SUMMER INTERNSHIP POSITIONS/DEPARTMENT 19 page

Kate couldn't help laughing at that. "He didn't use those exact words, no. But he did say I had talent."

"Oh." Mom sat back, looking disappointed. "I think your story was brilliant. Even Daddy thought so."

"Dad thinks I'm better than John Grisham, too? And on my very first story. I guess I'm a genius."

"Are you saying our opinion is somewhat inflated?"

"Somewhat. But I love you for it."

"I'm proud of you, Katie," she said softly. "I always wanted to find something like that for me. I guess I made afghans instead."

"You raised two great kids—well, one great one and one pretty good one," Kate teased. "And you stayed married and made everyone happy. You should be proud of that."

"I am, but . . ."

Kate placed her hand on her mother's. They both understood; every at-home mom in the world understood. Ultimately there were prices to be paid for the choices a woman made. "You're my hero, Mom," Kate said simply.

Mom looked at her, tears bright in her eyes. Before she could answer, the waitress returned with their salads and lemonades, put the lunch on the table, and left.

Kate picked up her fork and started eating.

The nausea hit without warning.

"Excuse me," Kate mumbled, dropping her fork and clamping a hand over her mouth as she ran for the restroom. There, in a stiflingly small cubicle, she threw up.

When there was nothing left in her stomach, she went to the sink and washed her hands and face, rinsed out her mouth.

Her whole body felt trembly and weak. Her face in the mirror was bone-pale and drawn. For the first time she noticed the dark shadows under her eyes.

Maybe she was coming down with the stomach flu, she thought. Everyone at playgroup was sick this week.

Still feeling shaky, she returned to the table, under her mother's watchful gaze.

"I'm fine," Kate said, taking her seat. "I took Marah to playgroup this weekend. All the kids were sick." She waited for her mother to respond. When the silence went on and on, Kate finally looked up. "What?"

"Mayonnaise," her mother said. "It made you sick when you were pregnant with Marah, too."

It felt as if the chair beneath Kate just evaporated—poof! disappeared—and she was falling fast. Several annoyances clicked into place and became clues: tender breasts even though she wasn't having her period; trouble sleeping; exhaustion. She closed her eyes and shook her head, sighing. She'd wanted another baby—she and Johnny both did—but it had been so long, they'd given up. And now everything was going so well with the writing. She didn't want to go back to sleepless nights and crying babies and days that left her too tired to answer a question at the dinner table, let alone write a story.

"You'll just take a little longer to get published," her mother said. "You'll be able to do both."

"We wanted another baby," she said, trying to smile. "And I'll still keep writing. You'll see." She almost had herself convinced. "I can do it with two kids."

On Thursday, two days later, she found out she was having twins.

Part Four
THE NEW MILLENNIUM

A Moment Like This

some people wait a lifetime

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

By 2000, Kate rarely paused in the whirlwind chaos of her everyday life to wonder where the years had gone. Contemplation and reflection, like relaxation, were thoughts from another era, ideas from another life. The road not taken, as they used to say. A woman with three children—a ten-year-old girl who was fast approaching puberty and twin boys under two—simply didn't have time to think about herself much, and the number of years that separated her kids' ages created almost two families. She knew now why women had their children closer together. Starting over doubled a mother's exhaustion level.

Her days were consumed by details, and this surprisingly sunny morning in March was no exception. The chores stacked up, one on top of another, until she found herself running from sunrise to well past sunset. The crappy part was that she never seemed to accomplish anything substantial, yet she almost never had an hour to herself. The at-home mother's life: it was a race with no finish line. That was what they talked about in the carpool line as they waited for their kids to leave school. That, and divorce. Every month lately it seemed that one seemingly solid marriage had shown its crumbling clay foundation.

Except today wasn't just another ordinary bead in the strand of her life. Today, Tully was coming to Seattle for a promotional tour. It would be the first time they'd seen each other in months, and Kate couldn't wait. She needed some girlfriend time.

