Drive Time

Chapter Three

“Tough morning, Charlotte?” Franklin turns his head like an owl and keeps one hand on his mouse, clicking his monitor screen closed. He peers at me from under his glasses, then gestures at the battered wood-framed mirror we’ve got pushpinned to the office wall. “Unless you were actually going for the wet-poodle look. In which case, congrats.”

“It’s snowing, Franko,” I say, checking the mirror. He’s right. I deposit my waterlogged latte on my desk, then yank open my metal desk drawer.

Franklin’s file drawer contains files. Mine has a 1600-watt hair dryer, a round hairbrush, hair spray, nail-polish remover, black panty hose, a backup pair of black panty hose, nude panty hose, a backup pair of nude panty hose, contact-lens solution, a bag of almonds, a tin of tea bags, a thing of Tums and several thousand Advil. I pull out the dryer.

“Take off your coat, then I’ll tell you the news,” Franklin says.

“What news? Good news?” I ask, peeling off my soggy coat. “Progress on the car thing? Emmy in our future? Story for the February ratings sweeps? We keep our jobs and everyone lives happily ever after?”

I stash my wet boots under my desk and unzip my black pumps from my tote bag. At least they stayed dry. Now Franklin needs payback for the unnecessary poodle remark. “Oh, I get it. You’re stalling. Because you can’t find anything.”

With a snap, Franklin swivels back to his computer, clicks his mouse and then taps his keyboard while he talks. “Yes, Charlotte, you’re so very perceptive. But before you find yourself a better producer, feast your eyes on this. May I present to you-” he pauses, apparently savoring his big reveal, “-the good news. The Web site of the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration.”

“NHTSA.” I say. Nitsa. “It’s all there? All we need? Right on the Web site?”

Franklin taps a finger to his lips. “Well, yes and no. Yes, I suppose, but in a rather needle-in-a-haystack kind of way.”

Franklin clicks me through the Web site, me leaning over his shoulder as he mouses through the pages of red, white and blue drop-down menus and links. “Here’s the bottom line,” he says. “The NHTSA site does contain every vehicle carmakers have admitted is defective and have been forced to recall. That’s what I mean by the haystack.”

“Does it tell how many of the recalled cars have actually been fixed? And which ones?” I turn to Franklin, hopeful for the second time today. What he’s telling me is possibly great news. “Fabulous. Then we can find the ones that’re not repaired. The ones that are still potentially dangerous.”

“Well, that’s the needle, Charlotte, finding the individual cars,” Franklin says. He’s moving his cursor across the screen. “See? This Web site only shows which makes and models have been recalled. Not what happened after that.”

“Really? That’s absurd,” I say. I turn away from the monitor and perch on Franklin’s black metal file cabinet. “Car owners get notices when their cars are recalled, right?”

Franklin nods. “It’s all on computer. Manufacturers find the car owners by looking up the unique Vehicle Identification Number of each car. And after the owners take them to the dealer to be repaired, the dealer checks it off as done, and puts the VIN into the same computer network.”

“Exactly my point,” I say. “So the feds absolutely know which cars have been repaired and which ones haven’t.”

And that makes me angry. I wave toward Franklin’s monitor. “So why isn’t all of it public information? The feds regulate all those recall notices, right? I think it’s their responsibility to keep track of who’s still driving a dangerous car. They know it, but they’re not telling? Ridiculous. Who knows how many accidents those cars have already caused? And how many are to come?”

The system is broken. Maybe we can fix it. This is what keeps me going. I point to the phone. “Call them, Franko. Try it the nice way at first. Maybe they’ll just hand the documents over. And tell them-”

Franklin’s holding up a hand to shush me. He’s already dialed, and wonder of wonders, apparently a real person has actually answered the phone. Score one for our tax dollars.

“This is Franklin Parrish, at Channel 3 News in Boston?” Franklin says. He’s using his most polite voice, and a remnant of his mostly erased southern accent. “I need to talk with someone about recalls, please.”

I can’t stand it. I scrawl instructions on my reporter’s notebook and hold it up. “Pssst,” I say, waving the page. Tell them we got a call from one viewer, no biggie.

Franklin looks over, reads it, and nods.

