Private Scandals

you’re doing this show on baseball because people need to be entertained, especially during times like these. Now pull it together, Reynolds, and go do your job.”
    “Right.” She took a deep breath. “You’re sure I look okay?”
    “Go.”
    “I’m going.”
    “Deanna.”
    She turned, surprised, then infuriated to see Marshall standing an arm’s length behind her. Fran’s snarl had her stepping forward. “What are you doing here?”
    His smile was easy, though his eyes held regret. “I wanted to wish you luck. In person.” He held out a bouquet of candy pink roses. “I’m very proud of you.”
    She didn’t reach for the flowers, but she kept her eyes level with his, “I’ll accept the wish for luck. Your pride is your business. Now, I’m afraid only staff is allowed back here.”
    Very slowly, he lowered the flowers. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be cruel.”
    “It seems we were misled. I have a show to do, Marshall, but I’ll take a moment to tell you once again that I have no desire to resume any sort of relationship with you. Simon?” She called out without taking her eyes from Marshall’s. “Show Dr. Pike out, will you? He seems to have made a wrong turn.”
    “I know the way,” he said between clenched teeth. He let the roses fall to the floor, reminding her how she had dropped a similar bouquet. The scent of them turned her stomach. “I won’t always be turned away so easily.”
    He stalked off with Simon nervously dogging his heels. Deanna allowed herself one long, calming breath.
    “Creep,” Fran muttered, lifting a hand automatically to soothe the tension in Deanna’s shoulders. “Bastard. To come here like this right before a live show. Are you going to be all right?”
    “I’m going to be fine.” She shook off the fury. There was too much riding on the next hour for her to indulge herself. “I am fine.” She headed out, taking the hand mike from Jeff as she passed.
    Jeff smiled broadly as he watched her. “Break a leg, Deanna.”
    She straightened her shoulders. “Hell, I’m going to break two.” She stepped onto the set, smiled at the sea of faces. “Hi, everyone, thanks for coming. I’m Deanna. In about five minutes we’re going to get this show rolling. I hope you’re going to help me out. It’s my first day on the job.”
    * * *
    “Put in the damn tape.” In her towering New York office, Angela stubbed out one cigarette and immediately lit another.
    “I went out on a limb to get a copy of this,” Lew told her as he slipped the tape into the VCR.
    “You told me, you told me.” And she was sick of hearing it. Sick, too, with fear of what she might see on the monitor in the next few minutes. “Cue it up, damn it.”
    He hit the Play button and stepped back. Eyes narrowed, Angela listened to the intro music. Too close to rock, she decided with a smirk. The average viewer wouldn’t like it. The pan of the audience—people in baseball caps, applauding and waving banners. Middle-class, she decided, and leaned back comfortably.
    It was going to be all right after all, she assured herself.
    “Welcome to Deanna’s Hour. ” The camera did a close-up of Deanna’s face. The slow, warm smile, the hint of nerves in the eyes. “Our guests today, here in Chicago, are six women who know all there is to know about baseball—and not just about squeeze plays and Texas Leaguers.”
    She’s jittery, Angela thought, pleased. She’d be lucky to make it through to commercial. Anticipating the humiliation, Angela allowed herself to feel sorry for Deanna. After all, she thought with a soft, sympathetic sigh, who knew better than she what it was like to face that merciless glass eye?
    She’d taken on too much, too soon, Angela realized. It would be a hard lesson, but a good one. And when she failed, as she certainly would, and came knocking on the door looking for help, Angela decided she would be gracious enough, forgiving enough to give her a second chance.
    But Deanna made it to commercial, segueing into the break over applause. After the first fifteen minutes, the pleasant flavor of gloating sympathy had turned bitter in her throat.
    She watched the show through to the closing credits, saying nothing.
    “Turn it off,” she snapped, then rose to go to the wet bar. Rather than her usual mineral water, she reached for a split of champagne, spilling it into a flute. “It’s nothing,” she said, half to herself. “A mediocre show with minimal