But she was sitting there, staring at him through eyes that were heartbreakingly sad. And she was so damned young.
“I have a daughter who is just your age. My Jamie. I pray every day that she is safe at college. But if anything … bad ever happened to her, I’d hope she could be as brave as you’ve been today. You did the right thing.”
Was that his voice, all soft and throaty? They’d have to redub his answer for sure. He sounded like he was going to cry, for God’s sake.
“Thank you for that.”
“Thank you for the interview.”
After that, an awkwardness drifted between them. He noticed suddenly how close he was to her. Their on-air intimacy cracked apart, broke as quickly as it had formed. After that, everything felt uncomfortable. Jack didn’t know what to say and Sally remained silent as they all went their separate ways. Kirk was the first to leave, then Jack and Sally said good-bye to Andrea and walked back to their car.
Jack didn’t realize until much later, when he and Sally were driving toward the station, how shaken he was. How pissed off. “God damn Drew Grayland,” he said, thumping his palm against the steering wheel for emphasis.
“How are we supposed to stay detached on something like this? I kept thinking about my little sister. She’s a freshman, you know. I warned her about strangers, but what do you say about friends?”
“Hell, don’t ask me. I was about as detached as her own father. My career is going to do a swan dive when this airs.”
“Anyone who could sit with that girl and not be moved has no right to ask her those questions. She deserved your emotion.”
There didn’t seem to be much to say after that. He and Sally grabbed a hamburger with fries at the local drive-through restaurant window and ate their dinner on the road. Afterward, they spent the next four hours in the editing room. The poor holiday-crew editor finally threw his hands in the air. “That’s it, Jacko. Either it’s done or throw the sucker away. I’m goin’ home.”
Jack glanced at the clock. It was ten p.m. Too late to stop by the news director’s house. Damn. He’d have to do it first thing in the morning; unfortunately, he was scheduled to fly out at seven a.m.
There was no way he could make that flight.
Elizabeth would kill him.
The Nashville airport was quieter than normal for the holidays. Another sad sign of the uncertain times. Since September 11, every potential trip was considered carefully, weighed in importance. More and more people had chosen to stay home.
Elizabeth had arrived almost an hour early, and now she had to bide her time. She browsed through the newsstands and flipped through a magazine that promised her a “YOUNGER, FIRMER STOMACH IN TEN MINUTES A DAY—”
(Yeah, right.)
—and bought the newest Stephen King novel.
Finally, she went to the gate and took a seat in front of the dirty picture window that overlooked the runways.
She tapped her foot nervously on the floor. When she realized what she was doing, she forced herself to sit still.
It was embarrassing. A grown woman this excited to see her children. They’d probably have to lock her up or tie her down by the time she had grandkids.
She had never been one of those women who took her children for granted.
Stephanie had been twelve years old, a seventh grader with budding breasts and gangly legs and braces when Elizabeth had first realized: Time is running out. She’d watched her almost teenage daughter flirt with a boy for the first time, and Elizabeth had had to sit down. That was how unsteady it made her. In a split second, on a blistering cold winter morning, she’d glimpsed the fragile impermanence of her family and she’d never been the same since. After that, she’d videotaped every semiprecious moment, so persistently that her family groaned in unison every time she said hold it! They knew it meant she was going for the camera.
She heard an announcement come over the speaker and she looked up.
The plane had pulled up to the Jetway ramp.
She stood up but didn’t move forward. The girls hated it when she crowded to the front of the line. She’d learned that back in the old ski bus days. Once she’d even—God forbid—dared to walk into the school to meet them.
We’re not babies, Mom—Jamie had said impatiently.
Of course, Jamie said almost everything impatiently. Her younger daughter had been in a hurry from the moment she was born. She’d started walking at nine months, had been talking at two years, and she hadn’t slowed down since. She ate life with unapologetic enthusiasm and took as many helpings as she wanted.
“Mom!”
Stephanie emerged from the crowd of passengers. As usual, she was the picture of decorum—pressed khaki pants, white turtleneck, black blazer. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled off her face and held in place by a black velvet headband. Her makeup was lightly, but perfectly, applied. Even as a child, Stephanie had had an invisible, unshakable grace. Nothing was beyond her grasp. Everything she did, she did well.