She hurried through her To Do list—dropped Marah off at school, spent too long at Safeway, bought all-new makeup at Rite Aid, made it to the library in time for reading hour, picked up Johnny's dry cleaning, got the boys down for their naps, and cleaned the house.

By two-thirty, as she pulled out of the carpool lane—again—she was exhausted.

"Aunt Tully's coming to spend the night tonight, right, Mommy?" Marah said from the backseat. She looked tiny, wedged in as she was between the boys' dump-truck-sized car seats.

"That's right."

"Are you gonna wear makeup?"

Kate couldn't help smiling at that. She wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but somehow she'd raised a tiny beauty queen. At ten, Marah already had more fashion sense and style sensibility than Kate ever had. She watched in amazement as her tall, slim ten-year-old daughter poured over the teen fashion magazines and memorized designer names. School shopping was a terror. If Marah didn't find exactly what she wanted, she went ballistic. There was rarely any doubt in Kate's mind that her daughter was judging her appearance. More often than not, she knew she was found lacking. "I will definitely wear makeup. I'll even curl my hair, how's that?"

"Can I wear lip gloss? Just this once? All the girls—"

"No. We've had this discussion, Marah. You're too young."

Marah crossed her arms. "I'm not a baby."

"You're not a teenager, either. Believe me, there will be plenty of time for all that." She pulled the car into the garage and parked.

Marah was out of the car and into the house before Kate had time to ask her to help carry stuff in. "Thanks for the help," she muttered, releasing her boys from the car seats. As toddlers, Lucas and William were wild separately; together they were a tornado.

For the next few hours, she did more afternoon chores: in addition to all the regular things, she arranged vases of flowers and placed them throughout the house, positioned and lit scented candles on dressers too high for the boys to reach, and thoroughly cleaned the guest room in case Tully decided she had time to say. Then, with dinner in the oven and the boys trailing along behind her, she went upstairs to get ready. As she passed Marah's room she could hear the patter of feet that meant her daughter was pulling one outfit after another from her closet.

Smiling, Kate went to her own room, parked the boys in the playpen, and, ignoring their screams, took a shower. When she finished drying her hair (trying not to notice how dark her roots were), she opened the bathroom door.

"How you guys doing now?"

Lucas and William sat side by side, their bare pudgy legs splayed out in front of them, babbling to one another in baby talk.

"Good," she said, patting their heads as she passed them.

In her closet, she sighed. Everything she owned was either out of date or too small. She still had some baby weight to lose—the twins had turned her stomach into the Kingdome; that kind of stretching didn't bounce back easily.

Exercising would have helped, and she wished fervently now that she'd fit it into her schedule this winter.

Too late now.

She chose a nice pair of her favorite broken-in Levi's and a pretty black angora sweater that Johnny had given her for Christmas a few years ago, right after he'd taken the job at KLUE. It was one of her only designer garments.

"Come on, boys," she said, scooping them up with practiced ease. Settling one on each hip, she carried them to their bedroom, changed their diapers, and dressed them in the darling sailor boy outfits Tully had sent for their birthday. Then, because it took forever to let them walk down the stairs, she carried them, plopped them on the living room floor with a pile of toys in front of them, and popped in a Winnie-the-Pooh tape. That gave her twenty minutes if she was lucky.

Locking the child gate at the bottom of the stairs, she went into the kitchen and began setting the table. As always, she kept half an eye on the boys while she worked.

"Mom!" Marah shrieked. "They're here!" She thundered down the stairs, jumped over the childproof gate, and ran for the window, pressing her little nose against it.

Kate sidled up to her daughter, pushed the curtains aside. Headlights cut through the darkness. Johnny's car was first; behind it a black limousine crept down the long, treed driveway. The two cars parked in front of the garage.

"Wow," Marah said.

The uniformed driver got out of the limo and came around to the back passenger door, opening it.

