Various States of Undress (23 page)

“I'll let you know. Just, for the love of God, don't tell Buddy that I've been called up. I don't want him knockin' on my door or something.” He paused. “Mom, be good to yourself, okay? He doesn't have much of a track record of sticking by you.”

“I'm so happy I could fly,” she responded, ignoring his request. “Congratulations, my amazing son.”

Brett wanted to say more—wanted to beg her to see reality—but knew it wouldn't do any good. “Thanks, Mom. I'll stop by and see you before I leave.”

“You do that.” She paused. “And bring the president's daughter, why don't you? I'm tired of just watching you two on the news. I have to meet the girl who captured you. She has, hasn't she?”

“Yeah. What do you think about that?”

“I think that when a woman makes my son smile like that, I don't care who she is. Happy is happy.”

“I wish you happiness, too,” he said softly.

“I know you do, Brett. I know.” She sighed. “Gotta go.”

“Okay, Mom.” He hung up, rested the phone in his lap, and stared out the windshield.

He was so sad for her. So happy for himself. And he was scared for both of them. What if she ended up so hurt by Buddy that she just gave up hope completely? Neither Brett nor Joe would be there to help.

And what if he couldn't hack it with the Cardinals . . . again? There were cases of guys who ping-ponged between a farm team and a major league team for years before finally sinking into oblivion—washed up, their careers tainted. He couldn't let that happen. This time, he had to mean it. He had a future—because he would make one for himself.

He would make that future with Georgia.

Chapter Twelve

“S
O
,” G
EORGIA SAID
nervously. “Does this section work?” She glanced sidelong at Joan, who sat beside her in front of a computer monitor at the WHAP station. For an hour, Georgia had been painstakingly showing Joan the finished interview with Brett and had hoped that the feel-good footage—in which he talked about playing baseball as a kid—would be a nice highlight. Apparently not, because Joan wore a disgusted frown. Not a good sign.

“Knox reminiscing for ten solid minutes about his Little League days?” Joan folded her arms. “If he wasn't so good-looking, I would have fallen asleep nine minutes ago.”

Georgia held her nerves in check. The interview was supposed to air tomorrow morning, and she thought she'd done a respectable job putting it together. It had been filmed in front of a plain backdrop—she and Brett sitting in chairs, facing each other. In between them stood a small table arranged with Redbirds souvenirs. Brett did look good in his uniform—relaxed, almost slouching into the chair. She looked uptight, wearing a pencil skirt with her hair raked back in a bun. Ugh.

Did she always look like that on the air? Like a school teacher with a stick up her ass? Maybe after this internship, she would never have to be on camera again. She obviously wasn't a natural at it, no matter what people said. Brett had been right—she'd been given a lot of leeway because of who she was. She hadn't asked for leeway, but she also hadn't asked for endless, picky disapproval from her boss. Joan was thorough—Georgia admitted that—but Joan was also sorely lacking in positive criticism skills.

“Are you listening to me, Georgia?”

Georgia nodded. “Yes. The Little League section can be trimmed down, or I'll replace it with something else.”

“Like what?”

“I have a lot of footage from Redbirds games and—”

“You're not getting it, Georgia. This interview doesn't reach through the screen and grab people. We need grabbing.” Joan paused the video. “What about his family? What about his brother?”

“Oh, the next section is Brett talking about Joe. If you fast forward . . .” She reached for the mouse, and Joan pulled it away.

“More of Brett Knox talking?”

Well, yeah. What else would he be doing? It's an interview
.

Georgia smiled. “I interspersed it with footage of Joe at last year's Major League All-Star Game. It's great video.”

Joan sighed. “That's old news. I meant things like family pictures. I want a saga. I want a hometown hero story, and I think I've been clear about that from the very beginning. Viewers want to know about Knox's personal life.” She turned a steely stare on Georgia. “You were supposed to get
that
story.”

Georgia resisted the urge to fidget. She stared back.

“As much time as you've spent with him, you have no excuse for inadequate reporting,” Joan continued.

