GREG WILL BE HERE ANY minute.
After getting the wine, Erica picked up flowers. A beautiful bunch of white and blue hydrangeas. Then she grabbed a dozen red tulips—so simple and elegant—and then a stunning mixed bouquet. She spent two hundred dollars, good for her. But now—as she moves the three vases from one table to another—she worries that the flowers are too much, that they come off as a desperate attempt to impress. She grabs the tulips and rushes into the bathroom and puts them on the counter. No, too fancy for a bathroom. She goes into her bedroom and puts them on her dresser. That’s better. Isn’t it? Should she light a scented candle in here? Candlelight is romantic, but is it cutesy, presumptuous, jumping the gun? Is romance even still a possibility?
And what about music? She grabs her iPhone and goes to Spotify—something for the soundtrack of the evening. Nothing too hip or jangly. Classical? No, too fusty. What about Michael Bublé or Celine Dion? Too Vegas-y?
Erica is desperately trying to ignore the elephant in her head: how to deal with Claire’s news about her court records. Does she tell Greg? What will he think of her when he finds out? Does he know already? And what about her plan to bring him in on her investigations?
Erica stands still and sucks air, closes her eyes and wills herself to calm down. Tony Bennett! He’s timeless. She puts on Bennett and moves the hydrangeas to the side table in the entryway. She goes to the galley kitchen. The small red potatoes are already roasting in the oven. Are they done? If they are, will they dry out? She pours olive oil into a frying pan and starts to sauté the mushrooms. She should have done this earlier. She doesn’t want Greg to arrive and find her sautéing mushrooms. But what should she be doing when he arrives? Not watching TV, not just sitting around.
Before she has time to decide, the intercom sounds.
“Greg Underwood is here,” comes the doorman’s voice.
“Send him up.”
Erica checks herself in the entryway mirror, smoothes out her little black dress. Is it too short? Is it wrong for what might turn into a very serious evening? The doorbell rings.
Greg stands there looking exhausted and stubbly, his black mop even more unruly than usual. Clearly he’s come straight from work. They look at each other for a moment—there’s no kiss, no touching—and Erica can’t read his look. It leaves her more unsettled. She has to take things one step at a time, not get ahead of herself, not get desperate. Don’t get desperate.
“Welcome,” she says.
Greg hands her a bouquet of lilies.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you.” The place is starting to look like a mortuary.
They walk into the living room. “This is nice,” he says politely.
“It’s fine for now.” Does Greg seem oddly subdued—or is that her imagination? “How about a glass of wine?”
“I could use one.”
Erica goes into the kitchen, sticks the flowers in a vase, and opens a bottle of the eighty-five-dollar wine. She holds the bottle under her nose and inhales the dry, fruity bouquet. She’d love a glass, just one . . . but that’s out of the question . . . with Greg here. She pours him a glass and brings it to him—he’s sitting on one of two facing sofas. He takes a sip. “This is fantastic wine.” He definitely seems serious, almost preoccupied.
Erica sits on the opposite sofa. “So I thought the rehearsal went well,” she says, brushing at a nonexistent spot on the sofa.
“Yes, it did. We’re moving in the right direction.”
“Things seem to be coming together,” Erica says, feeling inane.
Greg looks so uncomfortable, even morose. He takes a long swallow of wine and looks like a man steeling himself for an unpleasant task. “Erica, there’s something I need to talk to you about. I’m afraid it’s serious.”
“Is it my court records?”
“You know?”
“Claire told me.”
“Nylan gave them to me to read,” Greg says.
“Who else knows?”
“Just Nylan, Claire, and Fred Wilmot.”
“And you, of course.”
“Nylan felt I need to know because it could impact our show. I reassured him that you were sober now and there was no chance of another incident.”
No chance?
“Did he accept that?”
“He wishes you had told him.”
“What Claire did is despicable.”
“I’m not convinced she actually unearthed them. I think Nylan may have fed them to her.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To exert his power and control. Knock you down a peg. But, listen, how the records were obtained is secondary at this point. We have to deal with what’s in them.”
Erica stands up abruptly and starts to pace. “What’s in them is that I drove drunk with my Jenny in the car.” Just saying the words makes her nauseated. Erica hates self-pity, but for a moment it washes over her.
It all happened that fateful day she was fired from WBZ. Dirk had moved out of their lovely house—the house Erica’s salary paid for—and taken Jenny with him, to some crummy rental, basically kidnapped her, really. Yes she started drinking early, yes she drank all day, yes she got angry, yes she went to Dirk’s crummy rental to confront him and found Jenny with a babysitter, yes she snuck Jenny out of the house and into her car—but she put her in the backseat and fastened her seat belt—yes they drove to some crummy motel on Route 9 and Jenny was crying and Erica left her alone in the room and went to go get some ice cream—oh all right, she went to find a liquor store—and yes she slammed into a pickup truck.
But she paid a terrible price—losing custody of Jenny. And then, after the records were sealed, she pretended they didn’t exist, would never come to light. So now another price must be paid. Erica faces the bitter irony that she, who is so committed to finding the truth, may be undone by her own sin of omission.
Erica is still pacing, feels like she could jump out of her skin. How is she ever going to get through the rest of this night? “I made a big mistake,” she says.
“We all make mistakes, Erica.”
The smell of something burning wafts into the room.
“Oh no, the mushrooms!” Erica cries, racing into the kitchen. She’s glad to be away from Greg for a moment, from his sympathy and scrutiny, from the awful truth of her transgression, her self-inflicted wound. She turns off the burner, but the mushrooms are cinders. She opens the oven, the potatoes are dark and shriveled. Dinner is ruined. Just like her career, and maybe her life—she’ll never get custody of Jenny if this becomes public. It’s all crumbling. She’s lost in a labyrinth with no idea which way to turn, which path to take—she needs to turn off her racing mind. She picks up the bottle of wine, opens the refrigerator door, and steps behind it. Hidden, she raises the bottle and takes a gulp.
