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Stuck in morning rush hour traffic on Long Island’s Southern State Parkway with her family, Summer Raine Jackson understood the true meaning of torture.
In the passenger seat, younger sister Lyn chattered on and on about Doug Sawyer, the man who’d skied his way into her heart over the winter. “Did I tell you to thank Jeff for asking Doug to be my groomsman, April?”
Directly behind her in the back seat, older sister, April, the soon-to-be bride and primary reason for this trek, laughed. “About a thousand times. Jeff’s a psychologist, Lyn. He knows you’ve got an issue with the press. But he also knows I want you in my bridal party.”
“I would have found a way to get through it for you,” Lyn said. “But having Doug to cling to will make it a whole lot easier.”
Beside April, the family matriarch and official approval-meter, Mom, applied coconut-scented balm to her ever-thinning lips. “I still say, this is an awful lot of fuss for a second marriage. For both of you.”
At the end of the road waited three choices for bridesmaids’ dresses. Choosing one style meant to fit the various ages and figures of April’s bridal party had been a real challenge. To find three possibilities? Oh, Summer had outdone herself.
But honestly, she had to thank the House of Katya for their spot-on advice. Hopefully, April would like one of the gowns at the very least. As coordinator for a wedding that had turned into a media event, Summer dreaded disappointing the bride, the groom, or even... gulp!... the public.
In the passenger seat of the Escalade, Lyn reached to switch the radio station, but Summer clamped a hand over her wrist. “Leave it! That’s The Cliff Hanger Show.”
God knew she needed some kind of comic relief this morning. Only yesterday she’d found a pair of sunglasses in Brad’s car. Pink, zebra-striped, with a rhinestone-studded heart in the corner of one lens. Definitely not hers. And unless Brad hid a darker secret than the one she expected, not his, either.
With a dramatic sigh, Lyn dropped her hand in her lap. “I can’t believe you listen to this creep.”
“Cliff Hanger.” Mom’s disapproval filled the air like a rotten egg smell. “Isn’t he one of those disgusting radio personalities who offends everyone and everything?”
“Not really.” Summer dared a quick glance in the rearview mirror at her mother’s puckered forehead, then refocused on the traffic crawling up a few inches. “Cliff Hanger’s the funniest guy on terrestrial radio these days. His stuff is pretty tame, compared to some of those other talk show hosts out there.” She turned up the radio’s volume. “He’s not political or mean-spirited. He’s more satire and sarcasm.”
“So, Briana,” the host said, “you think your boyfriend might be married and cheating on his wife with you?”
Great. Just what Summer needed. Another reminder that husbands had a tendency to cheat. As if the late nights, runarounds from his receptionist, and new silk boxers in his underwear drawer hadn’t already clinched most of her suspicions regarding Brad’s lack of fidelity.
“I’ve got an idea,” Cliff continued. “Want me to help you find out the truth?”
“How?” The question came from a tinny voice on the radio, obviously a woman on a speaker phone. Briana, the possible Other Woman.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Cliff replied. “Whaddya say we call him?”
“No!” Briana shouted. “Confronting him won’t work. He’ll probably lie and say he’s not married.”
“I’ll be clever,” Cliff assured her. “You’ll see. He won’t have any idea he’s confessing. Do you have this guy’s phone number?”
“I have his work number. He never gave me his home number. That’s one of the things that made me suspicious.”
Cliff paused, his sigh an audible hiss over the airwaves. “Well, it’s almost nine o’clock. Let’s see if he’s in the office yet.”
“Okay. The number is 212—”
“No, no, wait! Don’t announce it over the air. I’m gonna put you on hold for a minute. My assistant, Lenny, will get it from you. Lenny, you idiot, are you listening? Pick up the phone and get this bum’s name and number. In the meantime, we’ll take a quick commercial break.”
The jingle for a local pawnbroker filled the Escalade’s speaker system.
“I can’t believe I’m listening to such drivel,” her mother chimed in.
Summer dared another quick glance in the rearview.
Mom had folded her arms across her bosom in the age-old posture of a critical parent. “Imagine. Some poor unsuspecting soul is about to have his dirty laundry aired on the radio. How humiliating.”
“If he’s cheating on his wife, he deserves to be humiliated,” Summer snapped. “I’ll bet his wife is the type of woman who waits on him hand and foot, runs all his errands, keeps a perfect home, and never gave him a reason to stray...”
Burned by the heat of three pairs of eyes studying her, Summer let her tirade drift off and pretended to recheck her mirrors. As if a genie had granted her secret wish, the traffic snarl gradually eased around a construction zone where four men sat on the guardrail drinking coffee while one man waved an orange flag.
Your tax dollars at work...
Within minutes, they gained momentum, and the SUV cruised a bit over the speed limit. Inside the Escalade, though, life remained at a standstill.
Wacky music from a calliope resounded from the car stereo. “And we’re back.”
Cliff Hanger’s voice only added to the tension building inside Summer. Her shoulders stiffened, preparing for the blow from an imaginary punch to the chest. Her jaw ached, and that familiar twitch hovered at the corner of her right eye. But having fought a battle to listen to the show, she’d play it out and feign nonchalance.
“Briana, honey, you there?” Cliff continued.
“Yes, Cliff.”
