The Fireman Who Loved Me (22 page)

“And did I hear you call Harry’s helper Dad?”

Harry’s helper?
Whatever. “Yes.”

“So that’s how you know Brody?”

Melissa darted a look at Brody, who was frowning in a distracted kind of way. Clearly, Rebecca knew nothing about her. Brody hadn’t bothered to mention her. Then again, why should he? It had been a brief, passionate interlude that meant nothing to him.

“Let her be, Rebecca,” said Brody quietly. “Why don’t you go inside and have a rest?”

“A rest? But I’m not tired.”

“I’d think you would be, after such a traumatic event.” Despite the edge in his voice, she made no move to go inside the house.

“That’s sweet, but I’m fine now. Y’all want a soda or something? We have a bunch of Snapple, and some Diet Coke. I’d make you some tea, but this big meanie here refuses to hook up the stove yet.”

Melissa felt something give way inside her. Any secret hope of a misunderstanding evaporated. Clearly, Rebecca was living here with Brody, acting like the lady of the house. It took all her pride to keep from bursting into tears on the spot.

Haskell tugged at Melissa’s arm. “Ambulance is about to leave. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“Thanks,” she said gratefully. She couldn’t stand another minute of this.

As they left, Brody called after them, “Melissa, I’ll let you know what I come up with for Rodrigo.”

Without looking back, she nodded. Why look back, when she knew what she’d see? Handsome firefighter, gorgeous wife, baby on the way. A pretty picture, with no room for Melissa.

Chapter Twenty-two

A
s soon as they’d reached the road, Haskell asked, “You okay?”

“Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. But all the awfulness—Rodrigo so beaten up, Brody with Rebecca—overwhelmed her. “No.”

She tightened her throat to keep the tears back, but it didn’t work. They spilled over, dripping down her face.

“Aw, Mel. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not. I won’t. I just keep screwing everything up.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I should never have let him take that camera.”

“Beating would have happened with or without the camera. She’d been drinking.”

Melissa looked over at his grim profile, struck by the lines on his face. The flashing lights of the ambulance ahead of them tinted his skin red in a rhythmic on-off pattern. “Take it from a drunk. This wasn’t your fault. You did good, Melissa.”

“Aw, Dad.” More tears flooded her vision. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Too little, too late, I know.” His wry smile made her put her hand on his shoulder.

“No, it isn’t. It means a lot.”

They both fell silent. Melissa tried to imagine how much strength it must take to kick a drinking habit. “Dad, I’m . . . well, I’m glad you’re doing so well. And I’m sorry about before, at the station.”

“I quit for you.”

“What?”

“Wanted you to know. Nothing else could have made me stop drinking. So don’t go thinking you aren’t worth anything.”

Stunned, Melissa barely noticed the ambulance peel off toward the ER entrance while Haskell drove to the visitor entrance. How had he known that’s how she felt? She’d never talked to her father about any of her feelings.

He stopped the car. “Want me to wait for you? You can take the car.”

Melissa collected herself. “You don’t have to wait. It might be a while. But I’ll take the car. I’ve got to go see someone after this.”

“Sure thing. I’ll grab a cab.”

He got out. “Hope the kid’s okay. See you later, Mel.”

She watched him walk away with that one-step-at-a-time deliberate stride he’d developed since going into rehab. She rolled down the window and leaned out. “Thanks, Dad. For everything.”

“M
a, it’s bad,” Haskell told Nelly, shaking his head over his mug of coffee.

“How bad?”

“As bad as it could be. Looks like the woman’s moved right in. Melissa saw them. Seems pretty torn up about it.”

Nelly busied herself with the newest batch of molasses cookies she was baking. Clearly the situation called for as many cookies as she could churn out. If her interference caused another heartbreak for Melissa, she’d never forgive herself. She should have left well enough alone. She could practically hear Leon saying, “I told you so,” with that caustic laugh of his.
Oh Leon, how did I get this wrong?

“What’s she like?” Nelly asked.

Haskell shrugged. “Not much to my taste. Fake. She was hollerin’ up a storm, and I don’t think the captain thought much of that.”

Nelly brightened. “Sounds like a pain in the butt.”

Haskell gave a hearty nod. “Big pain. Felt bad for the captain. What are you going to do, Ma?”

She shook her head. “I’ve done enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Poor Melissa wouldn’t be in this fix, eating her heart out, if it hadn’t been for me. Your father would be ripping me up one side, down the other right about now.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Haskell said with a conviction that took her by surprise. “Well, he might be, but he’d be wrong.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I’m not the sharpest pencil in the box, but I know Melissa, and I know the captain. Better even than you do. Those two love each other, but they’re stubborn. It’s like getting two porcupines together. You gotta do something, Ma.”

