Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe (20 page)

Years ago when I was swimming in the ocean with Grams, I refused to paddle in the deep water. “I’m afraid of what’s under
there,” I’d said as I clung to Grams and pointed to the black, bottomless section of the ocean, where I was sure hundred-foot sharks and mutant sixteen-armed octopuses roamed.

As Grams treaded water, she tapped my forehead. “What’s in here, Poppy, is scarier than anything you’ll encounter in the depths of the ocean. An imagination is a powerful thing.”

I refused to imagine the damage Brie with her twisted mind could do if she called in. Thankfully, the name Clementine displayed wasn’t Brie’s.

“Our first caller is Brad. Welcome, caller, this is Chloe. What’s on your heart today?”

“Man, you described me to a tee,” Brad said. “Fast heart rate, sweaty palms, shortness of breath. Hard time concentrating on anything but her. I failed an econ test today.” He groaned.

I couldn’t help but shoot a look at Duncan, who looked pained at the mention of econ. Or maybe it was because he was pained to be sitting within twelve inches of me.

I cleared my throat. “Sounds like you have a pretty bad case of the love bug, Brad. Tell us about your lucky girl.”

“She’s not exactly mine. I haven’t told her how I feel about her yet.”

“Not a word?”

A nervous chuckle sounded on the other end. “Not to her face.”

“More info.”

“I’ve . . . uh . . . written her poems.”

I crinkled a piece of paper in front of the mic. “Ooo . . . we have
a love scribe. Tell our listeners, what did the recipient of your love poems think of them?”

“I haven’t sent them to her.”

“Brad, Brad, Brad.” I banged my forehead against the mic. “What are you thinking? Seriously, listen to me. You sound like a nice guy. You need to give her one of your poems. We girls love pretty words that make our hearts go pitter-patter.”

Silence.

“Brad . . . ,” I said. “This is a talk show. You need to talk.”

Next to me Duncan let out one of his rare laughs.

Brad. I needed to focus on Brad. “Brad, you still there?” I asked. “Why haven’t you given your ladylove one of your poems?”

“She might turn me down.”

“And she might not. She might adore your poems and you.”

“You think so?”

“I have no idea, but I do know absolutely nothing will happen if you don’t try. You’ll be in the dark until you jump into the fire.”

“That’s the problem, Chloe. I might get burned.”

“Brad, my friend, let’s talk about green chilies.” I shared with Brad and my audience Josie’s take on fire adding flavor. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Duncan nodding slowly. “So you have a choice, Brad, you can stand outside the fire or jump in for a little spice. It’s up to you, but be sure to call in next Monday and let us know.”

“Okay. I will,” Brad said. “I’ll do both. I’ll give her a poem and call next week.”

As Brad hung up, everyone in the newsroom gave me a
thumbs-up. A most wonderful first call. Before I could bask in the success, Clementine patched in caller number two, Vanessa, who had a different take on the love bug.

“When I’m in love, I cry,” Vanessa said. “I’m like this faucet that can’t be turned off. Of course, they’re happy tears. Oh, and another thing—I start playing sappy love songs. All the time.”

This led to twenty minutes of banter on the subject of “Our Songs.” As one caller got into a long-winded gush about old Journey songs, I thought about Duncan. If we had a song, which we didn’t and never would, it would be the squeaking trash cart’s wheels.

At the top of the second hour, I moved on to the next topic: creative ways to show your love. “Everyone knows about balloons and chocolates,” I said. “But they’re not for everybody. Good ol’ Clementine, she’d probably love to receive a handful of beets tied with a bright red ribbon.”

Clementine switched on her mic. “Purple ribbon. A better match for the beets.”

I blew her a kiss. Clem wrinkled her dragon snout but smiled.

“So, listeners, I’m asking all of you to call in with how you show you love someone.”

Ideas zipped across the airwaves.

“One time I filled my boyfriend’s locker with balloons.”

“I left a trail of chocolate kisses at the beach for my girlfriend to follow.”

