I watch as he lifts his head, then slowly nods. Good. It's coming back to him. I don't have to remind him of what happened that night.

“Your mother chose her boyfriend. Seems pretty cut-and-dried to me.”

“I'm not so sure anymore. I'm beginning to doubt my story.”

Michael's eyes dart around the room. “Let's step outside.” He grabs my hand and leads me from the parlor, like a father with a naughty child.