Read Online Prime Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
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voice. “I’m Charlotte McNally from…”
He turns around.
It’s Gregory Peck. Not old, scary Gregory Peck in Moby Dick, or slimy, devious Nazi Gregory Peck in Boys from Brazil, but the tweedy, noble, taller-than-I-am lawyer Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird. My favorite movie.
I take a step backward. This is not the doddering old-fashioned schoolteacher I expected.
Gregory, I mean Gelston, smiles inquiringly, charmingly, adorably. He’s now giving me his full attention.
“Oh, I thought you were a student.” He walks around his desk and holds out his hand. “Josh Gelston. Sorry, I’m just researching something, and…Well, it doesn’t matter.” His eyes twinkle at me. “So, Charlie McNally,” he goes on. “Of course I know who you are.” He looks briefly perplexed. “But—did you have an appointment?”
“Um, no, I don’t—didn’t.” I make a valiant attempt at composure. “I know this is an unusual request, but I’m researching a story, and I think you may be able to help me with it. Do you have a moment?”
He waves me to a forest-green leather chair in front of his desk, and he sits in the one beside me. “Of course,” he says, “and you have me curious. What could bring a TV reporter, with no camera, out to our neck of the woods?”
He crosses one ankle over the other knee, leaning back in his chair as if we’re old friends, and looks at me expectantly. I catalog salt-and-pepper hair, tasseled loafers, broken-in corduroy pants, tattersall oxford shirt, maroon crewneck sweater with just a hint of a tie sticking out. I expect an Irish setter to come sit at his knee, a fire crackling in the background, a little Ella on the stereo. I sneak a look at his left hand. No ring.
I can’t believe myself.
Then I remember. Gelston may not know about Bradley Foreman’s death. Am I going to be the one to tell him a friend has died in a car crash? Although Melanie indicated they weren’t exactly friends. But then again, they were e-mailing each other. Or maybe they weren’t; maybe Brad just sent him that one e-mail. Why, why, why didn’t I think about this in the car?
Too late now.
“I’ve been talking recently with Melanie Foreman,” I begin carefully. “Have you…Did you…”
“Yes, I heard what happened to Brad.” A shadow passes over his face, and his hazel eyes close briefly behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “I’m sure Melanie explained we were acquaintances. It’s very sad. From what I know, he was a great guy.” It looks as if he’s going to say something else, then he stops.
“Right. That’s exactly how she described your relationship.” I decide to explore a little further. “But he sent me an e-mail, just before he died. You know that, correct?”
“Yes, I know that.” If you like the studious English-teacher type, which I do, he’s incredibly attractive, but he’s giving me nothing. My turn again.
“And, well, it’s kind of complicated, but I didn’t read his message until after the accident. And now I’m wondering, and Melanie is wondering, what was it he wanted to tell me? I thought you might have an idea, since he sent you a copy of it.”
His turn. Now he’s going to spill it. Or throw me out.
Josh walks back to his desk, where, I just happen to notice, there’s not one family-looking photo of any woman. Or man. When he turns around, I’m—luckily—no longer looking at his romance-free desk, but looking right at him.
“I wondered what would happen about that,” he says. I can’t tell from his expression what he’s thinking.
“And?” I ask.
He sits back down, takes a leather book from his desk and holds it on his lap. “Well, a few, oh, weeks ago, I guess, I got a call from Brad. I did remember him from a big dinner party we both attended. We really just met inpassing. So I was a bit surprised when he called. Anyway, he said he had a box of files he was going to send to my home, and some references he wanted me to
He turns around.
It’s Gregory Peck. Not old, scary Gregory Peck in Moby Dick, or slimy, devious Nazi Gregory Peck in Boys from Brazil, but the tweedy, noble, taller-than-I-am lawyer Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird. My favorite movie.
I take a step backward. This is not the doddering old-fashioned schoolteacher I expected.
Gregory, I mean Gelston, smiles inquiringly, charmingly, adorably. He’s now giving me his full attention.
“Oh, I thought you were a student.” He walks around his desk and holds out his hand. “Josh Gelston. Sorry, I’m just researching something, and…Well, it doesn’t matter.” His eyes twinkle at me. “So, Charlie McNally,” he goes on. “Of course I know who you are.” He looks briefly perplexed. “But—did you have an appointment?”
“Um, no, I don’t—didn’t.” I make a valiant attempt at composure. “I know this is an unusual request, but I’m researching a story, and I think you may be able to help me with it. Do you have a moment?”
He waves me to a forest-green leather chair in front of his desk, and he sits in the one beside me. “Of course,” he says, “and you have me curious. What could bring a TV reporter, with no camera, out to our neck of the woods?”
He crosses one ankle over the other knee, leaning back in his chair as if we’re old friends, and looks at me expectantly. I catalog salt-and-pepper hair, tasseled loafers, broken-in corduroy pants, tattersall oxford shirt, maroon crewneck sweater with just a hint of a tie sticking out. I expect an Irish setter to come sit at his knee, a fire crackling in the background, a little Ella on the stereo. I sneak a look at his left hand. No ring.
I can’t believe myself.
Then I remember. Gelston may not know about Bradley Foreman’s death. Am I going to be the one to tell him a friend has died in a car crash? Although Melanie indicated they weren’t exactly friends. But then again, they were e-mailing each other. Or maybe they weren’t; maybe Brad just sent him that one e-mail. Why, why, why didn’t I think about this in the car?
Too late now.
“I’ve been talking recently with Melanie Foreman,” I begin carefully. “Have you…Did you…”
“Yes, I heard what happened to Brad.” A shadow passes over his face, and his hazel eyes close briefly behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “I’m sure Melanie explained we were acquaintances. It’s very sad. From what I know, he was a great guy.” It looks as if he’s going to say something else, then he stops.
“Right. That’s exactly how she described your relationship.” I decide to explore a little further. “But he sent me an e-mail, just before he died. You know that, correct?”
“Yes, I know that.” If you like the studious English-teacher type, which I do, he’s incredibly attractive, but he’s giving me nothing. My turn again.
“And, well, it’s kind of complicated, but I didn’t read his message until after the accident. And now I’m wondering, and Melanie is wondering, what was it he wanted to tell me? I thought you might have an idea, since he sent you a copy of it.”
His turn. Now he’s going to spill it. Or throw me out.
Josh walks back to his desk, where, I just happen to notice, there’s not one family-looking photo of any woman. Or man. When he turns around, I’m—luckily—no longer looking at his romance-free desk, but looking right at him.
“I wondered what would happen about that,” he says. I can’t tell from his expression what he’s thinking.
“And?” I ask.
He sits back down, takes a leather book from his desk and holds it on his lap. “Well, a few, oh, weeks ago, I guess, I got a call from Brad. I did remember him from a big dinner party we both attended. We really just met inpassing. So I was a bit surprised when he called. Anyway, he said he had a box of files he was going to send to my home, and some references he wanted me to
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