Really Something (20 page)

Duncan's story about Chicken Flicks' use of Tempest for its movie production was everything he'd wanted it to be. Smart and witty, timed exactly right. Interspersed with a few about-town interviews, some external shots of the crew at work, the extras getting made up. And done all on his own, without any help from the Mattel Corporation and its handy-dandy Magic 8 Ball.

Of course, the whole thing had been helped along by Allie Dean's brilliant synopsis during the interview, but he might be a little biased.

“Well, that takes the news cake,” Steve said, after he rolled through the tape Duncan had finished editing. He sat back in his chair and pointed at the monitor. “Is it me, or does that woman look familiar to you?”

Duncan stared at the still shot of Allie's face, frozen on the screen, caught in freeze-frame. The long blond hair, bright green eyes, heart-shaped face. So he wasn't crazy. Allie did look familiar, and not just to him.

Or maybe his increasing disquiet as he'd put the tape together was because she was just down the street, having coffee with Jerry instead of here by his side. She'd only been gone a little while and he already missed her like crazy.

“Maybe we knew her in high school?” Steve asked, rolling the tape back, then forward, scrolling again past Allie's image.

“I've been thinking the same thing for days,” Duncan admitted.

Steve tapped his chin, thinking. “I don't know. She just…looks like someone we used to know. But if there was a blonde like her in Tempest High or living anywhere in a twenty-mile radius of this town, I'd definitely still have her phone number in my little black book, if you know what I mean.”

Tempest High. Again, the bell of familiarity rang in Duncan's head. But he didn't have time to reach for the memories, because Steve was rising and clapping him on the shoulder. “Run that piece on tonight's news. Oh, and film a couple promos for it. I want this story splashed across the next three broadcasts. With daily updates.”

“You really liked it?”

“Yep, and in fact, I'll probably regret this, because it means I'll be killing my own ratings for the weather, but I want to offer you the morning anchor slot. Take that, Matt-freakin'-Lauer.”

Morning anchor? The morning news positions were even more coveted than the evening news. Evening broadcast watching had dropped off, as CNN, the Web, and e-mail delivery of news began to take over. Most people in the area still liked a little local news with their morning brew, particularly during the school year, so ratings for the morning show remained high.

“I thought Mitch was being considered for that position.” The noon reporter had been gunning for the morning slot ever since the regular morning broadcaster announced his impending retirement last month.

“Mitch is a moron, Jane's made it clear she wants to go home and have babies, and Klein's got a contract, so we can't just boot him off the evening news, much as I'd like to. Klein is more trouble than he's worth, him and his hair in a can.” Steve clapped a hand on Duncan's shoulder. “I want you. Tomorrow morning, I want three ideas for news stories on my desk. We're going to get this network to bust some ass if it kills us.”

“I thought the network was doing well.”

“It is, it is.” Notes of false cheer rang in Steve's voice.

“It's tanking, isn't it?”

Steve sank back into the chair beside Duncan and nodded. “Everyone's butts are on the line. Corporate thought trying a new network out in this hole-in-the-wall town meant less start-up costs. But it also means our daytime viewership consists solely of Winifred Winchester and her twenty stupid cats. With news, we do great. But we need more lead into our regular programming.”

“And how is switching me to the morning news going to do that?”

“It's going to build up the only regular audience I do have, with the morning talk shows and that new soap the network is launching next month. We may get our asses whipped in primetime, but we can sure sew up those daytime dollars. And, having you there will buy me some time to figure out a miracle.” Steve ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “Listen, Dunk. You doing the weather has saved my ass a hundred times over. You keep people watching the news, which keeps them on our channel, at least at six. I can't help the shit programming corporate gives me for primetime. By switching you to days, I can take what I've got and give it all a big dose of ‘bam.'” He gave Duncan a grin. “You know me, I work with what I have. And right now, what I have is you.”

 

Being around Duncan today had definitely turned Allie's thoughts inside out. This was not like her, not at all.