Tully emerged slowly, as if she knew she was making an entrance. Dressed in low-rise designer jeans and a crisp white men's-style blouse beneath a navy blazer, she was the very definition of casual chic. Her hair, cut in layers and probably styled by the best hairdresser in Manhattan, was a gorgeous auburn hue that shone in the light from the garage.

"Wow," Marah said again.

Kate tried to suck in her stomach. "I wonder if there's time for lipo-suction."

Johnny got out of his car and went to Tully. They stood close enough together that their shoulders were touching. Laughing at something the driver said Tully looked up at Johnny, pressing her hand to his chest as she spoke.

They looked perfect together, like models pulled from the pages of a glossy fashion magazine.

"Daddy sure likes Aunt Tully," Marah said.

"He sure does," Kate muttered, but Marah was already gone. Her daughter opened the door and ran to her godmother, who scooped her up and twirled her around.

Tully came into the house like she did everything: in a maelstrom of sound and light. She hugged Kate fiercely, kissed the boys' pudgy cheeks, handed out more gifts than a Ryan family Christmas, and demanded a drink.

All through dinner, she entertained them, told them stories about being in Paris for Y2K and the panic that preceded it, about the recent Oscars ceremony she'd attended and how they'd taped the dress over her boobs and how the adhesive had failed her at a party when she did a straight shot.

"Everyone in the room got a shot," she said, laughing, "if you know what I mean."

Marah hung on Tully's every word. "Was it an Armani?" she asked.

Kate was absolutely dumbfounded to hear Tully say, "Yes, it was, Marah. I see you know your fashion designers. I'm proud of you."

"I saw pictures in the magazine. They said you were one of the best dressed."

"You have to work at that," Tully said, beaming. "A whole team of people work to make me look good."

"Wow," Marah said yet again. "That's so cool."

When Tully had exhausted the celebrity fashion topics, she turned to world politics. She and Johnny debated the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal and the press coverage of it in fierce detail; Marah jumped in at every lull with endless questions about teenage celebrities Tully knew personally and Kate had never heard of. Frankly, the boys were such a handful it took all of her concentration and effort to keep them quiet. Kate kept meaning to say something, add a comment or two, but the boys picked tonight to throw food at each other, and she had to be vigilant to keep them in check.

The dinner seemed to last a nanosecond. When it was over, Marah, in a pathetically transparent attempt to impress Tully, cleared the table.

"I'll do the dishes," Johnny said. "Why don't you and Tully get some blankets and sit outside?"

"You're a prince," Tully said. "I'll make a pitcher of margaritas. Katie, you put Huey and Louie to bed and I'll meet you outside in fifteen minutes."

Kate nodded and carried the boys upstairs. By the time she was done bathing and dressing and reading to them, it was close to eight o'clock.

Feeling a little weary herself, she went downstairs, where she found Marah curled on Tully's lap.

Johnny met her at the bottom of the stairs. "The margaritas are in the blender. I'll put Marah to bed."

"I love you."

He patted her butt, then turned to his daughter. "I know. Come on, Bunny. Bedtime."

"Aw, Daddy. Do I hafta? I'm telling Aunt Tully about Mrs. Hermann."

"Hop up the stairs and get your pj's on. I'll be up in a minute to read you a story."

Marah hugged Tully tightly, kissed her cheek, and plodded over to where Johnny and Kate stood.

Perfunctorily she kissed Kate goodnight, then went upstairs.

Tully got up and stood by Johnny. "Okay, I've been very patient, which as you know is not my strong suit, but the kids are gone now, so spill the beans."

Kate frowned. "What?"

"You look terrible," Tully said softly. "What's wrong?"

"It's just hormones. Or lack of sleep. The boys exhaust me." She laughed at the ordinary string of excuses. "I'm fine."

"I don't think she knows what's wrong," Johnny said to Tully, as if Kate weren't even here.

"How's the writing going?" Tully asked her.

Kate winced. "Great."

"She isn't writing," Johnny said, and Kate could have coldcocked him for that.

Tully looked disbelieving. "Not at all?"

"Not that I can tell," Johnny said.