Greg appears in the kitchen archway. “How’s it going in here?”
Erica furtively shelves the wine and closes the refrigerator. “How do you feel about Thai takeout?”
“A woman after my own heart.” Greg goes to Erica and places his hands on her shoulders. She flinches. “This is rough for you, I know, but we can get through it.”
Why is he being so nice? Why isn’t he angry and disappointed? Like she is. Erica pulls takeout menus from a drawer, grateful that she has something to occupy her hands.
“Pad Thai?”
Greg nods, she calls and orders.
They return to the living room and sit on opposite couches. “I think we have to look at it from Nylan’s perspective,” Greg says. “He has a lot invested in you—financially, yes, but beyond that you’re the global face of GNN. There’s a lot riding on you. He has compelling reasons to keep it between the four of us.”
Between the four of us? So is Greg one of them now—Nylan, Wilmot, Claire and . . . Greg? One of a group of people she can’t trust. Who have the power to destroy her. Has she misjudged him? Is his ultimate allegiance to Nylan and his own career?
The thought chills Erica to the bone and beyond. She can’t look Greg in the eye, he’ll see her suspicion—or is it paranoia? She stands up, she needs to move, she walks over to the mixed bouquet and fusses with it.
Greg is sitting forward on the couch with his elbows on his knees, his palms clasped together—sympathetic, analytical, practical. But is it a front, a performance? He has all the answers at his fingertips, as if they were rehearsed.
“But what about Claire? Isn’t she gunning for me?” Erica asks.
“Yes, but she just fired her best shot. And the real prize she’s after is Nylan.”
“So snaring him is even more important to her than ruining me?”
“Let’s hope.”
Greg gives her a meaningful look, and another thought occurs to Erica.
Is Greg the messenger? Sent to reiterate that they have the goods on her?
“I think the best thing to do is nothing,” he says. “Let Nylan make the next move. Don’t let him know that you know.”
Of course he knows that I know. Isn’t that the whole point, Greg? Friend, mentor, ally, fascinating man, attractive man . . . man I was going to hold in my arms tonight.
But she can’t be sure. Her imagination feels like a runaway train. He’s never been anything but honest and supportive. Erica feels dizzy with confusion.
Mercifully the doorbell rings. She goes and collects the food. “Stay put, I’ll plate it,” she says as she heads into the kitchen. She opens the fridge and steals another gulp of the wine. Then another. The edges of her anxiety soften. Is she crazy in questioning Greg’s motives? She plates the food and brings it into the living room.
“Could I get another glass of wine?” Greg asks.
“Oh, of course, I forgot all about it.” Erica goes back into the kitchen. She takes another gulp. Will Greg notice that the bottle is emptier than it should be? She turns on the cold water and holds the bottle under the tap for a second. Then she returns to the living room and hands him the bottle. Will the wine taste watered down? He pours himself a glass and takes a sip. Does he frown slightly?
Erica sits. She has no appetite, pushes the food around on her plate. Greg digs in with gusto, like a hungry teenager. Oh please let him be the man she thought he was.
“Greg?”
He looks up.
“How does what’s in the court documents make you feel about me?”
He puts down his plate. “Erica, I went through a divorce and I know how painful it is. I behaved in ways that I’m not proud of.” He gets up, crosses the room, and sits beside her on the couch. He takes her hand in his. “We all carry our demons, don’t we? They’re never going to go away—we just have to fight them to a draw.” He strokes her hand. “As to how this news makes me feel—it makes me care about you even more.”
His words are a momentary balm, and having him this close, smelling his pine soap, feeling his hands enfolding hers is sweet torture. She wants to believe he’s on her side . . . she wants it so badly . . . she works so hard, feels so alone, has taken on so much, it’s all on her shoulders, she feels like she’s walking a tightrope, a tightrope over a black abyss . . .
“Erica, you went from zero to a hundred in the time it took you to try to save Kay Barrish’s life.”
“Too much too soon.”
“You’re strong, Erica. I have faith in you.” Greg pulls her to him, puts his arms around her, and cradles her to his chest. “You’ve had a rough day, you need to rest, just rest, beautiful girl. I’ve got you, I’m holding you . . .”
His voice is soothing, hypnotic, he strokes her hair. Erica snuggles up on the sofa, closes her eyes, and leans into his touch, feeling his warmth, his body, his gently beating heart . . . Is she in a safe place? . . . Is she? . . . Can she let go? . . . Let go . . . let go . . .
Erica wakes with a start, disoriented. Where is she? She’s lost in a strange place. She bolts up, out of Greg’s arms, looks at him, and for a brief sad second imagines they’re somewhere in the country, in a house with a garden and a fireplace—then the mirage evaporates and her terrifying reality is back. “How long was I asleep?”
He brushes her hair from her forehead. “About a half hour. I should probably head home. I’ve got some loose ends to wrap up tonight, and we have a big day tomorrow.”
Erica nods and walks him to the door. He leans in to kiss her but she turns away and then rests her head on his chest for a moment.
“Good night,” he says.
“Good night.”
He opens the door and then turns. “Oh, there’s one thing I forgot to mention. I think I blocked it out.”
Erica looks at him quizzically.
“Nylan wants to see you in his office at nine tomorrow morning.”
Erica closes the door after him, turns the dead bolt, and then leans against the door, feeling like she’s tumbled off the tightrope and is falling, falling . . .