Nancy Robards - Accidental Cinderella

Followed by: “Lindsay, this is the third time I’ve called. I don’t understand why you’re not returning my calls.”

Which was followed by: “Lindsay, I am furious. We agreed you could take a month off as long as you remained available to me. You’re not upholding your end of the bargain. Call me ASAP or—”

Lindsay clicked off the phone.

Call me ASAP or—or what?

How like Mary to call before Lindsay’s vacation was over, assuming it would be no bother, no imposition to drop what she was doing and serve her.

Mary’s voice had been adamant and crackling in that last call, like a live wire one wouldn’t dare cross. But it was that call, that self-righteous tone of voice that suddenly shocked some sense into Lindsay.

Like a bolt out of the blue…

Shining a bright, hot spotlight on her cold, pathetic life.

This was what Lindsay was going back to. No family, a handful of lukewarm friendships, Mary Matthews and an unfulfilling office manager job that she’d fooled herself into believing was important. Rather than the dime-a-dozen job it was.

And if that realization wasn’t enough, then…

She didn’t waste time thinking about the consequences of ignoring this epiphany. As the limo driver turned left onto the runway access road that led away from the public portion of the airport back to the private hangars that housed the royal jet, Lindsay dialed the number Carson Chandler had written on the card.

Never before had Lindsay landed a job that fast. After placing the call on Sunday, she went in the following day for a test taping. Now, here she was on Tuesday morning, standing amidst a maze of white tents that an army of workers were busily erecting on the St. Michel Parc Fête green.

She’d called Ida May, who had graciously agreed to continue looking after the house. And with that squared away, she was the new host of Chandler Guide’s Diva Dishes. Rather than sitting behind the Trevard Social Services reception desk taking orders from Bloody Mary, she was on assignment at the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival.

Oh. My. God.

She shuddered as a giddy sense of possibility seemed as if it might lift her off the ground.

In the distance a symphony of hammers and power tools rang out a determined song. Drawing in a deep breath, she inhaled the scent of lumber, freshly mowed grass and the odor of the hard work that was happening all around her.

Tomorrow the place would be filled with epicures and delectable aromas from the various booths and cooking shows and demonstrations, but today the place more closely resembled a construction site.

Lindsay watched in wonder, trying to imagine how they would pull it off and have everything ready in time. Or, more aptly, tried to imagine how she would be ready for her first show by tomorrow.

She’d seen several of the previous Diva spots that had aired last year with the former host whom, Chandler proclaimed, came across like a cold fish. He was depending on Lindsay to breathe new life into the show, to deliver an edgier, more provocative performance that would boost recognition and sales of Chandler Guides. They were going for a younger, hipper image. And, he added, almost as an afterthought, he wanted her to be the sand in the oyster that produced a pearl. How was she supposed to accomplish that? By simply being herself, Chandler said.

Herself?

Edgy? Provocative? Gritty?

Oh, boy.

Quite frankly, the thought made her head spin. It felt as if she were on a wild ride, hanging on for dear life. She didn’t dare loosen her grip or risk being flung out into the stratosphere. Only, for once in her life, she felt as if she just might be on a ride that would actually take her somewhere.

“There you are. Okay, here’s what I’ve got.” Paula English, Diva Dishes segment producer, rushed into the press tent, talking as she scribbled notes on a clipboard. The woman elevated multitasking to a new level. “We can talk with a French vintner or a local cheese maker….”

As her words trailed off, Paula frowned and gnawed her bottom lip, continuing to write notes to herself.

“Those are two of the most boring ideas I can think of,” said cameraman Sam Gunn, who had trailed in behind Paula. Sam rounded out the three-member Diva Dishes team. It was a lean operation, and Paula pulled no punches upon their introduction when unsmiling, she sighed and said, “Oh goody. I get to train another new host.” Then she promptly informed Lindsay that each person, especially Lindsay, was expected to pull his or her weight.

“There’s no room for slacking and no time for learning curves,” she’d said. “You’ll have to hit the ground running if we’re going to make our deadline.”

Lindsay couldn’t tell if Paula’s brusqueness was simply business, or if it was passive-aggressive resentment toward the new girl.

Whatever. The vacation was over, and the pressure was on Lindsay to not only show Chandler he’d made the right choice in hiring her, but to prove to herself she hadn’t made a fatal error by quitting her job back in Trevard.

“So that’s all you’ve got?” Sam shook his head. “I hope to hell Lindsay is good at improvising because it’s going to take a genius to make something brilliant out of that.”

Improvised brilliance? A solid lump formed in Lindsay’s throat, then it dropped like a lead ball into the pit of her stomach. Improvising had never been her strong suit. She’d learned late in the game that it was one of the things she hated about news reporting. Improvising meant saying the wrong thing. Embarrassing herself. She thought she’d outgrow the fear with a little experience under her belt. Her career had never made it to that point.

Paula lifted her gaze from the page and glowered at Sam. “Do you have a better idea?”

She didn’t call him a moron, but her tone implied it. The tension between them was nearly palpable.

Sam arched a brow. “Last time I checked, I was the cameraman and you were the producer.”

Sam gave Lindsay a conspiratorial wink that implied he was choosing sides. While it was good to have an ally in Sam, she didn’t want the team to be divided. They had to work together or they’d go nowhere fast.

Paula tucked her pen behind her ear. “Quit heckling me and make yourselves useful.”

She nodded at Lindsay. “Come on, let’s go have a look around and see if we can come up with something better. Sam, you go scout locations.”

Unsmiling, Sam stared at Paula long enough to raise the possibility of a showdown. But then he broke the standoff.

“This is your show,” he said to Lindsay. “Don’t let her push you around.”

Paula frowned and looked as if she might spit nails. She hissed, “Meet back here at 5:30 p.m., Sam. We have a dinner meeting with Chandler.”

Then Paula muttered under her breath as he walked away. Something that sounded suspiciously like, “That’s why you don’t sleep with your coworkers.”

Lindsay’s jaw dropped. “You and Sam?” The words fell out before she could stop them.

Paula turned her wary gaze on Lindsay and seemed to sum her up for a moment. Then, to Lindsay’s surprise, Paula nodded. “Yeah. It was sort of messy. We were the inspiration behind Chandler Guide’s Gunn-English policy.”

“What?” Why was Paula telling her this?

“The Gunn-English policy.” There was no warmth in her expression. “A no fraternizing policy.”

Was this Paula’s not-so-subtle way of saying hands off? Because it sure didn’t feel like girl talk.

“Ah, thanks for the heads up,” she said cautiously. She wasn’t the least bit interested in Sam.

No way. No how.

She’d been through that before—she and her ex-fiancé, Joe, had worked at the television station—he’d been an up-and-coming anchor. She’d been a general assignment reporter. Their problems started when she confided in him about the uncomfortable advances their boss, Gerard Webb, was making when they were alone. After all, if you can’t trust your fiancé, who can you trust?