No excuse. Inadequate
. That was bullshit. It was a solid interview—it just wasn't the exploitative, tacky feature that Joan wanted.

“And since you're dating the guy, I'll bet that you have the information and you're choosing not to use it,” Joan finished. “Am I right?”

“You're right.” Georgia lifted her chin. “He doesn't think he should have to give it. I agree.” She'd avoided saying those words to Joan for a long time, but at this point, evasion wasn't working. Georgia had to take a stand.

“You agree?” Joan rolled her eyes. “Of course you do. But you of all people ought to understand the price of being famous. People want details. The juicier, the better.”

Anger flared up, and Georgia let out a sarcastic laugh. “I must have missed the ‘I want to be famous' sign-up sheet.” She snapped her fingers. “Damn.”

Joan stood up. “Okay. I've seen enough, and I'm not going to waste any more of my time. Here's what's going to happen. You, in your infinite wisdom, figure out how to turn this”—she waved her hand at the monitor—“into a real feature story. I want to see sweet, sad, titillating, whatever it takes. Make it right.”

“What if Brett hasn't led that interesting of a life?” Georgia asked stubbornly.

“Good God, Georgia! Anyone's life can be made to look interesting. It's all about the angle. You have zero angle with this story, and if you don't fix it, your internship might as well be over.”

Georgia's heart leapt into her throat. “You'd fire me?”

“No. You're far too valuable to WHAP. I just don't want you to fail in front of the entire Memphis viewing area, and I know you don't want that either.”

Fail? Georgia felt her eyes widen. Nobody had ever talked about her—and failure—in the same sentence before. It was horrible to think about—petrifying. She took a shaky breath, trying to remain impassive, but it wasn't working. She was afraid. And she must've been wearing that fear on her sleeve since the moment she'd walked through the studio doors almost a month ago. The smug, bitchy look on Joan's face told her that, loud and clear.

“There's stuff out there on Knox, believe me.” Joan checked her watch. “It's almost six, which gives you about six hours. So take the information I asked for, assemble it, and at midnight, I want you working with the night producer, completely reformatting the interview. Got it?”

“Oh, I understand.”

Georgia stood up and walked away before Joan could say anything else. As she made her way into the narrow hall leading to her office, her cheeks burned and her hands shook. The only other time she'd felt this kind of humiliation was in high school, when she'd received a C on a test that she'd taken while she had the flu. That memory didn't even begin to compare.

It wasn't just humiliation running through her now: it was resentment—and worry. What was she going to say to Brett? That she had to pick at his sensitive past as if it were a scab? And then air on it TV, all for the sake of WHAP's glory?

The hell she would.

Georgia walked to her cubicle. There had to be another way. Brett had shared a couple of candid photos of himself from his college days. Maybe there were some of him and Joe together. Maybe if Georgia added some sappy, heartfelt music to underscore the photos—hell—the entire interview, that would be enough to satisfy Joan.

But mere satisfaction was far below Georgia's usual standards. She sank into her office chair. By trying to work her way around not giving in to Joan—not doing a fluff story on Brett—she'd turned in a subpar, half-assed interview. She hadn't even come close to her own standards, but the most ironic, upsetting part of it all was that she'd made the decision to do the interview her own way—for the sake of journalistic integrity. The only comfort was that protecting her interview subject was part of that integrity. But she'd let herself down. How had it come to this? Was she just not cut out to be an investigative reporter? Or was she truly a victim of circumstance? Nobody had twisted her arm to fall so hard for Brett that she lost sight of what was happening around her.

“No,” she said out loud.

She hadn't lost sight—in the back of her mind she'd been aware—and she'd made choices. She just hadn't bothered to predict the outcome, which, at the moment, truly sucked. But she could turn it around. She had to, and she knew Brett would help her.

She picked up her phone and called him.

“Hey,” he answered. His voice sounded tired.

“Hey, yourself, Knox the Fox.” Georgia said, trying to sound cheerful. “How did the autograph session go?”

