Sunday night a week later, Will had been two scotches in when his cell phone ping-ed.
Charlie Skinner.
Why don't you take a couple of days off? Recommend a few days near Branford,Connecticut, see attached.
So, the following day, Will had gone where nudged and now he swung up the walk of a yellow beach cottage, the sand on the boardwalk crunching under his loafers. It was just minutes until dusk, but the window of the front room was illuminated, so he approached hopeful that this wasn't a wild goose chase, that—
"Hello."
MacKenzie had just rounded the corner of the cottage, barefoot and with sandals dangling from one hand. Her surprise was apparent, but she tried gamely to conceal if Will being on her doorstep was a good surprise or a bad one.
He returned a short nod. "Hello."
"This can't be a coincidence." The obvious answer occurred to her. "Charlie told you."
"Yeah. He knew that I—that there were things I wanted to—and that you—"
"You should feel set-up. I certainly do, seeing that it was Charlie who steered me here. 'I know just the place for thinking,' he said." She forced a smile. "Well, you're here. And I'm always glad to see you, Will, even though it hasn't been all that long since we last spoke." Shaking her head with unspoken amusement, she added, "You may as well come in."
He followed her through the door and waited expectantly a few feet inside. He wanted it to be evident that he presumed nothing, that he was waiting to be asked. The room where they stood was a cozy sitting room, the bead board painted a paler yellow than the bright canary color of the exterior of the cottage. Furniture was a nondescript hodge-podge of the last three decades, belying the cottage's experience as a rental, not a residence.
Will wiped at the perspiration on his forehead. The room was warm and airless, which he attributed to her having been out walking the beach. If she had been home, she surely would have had the overhead fan rotating to stir the air.
As if on cue, she flipped a wall switch and the fan blades began to circle.
"How did you get here—Lonny?"
"I drove myself."
"Oh."
"I can drive."
"I remember." Obviously, his reaction amused her further. "Something to drink? The place came well-provisioned, so there's beer and soda—even wine in a box." She made a face.
"What are you having?"
"Water." She displayed a bottle. "Alcohol is just another thing I don't need to deal with right now."
"Water for me, too." Actually, a cold beer sounded better but it seemed important to keep a level playing field between them in every way. She eschewed booze—he'd give it up for now, as well.
She placed two bottles of water on the counter, then locked her arms across her chest and looked down for a few moments. When she looked back up, her lower lip was locked between her teeth.
"Why are you here, Will?"
To make sure that you're coming back.
But the actual words that came from his mouth were, "Like I said, there were things I needed to—and, anyway, I wanted to see how you were."
"It's only been a week."
"A lot can happen in a week."
"Some new peccadillo with Nina?" she snorted. "Or have you moved on to another media maven?"
"I leveled with you about Nina—Jim can vouch for me."
She ceded the point. "Then, why—are—you—here," she repeated, with a deliberate break between each word to convey her exasperation.
"You need to come back."
"Ah, yes. Because—what?—oh, yes, I'll be damned sorry I left you again." She parroted his words from the previous week.
"I shouldn't have said that, not that way. I'm sorry." He did look as contrite as she'd ever seen him. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded—not a threat or anything. I just want you—not to leave." In the lull that followed, he inserted a fatal hedge. "The show. Leave the show."
"The show," she echoed thoughtfully, leaning back against the counter. "Have you considered that perhaps I'm a drag on News Night? Two weeks ago, I was in hospital ER because—well, because either pain overtook pleasure or pleasure overtook pain. I accidentally mixed my meds and my liquor to a crisis amount. It's still anyone's guess how accidental that really was, or what set it off, or when it could happen again."
"It won't happen again."
"You can't predict that, Will. It puts the show—it puts the staff—on slippery ground. You know that it best that I go, Will. I'm in a business that demands watching horrible things sometimes, and I'm no longer up to the job."
"There's a difference between voyeurism and bearing witness, Mac. You just need some perspective and some time."
She looked unconvinced and resumed patiently, as if she was addressing a whiney child. "Also, it's been apparent for a while—for the last year—that I cannot redeem myself in your eyes—and that my—feelings—are lost upon you. It's begun to affect the professional relationship as well, and I don't want to watch that crumble, too."
