book.
Maybe.
I told myself not to forget it and turned my attention back to the interview.
"Anything of any real value is always difficult to accomplish," Merilee was saying. "I remember staying up nights, worrying about what Opal would say to Palmer. Wondering how Palmer would react. These characters, you know, they take on a life of their own. Before long, even the person who created them comes to think of them as real."
"As so many millions of your readers have!" The reporter, a perky thing with blindingly white teeth and blond hair, scooted to the edge of her chair. She leaned forward, her eyes bright. "When can your fans expect another book?"
"When it's ready." In a whisper, I repeated the words along with Merilee.
"How did you know she was going to say that?" Ella bent her head close and whispered. I shrugged in reply. "Call me psychic. Why hasn't she finished another book?" I asked Ella. I figured as president of the fan club, she might have the inside track. "If this is writer's block, it's the longest lasting case on record."
"Shhh!" A woman with a clipboard, who was standing between us and the set, turned and put a finger to her lips.
Chastised, Ella stepped back. I knew I wouldn't get another word out of her. In front of us, the director gave the reporter the high sign to wrap things up. After a commercial break, it would be Ella's turn to go in front of the cameras. I watched her smooth a hand over her skirt and comb her fingers through her hair. She was nervous, but I had confidence in her. Ella was always cool under fire. Not so Trish Kingston. In my one and only encounter with her back at the cemetery, I'd learned that Trish was as jumpy as a cricket on a hot sidewalk. She was afraid of Merilee, and who could blame her?
Miss Congeniality, Merilee was not. Yet when I looked around, Trish wasn't toeing the edge of the set as I expected her to be, waiting for Merilee's next orders, hanging on Merilee's every word. In fact, Trish was nowhere to be seen.
It was curious, and I was curious about it. I gave Ella an encouraging pat on the back and carefully stepped over camera cables and around light stands, heading out in search of Trish. I found her in what I'd heard the TV folks call the greenroom, the place guests waited until they were told it was time for them to go in front of the cameras. She was lounging in a plush recliner, and I did a double take when I saw her.
Trish was dressed in a navy and red plaid skirt and matching jacket.
I recognized the pricey as well as the dumpy. My mom had always shopped at Talbot's. Trish's scrawny legs—and the navy pumps on her feet—were stretched out in front of her, and she had a can of Coke in one hand.
"Hey, Trish." When I smiled and waved, she opened her eyes, and I realized that she'd been napping.
"Just thought you'd like to know that Merilee's interview is almost over."
"Yeah, whatever." Trish stretched and sat up. The smell of menthol wafted through the room toward me. She drained the last of the Coke in the can. "God, maybe we can get out of here now. I always thought TV studios would be, you know, interesting."
"Me, too." There wasn't much else to say. Aside from asking who this person was and what she'd done with the scared-of-her-own shadow Trish I'd met at Garden View. Knowing I wouldn't get an answer, I stepped back into the hallway.
And smacked right into Merilee.
"Sorry." The apology was automatic. After all, how sorry did I have to be? I was the one walking backward. Merilee was the one going straight ahead. She might actually have noticed me if she didn't look so distracted.
I moved out of the doorway and let her into the greenroom. Call me a rubbernecker. Like a witness at the scene of an especially gruesome accident, I was anxious to see what was going to happen between Merilee and the new and improved Trish.
What I saw was Merilee take one look at Trish and open her mouth. I could just about read the biting words that were ready on
Maybe.
I told myself not to forget it and turned my attention back to the interview.
"Anything of any real value is always difficult to accomplish," Merilee was saying. "I remember staying up nights, worrying about what Opal would say to Palmer. Wondering how Palmer would react. These characters, you know, they take on a life of their own. Before long, even the person who created them comes to think of them as real."
"As so many millions of your readers have!" The reporter, a perky thing with blindingly white teeth and blond hair, scooted to the edge of her chair. She leaned forward, her eyes bright. "When can your fans expect another book?"
"When it's ready." In a whisper, I repeated the words along with Merilee.
"How did you know she was going to say that?" Ella bent her head close and whispered. I shrugged in reply. "Call me psychic. Why hasn't she finished another book?" I asked Ella. I figured as president of the fan club, she might have the inside track. "If this is writer's block, it's the longest lasting case on record."
"Shhh!" A woman with a clipboard, who was standing between us and the set, turned and put a finger to her lips.
Chastised, Ella stepped back. I knew I wouldn't get another word out of her. In front of us, the director gave the reporter the high sign to wrap things up. After a commercial break, it would be Ella's turn to go in front of the cameras. I watched her smooth a hand over her skirt and comb her fingers through her hair. She was nervous, but I had confidence in her. Ella was always cool under fire. Not so Trish Kingston. In my one and only encounter with her back at the cemetery, I'd learned that Trish was as jumpy as a cricket on a hot sidewalk. She was afraid of Merilee, and who could blame her?
Miss Congeniality, Merilee was not. Yet when I looked around, Trish wasn't toeing the edge of the set as I expected her to be, waiting for Merilee's next orders, hanging on Merilee's every word. In fact, Trish was nowhere to be seen.
It was curious, and I was curious about it. I gave Ella an encouraging pat on the back and carefully stepped over camera cables and around light stands, heading out in search of Trish. I found her in what I'd heard the TV folks call the greenroom, the place guests waited until they were told it was time for them to go in front of the cameras. She was lounging in a plush recliner, and I did a double take when I saw her.
Trish was dressed in a navy and red plaid skirt and matching jacket.
I recognized the pricey as well as the dumpy. My mom had always shopped at Talbot's. Trish's scrawny legs—and the navy pumps on her feet—were stretched out in front of her, and she had a can of Coke in one hand.
"Hey, Trish." When I smiled and waved, she opened her eyes, and I realized that she'd been napping.
"Just thought you'd like to know that Merilee's interview is almost over."
"Yeah, whatever." Trish stretched and sat up. The smell of menthol wafted through the room toward me. She drained the last of the Coke in the can. "God, maybe we can get out of here now. I always thought TV studios would be, you know, interesting."
"Me, too." There wasn't much else to say. Aside from asking who this person was and what she'd done with the scared-of-her-own shadow Trish I'd met at Garden View. Knowing I wouldn't get an answer, I stepped back into the hallway.
And smacked right into Merilee.
"Sorry." The apology was automatic. After all, how sorry did I have to be? I was the one walking backward. Merilee was the one going straight ahead. She might actually have noticed me if she didn't look so distracted.
I moved out of the doorway and let her into the greenroom. Call me a rubbernecker. Like a witness at the scene of an especially gruesome accident, I was anxious to see what was going to happen between Merilee and the new and improved Trish.
What I saw was Merilee take one look at Trish and open her mouth. I could just about read the biting words that were ready on
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