“We’re just researching a little consumer-education story,” Franklin says, his voice still mild and nonthreatening. “We got a call from a viewer, you know? And he just wondered how to find out whether his car has ever been recalled.”

I nod, this is good. Be polite. Ask an easy question first, and one we already know the answer to. I go back to my notebook while Franklin continues.

“Oh,” he says, all innocent. “You can look it up online? Terrific.”

“Pssst,” I say again. I hold up the notebook. Can the viewer find out if it’s been fixed?

Franklin looks over again. This time, reading my note, he makes a torqued-up expression implying: Duh.

“That’s interesting,” Franklin says. “But, hey, quick question. If it has been recalled, can our viewer find out if it’s been repaired?” As if the thought just entered his mind. Franklin’s a pro.

“Pssst.” Say he’s thinking of buying it in a used-car lot.

This time Franklin’s look verges on exasperated. Then as he reads the note, he gives me a thumbs-up.

“Yes, he’s shopping for cars, you know. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.” Franklin puts a hand to his throat, mimes gagging. This part of journalism often includes a bit of theater. It’s worth it for a good story.

And this might be a great one. There could be millions of unrepaired recalls in used-car lots. Like I said, time bombs, waiting to endanger unwitting drivers and their families. We have to find those cars. Warn people.

Get specifics, I write.

“You know what,” Franklin says, sitting up a little straighter. I can hear his voice hardening. “You must have records of this, I’m sure. Instead of spending time looking for my viewer’s request, why don’t you send us the records for the past three years. All the cars that have been recalled but not repaired. By date, by manufacturer and by model type and year. We’d prefer to have the data sent electronically, not on paper.”

This should all be public information. I hold it up, and then put it down. It’s outrageous! I scrawl in double-size letters. I hold up my instructions again. “Pssst.”

Franklin’s glare could curl my hair, if it weren’t already ridiculously curly. He swivels his chair away, all drama, putting his back to me and covering his ear with his free hand.

An e-mail pings into view. It’s from Kevin O’Bannon. Cue the suspense music.

Come to my office. ASAP. Confidential.

Music up full. I glance at Franklin, who’s still deep into negotiations.

A summons to the news director’s office. A summons I’m not supposed to discuss. And what could be confidential? In an instant, my brain catalogs my recent actions. Do they think I’m taking too many pencils from the mail room? Have they found all the department store orders on my computer? Long-distance calls to my mother in Chicago? E-mails from wedding caterers? Maybe I won’t have to worry about balancing job and Bexter intrigue. Maybe I won’t have a job.

“Pssst.”

Franklin turns, wary, narrowing his eyes.

I give him my brightest smile and point down the hall toward the bathroom.

He flutters a wave and turns back to his call. I head into territory unknown.

“Have a seat,” Kevin says, waving me to his navy-and-burgundy tweed couch. He crosses to the office door. And closes it.

I sit. I worry. Something major is about to happen. Kevin’s door always stays open.

Half of the news director’s attention is always tuned to the clamor of pagers, beepers, Nextels and police radios buzzing and squawking at the four-person assignment desk just outside his office. If Kevin closes his door, he closes out the rest of the world. And news directors can’t afford to do that. Unless it’s something really-I don’t have words for how big it has to be.

Kevin sits down beside me. Unheard of. The walls close in as I struggle to predict the future. Whatever he’s going to tell me has got to be life changing. For someone. But what if it’s not me? What if it’s Kevin’s life that’s changing? Maybe he’s dying?

No.

Maybe he’s quitting.

My fear evaporates as my instinct kicks in. Sometimes I just know things. And I’ve learned to trust those times.

Kevin is quitting. It’s not my job at Channel 3 that’s ending. It’s his.

Maybe.

I shift around to face him, trying to organize my legs and choose an expression.

Kevin adjusts his sleek tie of the day, this one covered with the tiniest of greyhounds, nose to tail. The greyhounds match his perfectly tailored gray pin-striped suit. Which matches his graying but salon-sleek buzz cut.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Charlie.” Kevin stops. Clears his throat. “Bottom line. Big picture. I’ve been offered a new job. In market one. New York.”

