Sweet Love (10 page)

She shrugs. “It’s not his story.” Then, dropping her voice, she adds, “It’s not yours, either, Julie. I just came over here to get a few phone numbers—you can hold your opinion.”

None too eager to engage in a catfight in the middle of the newsroom, I say in an equally low voice, “You’re making a huge mistake, Val. For one thing, you’re wrong. For another, you are going to further hurt a woman who’s living her worst nightmare. Think about that.”

“See? This is your basic problem,” she replies in a sweet girly-girl voice. “You’re innately biased, Julie. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. Arnie does, too. And . . . Kirk.”

“Kirk?” He would never have said that about me. Just the other day he was singing my praises.

As if I were a child, she continues. “Honey, that’s why you’re not going to the network—because you’re too subjective. If you can’t bring yourself to look Rhonda Michak, a regular waitress, in the eye and ask her if she had a hand in the murder of her own daughter, how do you expect to ask the presidential candidates under what circumstances they’d start a nuclear war? Now you think about
that
.”

She’s hit my soft spot, my long-standing suspicion that no matter how hard or how long I duke it out in this business, I simply lack the balls. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t still be earning close to minimum salary at an O&O (owned and operated) television station in Somerville, Massachusetts. I’d be Candy Crowley or Katie Couric. I’d be
someone.

This is why the national election team means so much. Not because I’ll get to travel and be up close and personal with high-stakes politics, but because it will prove, once and for all, that the past two decades have not been one long professional mistake. That my life counted.

Gathering myself, I say, “Okay. Like you said, it’s your story and it’ll be Rhonda Michak’s grief.”

Valerie shifts her gaze to the notebook in her hand and says, “You can email me your contacts. You know the address.” Then she goes off. Perhaps chastised. More likely, not.

Crap. The orange message light on my phone is blinking. The papers must have been covering it, I think, hurriedly punching in the code. The first message is from Michael asking if instead of lunch we can meet outside the Davis Square T station at eleven—in half an hour. Unless he hears from me otherwise, he’ll be waiting right by the entrance.

The second is from Detective Sinesky calling in an overdue tip that Amy’s body has been found. “As you might have guessed, Rhonda’s a mess and so is Ray,” he grumbles, referring to Rhonda’s live-in-boyfriend. “We all knew it was coming but, damn, for her to have to identify her daughter’s remains . . . I gotta go.”

That’s it. I have to do something about Valerie. Or Rhonda. Or maybe both.

But right now I have to see Michael and find out just what he said to Kirk that deep-sixed my career.

Chapter Seven

It doesn’t register until I’m outside that it is actually a pleasant morning. The warm, slightly moist air and the bright sunshine remind me of being a kid in summer camp weaving God’s eyes on Popsicle sticks and taking swimming lessons in the over-chlorinated waters of the town pool. Ahh, that was the life.

I’ve never quite gotten used to working during the summers. Just because we’re grown-ups shouldn’t mean we have to imprison ourselves in dark offices while around us children are diving and skateboarding and biking for ice cream. It’s not fair. We’ve earned the right to be soaking up the rays, too.

Like Michael. He’s leaning against the wall of the Davis Square T station, eyes closed, a slight smile as he faces the sun. At first it seems he’s dozing, but as I get closer I see he’s listening. Listening to the homeless man crouched at his feet.

I know this guy. Everyone who rides the T to Davis Square knows him and his constant “Spare change for coffee, if you don’t mind.” Mac or Mick or something. Normally, I ignore him and try not to make eye contact, though that’s not exactly easy since he reeks like a Parisian
pissotière
and he often insists on holding open the door and being paid for it.

I’m not eager to join their conversation, not after the morning I’ve had, so I give a shout from the opposite corner. But Michael, being Michael, waves me over.

“Hey, Julie, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Max.”

Max.
That’s
his name. “Hello.”

He sticks up a dirty hand and challenges me to shake it, which I do, if only to show Michael I’m not afraid of his little tests.

Max says, “You come in on the 9:45, dontcha? Leave on the 7:50.”

Okay, that’s creepy to have a homeless man monitoring my exact schedule.

Michael, though, is intrigued. “The trains have times?” he says in a gee-whiz voice. “I thought they were random. First come, first served.”

