Sweet Forgiveness (25 page)

S
tuart grabs my elbow as I exit the stage, but I shake him off. I don't want his high fives. I don't want to hear how wise I was to finally open up to my fans, that ratings will soar and this is the best thing I could do for my career. The idea of benefiting from this episode sickens me. I didn't plan the confession, and I certainly didn't do it to boost ratings.

I have to stop every few miles on the way home to dry my eyes. I can't quit crying. It's as if my on-air confession finally broke the dam. I'm naked, without pretense. I'm finally allowed to feel shame and guilt and grief and regret. I own my horrible mistake now, and the freedom of it is both excruciating and liberating.

I pull into a convenience store parking lot and dial Michael. His voice mail picks up and I remember he's in Baton Rouge until Friday.

“It's me. I told the truth, Michael. I didn't mean to, but I had to. Please understand.”

That evening, I'm eating takeout on my balcony when Jade buzzes.

“Come on up,” I tell her.

I grab another wineglass and make her a plate of red beans and rice.

“I thought maybe you'd be out with Michael tonight,” she says. “Seeing how it's Wednesday.”

“No. He's meeting with a couple major donors in Baton Rouge. You know, golf . . . martinis . . . boys' stuff. I'll see him this weekend.”

“Where's Crabby?”

I fight back a smile. “Staying with her grandmother.”

Jade raises her eyebrows. “Funny how he manages to find free time when he needs something.”

My phone buzzes. Three-one-two area code. I let out a yelp. “Oh, my God! It's Chicago.” I rise. “I need to take this call.”

“Take a deep breath! And tell them you won't come without a six-figure deal for your favorite assistant.”

“Hello,” I say as I step through the French doors. I peek at Jade. She gives me a thumbs-up, and I cross my fingers.

“Hannah, Mr. Peters here.”

“Hi, James—Mr. Peters.”

“You can imagine, I was quite surprised to see your show today.”

I smile. “You watched the show?”

“My sister alerted me to it. She sent me a YouTube clip.”

“How nice of her. Obviously, my perception of things changed from when I pitched the idea several weeks ago. I really did think
I'd
be accepting
her
apology. But then I heard my mom's story. Of course, I had no intention of confessing today, but it just felt wrong to let her take the blame.”

He hesitates. “But Hannah, you pitched this as your original idea.”

“That's right.”

“According to Stuart Booker, it was his idea—and your cohost's.”

The air is sucked from the room. I collapse onto a chair. “No. That's not true. You see, this new anchor, Claudia, she's been gunning for my job since . . .”

I hear the drama in my rant, the pettiness and blame. Now is not the time to accuse. I must take the high ground.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Peters. It was a misunderstanding. I can explain.”

“I'm sorry, too. Joseph Winslow has canceled your interview. You're no longer in contention for the position. Best of luck, Hannah. And don't worry, I didn't reveal a thing to Stuart.”

I return to the balcony, feeling a strange sense of disorientation.

Jade lifts her wineglass. “Shall we toast to the new host of
Good Morning, Chicago
?”

I sink into my chair. “I lost the job. They don't want me. They saw today's show. They think I stole the idea from Claudia.”

“Oh, shit.” I feel Jade's hand on my back. “What'd you tell him?”

I shake my head. “It was no use defending myself. I feel like such a fraud. At least he didn't tell Stuart about the interview. I can't afford to lose this job, too.”

Jade grimaces.

“What?”

“I hate to pile on, doll, but, there's more bad news.”

I stare at her. “What?”

“The station's been flooded with e-mails, tweets, and phone calls all afternoon. People are accusing you of . . . well . . . of being a phony.”

My head spins. Michael was right. People love to see a celebrity—even a minor one like me—fall from grace. I stare at her, my hand over my mouth.

“Stuart and Priscille want to meet with you first thing in the morning. I told Stuart I'd be seeing you tonight. I figured you'd rather hear the news from me.”

“That's just great. Stuart and Priscille were the ones who started this campaign for self-disclosure in the first place!”

She pats my hand. “I know, Hannabelle. I know.” She takes a deep breath. “And one more piece of news, while I'm at it. Claudia's fiancé, Brian Jordan?”

“Yes?”

“He just signed another two-year contract with the Saints. Heard it on ESPN this afternoon.”

My mouth falls open. “But that can't be. He's being traded to Miami. Claudia told me.”

“He's not going anywhere, doll. And neither is Claudia.”

I arrive at Priscille's office the following morning, as ordered.

“Good morning,” I say to the back of her head, and step into her office.

“Close the door,” she says, continuing to type. Stuart sits facing Priscille's desk and gives me a terse nod. I slip into the chair beside him.

After another minute of keyboard tapping, Priscille swivels in her chair to give us her undivided attention. “We've got a problem, Hannah.” She tosses the
Times-Picayune
onto her desk. An article by Brian Moss takes up the front page. The headline reads
THE HANNA
H FARR-FETCHED SHOW
.

I close my eyes. “Oh, God. I am so sorry. Listen, I'll explain to my viewers—”

“Absolutely not,” Priscille says. “We move forward. No explanations, no apologies. In a week or two, this scandal will blow over.”

“Don't speak to anyone about it,” Stuart adds. “Not the press, not even your friends. We're in damage-control mode.”

“Got it,” I say.

My hands shake when I step from Priscille's office. I walk with my head down, checking my phone on the way back to my dressing room. Two text messages and three missed calls. All from Michael.
Call me. ASAP.

Shit. He's seen the newspaper.

I close my office door and dial his number, certain he'll pick up this call.

I'm right.

“Oh, Michael,” I say, my voice trembling. “You've probably heard. I'm getting skewered by my fans.”

“What have you done, Hannah? All we've worked for could be destroyed now.”

I bite my lip. “Look, it's not exactly Armageddon. Stuart and Priscille suggest I lie low for a bit. Things should die down in a week or two.”

“That's easy for you to say,” he says. “What about me? I can't lie low.”

I'm stung by his snide tone, but what did I expect? I always knew this issue was more about him than about me.

“I'm so sorry, Michael. I didn't mean for this to—”

“You were warned, Hannah. I told you this would happen. You didn't listen to me.”

And he's right. He did warn me. And despite the wrath of Michael, and my viewers, I made the right decision. There's no way I could sit there and be hailed as a generous and forgiving daughter when I'd created the whole mess.

“Will I see you this weekend?”

He pauses just a fraction of a second too long, and I know he's weighing his options. “Yes,” he says. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Friday it is.”

I punch off the phone and drop my elbows onto my desk. I've finally come clean after twenty years. So why do I feel so dirty?

The studio audience is sparse today. Perhaps it's my imagination, but those who have come seem reserved and borderline hostile.

Today's guest is a plastic surgeon whose specialty is tattoo removal. He compares a tattoo to a self-inflicted branding. The term
brand
makes me think of Michael. Have I really tarnished his brand? No, not a chance. The people of New Orleans trust Michael. If he shows them he's able to forgive my teenage transgression, they'll love him more than ever.