“Good. Now don’t say anything. Don’t let your boyfriend know you’re on the other line. Let me do the talking. All you listeners out there, we’re going to bleep out the gentleman’s name and the name of his employer. ‘Innocent until proven guilty’ and all that schmaltz.”
The sound of a ringing telephone filled the speakers, followed by the promised bleep when someone picked up.
“Hi, extension bleeeeep, please,” Cliff said to the office receptionist on the other end of the phone.
“One moment,” a nasal voice replied, then dead air.
A long, anxious minute passed. No one spoke.
Then another long bleep pierced the silence, and Cliff’s voice barreled around the champagne leather interior. “Is this bleeeeeep?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
Upon hearing the man’s oh, so familiar voice, Summer gripped the steering wheel tight enough to crack it. Leather hissed as Mom leaned forward and curled her hands around the driver’s seat back. Lyn’s head swerved in Summer’s direction, staring in open-mouthed surprise. April developed a sudden fascination with the dense treeline that hugged the side of the parkway. No question her mother and sisters knew the man’s identity as surely as she did.
“Congratulations,” Cliff said, laying on a salesman’s cadence. “I’m with Cliff’s Flower Shop, and you’ve won a dozen roses for that special lady in your life.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s the catch?”
“No catch. We’re trying to boost our sales with a special promotion. All you have to do is tell us the name and address of the lucky recipient. We’ll take it from there.”
“Great,” Brad replied. “Send them to my wife. Her name is Summer Jackson...”
Summer’s heart exploded, and her foot slammed on the brakes. The SUV hurtled to a screeching halt on the road’s shoulder, inches from a battered guardrail. The unique musical opening of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird suddenly filled the speakers, but her brain barely registered the twangy guitar.
An angry hive of bees filled her ears, buzzing with recriminations. She should’ve confronted Brad when she’d first suspected the affair. But she’d been too afraid, afraid to hear the words uttered aloud, afraid that once the facts became known, she’d have to face the truth. Her marriage was a sham, a farce, a train wreck.
Hearing that fact confirmed on the radio, on public airwaves, devastated Summer with the effect of two tons of dynamite. To add insult to injury, her mother and sisters had heard the news at the very same time she had.
And of course, in typical fashion, Mom refused to take Summer’s plight into account before plunging a stake into the heart of the matter.
“Still think that deejay’s tame, sweetheart?”
♥
INSIDE WTXZ RADIO’S studio, Craig Hartmann, aka Cliff Hanger, slammed the mute button and signaled to his producer to hit the delay. Too late. The woman’s name went out over the air. A split second later the opening strains of Freebird filled the studio.
“Great, Lenny,” he shouted at the kid on the other side of the glass. “Nice going.”
Technically, he was more to blame than Lenny. He should have had his finger on the dump button himself. Another sleepless night with a feverish toddler had thrown off his reflexes.
“Hello? Are you there?” a staticky voice called from the receiver. Obviously, the yutz named Brad still had no idea this was a radio prank. “Did you get my wife’s info?”
Time to play Who’s The Bigger Moron? The guy on the phone? Or himself for screwing up what should have been a simple ten-minute bit?
Okay, think damage control. Maybe this wasn’t a major disaster in the making. Maybe he could somehow turn this negative into a positive. Maybe Summer Jackson hadn’t heard the broadcast. Maybe none of her friends or relatives listened to him. He could hope, couldn’t he?
“Hello?” the yutz called again.
Jeez, this guy was a real beauty.
Craig punched off the mute button. “Yes, sir, Mr. Jackson, I’m here. Sorry. Could you repeat that address again please?”
“Oh, sure.” He rattled off a street address, no more than half a mile from where Craig lived. Small world and getting more microscopic all the time.
Without fully knowing why, Craig scribbled Summer Jackson’s name and address on a yellow Post-It note.
“Got it. Thanks a lot and have a great day.” Quickly, he hung up. A second blinking light reminded him Briana waited on hold on another line. While the Van Zandt boys wailed about this bird you cannot tame in the background, he clicked on the next extension. “Briana, you still there?”
“Yes.” The single word came out a choked sob. “Are we... are we on the air?”
“No. Looks like you got your answer, though, huh?” The minute the words left his mouth, he realized how stupid and insensitive they were.
You’re on a roll, genius.
“Yeah.” She sniffed. “Thanks.”
Time to salvage something honorable from the cesspool he’d dug today. “Look, Briana. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it worked out this way. At least you found out before you got in over your head.”
“You think?” She laughed, a sound more bitter than the green apple spray he used to keep his dog from chewing on the furniture. “I loved him, Cliff. I mean, I really loved him. I thought Brad was the one, you know?”
Aw, Jeez. He didn’t have time to talk to this kid about her love life. His sidekick, Maureen, usually took care of the gooey stuff. Lucky Maureen had picked the perfect morning to call in sick.
He shot a panicked look at Lenny and stretched out his hands to indicate he needed more time before going back on the air. The kid flashed the okay sign, thumb and index finger curled in a circle. Thank God Lenny wasn’t nearly as stupid as Cliff made him out to be on a regular basis.
The on-air Cliff Hanger was the polar opposite of real-life Craig Hartmann. He’d purposely devised the Cliff Hanger persona to keep his public and private lives completely separate. This situation managed to temporarily meld the two men into one. One man who had just ruined two women’s lives. And all before nine o’clock on a Monday morning.
The week was off to a terrific start.