"Nothing's crumbling, Mac," he maintained. "Everything's fine. We're good, you and me. The show needs you. I—" he stumbled over the next part, but hoped the hesitation would look more like vehemence than vacillation, "—need you, and I came out here to tell you that."
She blinked, trying to comprehend the scale of his admission. "You. You're saying that you need me— even apart from the show?"
"I need you apart from the show," he repeated slowly. "Mac, I—I need you. I'm sorry I didn't say that sooner. You asked the other night what I needed, and I blew you off—I wanted to be the injured party. Well, that—plus there were all those people, too—but I need you. Not just for the show, but me."
At her continued silence, he prompted, "Mac?"
She held up her index finger, begging for a moment.
"I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier. I'm sorry for a shitload of things."
MacKenzie glanced at the clock and he took it as a hint.
"Maybe this has been enough for tonight. Maybe this is a good start and we can take this up tomorrow. If you're willing," he added, still trying to read her.
"Where are you staying?"
"I saw a hotel a few miles back—"
"You don't have a reservation?"
He shook his head.
"Will, this is the height of the season. You'd better give that hotel a call right now and see if there's a vacancy." She headed down the hallway, affording him some privacy for the call.
He complied, and she was right, no room at the inn. He tried another establishment, a little further away—still nothing available. A third place didn't even deign to answer the phone. He was on his fourth call when Mac returned with a stack of sheets and a pillow.
"This won't be the kind of lodging you're accustomed to, no doubt, but you ought to be able to endure it for a night." She balanced the linens on the back of the couch.
"Thanks, Mac, but if it makes you uncomfortable—"
She overruled him. "Bathroom's in the hall. If you'll give me a few minutes first, you can have it all to yourself. There are extra toothbrushes in the cabinet. I mean—I don't know if you brought a bag or anything." She twisted her lips in a small quirky smile. "Good night, Will."
oooo
The couch was a few inches short for him but not grossly uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Will found he couldn't sleep. The heat prickled at his skin, magnified by the couch's foam cushions and the slick mercerized sheets. Finally, he flung all the covers away and lay there, perspiring.
Recriminations churned in his thoughts. Had anything he said tonight made sense? Why hadn't he said it all sooner? He realized now that he had, over the course of a year, pushed her to the brink with his petty antics—was it too late to bring them back? Was he getting through to her about how important she was to the show—and how important she was to him, personally?
A floorboard creaked in the hall, then the sound of a door closing and light spilled from the gap under the bathroom door.
Mac, obviously. Perhaps the heat had gotten to her, as well.
Long minutes went by and he began to think that this was taking longer than usual. Well—longer than such visits normally took.
He rose and went to the bathroom door, his hand inverted to rap, until he thought better of it and simply put his palm to the door. He listened, and he could hear tight, short gasps on the other side.
"Everything okay, Mac?" He hoped his tone was light enough while still conveying some concern.
"You should go back to sleep, Will."
He pushed back to against the opposite wall. He could wait. He would wait, in fact, to make sure she was all right, that this wasn't another melt-down like in the office the other day.
Finally, the light under the door doused, pitching the room back into darkness, and he felt rather than saw the door open.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm—uh, I'm sorry I woke you." Her voice sounded thin and watery and there may have been a discrete sniffle.
"Wasn't asleep anyway. It's a little stuffy in here." Major understatement, judging by the perspiration trickling down his back. "How 'bout we get a little air outside?"
It was brighter and cooler on the deck, and the slight breeze quickly evaporated the sweat on his skin. A crescent moon shone over the water, and the surf thundered, far louder than it had seemed earlier.
"This is better." He'd hoped for dialogue less insipid, but inspiration was scant at 1:37am and it seemed more important to say something, anything, than wait for profundity to strike. "Can I get you anything, more water or—?"
She sat on the edge of an Adirondack chair, took a deep breath, then expelled it. "Thank you, but I'm not your responsibility, Will."
"Jesus, Mac. When did everything get so bad? I mean—I've been right here, all year, and I never saw—never noticed—" He allowed the words to trail off. "That's on me. The not-noticing."
He pitched a pebble out to the open beach.
"I still don't understand why you're here." Confusion and frustration finally boiled over in her voice. "I don't know if this is you trying to guilt me into returning to the show, or if it's some well-intentioned condescension, or another perverse amusement—"
"You're trying to hide, Mac, and I don't see the reason for it." Pause. "Besides, I care."