Not only had she shown up for the meeting with Jerry empty-handed, but she'd ended up spending a good five minutes digging through the stack of papers in her car, looking for her notes. She'd experienced a brief moment of panic before she finally laid her hands on them.

“Allison Je—” Her mother's familiar voice behind Allie, cut off midname. “Sorry, I forgot. You're undercover. Should I call you Agent Ninety-nine?”

Allie turned around. “No, Ma, you don't have to do that. I have to get back inside Margie's for a meeting anyway.”

Her mother worked a smile to her face, but it fell flat. “Of course. No time for your mother. I understand.”

But she didn't, and it was obvious.

The parking lot was half-f of cars, but empty of people, downtown Tempest as sleepy as a toddler ready for his nap in the heat of the late afternoon. Allie knew that if she didn't take this moment to try to repair some of the damage in the relationship with her mother, the tear between them was eventually going to become too big. Despite everything, she didn't want that. “Ma, let's take a minute.”

“I thought you had a meeting.”

“It can wait. You come first.” Allie gestured to a bench that sat at the rear of Margie's, leftover from a stop for a bus that no longer ran through Tempest. The bench had remained, used now by teens as an after-school hangout, old men looking for some summer shade, young lovers seeking a little late night privacy. It was scarred and in need of a fresh coat of paint, the words S
AVE AND
S
HOP AT
J
OE'S
S
AV-A
-L
OT
blurred into something that looked oddly like a bunch of S-shaped snakes dancing across the back of the seat.

They sat down, her mother on one end, her bag of groceries securely on her lap in front of her chest, like a shield. Allie on the other, the papers in the same position. “What are you doing downtown?” Allie asked, the innocuous question an easy opening before getting to the hard subjects.

“Running errands. Mailing letters, picking up your father's prescriptions. Some groceries for dinner tonight.” She raised the bag in her hands, shrugged. “Boring things like that.”

Another dig, implying the kinds of things that Allie wouldn't want to hear about. She supposed she deserved that remark.

Allie sighed. “I'm sorry, Ma, for what happened the other night.”

Her mother waved her hand. “It's already forgotten.”

But it wasn't, and they both knew it. Allie could easily let the entire conversation end here, and in a day, maybe two, they'd fall into the same familiar pattern, burying this argument under the carpet along with the others, and all the things that had gone unsaid over the years.

Allie looked up, at the sun beating down, the same sun that shone over Tempest, then made its way westward to L.A. The same sun, the same problems, that had followed her all those miles.

And hadn't gone away, even though she'd shed the pounds. She'd changed her appearance, but deep down, had she really dealt with all that had gotten her that way in the first place?

“Why did you do it, Allison?” her mother asked after a while, her voice quiet and soft.

“Do what?”

“Go away? And not come back?”

Allie knew she could spit out the easy answer, the one about careers and opportunities, about how Tempest didn't offer much in the way of film and movie jobs, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

And she knew her mother would see through that as easily as she could see through Aunt Tilda's ancient housedresses on a sunny summer day.

“No one ever understood me here, Ma,” Allie said after a second. “I was an outsider. No, worse than that, I was invisible.”

“How can you say that? You have a family here, a family that cares.”

“If you did, then why didn't you tell me?”

Her mother shifted on the bench to face Allie. “What do you mean, tell you?”

“All my life, Ma, you never once told me you loved me.” The truth lay there, in the bright Tempest sunshine, finally spoken aloud, and then, the rest of it, rising to the surface, the words unstoppable, yet slipping past her lips in a quiet jerk of a sob, the question she'd never wanted to ask, the doubts that had never gone away. “And you were never there, never took an interest in my stories or the things I wrote. But Carlene, you always had time for Carlene.” Allie thought of all the times her mother had gone to Carlene's art fairs, choir performances, sat up late with Carlene in the kitchen to hear all about a date. Allie had felt like she walked in and out of the house, ate the meals, and was more a decoration than an active part of the family. Was that what had driven Allie to her room with a bag of chips? Was that why she hadn't been able to lose the weight finally until she got out on her own, far from home? “Never me, Ma. Wasn't I good enough?”

