Air Time

Chapter Two

White wine from the minibar. And peanuts. Very glam. It’s just past 11:30 p.m., according to the glowing green numbers of the hotel room clock. I bite a snip into the plastic peanut package and flap open the leatherette Guest Services loose-leaf binder on the dresser, considering whether it’s worth it to expense dinner in the “world-class” Atrium Lounge.

Taking a sip of wine, I survey my home for the night. The Baltimore Airport Lodge. Could be anywhere, with its mass-produced faux masterpieces on the walls, fake leather ice bucket with a plastic liner. Heavily scented little soaps wrapped to look expensive. Everything pretending to be something it’s not.

Folding suitcase rack, empty. At least I won’t have to worry about packing in the morning.

Room service it is. Avoiding my lipstick, I carefully peel off my white T-shirt, knowing it’s all I have for tomorrow, then hang it and my wilted black pants in the otherwise empty closet. I’d be so bummed if it weren’t for the purse-pushing Regine. I need to tell Franklin about that.

And that reminds me I have to call him. Chat with him about tomorrow’s encounter with the Prada P.I. It kills me that designers hire private investigators to scout for knockoffs of their trademarked products. Working online and in stores, they’re more like industrial spies, searching for the secret signs manufacturers use to mark an authentic item. Not a bad gig. Next life, I’m going to be a shopper.

I throw on the fluffy white bathrobe the hotel, thankfully, provided on the bathroom door hook and plop cross-legged on the bed. Alone.

Josh. I survey the empty king-size expanse surrounding me with emptiness, missing him. If anyplace is meant for two, this is it. Pillows. Chocolates. And if Josh were here, I wouldn’t mind the no-clothes situation. I smile and hug my knees, remembering the last time there was a no-clothes situation. His daughter, Penny, was with her mother, so there was no threat of invasion by a nine-year-old. Just Josh and me on the couch, Fred and Ginger on a DVD, port wine and apples. I have no idea how the movie ended.

We’ve only known each for-I think back, mentally counting on my fingers. And then my heart gives a tiny flutter. Almost exactly a year. Does it seem like longer than that? I know every inch of his body. And I bet he’s just as familiar with mine.

I pull a downy white pillow from under the bedspread and hug it to my chest. I wonder what will happen with Josh. Whether this relationship will go the way of the others-interesting and exciting for a while, then slowly changing. Someone pulling away. Someone too demanding. Someone too dismissive. Someone too impatient. Someone too complacent. Someone’s work too important.

Mine, usually.

Suddenly I feel-sad? Out of balance. I help people. I track down criminals and confront corrupt politicians. Make the world a better place. I’ve devoted the last twenty-some years to being a good guy.

But tonight I’m alone in a cookie-cutter hotel room. Josh is cozy at home with his beloved daughter. Is that where I should be? What would I be giving up? What would I be getting? How do I know if it’s the real thing?

Back to reality. And I’m still holding the pillow. I plop it back in its place, shake off the memories. And the phone rings.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” All thoughts of Josh have vanished. Franklin, also at home, is spilling the latest from the newsroom. And the latest stinks. My voice rises to a squeak as I interrupt. “Susannah is changing our fake-purse story-to what?”

“Like I said, Charlotte. It’s not about you. It’s not about journalism. You know it’s about the ratings. The all-important November sweeps. You’re familiar with that, of course.” Franklin is using his Charlotte-calm-down voice, even pulling out his Mississippi drawl, which he knows I think is irresistible. He only uses it when he’s stressed. Or when he’s trying to charm his partner, the adorable Stephen. Or when he’s trying to get me to relax. It sometimes works on Stephen. It hardly ever works on me.

“Listen, Franko, Susannah’s a glitz-addled, glam-loving, ratings-addicted Chanel-worshipping…um, um, um…consultant.” I finally spit out the word. “Are we not reporters? Did we not go to journalism school in order to enrich, enlighten and inform? Would Edward R. Murrow do a story about how to tell if the purse you’re buying is fake?”