“What's wrong, sugar?”

Her levity had evidentially failed.
Everything except you
. “Um . . . Joan isn't super-pleased with the interview tape.”

“Oh shit. Why not?”

Georgia hesitated. “She thought it was too much baseball and not enough you.”

“Great.” He sighed. “So what does she want?”

“She wants your life story handed to her on a platter, no holds barred, but I'm not serving it up, dammit.” Georgia bit her lip. “I'm trying to come up with another angle.”

“How about if I give you another angle? An exclusive on something no other media has at the moment?”

“Brett, you don't have to talk about something that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, this is a good thing.” He let out a half-hearted chuckle. “Kind of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to tell you this in person, but I'll just say it.” He paused. “I made it, sugar. I'm going to The Show.”

Georgia sucked in a breath, not allowing herself to think too hard. She had to sound completely thrilled for him. She
was
thrilled for him, but the uncertainty of their future together had just started. Right at this moment. She took another breath. “Oh my God! That's wonderful news.”

Brett chuckled. “That's exactly what my mom said, word for word.”

“Well, it's true. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“So when do you—”

“Listen, how about I tell you the details face-to-face? You can be the reporter to break the news about me going to the Cardinals. Is there time to interview me again?”

“Of course. Actually, I'm going to be here all night fixing the interview.” Georgia closed her eyes in relief. “You're so smart.”

“I know that.” He chuckled. “Plus . . . I'm on my way to you. Be there in just a minute.”

“Are you driving a stick shift and talking on the phone?”

“No, Ship's driving. Gotta go. We're at the security gate of the station.”

“Wait a sec. Ship's with you? Why?”

“He wants to be standing next to me when the news gets broken. I figured I'd surprise you with an exclusive, but I guess I kinda spoiled that by letting the news slip.”

“You haven't spoiled anything. You're saving my ass.”

“Anything for the woman I love,” he said. “And her ass.”

Georgia felt her face flush. “I love you too.” She paused. “Congratulations, Brett. I mean it.”

“Thanks. See ya in a few.” Brett hung up, and Georgia pressed her phone to her lips. It was all going to be okay. Well—except for his leaving Memphis, but she'd known that could happen since day one, and she couldn't sit here and dwell on it.

With a wistful smile, she stood up and walked to the door, but let out a small sound of surprise. Joan stood there, her arms—as usual—folded over her middle.

“No,” Joan said.

“No? What are you talking about?” Georgia couldn't help it—she glared at her. “And could you not listen in on my private conversations, please?”

Joan ignored the request. “You're supposed to be doing as I asked, not trying to figure out how to work around me. We all knew there was a possibility that he'd get called up. The fact that he did?” She waved her hands in the air. “Oooh. Shocker. That's not news.”

“It's an exclusive,” Georgia burst out.

“No, you know what an exclusive is? His life story, including the story of who his dad really is. Don't tell me you don't know.”

“His dad died before he was born.” Georgia frowned.

“Is that what he told you? Some legend about Joe Knox Sr., a fireman who died on the job?”

“Yes.” She stared at Joan. “Brett was raised by a single mom.”

“Yeah, that part—which conveniently doesn't make it into your interview—is true. But the fireman? He never existed.”

“What are you trying to say, Joan? That Brett invented his own father?”

Joan shrugged. “I have no clue who made that story up, but my bets are on the mom.”

“Her name is Margot.” Georgia shook her head. “I don't believe a word you're saying, anyway. You're grasping at straws.”

“Really.” Joan let out a soft chuckle. “Why don't you ask Knox when he gets here, then? Because I know for a fact he's met his actual father.”

A wave of anxiety crashed through Georgia's middle. Could Joan be telling the truth? And if she was—Georgia had to keep Brett away from her. Ernie and Stan would help if she could explain the delicate situation in time.

Turning on her heel, she walked toward the back door of the studio, but it was too late. Ernie was standing just outside, and Brett and Ship were walking across the parking lot toward her.