I flutter a hand to my chest, then reach out to touch his arm. He’s quitting. I knew it. “Well, that’s-congratulations, Kev-”

“And that’s not all,” Kevin continues, ignoring my reaction. “I’ll be helming the news division of a new cable network. It’ll be the antithesis of everything that’s now on local TV. It’ll be all journalism, all the time. The depth of public TV, the production values of MTV, the nose for news of Murrow. No cute titles. No more pandering feature stories about puppies and pandas.”

“News nirvana, sounds like,” I say, smiling. “Really, Kevin, congratulations. We’ll miss you. I haven’t heard of this, though. What’s it called?”

“No name yet. Rollout’s not till May. This point, it’s all confidential.” Kevin raises an eyebrow, conspiratorial. “I trust you, Charlie, as always, to protect your source. And keep this news to yourself. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, of course, I-of course.” My brain is churning, projecting my own future. The average life span of a local news director is about eighteen months. Kevin lasted a bit longer than most. Who’ll be my new boss? A man? A woman? Someone better? Worse? I’ll certainly have to prove myself all over again. And that makes me suddenly weary of the endless game. Maybe I should quit, too. Be a wife and a mother. Be my own boss. I steal a comforting glance at my ring, twist the stone to the back so Kevin doesn’t notice it yet. Maybe this is a sign. No more TV news for me. Maybe it is my life that’s changing.

Kevin’s up from the couch, headed back to his desk. He turns, leaning against the blond wood.

In the silence, I hear the electronic hum from the bank of television monitors flickering silently on his floor-to-ceiling shelves. The muted buzz of the newsroom.

“Charlie? I want you to come with me. Move to the Big Apple. Be my senior investigative reporter. It’s the big dance, kiddo. And I’m your ticket to the job of a lifetime.”

New York. Network television. Senior investigative reporter. As good as it gets.

The diamond ring on my finger suddenly weighs a million pounds.

I trudge up the two flights of stairs leading back to my office. My dreams have just come true. Journalism prayers answered. And yet, it would all be so much easier if I could go hide under my desk. Job of a lifetime, huh? Just when I thought I had my lifetime in order.

I promised Kevin I would give him my answer as soon as the February book is over. Yes. Or no. Stay. Or go.

I trudge a few more steps, regretting my cantilevered heels, yearning for coffee. I can’t discuss this with Franklin, since I’ve been ordered not to tell him about it. And that’s not really fair, since if I move to New York, his job will also change. And he should have some time to plan his own future.

I also can’t tell Franklin about the Bexter phone calls. I can’t tell Kevin, either. And that’s not really fair, since kids might be in danger.

How many secrets can one person have?

I shake my head, focusing. I don’t have to decide anything right now. Franklin will think I was in the bathroom and won’t ask any questions. Tonight at dinner, I can pump Josh for more information about Bexter.

When I tell Josh about the New York offer, he’ll-

I stop, hand clutching the banister, three steps from the top.

Kevin ordered me not to tell anyone. And I agreed. Does “anyone” mean Josh?

“You’ve got to love valet parking,” I say, sliding out into the snowy night. A navy-jacketed doorman, umbrella popped, is waiting to shelter us to the entrance of the Paramount Hotel. Huge marble lions, sphinxlike, stand sentinel in front of cut-glass and polished-brass revolving doors. Inside is old-world Boston-chandeliers and brocade settees and gold braid and burnished oak paneling, budget-shattering bouquets towering on curvy antique tables. The city’s most elegant place for a wedding. I’d confided the possibility to my mother, who, for perhaps the first time in our lives, agreed I might have a good idea.

“How long will you be?” A twenty-something in a navy slicker slides past Josh into the driver’s seat. The back of his jacket says Beacon Valet. He slams the door, rolls down the window and clicks down the gearshift. “Overnight? Or just dinner?”

“Dinner,” Josh replies. He barely gets the words out before the valet steers the blue sedan into Boston’s Back Bay murk.

The maître d’ of the Brasserie flickers recognition as we approach her desk. Elegant in a navy suit, an updo and pearls, she says something into a silver-and-white phone before turning to greet us.

“Miss McNally, the Brasserie is delighted to welcome you.” There’s a trace of the Caribbean in her voice. Her name tag says LaVinia. She gestures us to follow her through the crowded restaurant, winding our way past white tablecloths, crystal decanters of wine and shimmering candelabra. “Your table is ready, of course. And Miss Tolliver is on her way.”

