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Chapter 4
While Alex Wyatt was in mid-flight to his home in California, wondering how to locate Angela Riding after seventeen years, she was sprawled on a picnic blanket beneath the twitching stars of the Catskills.
Crickets hummed in the crisp mountain air. Angela poured more cheap champagne into two paper cups and watched Leonard adjust his sixteen-inch telescope. She was glad Leonard talked her into this little weekend retreat at his cabin. If I were back home on Long Island, she thought, I'd just be painting the living room, or stressing out over the station's next news project. This is just what the doctor ordered. A nice little weekend getaway for Stress Junkies Anonymous.
She'd been taking things slow with Leonard Archer. They both worked in the news department of the same cable station in Manhattan — Angela as executive producer, Leonard as assistant art director. To Angela, an office romance seemed about as appealing as spiked heels. But she had given up on finding a functional male in Manhattan's singles scene, and Leonard seemed pretty safe. She just wished he wasn't so eager to hurry things. She blamed that on his age, a young twenty-eight. She was thirty-five and had no desire to be rushed back into the Relationship Burn Ward.
Right now, though, she was feeling jazzed. Things were finally going her way. Her career was on the fast track at the station. And now, who knows? Maybe she'd found someone who could put up with her jillion little quirks. Leonard liked saying that she came with more baggage than the Orient Express. Which was true, but at least she carried her own bags.
"Show me another carbon star," she said, and bit into a charred burger.
This was a total kick! She'd never been to a Starbecue. Driving up from the city, flaming up the hibachi, watching the heavens wheel by. The moons of Jupiter, the canals of Mars. And those carbon stars, her favorite so far — bright little rubies shimmering against a velvet canvas.
Leonard swung his scope completely around until it was trained on Angela's breasts. What a boy. He wobbled toward her in a champagne haze and kissed her hard on the mouth.
"Let's go inside," she whispered.
She started toward the cabin, but he tugged her backward. "I've got a better idea." He pulled her down, and they tumbled onto the picnic blanket.
"Let's do it here," he said.
"Too cold," she said, and hugged her sweater around her shoulders.
"Screw the cold." He started kissing her roughly, grabbing at her breasts. She hated this macho side of Leonard. Way too controlling.
She pushed him away a little. "Come on, Boy Bluster, lay off. Let's go inside." She didn't have to explain herself. She couldn't do this. Not outside.
Now he gripped her wrists and flopped down on top of her, pinning her down awkwardly, drunkenly. He reached up under the back of her shirt and sweater and fumbled at her bra strap.
She pushed him off and slid over to the far side of the blanket, sinking back onto her elbows to get a little space. Leonard started crawling toward her. "Come on, Angie." He sprang at her, and they toppled onto the grass. His eyes looked fogged up in the dim light that slanted out of the doorway. His hot breath stank of liquor.
"No, Leonard," she said, her voice firm and blunt.
He ignored her. He kissed her neck hard. Then he sat up, on top of her hips, and pulled her sweater up to her breasts. His hands found the belt to her jeans.
She was angry now. She curled her knuckles back and jabbed upward at his Adam's apple. "I said no!"
Leonard grabbed his throat and keeled over, looking stunned.
She snapped to her feet, steadying herself. She hadn't used Chinese Kenpo on anyone in years. "Don't you ever pull that shit again."
Now she heard an electronic peal coming from the cabin. One of Leonard's techno-toys. She got up and wobbled into the cabin, breathing deeply to calm herself. She poured a glass of water, hands shaking. She stood against the sink, breathing in the chill mountain air, and her pulse slowed a little. At the end of the counter, Leonard's digital communicator kept up its wail. She frowned, went over and squinted at the tiny pulses of light flicking across the electronic readout.
Urgent, the message said.
She picked up the receiver and haltingly said hello.
"Angela, that you? Hey, I didn't know you and Archer had a thing going. It's me, Bernie." She recognized the voice. Bernie Weintraub, the station's news director. "I left three messages on your recorder. I take it you haven't heard."
"Heard what?"
A pause. Then: "The station's been sold. They sold the goddam station. You sitting down? The new owner? The Wolf Network."
She froze. Leonard creaked the cabin door wide and stood there, massaging this throat. She tossed him the receiver without a word. Then she slumped to the floor, mortified.
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