pointed to the chair. “Okay. Sit down and listen to advice from Auntie Fran.”
“I can’t take advice standing up?”
“Nope.” Fran snagged Deanna’s hand and yanked her down onto the sofa. Despite the contrasts in backgrounds and styles, they’d been friends since freshman orientation in college. Fran had seen Deanna wage this war between intellect and emotion dozens of times. “Okay. Question number one: Why did you go to Yale?”
“Because I got a scholarship.”
“Don’t rub your brains in my face, Einstein. What did you and I go to college for?”
“You went to meet men.”
Fran narrowed her eyes. “That was just a side benefit. Stop stalling and answer the question.”
Defeated, Deanna let out a sigh. “We went to study, to become journalists, to get high-paying, high-profile jobs on television.”
“Absolutely correct. And have we succeeded?”
“Sort of. We have our degrees. I’m a reporter for CBC and you’re associate producer of Woman Talk on cable.”
“Excellent launching points. Now, have you forgotten the famous Deanna Reynolds’s Five-Year Plan? If so, I’m sure there’s a typed copy of it in that desk.”
Deanna glanced over at her pride and joy, the single fine piece of furniture she’d acquired since moving to Chicago. She’d picked up the beautifully patinated Queen Anne desk at an auction. And Fran was right. There was a typed copy of Deanna’s career plan in the top drawer. In duplicate.
Since college, she had modified her plans somewhat. Fran had married and settled in Chicago and had urged her former roommate to come out and try her luck.
“Year One,” Deanna remembered. “An on-camera job in Kansas City.”
“Done.”
“Year Two, a position at CBC, Chicago.”
“Accomplished.”
“Year Three, a small, tasteful segment of my own.”
“The current ’Deanna’s Corner,’ ” Fran said, and toasted the segment with her ginger ale.
“Year Four, anchoring the evening news. Local.”
“Which you’ve already done, several times, as substitute.”
“Year Five, audition tapes and résumés to the holy ground: New York.”
“Which will never be able to resist your combination of style, on-camera appeal and sincerity—unless, of course, you continue to second-guess yourself.”
“You’re right, but—”
“No buts.” On this Fran was firm. She expended some of the energy she preferred to hoard by propping her feet on the coffee table. “You do good work, Dee. People talk to you because you have compassion. That’s an advantage in a journalist, not a flaw.”
“It doesn’t help me sleep at night.” Restless and suddenly tired, Deanna scooped a hand through her hair. After curlingher legs up, she studied the room, brooding.
There was the rickety dinette she’d yet to find a suitable replacement for, the frayed rug, the single solid armchair she’d had re-covered in a soft gray. Only the desk stood out, gleaming, a testimony to partial success. Yet everything was in its place; the few trinkets she’d collected were arranged precisely.
This tidy apartment wasn’t the home of her dreams, but as Fran had pointed out, it was an excellent launching point. And she fully intended to launch herself, both personally and professionally.
“Do you remember, back at college, how exciting we thought it would be to sprint after ambulances, interview mass murderers, to write incisive copy that would rivet the viewers’ attention? Well, it is.” Letting out a sigh, Deanna rose to pace again. “But you really pay for the kick.” She paused a moment, picked up a little china box, set it down again. “Angela’s hinted that I could have the job as head researcher on her show for the asking—on-air credit with a significant raise in salary.”
Because she didn’t want to influence her friend, Fran pursed her lips and kept her voice neutral. “And you’re considering it?”
“Every time I do, I remember I’d be giving up the camera.” With
Janwillem van de Wetering