"Quit talking about me as if I'm not here," Kate said. "I have a ten-year-old drama queen who plays every sport on the planet, takes dance lessons three times a week, and has a busier social calendar than the Sex and the City girls. And don't forget about twin boys who rarely sleep at the same time and break everything they touch. How the hell am I supposed to do all that, make dinner, do the laundry, clean the house, and write a book at the same time?" She looked at them. "I know what you both think. What everyone seems to think. I'm supposed to make time to search for my authentic self. I'm supposed to need more than motherhood—and I do, damn it—I just don't know how I'm supposed to do all that and still be in the carpool lane on time."

In the silence that followed her outbreak, a log dropped in the fireplace, made a crackling thump.

Tully looked at Johnny. "You asshole."

"What?" He looked so perplexed, Kate almost laughed.

"She cleans the house and picks up your laundry? Can't you get someone to clean, for God's sake?"

"She never said she needed help."

Kate hadn't realized until that moment how overwhelmed she'd felt. Relief swept through her, loosened the muscles in her back. "I do," she finally admitted to her husband.

Johnny pulled her close and kissed her, whispering, "All you had to do was say something," against her lips. She kissed him back, clung to him.

"Enough making out," Tully said, grabbing her arm. "What we need are margaritas. Johnny, bring them to us on the deck."

Kate let herself be led outside. Once there, she smiled at her friend. "Thanks, Tul. I don't know why I didn't just ask for help."

"Are you kidding? I love bossing Johnny around." She sat down into the nearest Adirondack chair. In front of them, just beyond the ragged yard, lay a silvery ribbon of foamy surf. The quiet, whooshing sound of the water's rise and fall filled the night.

Kate sat in the chair beside her.

Johnny returned, gave them each a drink, and left again.

After a long silence, Tully said, "I say this because I love you, Katie: you don't have to go to every field trip and bake sale. You need to make time for yourself."

"Now tell me something I don't know."

"I read the magazines and watch television. At-home moms are forty percent more likely to—"

"No. I mean it. Tell me something I don't know. Something fun."

"Did I tell you about Paris at the turn of the millennium? And I don't mean the fireworks. There was this guy, a Brazilian . . ."

On the first of July 2000, Tully's alarm clock went off, as it did every weekday morning, at three-thirty. With a groan, she smacked the snooze button, wishing just this once she could sleep for ten more minutes, and snuggled back up against Grant. She loved waking up near his arms, although she rarely woke in them. They were each too solitary to meld well, even in sleep. In the years of their on again/off again relationship, they'd been all over the world together, attended dozens of glittering parties and black-tie charity events. The press had dubbed him Tully's "sometime love" and she had always thought it was as apt a nickname as any. Lately, though, she'd been reconsidering.

He wakened slowly, rubbed her arm. "Morning, love," he said in the scratchy, raspy voice that meant he'd smoked cigars last night.

"Am I?" she asked quietly, angling up onto one elbow.

"Are you what?"

He stopped just short of rolling his eyes, but the effect was the same. "That talk again? You're thirty-nine. I know. It doesn't change who we are, Tully. Let's not ruin a good thing, shall we?"

He acted as if she'd asked him to marry her, or knock her up; neither of which was true. She rolled out of bed and walked through her spacious apartment toward the bathroom. There, she turned on the lights.

"Oh, God."

She looked like she'd slept in a Dumpster. Her hair, cut short now and highlighted with blond streaks, stuck out all around her face in a way that only Annette Bening or Sharon Stone could pull off, and the bags under her eyes were carry-on-sized.

No more red-eye flights from the West Coast. She was too damned old to party all weekend in Los Angeles and be at work Monday morning. She hoped no one had snapped a photo of her coming home last night. Ever since John Kennedy, Jr.'s tragic death, the paparazzi had been swarming. Celebrity—and pseudo-celebrity—news was big business.