“Oh, sweetie, of course you were. You and your sister both were just fine. I never preferred one of you to the other.”

“Then why did Carlene get all the attention?”

Ma sighed. “She demanded it. You…you were the quiet one, never seemed to need much, just kept to yourself. Carlene, she always had to be the star. It was easier, I guess, just to keep on making her that way.” Ma shrugged. “When you were little, I could just give you a cookie and off you'd go, happy as a clam. But Carlene was always, ‘Ma, watch this. Ma, see me do that.' She took ten men and an army to raise.” Ma released a breath, then shifted on the bench. “Not so much now, though. I don't know what's got into that girl since you left.”

“Maybe I should have spoken up more,” Allie said.

Ma's soft hand met Allie's cheek for one second, then went back to her grip on the sack. “And maybe I could have, too. But I told you how I felt, Allison. In the best way I knew how. With this.” She held up the grocery bag, its contents rustling a familiar whisper of baked potatoes, pot roast, apple pie. “Why would I make all of this if I didn't care?”

Food, always food. The Gray family's favorite means of communication. Allie thought back to her childhood and couldn't remember a conversation that didn't have a plate of cookies in the center of it, a piece of pie at the tail end, a dinner or a breakfast opening. Sentences spoken between mouthfuls, the day's stories told around extra servings.

Ma, always making sure everyone got enough. That no one left the table hungry. She'd fed everyone from the cable guy to Dad's friends from the factory, using her universal language, cooking the recipes handed down to her from her mother, and her mother's mother. Generations of the same conversation.

Allie closed her eyes, blinking back the sting of tears. “Why couldn't you say the words, Ma?”

Earl's dented old mail truck headed down Washington Street, making its chugging, noisy journey back to his office. He cast a curious glance in Allie's direction, then continued on his way. When silence returned to their little corner, her mother finally spoke.

“That's not the way I do things, Allie. I just…” Ma's gaze softened and she shook her head. “I try, I really do, but I'm just not that kind of person. I
show
my love. I don't need to be speaking it all the time.”

Allie rose and gave her mother's hand one quick squeeze before releasing it. “Maybe that was the whole problem, Ma. We kept our mouths so full we never talked about anything.”

Then she went back into the diner before the tears that had been threatening at the back of her eyes made their way down her cheeks.

Duncan stared at the face in the book and wondered how such a smart man could be such an idiot. It had taken him the better part of an hour to find the Tempest High yearbook, buried in a box in the attic.

He hadn't wanted to believe it, hadn't wanted to believe the suspicions that Steve had raised, the same ones that had nagged in his own mind for the past two weeks, to be true, but they were. It
was
her after all, as unbelievable as it seemed.

“Allison Gray.” Duncan read the words aloud for the third time.

But that didn't lessen their impact.

Nor did it take away the sting of betrayal. The hurt that rocketed through his chest, launched a razor sharp spray of shrapnel. How could she have lied to him? But most of all—

To Katie?

Duncan cast a glance toward his sister, who was wheeling herself up the ramp at the backdoor, the dog trotting happily behind her.

He'd vowed no one would ever hurt Katie again.

He just hadn't expected the hurt to come walking into his house—and take him along for the ride.

“What are you doing?” Katie asked as he came inside, her face red with exertion and the exposure to the sun, giving her the youthful glow she should have at her age.

“Nothing.” Duncan slammed the book shut and quickly slipped it in among a bunch of other leather-clad volumes on the shelves flanking the mantel. In his pocket, the hard velvet box pressed against his pocket, a telltale bulge announcing his intentions.