A silver bucket of champagne, dripping with condensation, is displayed on an ornate pewter stand next to our table. I look at Josh, surprised. I’d made the reservations for our tomorrow-our-engagement-goes-public dinner, but I did not order champagne. And who is Miss Tolliver?

Josh pulls out my chair. I’d specified dinner for two. But this is a table for four.

I’m juggling the unexpected champagne, the hovering maître d’ and the mysterious Miss Tolliver when another glossy navy-suited woman arrives. She’s carrying a sleek briefcase and holding a bulging Filofax and hefty expensive-looking pen.

“Renata Tolliver, the Paramount’s wedding consultant.” LaVinia performs the introductions, then returns to her post.

I look at Josh, questioning, but he’s shaking hands with the newcomer.

The consultant smiles at him, then me, then Josh again. She’s my mother’s age, just as well preserved and even more professional. Chunky gold earrings, conservative pearls. Her platinum hair is snipped into a flawless bob, which swings effortlessly as she motions to a nearby waiter. She points him to the champagne. Instant hostess. Instantly in charge.

“Champagne with the hotel’s compliments, Miss McNally,” she says. “Your fiancé called me, thinking you might be interested in having a brief chat before dinner. As I’m certain you know, Paramount weddings are the crème de la crème.”

We’re each handed a crystal flute, and Miss Tolliver raises hers in our direction. “To your own wonderful ceremony. We would be delighted to arrange the most perfect Paramount event for the two of you.”

I’m still flummoxed. My Josh? Made an appointment with a wedding consultant? I take a wary sip. I’m so not buying that.

“Your mother called. I happened to mention our dinner here tonight. The rest is history,” Josh says. He touches a quick kiss to the top of my head, then pulls out his own chair. “She who must be obeyed.”

Twenty minutes later, champagne half-gone and Josh still looking amused, Miss Tolliver is winding up the sales pitch for her vision of our wedding: the Paramount Platinum Package. My first wedding, twenty-five years ago, was the City Hall Package: fluorescent lighting and flowers from the vendor outside the Government Center subway stop. Sweet Baby James and I didn’t last a year. Now, I’m struggling to stay skeptical, but every luscious photograph of pink-peony garlands and intricate butter-cream frosting exposes some long-forgotten, deep-seated wedding fantasy. I know I should want to elope or do something simple. But I feel more like simply signing on the dotted line.

Miss Tolliver pulls a glossy white folder from her briefcase, points her pen to the embossed Paramount lion on the cover.

“My card is enclosed. Here are suggested menus. Flower arrangements. Tablecloth swatches. Photographs of cakes. The Platinum Package, as your mother suggests. And she says to tell you-” Miss Tolliver pauses, purses her lips “-well, I don’t understand it, but she says to do this.”

She holds up two fingers in the peace sign. “Is that right?” she asks.

“Mother is pulling out all the stops,” I say. Even long-distance, she can never quite let go. “That’s our sign that means ‘the two of us, in it together.’”

“She seems to love you very much,” Miss Tolliver says. She hands me the folder and stands to leave.

“She loves that I’m getting married,” I reply.

“So do I,” Josh says. He holds up his glass, saluting me.

So do I, I think. So do I.

“I can’t believe she gave us samples of wedding cake to take home.” I’m clutching my white wedding folder and two beribboned boxes of cake and psyching myself up for the big moment. And it’s not just about our wedding.

“I can. The woman’s a wedding machine and your mother is relentless,” Josh says, teasing. “Much as we love her.”

We peer through the front doors of the hotel, waiting for the parking valet to return. Josh had nothing new to report about Bexter, no more menacing phone calls. No matter how creatively I inquired, it seemed as if he’s really told me everything he knows. Which gets me nowhere.

There was no time during dinner when it felt right to bring up New York. We promised each other no secrets. I’m determined to keep my promise, but I refuse to pull another all-nighter discussing our future. So during the car ride home it is. Fifteen minutes, Boston to Brookline, and I’m dropping the bombshell. Life is suddenly very complicated.

