two. In my opinion she’s a beauty, but these days she’s haunted by the few extra pounds she picked up when she was pregnant.
The tension in the control room is thick, and the body language is hostile. I attempt to defuse the situation.
“Dr. Harris, I presume.” I offer our guest my hand. “I’m Charlie Dowhanuik.”
Dr. Harris pivots on her stilettos. She ignores my outstretched hand. Her eyes are flashing. “I’ve asked your producer to block a certain caller, and she refuses.” Dr. Harris’s voice is the kind of deep rich mezzo that makes my knees weak, but the caterpillar and I have a history.
“We don’t block callers unless there’s a reason,” I say.
“There’s a reason,” Robin Harris says. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland and I were in a relationship. It’s over, and he’s not dealing with it well. He makes threats.”
“Against you?” I say.
Robin Harris shakes her head impatiently. “Against himself,” she says. “He threatens to commit suicide.”
“In that case, he shouldn’t be ignored,” I say. “Maybe I can help.”
Robin Harris’s thrilling voice drips contempt. “I doubt it,” she says.
Nova catches my eye and points to the darkened studio on the other side of the glass.
“You’d better get in there,” she says.
“We’re on air in one minute, five.”
I open the door to the studio and stand aside for Dr. Harris. As she glides past me, I catch her perfume. It’s sultry. We take our places at the round broadcast desk. I point to her earphones.
“Those are yours. Could you say a few words, please? Nova needs to do a sound check.”
Dr. Harris flicks the button on the base of her microphone and the tiny light indicating that she’s on the air comes to life.
“If you don’t block Dr. Gabriel Ireland’s calls, you’ll regret it,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“On-air tension is the lifeblood of talk radio,” I say.
As she hears Dr. Harris’s words, Nova’s smile is sweet. When we’re on the air, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. Unless Nova chooses to open the talkback for the guest, I’m the only one who can hear her. Tonight she’s decided not to share with Dr. Harris. Nova’s voice on the talkback is amused.
“FYI, Charlie, Dr. Harris tells me that people from an unnamed network are listening to our show tonight. Dr. Harris is on the short list for a call-in show of her own. My guess is she doesn’t want Gabriel Ireland getting through because he might put her off her game.”
“O-kay,” I say.
“There’s an introduction on your computer screen,” Nova says. She holds up five fingers and counts down. “And you’re on the air.”
Our theme music, “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band, comes up. When the music fades, it’s my turn. Like everyone in my business, I’ve created a voice that works for my audience. My radio voice is soothing, deep and intimate, but tonight I take it down a few notches and open with the sepulchral tones of the villain in a horror movie.
I remember the exact moment when I heard that my golden, glowing Ariel had died. She was twenty-eight years old. When she was thirteen, she made a tablecloth out of midnight blue velvet and appliqued it with gold and silver satin cut-outs of suns, moons, stars, buds, blossoms, fruits, birds, fish and animals. Ariel’s world encompassed everything, and then she was gone. We used the cloth she sewed to cover the box that held her ashes. Suddenly I can’t speak. Through the glass that separates us, I see Nova’s worried eyes and the quarter smile that she offers when I need encouragement.
CHAPTER THREE
On talk radio, dead air is the enemy. Spotting her chance, Doctor Harris leans in to her microphone. People from the unnamed network are listening, assessing how Dr. Harris can handle situations on air. But people for whom I am a lifeline are also listening. I failed them once before. I’m not going to let it happen again. I dig deep for my cool and commanding voice, and it’s there.
Dr. Har ris’s laugh is warm and self-deprecating.
Everything about Robin Harris is without flaw. Her profile is classic; the lines of her neck are graceful; the deep plum polish on the perfect ovals of her fingernails matches the gloss on her lips. As she utters her insights, her voice is certain. I think of my listeners, broken and vulnerable, and of me, broken and vulnerable too.
Her green eyes meet mine.
Nova’s voice comes through the talkback.
“Want me to go to music?”
I shake my head.