Stupid. He'd been so stupid. Duncan steeled himself again and turned slightly away from Katie, then withdrew the box and slipped it behind the books, out of her sight.

And hopefully out of his mind.

Never again, he vowed, would he let anyone get that close. Not to him, and especially not to his sister.

“Duncan, I invited Allie for dinner. I was thinking I'd cook.” His kid sister grinned up at him. “I know, I've never done that before and I can see the worry already in your eyes, but I can handle it. Allie promised to help and besides it's just spag—”

“No.”

“No, what? No spaghetti? No garlic bread? No cooking from me? You can't have all the fun in the kitchen, you know.” She gave him a wink, knowing full well that he would rather order takeout than pick up a spatula.

“No to Allie coming over.”

“She's not busy. I already asked her. And—”

“I said no.”

Katie let out a gust. “Why do you do that? Just order things around and make all the decisions? And what do you have against Allie tonight anyway? I thought you liked her.”

Instead of answering her question, Duncan crossed to the kitchen and pulled out the sheaf of menus from behind the phone. “What about Mexican? You know that place in Indianapolis will deliver out here if I promise to pay the driver extra.”

“What will it take to get you to answer me?” Katie said, wheeling herself right out to him.

“I hate that thing.” He gestured toward the wheelchair, meaning no such thing, but trying to distract her.

“Because it means you can't run away from me.” She propped her arms on the side and sat back, triumphant. “So tell me what's bugging you.”

“You're my kid sister. I don't have to tell—”

“I am
twenty-three,
Duncan. Hardly a kid anymore.”

He looked down at her and for the first time—maybe the first time ever—saw his sister had, indeed, aged. All he'd ever seen was that frail, fragile girl in the bed. Never the young woman whose bright cheeks and determined grin met him now.

Twenty-three. That meant he was twenty-five. Where had those years gone? They'd passed in a blink, gone as quickly as snowflakes, the months melting one into another. His life, his future—a future he'd just yesterday pictured spending with—

No. He wasn't going to think about that, or her, again.

“Duncan, I might not have acted it, but I have grown up in the past five years.” Katie looked down at her lap, then spun a bit in her chair. “Some, at least.”

He lowered himself to his knees beside her, thinking of all the changes in the past few days, the things she'd had to face, mountains she'd had to climb. Mountains some people wouldn't have been able to face, much less conquer. He was damned proud of her, and of how far she'd come. “You have grown up a lot, Katie. A whole lot.”

“Hey, don't go getting out the band and the standing ovation for me.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “I have a ways to go yet. Even I know that. And so do you.”

“Me, I'm fine.”

“Oh yeah?” Her tone challenging now, the old, defiant Katie he remembered. “You may have both your legs, Duncan, but you've got plenty of other problems paralyzing you.”

He rose, went back to studying the menus. “Nothing's paralyzing me, Katie. I'm just…cautious.”

“So cautious you're going to let a great woman go back to L.A. without even trying to stop her?”

“She's not what she seems, Katie.” Duncan sighed and tossed the rainbow of menus onto the kitchen table. His appetite was gone anyway.

“So? Who is? Are you? Hell, are any of us? We never were, not in this house.”

He looked around the walls, empty now of the artwork, the carefully orchestrated photo shots, yet still holding the memories. He should sell this place, move both of them to somewhere sunny and bright. Somewhere they could start over again, without the specter of their father hanging over everything. “We weren't, were we?”

“Then how can you blame Allie, Duncan?” Then she wheeled away, awfully wise for someone who was two years younger than him.

Ranger gave Duncan a bark, then hurried after Katie in doggy agreement.

Duncan sighed, then sank into one of the wooden chairs that ringed the walnut table, one of the few pieces he'd kept because it had been his mother's—and not an antique, not pretentious. Just an everyday kitchen set. There were days when he wondered how his life would have turned out if his mother had lived, if he and Katie both had had her quiet, guiding hand to help them through their lives.

He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “If only it were that simple, Katie.”