She took a long, hot shower, washed and dried her hair, and dressed in a pair of designer sweats. By the time she emerged from the steamy room, Grant was waiting for her at the door. In his suit from last night, with his hair messy in a studied way, he looked incredibly handsome.

"Let's play hooky," she said, sliding her arm around his waist.

"Sorry, love. Got a flight to London in a few hours. I'm to see the folks."

She nodded, unsurprised. He always found a reason to leave. Locking her door, they went to the elevator and rode down together. At their separate black town cars, parked one in front of the other on Central Park West, she kissed him goodbye and watched him leave.

She used to love the way he came and went in her life, always arriving unexpectedly and leaving before she could get bored or fall in love. In the past few months, though, she felt as lonely with him as without him.

Her uniformed driver handed her a double-shot latte. "Good morning, Ms. Hart."

She took the coffee gratefully. "Thanks, Hans," she said, getting into the car. Settling back, she tried not to think about Grant or her life. Instead, she stared out the tinted window at the dark streets of Manhattan. This time of day was as close as the city came to sleeping. Only the hardiest of souls were out—garbage collectors, bakers, newspaper deliverymen.

For more years than she wanted to count, she'd lived this routine. Almost from her first day in New York, she'd been waking up at three-thirty A.M. for work. Success had only made long days longer. Since CBS had lured her over, she'd had to include afternoon meetings in addition to her morning broadcasts. Fame and celebrity and money should have allowed her to slow down and enjoy her career, but the opposite had occurred. The more she got, the more she wanted, the more afraid she was of losing it, and the harder she worked. Every job that came her way, she took—narrating a documentary on breast cancer, guest-hosting a super new game show, even being a judge for the Miss Universe contest. And then there were her guest appearances on Leno, Letterman, Rosie, etc. And holiday parades that needed a grand marshal. She made sure no one could forget her.

In her early thirties, it had been easy to keep up the schedule. Back then, she'd been able to work long hours, sleep all afternoon, party all night, and wake up looking and feeling great. But she was approaching forty now, and she was beginning to feel tired, a little old to be running from one job to the next, and in heels, no less. More and more often when she came home from work, she curled up on her sofa and called Kate or Mrs. M. or Edna. Being seen—and photographed—at the It new club or at some red carpet premiere had lost its appeal. Rather, she found herself longing to be with people who really knew her, really cared.

Edna repeatedly told her that this was the deal she'd made; the life she got in exchange for all the success. But what good was success, Tully had asked over drinks last week, if there was no one to share it with you?

Edna had simply shaken her head and said, "That's why they call it sacrifice. You can't have it all."

But what if that was exactly what you wanted: everything?

At the CBS building, she waited for her driver to open her door, then stepped out into the still-black, summer morning. She could already feel heat rising from the street; today would be a scorcher. Somewhere nearby she could hear the thunk-wheeze of a garbage truck loading up.

She hurried to the front door and went inside, nodding to the doorman as she walked to the elevator. Upstairs, at her makeup desk, her savior was already waiting. Dressed in a too-tight red T-shirt that showed off his bulging muscles and form-fitting black leather pants, Tank put one hand on his hip and shook his head. "Someone looks like shit this morning."

"You're being too hard on yourself," Tully said, easing into the chair. She'd hired Tank about five years ago to do her hair and makeup. It was a choice she regretted almost daily.

He pulled the Hermès scarf off her head and removed the dark glasses. "You know I love you, honey, but you gotta quit burning the candle at both ends. And you're getting too thin again."

"Shut up and paint."

As usual, he started on her hair. While he worked, he talked. Sometimes one or the other of them would confide in the other; it was the nature of the business they were in. Time spent together created an intimacy that didn't quite spill over into friendship. A very New York type of relationship. Today, however, Tully kept their conversation light and impersonal. She didn't want to reveal to him that she felt out of sorts. He'd jump on in and tell her how to fix her life.

By five o'clock, she looked ten years younger. "You're a genius," she said, sliding out of the chair.

"If you don't change your ways, missy, you're going to need a surgeon, not a makeup genius."