“No, sir. There’s a whole bunch of machinations going on, you have no idea. Schedules. Safety switches. Alarms. Antiterrorism devices. Cameras galore. That’s Big Brother’s hideout, the T.”

Next he’ll be going on about the UFO sighted over the Mystic Lakes.

“Julie might be interested in that. She’s a news reporter at WBOS up the road,” Michael tells him, though I wish he wouldn’t because now there’s a chance Max will show up at work wanting me to investigate the Davis Square T as CIA hangout conspiracy. “Take a good look at her,” he says, slightly teasing. “She’s determined to be famous someday. Could even be delivering the six-thirty national news.”

Fat chance.

“Bahh. TV news. Garbage.” Max waves his hand in disgust. “I don’t own a TV.”

I don’t take this personally because he clearly doesn’t own anything, except for that ratty coat and shoes held together with duct tape, the poor man. Perfectly fine for sunny weather like this, but what about winter, when the temperatures dip into the twenties and snow whips through the square?

Michael says, “Max was reciting ‘Tintern Abbey’—”

“Actually,” Max cuts in, “its authentic title is ‘Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey.’ ”

“By Wordsworth,” Michael finishes. “Start all over, Max.”

Max squints his yellowy eyes and, in deep dramatic tones, begins. “Five years have passed; five summers, with the length / of five long winters! and again I hear / these waters, rolling from their mountain-springs / with a soft inland murmur. . . .”

It’s a lengthy poem, that much I remember. “I hate to butt in. By the way, wonderful, Max. . . .”

He bows his head.

“However, we do have to get going, Michael. You have a lunch date and I’ve got a kind of crisis at work.”

“Right.” Pulling out his wallet, he slips Max a ten. “But make sure you come back and ask him to finish it. When he gets to the part about the Friend, I guarantee you’ll choke up.”

Max holds out his other hand to me and I, somewhat reluctantly, give him a five. Michael may have shamed me into giving him some money, but a ten is ridiculous.

“He used to be an investment banker, you know,” Michael begins, walking at such a brisk pace I have to double-step to keep up. “Then one day, he got out of bed and said fuck it. Left behind a huge fortune and a town house in Back Bay.”

This is the sweet, if terribly naïve, side of Michael’s personality—his gullibility—and I can’t help but tweak him for it. “Oh, I’m sure. Those million-dollar bonuses and summer homes on Nantucket are so done.”

“It’s true. I know you don’t believe me, but he’s legit. Max told me all he wanted to do was read. Isn’t that fantastic? The guy reads everything. Last week it was Plutarch’s Lives and this week it’s all of Wordsworth’s poetry. Took him no time at all to memorize ‘Tintern Abbey.’ He’s probably the most well read person I know.”

“You’re gushing,” I say, smiling, as we abruptly hook a right and head down an all-too-familiar block. And though Michael’s eagerness to believe in the magic of ordinary humans is endearing, I have to remind myself that it’s this very trait that got him into trouble with Carlos FitzWilliams. If he’d been less idealistic, more cynical, he might have seen before I had to point it out that FitzWilliams was a sleaze.

“You know what your problem is?” Michael asks.

“If you ask Valerie Zidane, I’m biased.”

Michael stops in front of the Storybook Café, my absolutely favorite place in the world. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. What do
you
think my problem is?”

“That you don’t gush enough. If you did, you’d be a much happier person. ” He swings open the white picket gate. “After you.”

Right. Like I’m going to buy that a homeless man’s really Warren Buffett on a literary lark. And who’s to say I’m not happy, anyway?

Inside, we are confronted with a devilish array of cookies, candy, muffins, scones, cakes, tarts,
tartelettes
, cannoli, and cupcakes.
Now
I’m happy.

“This place is out of this world,” Michael says, surveying the glass case. “Have you been here before?”

A vision of Carol, super-thin Carol, with her long neck and toned arms, pops to mind. These are the women Michael prefers, women who nibble celery and shop for skinny jeans, size 0 petite.

“Oh,” I say, “once or twice.”

“Julie!” A cry goes up from the kitchen as Tony emerges, wiping his hands on his apron. “My favorite customer.”

