Stay Tuned

Chapter 22

A load of DVDs landed on my desk Monday morning. I spent the first hour of the day going through them and had narrowed the candidates to three possibilities. There was a perky brunette from Albuquerque, a redhead from Meridian, Mississippi, and an exotic Hispanic woman now anchoring at a tiny station in South Florida.
    
I knocked on Drew’s door. The huge plasma screen in front of him blared with sound, as did the two smaller televisions flanking it. Intent on catching even the tiniest fragment of breaking news, Drew simultaneously watched CNN, MSNBC, and Fox with the intensity of a gambler betting his last dollar on a long-shot horse race.
    
After all, that’s what the news business is about. Every morning, the contest began to see which station could grab the biggest stories. Same challenge the next day, and the next. National news or local, the game was played the same way. And Drew played to win.
    
In his tenure as a reporter, Drew had crisscrossed the country, covering stories like Waco, Columbine, and the Oklahoma City bombing. He was brilliant, but his temper and tendency to micro-manage sent him tumbling down from the big markets instead of making a steady climb. Those who needlessly challenged him were chewed up and spit out. To top it off, there were rumors of five ex-wives and bouts with rehab.
    
But Macon was home for Drew. He had a family tree that dated back as far as the most esteemed Georgians could verify. That carried substantial weight in our smaller, tight-knit community—almost as much as his many political and social connections.
    
Beneath all of the bluster and anger, I knew he had a soft spot for producers. And he watched out for me. Which meant I looked out for him, too.
    
“What is it?” Drew asked, not bothering to look up. “Damn stock market analysts,” he continued, his back hunched like he was caught in a windstorm.
    
“Can you take a look at a few candidates?” I rattled the DVDs.
    
“Yeah, yeah.” After another minute, Drew pointed the remote at the loudest television, rubbed a hand on his head, and spun around. He did a double take. “Damn!”
    
His reaction caught me off guard. Did “damn” mean good or bad? Was he talking about my hair? Or maybe he was saying “damn” about the stock market and it wasn’t about me at all.
    
“Nice change,” he added for emphasis. He leaned back in his chair. “It suits you.”
    
I felt a tiny ripple of satisfaction.
    
Unlike other men, Drew was in tune with hair, makeup, and clothing trends, mostly because they affected ratings. Countless focus groups were devoted to dissecting an “audience friendly” appearance—the kind of look that makes men want to date you and women want to be your friend. Too much emphasis either way was bad for business, Drew explained. It was a delicate balance.
    
Alyssa had never quite carried off the girl-next-door look, he had joked. Now it didn’t matter if she was Miss Universe.
    
I handed over the DVDs. “Want to watch now?”
    
“Nah,” he waved a hand and shoved them into his briefcase. “I’ll take a look tonight.”
    
Drew, instead, started ranting about the buzz WSGA had generated from the on-air fight. He was particularly focused on the huge number of viewer phone calls, leading me to believe that the situation might not have been as devastating for WSGA as I first thought.
    
“Since Friday night, calls hit over the two hundred mark, counting my cell, work, and home phone. A few people actually found it amusing,” he shook his head.
    
This morning, after about twenty phone calls to Atlanta, he had convinced the corporate types everything was under control, despite the fact that Alyssa was threatening to sue the station while Tim’s attorney had requested that every station copy of the “incident” be handed over or destroyed. Any new developments were sure to warrant coverage in the Telegraph.
    
Drew snorted a laugh. “The whole thing ended up better than reality television.”
    
He had a point. Let’s face it; Survivor contestants who all got along and sang campfire songs together wouldn’t sell a lick of airtime. In essence, Alyssa and Tim had been voted off the island. Who was next?
    
The perplexed look on my face triggered Drew’s next comment.
    
“Don’t worry,” he comforted me. “No one else is getting fired.”
     
Whew.
    
“Any chance Alyssa’s coming back? Some of the guys said she’s been driving by the station.” I tried to make the questions sound nonchalant. Inside, I was quivering.
    
“Not a chance,” Drew shook his head, then pointed at me. “But watch your back. That girl’s crazy. We’ll get a restraining order if she doesn’t quit lurking around.”
    
I offered my boss a brave smile. “Okay.”
    
“Well, I do have some good news. It’s official that Rick Roberts is coming back,” Drew rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I talked him into it. He’ll be here soon.”
    
“That’s—”
    
“I know, I know,” Drew gloated. He rubbed his hands together in glee. “It’s great! I didn’t even have to throw in the country club membership.” He paused for dramatic effect and lowered his voice. “It seems the new Mrs. Roberts is driving him a little bonkers with all of her tennis lessons and shopping sprees.” Drew went on about the details of how much money she was spending, where they had traveled, and the inside scoop about her prescription medication.
    
“Drew, maybe I don’t need to know—”
    
“Anyway,” he said proudly, wrapping up his monologue, “I think he’ll actually be saving money by coming back to WSGA.” Drew stopped to shuffle through papers on his desk.
    
I took a quick breath. “Well, let me know what you think about the DVDs. We’ll probably get a few more tomorrow. I’m checking TV Jobs, too. And MediaLine.”
    
Drew nodded. “Hey, I’m not worried. You’ve got a good eye. Run your top candidates by Joe if you have a chance. We’ll find someone.”
    
“Thanks boss.”
    
Drew rubbed his forehead. “Someone stable. Without a criminal record.”
    
“Check.”
    
“Just remember, we need the real deal. Someone with class, with some style. That something special, right?”
    
“Got it.”
    
He pointed at me. “Anyone can sit behind the prompter and do the job.” He crossed his eyes and smothered a chuckle. “Well, anyone, except Alyssa.”
    
I pressed my lips together. I was not saying a word.
    
Not. One. Word.