"Well, stop. Stop being nice to me. I don't want sympathy."
"MacKenzie." His tone was plaintive.
"Please." She threw up a hand. "Can we just—not argue right now? I've been trying to get my head on straight, trying to decide what comes next."
"Well, barricading yourself behind grief and fear seems like a really bad idea. So let me say that I am against the self-exile option."
That brought a small smile to her lips. "Duly noted."
"And I really don't want you to be—this—this—" he made a gesture.
She waited.
"Sad." He swallowed hard. "This isn't you."
"I'm not the same person, not the same as when I went away—I don't know who I am anymore."
"I know who you are. All the important things are still the same," he affirmed quietly. "Accomplished. Inspiring. Funny. Fragile in unexpected ways and aggravating beyond all human endurance." He paused to ensure the phrase brought a small huff of amusement. "Brilliant. Courageous. As loyal as a fucking Saint Bernard. Indestructible, but tired, because you work so hard." He tried to lock eyes with her. "And you are so, so very wrong about yourself right now."
She looked away and didn't say anything.
He let a minute go by. "It's really late. Why don't you give sleep another try?"
She made a wordless nod and rose, stopping when she noticed he still sat in his chair. "You're not coming?"
"Too warm for me in there." He made a sheepish smile. "I was desiccating. Would've been shrunken and shriveled by morning. "
"Air conditioning, Will." As if she had suddenly remembered something.
"Air cond—"
"I've been holding out on you. The bedroom has a small unit. Come on." She held the door open for him and her head was canted in a familiar manner.
"MacKenzie—are you sure about this? I mean—" Except that he was unable to articulate what he meant. He wasn't entirely sure himself. He wanted to be tactful, he wanted to be discreet, he wanted to observe the boundaries of whatever new relationship they were forging.
But where, exactly, were those boundaries?
Was this the two of them sleeping together with air conditioning, or was this the two of them sleeping with each other with the air conditioning as a disinterested third party?
"I'd better, um, rinse off first," he said, indicating the bathroom.
The bedroom was dark when he returned and he stood for a moment, enjoying the promised coolness while his eyes adjusted. He felt fresher in a clean T-shirt and boxers, less like a refugee from equatorial regions. While making no assumptions about MacKenzie's invitation—whether this was an expedient or a proposition—he wanted to be presentable.
"Mac?"
She didn't respond but his eyes had adjusted to the light, and he could see that she sat at the opposite edge of the bed, her back to him.
Maybe they had both miscalculated and this was a mistake after all.
"Does my being here make things worse?"
"Of course."
He winced.
"Easier, too. It's complicated."
"I can go."
"Don't. For a little while, I'd like to pretend that I haven't made a mess of things."
This was the moment for him to refute her words, but he didn't. She had made a mess of things four years ago.
His desire to console her was at odds with what he was feeling. He went to where she sat and pulled her up. He framed her face in his hands. It might have been awkward except for the familiarity of sense memories: the scent of her hair, the slight tensing of her shoulders, an almost imperceptible sigh as her lips parted.
Eyes open, watching her, he moved closer, but she got there first, initiating the kiss. As he slanted his lips to hers in remembered ritual, he finally closed his eyes at the familiar taste of her. It was a gentle kiss at first, growing in intensity as they each reclaimed the same frisson of comfort and intimacy in the contact.
"You still think we should… just sleep?" she whispered when he pulled back.
"I think I have a lot to make up to you—and I don't want to make any mistakes this time. Are we okay, Mac?"
"I invited you, didn't I?"
He took that as permission to kiss her again.
Nuzzling her neck, he asked, "You're, um, on the pill?"
It wasn't that he was throwing up excuses now, but there were certain realities that needed to be addressed after so long apart.
"Let's say that Wade had a different agenda, and there hasn't been anyone else. So—no. I assumed you brought something—though hopefully not something in Nina's favorite color—"
"I told you, it wasn't like that with Nina, I never—"
"Good. Or else I'd have asked you to rinse off with bleach instead of water."
"We're about to be reckless, aren't we?" He said it with more roguishness than reprobation.
"Always my hallmark." The remark, meant humorously, nonetheless betrayed a deeper vein of self-deprecation that struck him as tragically misplaced.
