Page 22 of Prime Time

“He told me that he’d been married.”

“To one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.” Gracie sniffed the air as though she were smelling something foul. “Too bad her beauty was only skin deep. She had Lyon dancing on hot coals every day of that doomed marriage. She never gave that boy a day’s peace. This was wrong or that was wrong. She whined, complained. Her life was ‘wasting away out here in the boondocks.’ She needed ‘more out of life.’

“She’d always fancied herself being a model or having a career in fashion. So one day she up and hightailed it to New York. Never came back, and as for me and the general we said good riddance. Lyon, though, took it hard. Not so much because he missed her. Frankly I think he was relieved to see her go. But she twisted something on the inside of him.”

“He’s harboring a great deal of resentment for career women.”

Gracie’s eloquent brow arched. “You included?”

“Me especially.”

“Ah, well, I can see where he might be a bit put out with you for speaking around him the way you did yesterday. Thought it was right clever and humorous myself,” she added, laughing. “But you’re right. He’s suspicious when it comes to women.”

“What was her name?”

“Who? His wife? Jerri.”

“Jerri,” Andy echoed absently.

Gracie assumed the same position from which she had analyzed Andy the day before. Hands crossed over her immense stomach and head tilted to one side, she asked baldly, “Did more happen out there in the rain than just the two of you getting wet?”

Andy felt a wash of color rising to bathe her cheeks. “Ex—excuse me. I’ve got to go over some notes.”

As she awkwardly backed out of the kitchen she heard Gracie chuckle and say, “That’s what I thought!”

“So there sat the Wimbledon men’s singles winner in my hotel room in London. He was still lugging around that huge trophy with him.”

All eyes were turned to Andy as she recounted the story. Even Gracie had stopped serving the after-dinner coffee in order to listen. General Ratliff’s eyes were partially closed, but Andy knew he was listening, for he was smiling. Lyon was leaning back in his chair, twirling his wine-glass between his thumb and finger.

“As you can imagine I was flattered and thrilled that he had granted me the interview. It was a real coup. The only condition laid down by his coach and manager was that it not take more than ten minutes. You can well imagine how many other media reps were clamoring for a word with him.

“The crew was hustling around, trying to get us lit and wired. Then disaster struck. One of the technicians got overzealous and tripped over the leg of a light tripod. I watched in horror as the light tipped and then began to fall. It was like in a dream when everything is in slow motion, yet there’s nothing you can do to prevent the tragedy. The light crashed directly on top of the new Wimbledon champion’s head.”

Gracie clapped a hand over her mouth. Lyon laughed outright. The general’s smile deepened.

“I’m glad you all find it funny,” Andy said with feigned indignation. “Though he wasn’t seriously hurt, I saw my career flying right out the window.”

“What happened?” Lyon asked.

“Since he’s not known for his pleasant disposition—quite the contrary in fact—I held my breath. But like a true champion, he carried off the interview with aplomb. He was dazed for a few moments, but when he recovered, he calmly wiped the blood—”

“Blood!” Gracie shrieked.

“Didn’t I mention the blood?” Andy asked innocently. Then they all laughed. “Truthfully he wasn’t harmed, but as that light was falling, I could just see the headlines: WIMBLEDON CHAMPION DIES AT HANDS OF AMERICAN JOURNALIST.”

“Who else have you interviewed?” Gracie asked, breaking with tradition and sitting down at the dining table, not even pretending any longer to be serving.

“Let’s see,” Andy said musingly. “Some have been the greats and near greats, others just plain folks who for one reason or another found themselves in the news.”

“Name some of the greats,” the housekeeper urged her.

Andy cast a concerned eye toward Michael Ratliff, but he seemed to be relaxed and not overly tired. They had talked for a long while that afternoon, him providing her with dates and pertinent information that would help her during the interviews ahead. “Bob Hope, Neil Armstrong, Reggie Jackson, John Denver, Prince Andrew of England, Mikhail Baryshnikov.”

“Ahhhh,” Gracie said in awe.

“All men?” Lyon asked peevishly.

“No.” Andy smiled. “There’s also been Lauren Bacall, Judge Sandra Day O’Connor, Carol Burnett, Farrah Fawcett, and Diana Ross. To name just a few,” she added mischievously as she ticked the names off on her fingers.

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