Tony is what you’d call “larger than life.” A huge dockworker of a man with a tattoo of Mom on one arm, his dog on the other, and a crooked black toupee on his head to top it off. “Second visit in one morning. To what do I owe this honor?”

Michael grins and murmurs, “Didn’t think you meant once or twice a
day
.” Then he blows out his cheeks and looks exactly like he did when he was sixteen making faces at me from across the dining room table.

I elbow him hard and tell Tony I’ll stick with coffee, thanks.

“Nonsense. I just finished the cupcakes. And we know how you like my cupcakes.”

I feign puzzlement.
What are these things you call cupcakes?

“A piece of advice, my good man.” Tony throws his huge arms over the counter. “You like this girl? You want her to be your girlfriend? You bring her here and keep her filled up with sweets. I’ll tell you which ones.” Then, ticking off on his fingers, he lists my many weaknesses. “Blueberry scone. Chocolate croissant. Bear claw.” Eyeing Michael, he adds with a wink, “That one she really, really likes.”

I am going bright red, Tony so has my number. Those bear claws with the flaky pastry and gooey almond filling oozing out between the “toes.” That and a latte on a Saturday morning with a good book is the ideal way to start a weekend. I don’t care if it’s like a gazillion calories. They’re worth it to maintain basic mental health.

Tony hasn’t stopped yet. “. . . flourless chocolate cake, macaroon, cupcakes. Those she’ll do anything for . . .”

“I’ll take a half dozen,” Michael says, laughing. “I don’t care. Any flavor.”

“Okay, but watch out. A half dozen cupcakes and she could be trouble. ” He goes back to the kitchen, folding a white pastry box along the way.

When he’s out of earshot, I say, “I’m really not that much of a pig.” “Julie. I grew up with you. I’ve seen you eat an entire bowl of raw chocolate chip cookie dough in one sitting. And just last Friday I watched as you inhaled five different desserts. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“But I’m not pretending.” My stomach growls, as if to object. “It’s just that . . .”

“Frankly, I’m glad to feed your addiction. It’s the only time you smile, when you’re eating something sweet. Did you know that?”

“No.” He’s not right. I smile all the time. And to prove it, I make a big effort to raise the sides of my mouth, like a clown.”See?” I say through gritted teeth.

“Here we go.” Tony plunks the box on the case. “And I threw an extra one in for the dumpling.”

I quit smiling. Granted, it’s been a while since I stepped on the scale, but . . . could I be that big?

“Don’t look so sad, prima donna,” Tony says. “I meant I put in another cupcake for your daughter.”

Twenty minutes and two cupcakes later, Michael and I are sitting side by side on a bench outside Storybook enjoying our sugar high and savoring what’s left of our coffee.

We’ve discussed Em and my brother, Paul, and whether he’ll ever marry Scooter, his fiancée for the past eight years. We’ve gone over why Michael moved back to Boston. (Washington’s too cynical, he claims, thereby raising the obvious question, “And Boston isn’t?”) We touched briefly on his ex-wife, Cassie the Virginia debutante, though Michael wasn’t too eager to trash her and for that I admire him. In turn, I was equally reserved in updating him about my ex, Donald, the self-centered psychiatrist. We even debated the Red Sox’s chances of winning the pennant again.

We’ve talked about everything but the reason we’re here.

“So,” Michael begins, balling up his paper napkin. “What’s all this about you heading to the big time?”

I’m as clueless as you are,
I’m tempted to quip. “It depends on what you told Kirk Bledsoe.”

“Was that his name? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“He’s only the most famous reporter the network has. I’m sure you watch
Noon Newshour with Kirk Bledsoe
.”

“Yeah, that’s what I do. I sit around my office watching TV in the middle of the day.”

It must be a sugar low, because he’s turning difficult. Or maybe it’s that we’re talking about the news business—not exactly his cup of tea.

“I guess what I’m asking is, is this what you really want?” He turns to me, his dark brown eyes concerned. “Washington is a town of cutthroats, Julie. Trust me. Everyone’s out for themselves and how much power they can soak up from the people around them. You can’t be invited to a party without wondering why you were asked and what your hosts want from you.”