Mean Woman Blues

next day, Skip would go to the office as usual to retrieve her Jacomine files and tie up any loose ends she had.
    She regretted that decision by mid-morning; even she hadn’t expected the strength and pain of the predicted avalanche. By noon, she was buried in sympathy calls and press inquiries (which she fielded back to Abasolo). By six p.m., the word
Angelgate
had entered the language.
    That night after the news, she discovered the part she hated worst was watching Sheila and Kenny’s attempts to digest the concept of Auntie in disgrace. Steve wasn’t much better, and, what was worse, he was angry, not at her, especially, just at having been caught in a trap.
    She’d gotten her fondest wish, and she’d rarely been so miserable.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    Mr. Right
, the television show, paid Terri’s plane fare to Dallas but didn’t send a limousine. Tracie, the producer, picked her up and drove her to her motel, an older one near the studio, in an iffy section of town. All of which served to remind her that this was only a cable station she was going to be on, not exactly Oprah.
    But the minute she was in David Wright’s presence, her misgivings melted. Tracie took her to his office so they could get acquainted before the show. When he stood to shake her hand, she felt an electricity radiating from him, a force field around him. She wanted to step into it and did, when she took his hand. It was dizzying. It was warmth and sexuality and… genuine love. She could feel it. Not love just for her— she wasn’t stupid enough to think that; it was love for his fellow human beings.
    She thought it possible she was in the presence of greatness. She looked at Tracie to see if she felt it too and saw that the other woman seemed transformed; she was softer and gentler, somehow, the way men are when their sweethearts enter a room.
    He said, “You’re a brave lady, Terri Whittaker. I’d give you a hug, but I don’t know you well enough.”
    She wished he would hug her. She was attracted to him. At the same time, she felt safe with him. It wasn’t something she could explain. She just felt he wouldn’t let any harm come to her. He wasn’t extraordinary looking; in fact, he was quite a bit shorter than she thought he’d be. And his eyes were small. But he had thick, curly gray hair worn combed back to show off a widow’s peak. It was sprayed down— she knew you had to do that for television— but it was still his best feature. It sure wasn’t his looks that attracted her. But whatever it was, she was suddenly overcome with shyness.
    “Thank you, sir,” she said, uncharacteristically respectful.
    “Oh, forget that ‘sir’ stuff, even if we are in Texas. Call me David.” He leaned over to her. “I can call you Terri, can’t I?”
    “Sure.”
    “Sit down and we’ll have a nice little chat before the show. Coffee or Coke or anything? Tracie can bring you anything you want.”
    A cigarette
, Terri thought, but she asked only for water.
    “I always like to meet my guests before the show. This isn’t like other shows, you know. Everyone who goes on my show has been through something bad, real bad. I feel I owe them the respect of getting to know them before I put them in front of those harsh lights.” He paused to give her a little smile. “But those lights’ll be kind to you, Miss Terri. Yes, ma’am, you’re going to look just beautiful on television.”
    With my Tri-Delt haircut and my soccer mom dress
, she thought, and knew her choices were perfect.
    David might have been flirting or not— Terri really couldn’t tell— but one way or another he was certainly seducing her. She felt safe and warm, wrapped in a soft fluff of something pink and cottony.
    “Now, all our guests have gone through something that could happen to anybody, but wouldn’t happen to anyone with enough money to dig out of their hole. You follow?’
    Terri nodded. “That’s sure true in my case.”
    “Tracie tells me you’re an artist and a student. That’s kind of a double whammy, isn’t it?”
    She smiled, happy to be understood. “They didn’t invent the phrase ‘starving artist’ for nothing. Art isn’t a calling that’s even recognized as a real job by most people; they think it’s some sort of self-indulgent hobby, usually. And since it’s not particularly valued by our society, there aren’t many grants for art students; hence, the concept of the day job.”
    “You have your own business, I hear. ‘Aunt