"Thanks." She flashed him a camera-ready smile and walked away before he could say anything else.

On-set, she stared into the camera and smiled again. Here, in this fake world, she was perfect. She talked easily, laughed at her guests' and co-anchors' jokes, and made everyone who saw her think she could be their friend. She knew that no one in America knew how she really felt right now. No one imagined that Tallulah Hart could possibly want more than she had.

Shopping with the twins and Marah was a headache-inducing event. By the time Kate finished her last stops at Safeway, the library, the drugstore, and the fabric store, she was exhausted, and it wasn't even three o'clock. All the way home the boys cried and Marah sulked. At ten, her daughter had decided that she was too big to sit in the backseat of the car with the babies, and threw a fit now on every excursion. The plan, clearly, was to wear Kate down.

"Stop arguing with me, Marah," she said for at least the dozenth time since they'd left the grocery store.

"I'm not arguing. I'm explaining. Emily gets to sit in the front seat and so does Rachel. You're the only mom who won't—"

Kate pulled into the garage and hit the brakes just hard enough to send the grocery bags flying forward. It was worth it, since it shut Marah up. "Help me carry stuff in."

Marah grabbed a single bag and went inside.

Before Kate could reprimand her, Johnny came into the garage and got a load. Kate and the boys followed him into the house.

As usual, the TV was on, too loud for Kate's taste, and turned to CNN.

"I'll put the boys down for their nap," Johnny said when all the bags were on the counter. "Then I have good news for you."

Kate tossed him a tired smile. "I could use some. Thanks."

Thirty minutes later, he came back downstairs. Kate was at the dining room table, spreading out the fabric for the last few ballet costumes she had to make. Nine down; three to go.

"I'm an idiot," she said, more to herself than to him. "Next time they ask for volunteers, I am not going to raise my hand."

He came up behind her, pulled her to her feet, and turned her to face him. "You say that every time."

"Like I said: I'm an idiot. So what's my good news? You're making dinner?"

"Tully called."

"That's my good news? She calls every Saturday."

"She's coming to Marah's recital, and she wants to throw her goddaughter a little surprise party."

She pulled out of his arms.

"You're not smiling," he said, frowning.

Kate was surprised at the flare of anger she felt. "Dance is the only thing Marah and I do together. I was going to have a party for her here."

"Oh."

She could tell her husband wanted to say more, but he was too smart to do it. He knew this wasn't his call.

Finally Kate sighed. She was being selfish and they both knew it. Marah idolized her godmother and would love a surprise party. "What time will she be here?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

On the day of the recital Marah was so nervous and excited she could barely contain her emotions. As usual, the stress of it all turned her into a pint-sized diva given to jumbo-jet-sized tantrums. Now she stood by the dining room table, one hand on her hip, dressed in faded low-rise jeans and a pink top that read Baby One More Time in rhinestones. An inch of skin showed between the bottom of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans. "Where did you put my butterfly barrettes?"

Hunched over the sewing machine, Kate barely glanced up. "They're in your bathroom drawer. Top one. And you're not wearing that top out of the house."

Marah's mouth dropped open. "But it was a birthday present."

"Yeah, well, your Aunt Tully is an idiot."

"Everyone gets to dress like this."

"You're breaking my heart. Really. Now go change. I don't have time to argue with you."

Marah sighed dramatically and stormed back upstairs.

Kate shook her head. It wasn't just the recital. Everything with Marah lately was high drama. Her daughter was either giggling and happy or flat-out pissed. Whenever Mom saw her granddaughter she laughed, lit up a smoke, and said, "Oh, the teen years will be fun. You should start drinking before it's too late."

Kate bent closer to the machine, put her foot on the pedal, and went back to work.

As it turned out, that ended up being the last time she paused for almost two hours. Then, as soon as she'd finished the costumes for the dance recital, she rushed on to her other chores—finding hangers, packing the car, helping the boys brush their teeth, and breaking up fights. Thankfully Johnny took care of dinner and the dishes.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 499