“Technically, I was the only one of us who went to journalism school.” Franklin’s voice has a smile in it now. “You majored in Shakespeare, if I remember correctly. And as I said, we offered to give them the inside scoop about where the fake bags come from. A big investigation. But they want-”

“They want shopping!” I stand, phone in one hand, pacing back and forth on the fake oriental rug, pointing one finger accusingly at no one. “This summer we got an innocent woman out of prison. Last fall, we broke the story of a mammoth insider-trading conspiracy. And now they want us to follow those with a story on how to tell whether your Fendi is really a Fakey? It’s pitiful.”

“It’s the demos,” Franklin replies. “Women aged eighteen to forty-nine want-”

“I’m eighteen to forty-nine,” I retort. For three more years, at least. Two, actually. I keep forgetting my intentionally ignored August birthday. “And what I want is a real story. So here’s what we’re going to do.”

By the time the room-service cart arrives with my grilled chicken salad with no onions or croutons and balsamic vinaigrette on the side, two Diet Cokes, a white wine and a pot of tea, Franklin and I have cooked up our scheme. We’re going to pretend to do the story about counterfeit designer bags Susannah Smith-Bagley and news director Kevin O’Bannon want for the November ratings sweeps. But we’re also going to work on a different story. The investigative story about phony bags we want to do. And then when our bigger and better story turns out to be an investigative blockbuster, they’ll forget about their wimpy little feature. It’s a gamble, we agree. And it could be somewhat professionally risky, we agree. But we both agree it must be done. And we have a month or so to pull it off.

“And, Franko, let me tell you what’s going to make it all possible.” I fill him in on Regine and her Designer Doubles luggage.

When I finish, he’s silent.

“Franko?” I prod him. “Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t that just a gift from the journalism gods? I mean, if I hadn’t gotten off the plane, I never would have met her. Never gotten the lead on the purse parties. And now all we have to do is check out the Web site on the Designer Doubles card, and then plan our next moves.”

“Charlotte, one more thing,” Franklin says.

I hear the drawl again, which makes me put down my Diet Coke. And frown. What does he have to calm me down about now? I wait.

“Speaking of suitcases. I went to baggage claim to pick up yours, you know? When I went to pick up mine?”

I knew it. “Yeah?”

“Well, yours…didn’t arrive. It’s lost.”

I knew it. “What are the odds,” I begin, clipping each word. Bitter. “What are the chances that Every. Single. Time. I take an airplane, my luggage gets lost?”

“Well, according to the latest Department of Transportation statistics I checked,” Franklin replies, “on the airline we flew, an average of one out of every-”

Of course Franklin knows the real answer. I don’t want the real answer. I want my suitcase. Which has my-I won’t even think about what’s in it. The airlines always lose my suitcases. But I always put my name inside and I always get them back. This time will be no different.

“What did you bring me, Charlie Mac?” Penny’s scampering in front of me, then behind me, then trying to peer into my tote bag as we make our way up the walk to Josh’s front door. The last of the fiery dahlias lining the path are struggling to flower, the ancient sugar maples in his yard beginning to promise their fall intensity. Tradition has it they were planted by the blueblood Bexter family themselves when they founded their namesake academy just outside Boston more than a hundred years ago. Now faculty housing, which looks more like a cozy Cotswolds village, winds through the narrow streets. Josh, on the Bexter board and head of the English Department, lives at number 6. At Bexter, the lower the number, the higher the prestige.

“And how are you, Pen?” I ask with a smile. “I missed you, too.”

