Page 49 of The Space Between

Rather than saying anything, Bill waits, file in hand, hoping that she’ll make it quick so that he can get back to the task at hand.

“I was wondering,” Jeanie says. She stops, her eyes dancing to one side so that she’s not looking at him. This has the effect of making her look like a nervous school girl, and Bill has to resist the urge to reach out and touch her arm to make her feel at ease. “I thought maybe you and I could eat lunch together today. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Bill isn’t prepared to eat lunch with Jeanie, or to talk to her about how her dates are going with Peter Abernathy, or to act friendly and to ignore the reality of the way she’s dropped a grenade on his career by sharing his private admissions with their superiors.

“I’m actually working through lunch today,” Bill says as he makes a big show of stacking her file beneath his other papers. “Could you just debrief me on it here?”

Jeanie looks around nervously, tucking a long strand of hair behind one ear. “Um. I’d rather not.”

As if on cue, Bill’s phone rings and he reaches for the receiver as he glances Jeanie’s way. “Sorry. I’m kind of tied up today. If it’s related to Gemini, then we just need to squeeze in a conversation here at my desk. If it’s anything else, let’s push it until after the thirteenth, okay?”

Bill doesn’t wait for her to answer before putting the phone to his ear. “Bill Booker,” he says gruffly. He listens as the caller starts talking, but his eyes are on Jeanie as she walks away, looking mildly dejected. The curve of her narrow shoulders tugs at his heart and Bill almost wants to set the phone down and follow her to wherever she’s going, but he can’t.

For so, so, so many reasons, he just can’t.

CHAPTER 23

Jo

Due to bizarrescheduling and circumstances that Jo doesn’t even pretend to understand, her event was scheduled for the evening of December thirteenth, which is the same evening that Gemini has been shifted to. The idea of shepherding in people who want to listen to her read from her romance stories as an actual orbital test mission is taking place elsewhere on the NASA property almost seems incongruous, not to mention difficult to execute. Jo had felt certain that someone would have pulled the plug on her event in order to preserve the secrecy and safety of whatever was happening on the launch pad, but in the end, Irene, in her infinite public relations wisdom, has insisted that they go ahead as planned.

At Frankie’s urging, Jo had gone to the beauty parlor that very afternoon and gotten her hair trimmed and blown into a chic, flipped bob, and as she’d sat at Frankie’s vanity table, she’d been transformed into a doe-eyed beauty with a swipe of black liquid eyeliner and a dusting of pale eyeshadow.

Even Jo has to admit that she feels glamorous, and the pale pink organza of her tea-length dress makes her feel as light as air.

“Okay, Josephine,” Irene says, thrusting a flute of champagne into Jo’s hand. “How are we feeling?”

Jo looks around at the small hangar space that’s been filled with rows of folding chairs facing a small podium. There’s a makeshift bar in one corner, a twinkling Christmas tree in another and several tall, bistro-style tables where people can mingle during cocktail hour. A rectangular table with one chair sits at the side of the room, and next to it is a large black-and-white photo of Jo taken by Dave Huggins when they’d first arrived in Florida. He’s cropped it so that it looks a bit like a headshot, and now it’s affixed to a large piece of hard poster board and it sits on a wooden easel. Jo takes in the room and the expectation of so many empty chairs as her stomach does a nervous flip-flop.

“I feel kind of overwhelmed,” Jo admits, sipping the champagne daintily as she tries not to mess up her pink lipstick. “I mean…all I’ve done is write a little love story, and now people will, hopefully, show up here tonight to hear me read some of it.”

Irene’s muscled arms and legs are on full display beneath a sleeveless black shift. Her ashy blonde hair is piled on top of her head, and her nails are painted a glossy red. “Damn straight they’re showing up to hear you read, Josephine.” Irene looks at her with a determined smile. “Youarethem, Jo. And by that I mean you literally are some of them—the wives of the NASA employees, anyway—and for the rest of the women who have been invited to come, you’re aspirational.” A young member of the waitstaff walks by with a silver tray full of champagne in flutes, and Irene reaches out to pluck one for herself. “Just think of it: a woman who keeps a beautiful home, raises three kids, and is a supportive wife to an astronaut. In your free time you not only volunteer in a hospital, you set up fundraisers to help a toddler get heart surgery, and now you write romance for anational magazine. It’s impressive, and it’s intriguing. So quit selling yourself short.”

Jo knows that she’s right, but it’s strange to hear all these things listed out like some sort of resume, and if she can take a step back from the fact that it’s her Irene is talking about, even Jo feels mildly dazzled by her own accomplishments.

Maybe the champagne is already going to her head.

“Let’s get the stack of magazines all set up on the table there, and that way you’re ready to autograph them as people filter in.” Irene’s heeled shoes click across the concrete floor of the hangar as she walks over to a giant box that rests on top of the table by Jo’s picture.

“Autographs?” Jo whispers to herself, watching as Irene uses a box cutter to pop open the flaps of the box. She starts to take out stacks ofTrue Romancemagazines and sets them on the table next to three brand new pens.

“The magazine sent these over,” Irene says loudly, her voice carrying in the cavernous space. Once there are more bodies in the hangar to absorb the sound, it won’t feel quite so massive. Or at least Jo hopes that’s how it works. “They thought it would be good advertising if you gave free copies to all the attendees.”

“You’ve really thought of everything here, Irene,” Jo says with wonder. Just then, she hears voices and the clacking of several pairs of high-heels on the floors and she turns to see Frankie, Jude, Carrie, and Barbie coming in together.

“It’s our star!” Frankie calls out, throwing her arms wide as she looks around the space. “Wow, Joey-girl, they did you right here. Look at this place! And a full-sized photo of you like that? I’m impressed.”

Irene gives the women a big, open smile. “Ah, I know these faces,” she says, setting down the magazines that are in her hand and striding towards them. “Irene Powers—Public Relations.”

The women look her over from head-to-toe, but they do it surreptitiously, and Jo recognizes the brief flash of curiosity mixed with distrust that so many wives feel when they meet the women their husbands spend their workdays with.

“Hello,” Frankie says first, extending a hand. “Francesca Maxwell.”

“Ah, Francesca,” Irene says, shaking her hand firmly. “The Rockette. The dance studio doyenne.”

Barbie blinks in surprise. “Do you know all of us this well?”

Irene turns to her, eyes flashing with mirth. “It’s my job to know as much as possible about all of our employees and their families. It helps us to arrange positive public relations opportunities.” Irene drops her voice as she looks around the empty hangar theatrically. “And it also helps us when we have to fend off negative PR or kill stories before they get out there, if you know what I mean.”

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