“I made a mix of her favorite songs and snuck it into her car so when she turned on the CD player, it started to play.”

All went smoothly until the final segment when Clementine showed me a piece of paper identifying my next caller.
Brie
.

The single name grew and pulsed.

Hang up?
Clementine mouthed.

For the first time, Duncan edged closer to me, his knee nudging mine, but I scooted away. I could handle my callers, including possible VSPs who were once BFs. This might not even be my former friend, and if it was, she couldn’t do anything to damage me or KDRS. I had the seven-second delay switch. Anyway, the last time she called, she hadn’t pulled anything, so maybe it was safe.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “Welcome, caller, this is Chloe. How do you show someone you care?”

“Actually, this is something someone did for me.” It sounded like Brie, but not. There was something different about the voice. It had a tinny ring to it. “For Valentine’s Day last year, a guy who had a crush on me bought me a white guinea pig with a little pink nose. He named him Cupid and tied a big pink bow around his neck.”

My heart took off, but not in a good way. I vaguely remembered the guinea pig. This was
my
Brie. “A guinea pig named Cupid. How cute,” I said.

“No, not really. He kept escaping his cage and pooping all over the house and chewing on electrical cords. My mom went ballistic. She doesn’t like it when things get messy.”

“Bummer.” I checked the time. A few more questions and I could go to break. But something about that guinea pig was raising a red flag. “Did you get little Cupid some piggy chew toys?”

“No. He escaped his cage, chewed on the cord to the dryer, and got electrocuted. Saddest thing, the smoke coming from his fried little whiskers.”

Clementine looked at me, her mouth open in horror. In the newsroom where my show was broadcasting, the staff stilled. Dead air.

Duncan nudged me.

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t like the guy.” Brie let out a laugh that sounded distorted, as if Taysom had twisted it with his sound editor, and hung up.

I ignored the shiver sliding down my spine and leaned into the mic. “Oooookay, listeners, we’ll take a break, and when we come back, we’ll lighten things up as I share some fun Valentine’s Day events going on in Tierra del Rey this month. This is Chloe Camden of KDRS 88.8 The Edge, and you’re listening to
Heartbeats
, where love is on the air.”

Duncan broke to one of Frack’s PSAs.

“That bitch,” Clem said when the On Air sign went dark.

“But Chloe handled the whole thing pretty well,” Duncan said. “We didn’t need to use the seven-second delay.”

Clem nodded. “True, but I’m not letting her on the air anymore. She’s psycho.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t know this version of the person who used to be my best friend, and I didn’t want to.

The remainder of my
Heartbeats
debut remained wonderfully Brie-free, although occasionally her empty laugh found its way
into my head. At those times I quickly pushed it aside. This was my world, not Brie’s.

When I signed off the air, Duncan switched the station over to the automated programming that would run for the next twenty-one hours. I took off my headset, wrapped the cord, and put it away. I refused to look at him, even when he said, “Great show.”

“Mmmmmm-hmmmmm.” I gathered my notes and put them in my bag.

“I, uh, liked how you handled the guy with the poems. You made him feel comfortable and, by the end, confident.”

“Mmmmmm-hmmmmm.” See, I could do this. I could work with Duncan and not let my bruised heart get in the way. I stood and pushed in my chair.

Next to me Duncan stood. “Are you okay? I mean with that whole Brie thing, she didn’t get to you, did she?” He settled his fingers on my arm.

My elbow sparked with a gush of heat. Anger at Duncan and anger at the dancing sparks on my stupid elbow flared. How was I supposed to safeguard my heart if he wouldn’t stay away? I yanked my arm from his touch. “Like you care.”

The vertical line creased his forehead. “Okay, I deserve that. My life’s been pretty messed up lately.”

“Well, let’s buy matching T-shirts and start a club.”

He jammed his hands in his back pockets. “Listen, Chloe—”

“To what? To things you won’t or can’t say?” Dunc’s life was messed up, and I didn’t need any more messes, but I took a few deep breaths and waited for him to go on.