“There’s the valet with our car.” Josh points outside. “Finally.”

We race through the snow, past the marble lions and into the car. The doors slam.

Here we go.

“So I have news,” I say as we pull away from the hotel. Trying to keep my tone light. “Guess what Kevin told me today?”

“He’s quitting,” Josh says. He punches a few buttons on the dashboard radio, tuning it away from raucously grating sports talk. “Who changed the station? Anyway, I predict he’s giving up TV to become a used-car salesman. Why not use his skills where he can really-”

“Yeah, well, funny. But yes, Mr. Clairvoyant. He’s quitting.” I adjust the boxes in my lap, hoping it won’t be the only time I get wedding cake, and turn to Josh. I hadn’t planned to say it this way, but it’s kind of ironically sweet. “Can you keep a secret?”

It took five minutes to tell Josh about my New York offer. And almost every minute after that, he’s been silent.

“Let me think” was his only reaction. In TV news, we often have to make split-second decisions. And when it’s not necessary to decide instantly, we debate the pros and cons until the very last minute. With Josh, I’m still trying to learn his rhythm and not be afraid of quiet. The comfortable jazz from the radio disappears. Chatty voices from some talk show now make his silence more profound. But I can wait. And it won’t be long. We’re almost there.

We turn onto Bexter Academy Drive. Penny will be asleep, Annie waiting up for us. Josh will leave to drive her home. Here we go.

The porch light is on as we pull up to the curb. Josh turns the key and unbuckles his seat belt. As I’m trying to read his expression, the ceiling lights click off. We’re in the darkness, snowfall ending, a few final flakes disappearing as they hit the hood of the car.

“Victoria left Penny and me because of her job.” Josh is staring out the windshield. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

I grab his hand. One box of wedding cake tumbles to the floor. “No. No. No, no, no. We just need to talk about it. I don’t even know what I want to do. It’s just-sudden. And big. And I wasn’t supposed to tell you. And maybe I shouldn’t have.”

My chest tightens. This is new territory for me. Am I already lost?

“Maybe I should have worked it all out by myself,” I continue. “But we promised, right? No secrets?”

“Sweetheart, I can’t ask you to give up your dreams. You’ve wanted this for your entire career.” Josh looks at me, as if he’s trying to smile. Then he shakes his head. “I adore you. You know that. But you know Penny and I can’t move to New York.”

Okay, statistics guys. Maybe you’re on to something. But I’m not going down without giving it my best shot. And maybe my dreams are changing.

“Drive time to New York is only about three hours,” I say, testing this prospect. I’m still clutching Josh’s hand. “If I drive fast. And you know I do. I could commute, live here on weekends, New York during the week. When school’s back in session, your schedule is just as crazy as mine. It would hardly be different from the way it is now.”

Josh picks up the box of cake from the floor and hands it to me. “We’d better go in,” he says.

The bluestone walkway to the front door is lined with graying piles of shoveled snow. We leave footprints in the newly fallen white. Through the front curtains, I see Annie’s gauzy image and the flicker of the television.

“It’s more like four hours of drive time,” Josh says. “But we’ll do what we have to do.”

“Honey, I-” I see something. A piece of paper taped to the glass of the storm door.

Josh gets there first. In two more steps, I see the message, too.

I recognize Penny’s artwork. Nine-year-old primitive, but instantly understandable. A bride, billowing veil and extravagant skirt. She’s holding hands with the top-hatted groom. Next to the Crayola couple, a beaming flower girl (or maybe junior bridesmaid), enormous pink dress, masses of curlicues around her skirt. And scattered across the page, dozens of red hearts, flying through the awkward drawing like happy butterflies.

“Looks like the votes are in,” Josh says. He snaps down the drawing with one hand and reaches toward the doorknob with the other. “From Penny, at least.”

And from me, too, I want to say. I know our future is together. I’m just not sure how. Everything good is happening at the same time.

One hand still on the knob, Josh turns to me, his face softening as he holds up the drawing. “She’s never been so happy. I’ve never been so happy. So, there’s a bump in the road. And I’m sure there’ll be more. But we’ll ride them out, sweetheart. Together.”

I hold up the boxes. “Piece of cake,” I say.

I hope I’m right.