more ... well, intimate territory.”
I wasn’t quite sure about the intimate
territory, and I certainly didn’t count myself one of Roz’s friends. But after
seeing her virtuoso performances over the past two days, I couldn’t help
wanting to see more. After all, someday soon I might be watching the woman
waltz the first waltz at the Inaugural Ball—on television, of course.
“All right, I’ll go,” I said, and
Constance beamed. I put my head through the door into The Crystal Cave, where
Ruby was waiting on a well-dressed young professional woman who was choosing a
tarot deck. I waggled my “I’m stepping out for a minute” sign and Ruby nodded
that she’d cover for me. Constance and I headed out the door and down the path
to the cottage.
Roz was dressed to meet the press in
a pair of silky cream-colored slacks and a creamy silk blouse topped with an
elegant strand of pearls. She was on the phone with Jane’s office in New York,
but she hung up immediately.
“Jane’s taking a few days off to
drive up to her cottage in Vermont,” she said. She turned to me. “She left a
message for Meredith, China. She thought Jo’s memorial service was quite
impressive—the fact that so many people came, I mean.” Roz supplied us with coffee,
picked up the tomato juice she’d been sipping (heavily laced with garlic
extract, no doubt), and led us out to the tiny patio outside the cottage
bedroom, where we pulled white wicker chairs around the small white table. The
air was heavily scented with thyme. Bees were busy among the violet-colored
blossoms.
Constance took a
professional-looking tape recorder out of her voluminous carryall, checked the
batteries, and set a mike on the table. “Now, Ms. Kotner,” she said, wreathed
in smiles and fluttering like a middle-aged groupie, “tell us ever’thang!” East
Texans have a wonderful way with their ings. Thing always comes out like thang.
Roz arched her eyebrows. “Everything?”
“Oh, dear, yes!” Constance gushed
with avid enthusiasm. She took out a steno pad and a pencil. “In Pecan
Springs, we’re proud of your rise to stardom. We like to feel that maybe we’ve
had a teensy part”—she held thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart to
show how much “teensy” was—”in your success story.”
I had no idea that Roz Kotner had
risen to the stature of a Pecan Springs’ folk heroine. As far as I knew, this
wasn’t even Roz’s home town. It was just the last place she’d happened to live
before she became famous. But I could understand why Pecan Springs might take a
proprietary interest in her. After all, how many of its former citizens had
ever made the cover of People magazine perched on a pile of pink bears?
Roz gave Constance a kindly smile. “Well,
then,” she said, “perhaps it’s appropriate that the word go out from Pecan
Springs at the same time it goes out from Washington and Los Angeles. But I will have to ask you to hold the story until you have clearance from me.
“Sure,” Constance agreed eagerly.
She leaned so far forward that I was afraid she might tip over, even though her
chair was anchored by her ample beet-colored behind. “What story?”
Roz glanced at me approvingly. “I
see you haven’t mentioned it,” she said. I shook my head and she turned back to
Constance.
“I’m leaving the entertainment
field,” she said. “I’ve sold my corporation to Disney.”
And then, before Constance had time
to recover, Roz dropped bombshell number two.
Constance’s eyes grew round in her
round, flushed face, and her chair teetered dangerously. “Senator Keenan” she
exclaimed. “Lord sakes!” Then, remembering herself, she burbled through
profuse congratulations, tripping over every other word, with anxious glances
at her tape recorder to make sure it was still running. This was clearly the
biggest scoop of Constance Letterman’s journalistic career.
Ten minutes later, when Constance
had asked all the questions
I wasn’t quite sure about the intimate
territory, and I certainly didn’t count myself one of Roz’s friends. But after
seeing her virtuoso performances over the past two days, I couldn’t help
wanting to see more. After all, someday soon I might be watching the woman
waltz the first waltz at the Inaugural Ball—on television, of course.
“All right, I’ll go,” I said, and
Constance beamed. I put my head through the door into The Crystal Cave, where
Ruby was waiting on a well-dressed young professional woman who was choosing a
tarot deck. I waggled my “I’m stepping out for a minute” sign and Ruby nodded
that she’d cover for me. Constance and I headed out the door and down the path
to the cottage.
Roz was dressed to meet the press in
a pair of silky cream-colored slacks and a creamy silk blouse topped with an
elegant strand of pearls. She was on the phone with Jane’s office in New York,
but she hung up immediately.
“Jane’s taking a few days off to
drive up to her cottage in Vermont,” she said. She turned to me. “She left a
message for Meredith, China. She thought Jo’s memorial service was quite
impressive—the fact that so many people came, I mean.” Roz supplied us with coffee,
picked up the tomato juice she’d been sipping (heavily laced with garlic
extract, no doubt), and led us out to the tiny patio outside the cottage
bedroom, where we pulled white wicker chairs around the small white table. The
air was heavily scented with thyme. Bees were busy among the violet-colored
blossoms.
Constance took a
professional-looking tape recorder out of her voluminous carryall, checked the
batteries, and set a mike on the table. “Now, Ms. Kotner,” she said, wreathed
in smiles and fluttering like a middle-aged groupie, “tell us ever’thang!” East
Texans have a wonderful way with their ings. Thing always comes out like thang.
Roz arched her eyebrows. “Everything?”
“Oh, dear, yes!” Constance gushed
with avid enthusiasm. She took out a steno pad and a pencil. “In Pecan
Springs, we’re proud of your rise to stardom. We like to feel that maybe we’ve
had a teensy part”—she held thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart to
show how much “teensy” was—”in your success story.”
I had no idea that Roz Kotner had
risen to the stature of a Pecan Springs’ folk heroine. As far as I knew, this
wasn’t even Roz’s home town. It was just the last place she’d happened to live
before she became famous. But I could understand why Pecan Springs might take a
proprietary interest in her. After all, how many of its former citizens had
ever made the cover of People magazine perched on a pile of pink bears?
Roz gave Constance a kindly smile. “Well,
then,” she said, “perhaps it’s appropriate that the word go out from Pecan
Springs at the same time it goes out from Washington and Los Angeles. But I will have to ask you to hold the story until you have clearance from me.
“Sure,” Constance agreed eagerly.
She leaned so far forward that I was afraid she might tip over, even though her
chair was anchored by her ample beet-colored behind. “What story?”
Roz glanced at me approvingly. “I
see you haven’t mentioned it,” she said. I shook my head and she turned back to
Constance.
“I’m leaving the entertainment
field,” she said. “I’ve sold my corporation to Disney.”
And then, before Constance had time
to recover, Roz dropped bombshell number two.
Constance’s eyes grew round in her
round, flushed face, and her chair teetered dangerously. “Senator Keenan” she
exclaimed. “Lord sakes!” Then, remembering herself, she burbled through
profuse congratulations, tripping over every other word, with anxious glances
at her tape recorder to make sure it was still running. This was clearly the
biggest scoop of Constance Letterman’s journalistic career.
Ten minutes later, when Constance
had asked all the questions
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