ELYSE
A white shirt, the producer had told me. Wear a white, long-sleeved shirt.
Wear any other color, she’d said, and people will find you abrasive, or too commanding. Remember, the producer reiterated: You’re the talk of the river banks … a daughter of Middle Valley, the doyenne of River Road … and what’s more you are marrying the most handsome, wealthy, eligible bachelor in town. Smile, and lean in!
I’d been in television studios before – the lights were, to put it simply, horrific. Huge and hot, the area around each felt like I was basking in the Saint-Tropez sun, where Bernie and I had honeymooned so many years ago.
Sometimes I wonder how he’s handling all of this. Not always, because I am still put off by his inability to, well, get his act together. But it can’t be easy seeing someone you once loved being courted by the media and, more specifically, a man of means such as Carson.
No, Bernie has to be gritting his teeth these days.
Used to be that Daddy and Bernie had a nice relationship. They’d discuss sports, or construction, or the town’s oh-so-present history. In retrospect, though, those interactions seem quite forced. They’re quite taken with Carson, Mommy and Daddy are. (I mean, why wouldn’t they be – he’s a gem!) They’re taken with him in a way they never were with Bernie. Daddy could never get past him trying to live on a reporters’ salary, and Mommy always felt her baby girl was being slighted (even though “baby girl” has an extremely fulfilling career of her own).
Daddy always saw an alpha dog in my future, and Bernie was never it.
“I think we’re over here,” my current alpha dog (Carson) said, his arm outstretched as he motioned toward a set of couches.
I took a seat, then glanced up at the producer. “Is this how it’s going to be the whole time?” I asked, fanning my damp face.
“Got it, check two,” she said into her headset microphone. Then she turned toward me, nodding. “It’ll be warm, for sure.”
I could feel the sweat running down the back of my perfect white blouse, through the microphone pack attached to my back, down my leg and onto my ankles. I looked at Carson – no traces of dampness, not even a wrinkle in his clothing or on his face, for that matter.
How much younger is he again? I asked myself. Don’t ask. I answered myself.
CARSON
Elyse’s white blouse seemed to radiate with heat from the lights. Though I always preferred her in warm reds or oranges, the TV experts vetoed me when I suggested the white made her look washed out. The woman never goes in the sun.
That’s where California girls have East Coast girls’ number: They aren’t afraid of the sun and getting a little color.
I watched as she snaked her way between the food tables set up around the edge of the staging area, chatting away as if it were just another day. She can talk to anyone – and, not only that, talk to anyone and make it substantive. Once, as we were coming out of the Riverside, she ran into a former neighbor who knew her only as “Mrs. Rossie.” After a gentle correction from her, and after introducing me, the pair chatted incessantly for six blocks, catching up on their children, Elyse’s work, the town … everything.
Eye-catching and sublime, she is.
Such a perfect mark.
SUSAN
Are we here to do television, or are we here to chat?
I expected more from Carson, who seemed perfectly happy to hang back and wind his way toward the couches, shaking hands with members of the crew.
Elyse has never struck me as much of a dynamo – rather a milk-toast type attached to her parents at the hip. Sweet, okay, sure … she helps people … social work … blah blah blah. But the town’s fascination with her is confounding. “Daughter of the Chickotee …?” What does that even mean?
Boring boring boring. That’s what it means.
But, today, she is what is standing between me and that anchor chair, so today, she’s going to be the most interesting person in the world!
I check my questions again – not shared in advance, of course. The premise of the interview is the events that took place during the fund raiser for Mick’s memorial, the one held on Lindy’s yacht involving Sheriff Paul, a gun, Bernie’s heroics, and our lucky lovebirds living to tell the tale.
They aren’t the only birds chirping today, however.
“Susan!” Producer No. 1 bellowed.
A fit woman in a skirt and suit jacket approached.
Tracy nodded. “The conference in New York went well and, if I’m being honest, it’s very nice to be in a place where I’m not about to be killed by a cab or body-checked in a subway car. Now … what’s the plan here? Where would you like me?”
“Right here is fine.” I show her to the back room where food and drinks are laid out among couches and work tables. “Have a seat, or grab a table if you have work to do. Give some thought as to what all you want to say today and when I’m done with the first round out here, we’ll take a break and I’ll be back here to chat with you. We need to be cautious but honest.”
Tracy nods. “Okay.”