Nelly gave her son a sharp look. She was so used to thinking of him as a drunk, she hadn’t noticed the progress he’d made. Now he sat in front of her, concern for his daughter shadowing his lined face, and she remembered the time Melissa had run away from home when she was thirteen. Nelly had taken her in. Haskell had been so enraged he’d broken one of Nelly’s favorite chairs and told Nelly to stay out of his daughter’s life. After that, she hadn’t seen Melissa for two years.

Now he was actually more worried about Melissa than about himself, and he was asking for Nelly’s help. How could she turn him down?

“Ma?”

“I don’t know, son. I can’t think of anything more to do. They might have to figure this out for themselves.”

Haskell gave a sad shake of his head. “Then they don’t stand a chance. I don’t see how they can work themselves out of this mess. But that woman’s no good for the captain, I’ll tell you that. She’s a handful of trouble. And that bun in her oven sure as heck wasn’t put there by the captain, and I don’t see why he should take on another man’s child, when he don’t even love the mama. He can’t love her, cuz he loves Melissa. He’d be doin’ it out of duty, that’s all, because that’s the way he is. Which just goes to prove what I already know, that he’s about the only man I’d say one hundred percent is the right one for our girl.” And he shuffled off, leaving Nelly openmouthed at witnessing the longest speech to pass his lips in years.

But what could she do? It would have to be something dramatic. Something that would shake them up. Open their eyes. Put the fear of God into them.

She turned on the oven to bake her cookies. As the flame lit, an idea flared to life.

I
n her office, with the door closed, Ella poured herself a glass of low-calorie champagne and picked up the phone. On her desk sat the business card Everett had given her. It was more than a business card; it was a ticket to her personal paradise. The name written on the card was Glen Woodman, but it might as well be Saint Peter. Or was it Paul? Whichever saint let people into heaven.

She lifted her plastic champagne flute into the air and toasted herself. Time to celebrate. Once she called Glen Woodman, everything in her life would be different. Good-bye, small-market blues. Hello, entourage.

And boy, had she earned it. Not that it hadn’t been fun. She’d never expected the kind of pleasure she’d experienced with Everett Malcolm. But pleasure couldn’t take the place of her true dream, which was to be catered to and turned into the star she was meant to be.

She took a long sip of her champagne, then dialed the number on the card, singing each number under her breath as she touched it. “Eight-six-two . . .”

“Channel Thirteen,” answered a smoothly professional voice.

“I’d like to speak to Glen Woodman, please,” said Ella, equally professional.

“Could you repeat that name, please?”

Ella read it carefully off the card. “Glen Woodman. He’s in human resources.”

Silence while computer keys clicked. “I’m sorry, there is no Mr. Woodman at this station. Can I connect you with someone else?”

“There is no Glen Woodman?” The words didn’t make sense to Ella.

“No.”

“Since when?”

“There never has been. Who is this? Can someone else help you?”

“Everett Malcolm gave me this number.”

A short silence. When the woman’s voice returned, it sounded like she was trying not to laugh. “Mr. Malcolm’s not available. Would you like to speak to his assistant?”

Ella hung up the phone as an avalanche of rage crashed over her. The oldest trick in the book. A variation on the one-wrong-digit-in-a-phone-number trick. Oh, Everett Malcolm deserved to be roasted in a deep fryer for this one.

She ran down to the parking garage, hopped in her BMW, and roared off. So what if she had no plan of action? If a burning desire for revenge counted for anything, Everett was toast.

A
fter hours sitting with Rodrigo, Melissa screwed up her nerve and called Everett. The story was far more important than her history with her news director.

This time, she was prepared. When he opened the door of his penthouse suite at the Hilton, she dodged his attempt to kiss her on the cheek. That kiss in the newsroom had made one thing perfectly clear. She was over Everett Malcolm. Way over.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “This is strictly business.” He opened his mouth for one of his trademark wry rejoinders. “And I don’t mean that in a wink-wink, nudge-nudge kind of way. If you have any vague memories of what it’s like to be professional, this would be a good time to brush the dust off them.”

He stared at her with that look of surprise she kept getting lately. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Honestly, Everett, what do you care?”

“I always felt badly about how things ended.”

“Aw. The guilt must have been unbearable.” She went to the coffee table, which looked like the best place to set up her laptop.

Everett followed. “There were twinges.”

“I hope Barb made it feel all better.”

“This is absolutely fascinating. The evolution of sweet Melissa.”