He craned his neck as if making space for words. None came. When it came to anything personal, he shut down and shut me out.

Enough. Dead-Guinea-Pig Girl put me over the edge today. “Fine, I’ll say the words for you. You don’t want to date me. You prefer machines to people. And you suck at self-expression. I accept that.” I yanked my bag over my shoulder and left the control room.

He followed. He shouldn’t be following me. Duncan may be good at keeping things close to the chest, but I wasn’t.

“But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” I said. For the past two hours I’d talked about love and relationships, and I’d given out comfort and advice. I’d gone deep into my heart, and maybe a part of me was still there, because I turned to Duncan and for once forgot he was a nice guy who worked too hard and didn’t have time for fun. “Now, if I were the kind of girl who hid her emotions, I wouldn’t tell you you’re so caught up with your
stuff
that you neglect to see other people’s
stuff
. I wouldn’t tell you that picture-perfect families have heart-shredding problems that can’t be fixed with a hammer and duct tape. I wouldn’t tell you that silence can hurt worse than mean words. And I wouldn’t tell you that you can be a first-class j erk. But I’m not someone to keep things bottled up, am I?”

I bulldozed past him and out the door, but not before I heard Clementine’s voice. “Man, Dunc, you freakin’ screwed that up.”

TODAY AT MINNIE’S PLACE!

7 a.m. Sit and Fit Exercise Class!

9 a.m. String Art in the Butterfly Garden!

10 a.m. Watercolor Workshop!

1 p.m. Quilting: Advanced Squares!

3 p.m. Pole Dancing!

7 p.m. Bunco with Sue!

WELCOME TO SWEEPS WEEK AT THE SOAPS, WHERE VILLAINOUS
vixens are at their most vile. They steal triplet newborns from their half sisters who’ve been fighting infertility for seventeen years, and they sleep with their best friend’s husband, son,
and
therapist.

Last summer during sweeps on
Passion Bay
, wicked Valerie Westcott, disguised as a priest, visited the hospital room of the long-suffering but much-loved Loretta Hooper Chesterfield Hayes, who had brain surgery. Val injected an evil yellow liquid into Loretta’s IV, and dear Lottie immediately went into cardiac arrest. Despite the beeping and spastic machines, the two nurses on duty didn’t come to her rescue. Val had bound and gagged one nurse and locked the other, along with her doctor lover, in the cleaning closet where they had their nightly trysts.

“Loretta’s never going to get herself out of this,” I’d told Grams.

“Of course she is, Poppy. Good always conquers evil. Everything will be hunky-dory.”

I needed Grams right now. I needed to hear her say that despite all the chaos and conflict, everything would be hunky-dory, because I didn’t feel hunky-dory. Brie’s twisted laugh about her dead guinea pig still echoed in my head, and the look on Duncan’s face when I stormed past him in Portable Five still haunted me. Duncan, who kept his emotions locked away and tied with a scraggly scarf, looked like I’d clouted him with a giant conch shell.

When I got to Minnie’s Place, Grams wasn’t in her room, the butterfly garden, or in any of the communal areas. I immediately checked the logbook, but she hadn’t checked herself out.

“My grandmother’s missing.” I tried to keep my voice calm as I spoke to the attendant on duty, because everything would be
hunky-dory
.

“Did you check the movie room?” the attendant asked.

“Yes.”

“The butterfly garden?”

“Yes.”

The woman with blue hair and a three-pronged cane hobbled over. “Did you say you’re looking for the new girl again? The one who has the life-size picture of Brad Pitt in her room?”

“Yes. That’s Grams. Have you seen her?”

“Try the laundry room. She seems rather attached to dryer number seven. That new girl hangs out in the strangest places.”

Grams was not in the laundry room, so the blue-haired woman
took me to the maintenance closet, then to the shed that held a pair of three-wheeled bicycles. Eventually, we found Grams in the food pantry sitting on a supersize can of peaches reading an entertainment magazine with Brad Pitt on the cover.