He brought his lips back to hers, making an unhurried kiss that promised more than mere physical hunger, and her head tipped back, a small whimper escaping from the back of her throat.
Working his hands under her tank, he tried to read her body, the slight coiling of nervous tension at odds with her plain desire to yield to him. Her skin was warm, flushed, and he broke the kiss long enough to lift the tank over her head. Nipping lightly again at her lips, he cupped one breast, kneading the soft, supple flesh and passing the heel of his palm over her nipple until it stiffened.
Her slight gasp encouraged him, and she slid her hand from where she had been stroking the small hairs of his nape to his shoulder, then further down his bicep to the forearm of the hand that touched her.
"I hope—you're not still sensing ambivalence on my part."
"Uh-uh," he murmured, backing her to the bed, and curling his fingers under the elastic of the shorts she wore. He pushed them and her panties down and off in a single fluid movement.
"Still A+ in technique," she giggled. Then, as she dropped her gaze below his belt-line, she added, "No ambivalence on your part, either, I see."
Trailing kisses down her shoulders, he pushed her to recline and then dropped his own shorts and T-shirt on the floor. When he was beside her again, his hands skimmed down her smooth flanks, one detouring to her breast again, and the other seeking her most sensitive spot. She made a little hum of pleasure and tried to slip her legs further apart, being at once accommodating and encouraging.
His fingers traced, then teased, the junction of her legs, slipping into the wetness that began minutes ago, at the first kiss. Finally zeroing in, he set a deliberate tattoo, breaking it only when things seemed too far along, and easing her back down only to begin anew. At the fourth repetition, she dispelled her slightly glazed expression long enough to attempt to look mock-stern.
Quit screwing around.
He caught her drift and renewed his attentions with focus. Moments later, her eyes squeezed shut and she made a small cry. He planted gentle kisses along her chest and neck, and let the rasp of his cheek scrape her skin, a remembered sensual detail. She looked lovely, flushed and with heavy-lidded eyes, dark hair spilled all over the pillow.
He leaned down for a deep kiss.
Then, I love you, using his eyes in lieu of his words.
He moved to the cradle of her legs and she raised her hips just enough for him to slide inside. He made a few experimental thrusts before falling into rhythm. His hands found hers and intertwined their fingers. Several minutes of gentle rocking began to devolve into something more frenetic, and her hips began to arch up and give chase to his. With a deep groan, he came, his mind numbed by sheer physical gratification and the subconscious pleasure of this, with her.
Even with most of his weight supported by his elbows, he worried she might be uncomfortable. But when he made to move away, she held him in place.
"For old time's sake?" she whispered in the dark.
For always. But he was fading and those words never quite made it to his lips. Nor did, It's always been you, MacKenzie. I've let saying it wait too long, which was the last coherent thought he had before he shifted and rolled to his side, one arm still draped loosely over her.
Hours later, the sun woke Will. As he stirred, he felt the sheets beside him were wrinkled but cool. He pulled on clothes and padded into the kitchen. There was coffee, but no Mac.
Perhaps she was on the deck. Perhaps she'd taken a morning walk on the beach.
Her cell phone lay on the counter, charging, and he was unsurprised that, wherever she'd gone off to this morning, she hadn't taken it with her. Of course not. MacKenzie had always regarded her mobile phone as a concession to her line of work, not as a means of human communication.
There was, however, a note on the kitchen counter.
I'm still sorting things. You should go back to work.
oooo
Nonetheless, he waited.
When there was no sign of her by late morning, Will reluctantly took her direction and went back to the city. He left a return note in the cottage (Are we still okay? Call me.) and left voicemail (I really need to hear your voice) to her cell phone on the drive back to the city. Then, another voicemail as he returned the car to the garage, and, finally, a two word text (Call me) once he reached his apartment.
By the fifth call to her, made as he sat in the passenger seat of the company limo on the way to the studio, he remembered something: that although he had told her he needed her and implored her to stay, he had never told her he loved her.
Significant omission. And one not easily rectified while in the vehicle with a stranger.
As soon as he got to his office, he dialed MacKenzie's number for the sixth time that day.
Hi. It's me again. There's something I should have said earlier—something I should have said last night and this morning and in every call, and that is that, well, I love you. I never stopped. So, you don't have to worry about forgiveness anymore. You've had it for a while.
oooo
Jim was capable, Jim was on top of things, and, deep into the second week of Jim as EP, Will hated Jim as EP. Jim Harper's even-temper and uncanny professionalism were just more fuel to the fire.