Penny ignores my mild attempt at sarcasm. Or maybe nine-year-olds are immune to comments or criticism from the girlfriend-of-their-divorced-father. Penny and I had a rocky start. I was invisible for a while. Next she went through a phase of referring to me as “Um.” As in, “Um, Mom always lets me stay up till ten.” That was followed by a month or so of territory-marking, consisting of her jockeying for position next to Josh in restaurants and movies, as well as her insistence on wearing Josh’s T-shirts as “dresses” at every possible moment. Then one day this summer, out of nowhere, she called me “Charlie Mac.” And that’s who I’ve been since then.

But although Penny now sees me, she doesn’t always hear me.

“And Aunt Maysie says the baby’s coming in three months. Like a Christmas present.”

Penny’s oversized Bexter sweatshirt, of course, belongs to Josh. The sleeves are rolled into doughnuts around her slender wrists. Her stick-straight brown hair is held back, unsuccessfully, with two pink butterfly barrettes. As always, she needs her bangs trimmed. She’s still in her beloved pink-flowered flip-flops, hanging on to summer.

“And she says the baby can be like my sister, too. Like my pretend sister. So she’ll be Molly’s real sister, and my pretend sister. And she says you’re going to do her radio show when she has the baby. It’s so cool your best friend is on the radio. And on TV, too. Like you. Are you going to be on the radio? Can I be on the radio with you? Molly says…”

“My flight was fine, thanks.” I continue my side of our separate conversations. “Crack of dawn. I came right here from the airport. Haven’t even had breakfast. I’ve got to get to the station soon and then back to the airport, but your Dad left me a phone message, saying to come right over.”

Then, I give up.

“And of course I brought you something,” I say. Defeated by a nine-year-old. As we reach the front door, I put down my bag, and give Penny a hug, feeling her little head burrow into my chest, smelling the shampoo in her tangle of nut-brown hair. I also pick up a faint scent of…chocolate? Could this be my new life? A daughter to greet me? A house in a neighborhood?

The front door opens, as if by family magic or pheromone ESP. Josh, also in flip-flops and jeans and his favorite gray Bexter sweatshirt, takes the two front steps as one. His pepper-and-salt hair is still morning mussed. His greeting is muffled as his arms encircle me, strong but gentle, my face snuggling into its familiar place in his shoulder. My body remembers his every contour, fitting, settling, connecting. Talk about home.

I feel him sigh as he lets go. He steps back, keeping my hands in his, looking down at me.

“Hey, sweets. Welcome back,” he says. “I-Penny and I-”

There’s a look on his face, a flicker behind his tortoise-shell glasses I don’t quite recognize.

“Charlie Mac brought me something! Do you think she brought you something?” Penny’s tugging at her father’s arm, her standard tactic every time she thinks too much of Josh’s attention is directed at me. After almost a year together, at least I finally learned I don’t need to compete. There’s room for both of us in Josh’s life.

I’m still trying to read his expression. “What?” I ask.

Josh rakes a hand through his already-tousled pepper-and-salt hair, then puts one arm around each of us. “My girls,” he says. “Let’s go inside.”

“But what were you saying?” I persist, as we crowd, still connected, into the front hallway. I can usually read him, know what he’s thinking sometimes before he does. But now, no. “You and Penny-what?”

He glances at his daughter, who’s hopping from one foot to the other. Just about out of patience. And perhaps, in the way. I get it.

“Hey, Penneroo,” I say, pulling a crinkly plastic sack out of my tote bag. It’s a package of Hello Kitty barrettes from the airport. And a do-it-yourself balsa wood plane. And a T-shirt from the journalism conference with the First Amendment printed on the front. Just covering all bases. “Take this up to your secret place and check it out.”

The lure of loot overcomes her need to monitor her father’s activities. She scoops up the bag and heads to her spot under the attic stairs.

Josh smiles and takes my hand again, leading me down the sunlit hall. Family photos once covered the walls here, as they do in my apartment. But the Gelston gallery is now checkered with empty places. Photos removed by divorce. Are they now hanging on Victoria’s walls? Or maybe stored somewhere, the remnants of his ex-family. Memories fading with the images.