“Oh, get over it. Are you interested in this investigation or not?” Pushing aside a fruit basket, she opened her laptop and spread her notes out on the coffee table. She related to him each step of the foster care investigation. As she spoke, Everett’s flirtatious smile vanished, replaced by the alert look of a journalist on the scent of a blockbuster story.

“My temporary title is ‘Innocence Betrayed: Fraud in the Foster Care System,’ ” she concluded.

“Great story,” he said thoughtfully. “But it doesn’t sound much like the Sunny Side of the News.”

“No, believe me, they don’t want this story. Loudon was just letting me work on it to keep me happy. Now he doesn’t care about keeping me happy.”

“And I do?”

“Despite everything, I believe you care about the news.”

“I do. That, in fact, was my original reason for coming to San Gabriel, besides being tricked by your anchor. I saw your live shot.”

So much had happened since then, it took a moment for Melissa to remember what he was talking about. “Oh, you mean the City Hall fire? I was only on for a few minutes.”

“You did a stellar job. As soon as I saw you on the network feed, I knew it was time to lure you back to the big leagues.”

“
What?
”

“I want you back in Los Angeles. Back at Channel Thirteen.”

“But . . .” There were so many “buts,” Melissa didn’t know where to start. “I thought I was just a ‘halfway decent producer.’ ”

“Excuse me? I never said that.” Everett reached for the fruit basket and popped a grape in his mouth.

“Oh yes, you did.”

He shrugged. “Well, it must have been in the heat of the moment. You’re a superb producer, always have been.”

Melissa drew a hand across her forehead, feeling dizzy. Just like that, her deepest trauma dismissed.

“Well, what about Barb?”

“Barb doesn’t run my news department. None of your replacements have been up to snuff. She admits as much.”

Melissa stared at him, her mind racing. Go back to LA? It was what she’d been working toward. It would mean the resurrection of her career. No more Ella stories. No more Ella calendars. But . . . she’d have to leave Nelly. What would her grandmother do without her? Who would she boss around?
And what about Brody?
Irritated, she shook away the thought of Brody. What did he have to do with anything? Brody was back with Rebecca. Beautiful, pregnant Rebecca.

“Why didn’t you?” she suddenly asked.

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Sleep with me.” Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much it had bothered her. Everett slept with everyone, as far as she could tell. Why not her?

“Well, I could tell you it was because I thought too highly of you to toy with your heart in that way.”

Melissa snorted. “And you’d expect me to believe that?”

“It was part of the reason. But mostly, truth be told, Barb would have cut my balls off. She doesn’t much care what I do outside Los Angeles, but she protects her territory.”

All that heartbreak she’d gone through, all that angst, for such a pathetic reason.

Melissa looked down at her laptop. Maybe this
was
her chance to put her career back on track. Maybe going back to LA, now that she felt nothing for Everett, would be a good move. But somehow it just felt so . . . wrong.

“All I want to talk about right now is Rodrigo. Do you want to see the footage he shot?”

“Yes, I want to see the footage. We’ll have the other conversation another time.”

She opened her laptop and clicked on the video file she’d downloaded from the lipstick camera’s memory card. As Everett watched the footage, she knew he was hooked. Melissa had already seen it several times, but it still made her sick. The exchange of money was so blatant, so callous. Rodrigo had also managed to get shots of his foster mother beating a little girl, who was no more than three, with willow branches.

“And this boy is willing to go public?”

“Absolutely. He’s in the hospital right now, waiting to be interviewed. He’s the real thing, Everett. He’s a hero. He’s doing this for the other kids in his foster family.”

“Well, this footage is outrageous. I’ve never seen anything like it. But there are invasion of privacy issues.”

“True, but we can use it to confront the caseworker and the foster mother.”

“Do you have any corroborating witnesses?”

“A neighbor. And a former caseworker who suspected. She’s willing to go on camera.”

She had the goods on this story; she knew it and Everett knew it.

“I think we can use this in LA, even though it’s not local. As long as Channel Six doesn’t mind giving us the rights.”

Melissa recognized the opening gambit of a negotiation. “It’s local enough. We’re only a few hundred miles away.”

“No one in LA cares about San Gabriel.”

“They’ll care when they see this footage.”

They began arguing over whether it should be a week-long series or a special report, whether it was better for the
Five O’Clock
or the
Eleven O’Clock News
. It felt amazingly good to argue with Everett. She never would have dared in the old days, when she was Everett’s awed, innocent junior producer.

She got so wrapped up in their discussion, the bang of the door opening barely registered, until Everett spoke.