He wasn't Mac. News Night needed Mac.
It had been three days since Will had returned and she still hadn't returned his calls. He was torn between not wanting to crowd her, to give her room for the soul-searching she so obviously was doing, and wanting to go physically drag her back home.
Doing nothing was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
oooo
"Okay, frame him up on Camera One. Guest on Camera Two, and a two-shot on Three," Jim instructed, then, over his shoulder to Jake, "Got that?"
"Yep."
Herb took it from there. "Okay. Roll in on three—two—we're live."
"We're back and we're speaking with Representative Troy Dickinson of Nebraska. The subject is the abatement and clean-up of toxic hazards under the Comprehensive Environmental Response, Compensation, and Liability Act of 1980, also known as the Superfund."
"Go to Three."
"Congressman Dickinson represents the Third District of his state."
"Back to One."
"Congressman, your district contains the Cornhusker Army Ammunition Depot, where there have been some widely-reported environmental issues emanating from the munitions that were once manufactured there. What we want to talk about tonight are the allegations of groundwater contamination—"
"Go to Two."
"—And heavy metals."
"Actually, Will, I'm a fan of heavy metal—"
The joke fell flat and Control groaned as one, but Jake knew to get the reaction shot of Will, before switching back to Camera Two.
"—Monitoring by the EPA over the last twenty years," the congressman finished, all but shifting his collar uncomfortably under McAvoy's glare.
To Will's mind, this was probably the least-inspired of News Night segments, suitably shoved into the F block of a slow news day. Will blamed the entire subject on Jim Harper—Jim, who probably in his life never left a tree un-hugged or a spaniel un-patted.
"I understand the on-going EPA efforts to mitigate the contaminations of groundwater and soil, but the surrounding communities are experiencing an otherwise unexplained surge in gastric cancers, which are mostly commonly associated with exposure to toxic heavy metals like arsenic and mercury—essentially those found at Cornhusker." Will leaned forward. "So, as one Nebraskan to another—what's going on in Hall county?"
"Can I just say, Billy, that for a man who makes his living with his mouth, you occasionally ask the most inane questions."
Mac's voice through the earpiece.
Will sat bolt upright, eyes widened and suddenly ten thousand miles away from where his interviewee ended a non-answer.
"Back to One."
"Will," Mac's voice prompted. "This is the part of the interview where you speak."
"Just another question, Congressman." Thank god he had the cards with questions on them. "The costs for the hazard abatement are expected to exceed $32 million, and the apportionment of liability is going to stiff the taxpayers of Hall county, Nebraska, with 45 percent—"
Will could feel flop sweat beginning in the canyon of his shoulder blades as the guest responded.
"Herb, cue the commercial package on A-2." It was definitely Mac's authoritative voice. "Ready? Take it."
The show ended abruptly, without the usual hand-off to Capitol Reports. Will extended his hand, for the perfunctory parting handshake, and Maggie Jordan appeared from the dark apron of the studio to disconnect the guest's mic pac.
"Congressman, if you'll follow me," she said, leading him away to the upstairs Green Room shared by News Night and Right Now.
Talking excitedly into the mic still clipped to his lapel, Will rose. "Mac. You're—here."
The array of LED panels lighting the set blinked out, and it took a few moments for Will's eyes to readjust to the far dimmer ambient light.
"Right here."
And she was, arms crossed, standing only a few feet away.
"You know, I've been trying to explain it since my first day here, from the second I saw you. I'm in love with you." Simple declarative statement. "And no matter what you say, I'm going to be in love with you for the rest of my life."
Loud whoops could be heard from Control.
Shit. Mac toggled her mic. "Kendra, kill the sound on stage, please." Looking back at him, she offered an embarrassed little smile and eased off her headset. "Sorry about that."
He moved to come around the desk, but got tangled in his own mic pac. "When did you—and why didn't you call me—I've been going crazy—"
"I've been the one going crazy. Thanks for, um, talking me off the ledge."
Having finally freed himself from wires, he positioned himself right in front of her. "And you got my message?"
"Twelve, at last count, unless I missed one."
"And you love me?"
"No way out of that."
His thank god was irretrievably muffled by the kiss.