“Coffee?” Josh asks, as we arrive in the kitchen. An open box of Cocoa Puffs is on the counter, which probably explains Penny’s chocolate aroma. “Food? Of some kind? I could make…eggs? Guess you don’t want Cocoa Puffs.” He closes the cereal box, and puts it in a cabinet. He looks at his watch. Josh is fidgeting. And he doesn’t fidget. “Is it too early for lunch? It’s too early for lunch. And I know you have to get back to the station.”

I pull a green wrought iron stool up to the ivory-speckled Formica island in the center of the kitchen and perch on the wicker seat. I nervously examine a clumsily raffia-wrapped container of pens and pencils, probably one of Penny’s school projects. I suddenly remember I haven’t changed clothes since yesterday. Maybe I should have gone to my apartment first. Maybe I should have showered? I feel one foot begin to jiggle. Josh has seen me look worse. But he’s certainly distracted by something.

“Coffee, of course, you know me,” I say. I’m wary, but maybe I’m wrong. I troll for info. And try to fill the unusual gully of silence between us. “But I can be here for a little while before they start hunting me down. So. What’s up? Your message? You guys okay? Penny fine? Bexter fine? Victoria and what’s-his-name fine?”

His name is Elliott, but Victoria’s husband, Penny’s stepfather, is the one who must not be named around here. Last time Josh looked like this, it was the “Victoria wants to dump what’s-his-name and get back with me and Penny” trauma. Terrifying. But turned out that didn’t happen.

Josh yanks the metal top from a new can of coffee, the air filling with that unmistakably tantalizing caffeinated perfume. He starts to scoop out a portion, then stops. He pours the coffee grounds back into the can. He turns back to me, leaning against the kitchen counter. Pushes up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Crosses his arms.

Body language saying: here comes something bad.

He uncrosses his arms. Holds them out toward me, open.

Okay, maybe it’s something good.

“I was in the bursar’s office, yesterday. And you know Eleanor always has the television on in there. Sound off, pictures on.” Josh crosses his arms again. And he looks serious. “She says since September 11, you’ve got to monitor for breaking news.”

I open my mouth to make some sort of pro-television, thank goodness for viewers remark, but something in Josh’s demeanor stops me. “Uh-huh, sure,” I say.

“And I was in her office when the news of the plane crash in Baltimore came on. What they thought was the plane crash, at least.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I almost lost it, Charlie. I almost lost it. That’s why I was so unsettled in that phone message. There was a moment when I thought you might be gone. Forever.”

“But it wasn’t really-Franklin called you-and my plane wasn’t-”

“I know, I know.” Josh pulls up the kitchen stool across from me. “I’m not saying it was logical. And it was just, well, I thought of that shooting star we saw on our first date. How big the universe is. How small we are. How out of control.” He takes my hand, examines my palm, turns it over, then back. Looks at me again. “And I thought-Charlie’s gone. And I had just found her.”

I realize I’m fingering my necklace, a star of pave diamonds Josh gave me in honor of our shooting-star evening almost a year ago. Our first date. After midnight, in the front seat of my Jeep. Neither of us wanting to say goodbye. We both saw a shooting star, and Josh insisted that required a kiss. Our first. I haven’t kissed another man since.

I realize I thought of Josh, too, last night. And Penny. As I raced through the Baltimore airport to what was supposed to be my live shot, even in my panic for airtime and a big story I’d yearned to call them. To tell them I was okay. I’m the big-time crusading journalist. Independent. Free. It was the first time in years, decades, I’d even thought of letting someone know I was safe.

“And the thought of losing you,” Josh continues. “It was galvanizing. I adore you, Charlie. I don’t want to live without you. You must know that. You know that, right? And do you feel the same way? You do, don’t you?”

“I-you-we-” I’m searching for answers to his questions. And I’m wondering, gradually, suddenly, whether there’s a bigger one coming up.

Josh is patting the pockets of his jeans.

My heart stops. Races. Stops. Races.

“It all happened so fast,” he’s saying. “And I wish I had more time.” He pauses. “But I don’t.” He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, then takes a pen from Penny’s raffia container. He begins to write, hiding the page from me with a cocked shoulder.

“What?” I’m confused. My heart’s imagination had envisioned a little robin’s-egg-blue box, tied with white satin ribbon, emerging from one of those pockets. But paper?

Josh twinkles at me, looking up from under his unfairly long eyelashes. “You’re the genuine article, Miz McNally. The real thing. And I think we ought to have it in writing.” He folds the paper in half, then half again, then holds it out to me. He’s smiling, but his face has the second unreadable look of the day. “What do you say to this?”

I don’t like surprises. But I do like Josh. Love Josh. Do I want to marry Josh? I do. I don’t. I do. Seems like I’m going to have to answer that pretty damn soon. If this, um, unfolds as I predict-I’m going to have to answer it right now.

My foot is still jiggling as I accept the square of paper. Unfold it once. Twice.

It’s a change of address form from the United States Postal Service. Josh has filled in the blanks. Under “new address,” it now shows:

Charlotte Ann McNally

6 Bexter Drive

Brookline, MA

Josh is looking at me. Expectantly.

Dear Miss Manners. My boyfriend, who I crave and adore, has just asked me to marry him. Or maybe not. I’m a 47-year-old reporter and he’s a 49-year-old English professor, so you’d think we’d be able to communicate with some clarity, and that’s often true. But this time, I’m not sure I understand exactly what he’s talking about. Should I just say yes, and then clarify what it is I’m agreeing to? Marriage? Or living-as my newlywed mother would pronounce it-in sin? Or do I risk ruining the potentially most romantic moment of my life by asking for clarification first?

And, Miss Manners, how do I know if it’s the real thing?

“Charlie Mac! Duck!” Some unseen projectile swoops across the room, snags through my hair, then crashes into the pencil jar. Penny’s not far behind, waving her arms, running, her flip-flops slapping on the linoleum. “Did you see that? Daddy? Daddy? Did you see that? I can fly my plane! It flew, just like real!”

The balsa wood plane I brought Penny has come to a landing, precariously tilt-winged, on the kitchen’s Formica runway. Penny grabs it, pretending to fly it into her father. Apparently her daddy-time alarm signaled we’ve been alone too long.

Josh glances at me, then defends himself from Penny’s invading air force. My future is at stake. And a little girl flies an airplane into the room. I hate flying.

“Watch it, kiddo,” Josh says. “No airplanes in the house. That goes outside. Now.”

Penny puts one foot on her bare knee, standing stork-like, apparently considering her options. “You come out with me, daddo. Charlie Mac can… Can…Well how about if I fly it inside but I don’t let go? That’s perfectly okay, right?”

Nothing like an nine-year-old attempting to chaperone two adults. Penny’s in full swing now, holding the plane in one hand and piloting it through the room.

Josh comes around beside me, takes my hand and keeps hold as he wraps his arm around me. “I don’t want to push you, Charlie. But I’m not going to let go of this topic, either.”

I look up at him, as confused as I’ve ever been. I always know what to say. That’s my job. Now I’m as inarticulate as a newbie on a job interview. Do it, McNally. All you have to say is: are you asking me to marry you?

With a hoot and a roar of jet engine noise, Penny flies out the back door. The screen door slams, and we’re alone. And then my cell phone rings. And then my beeper goes off.

“Your master’s voice,” Josh says. “I know you must obey.” With a grin, he lifts me by the waist and perches me on the kitchen island, holding me there. He looks into my eyes. Challenging.

“Penny’s headed back to Victoria’s this afternoon. Do you, Charlotte Ann McNally, promise to come back here-tonight? Do you promise to think about me? Do you promise to consider what I’ve said?”

I’ll figure this out somehow.

“I do,” I reply.