Once In the Moonlight

Once In the Moonlight

Emjae Edwards

2010 National Novel Writing Month Submission

Published by

Inknbeans Press

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Emjae Edwards and Inknbeans Press

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Chapter One

Perched on the edge of the cluttered chrome and glass desk, her long legs dangling, Venice compared the advertisement in her hands to the pages spewing out of the fax machine at her side, her nose wrinkled up in that manner that meant she smelled a story.

Warren spotted her expression over the edge of the magazine, and started shaking his head, admonishingly. Oh, no you don’t. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t you dare.

Venice tossed the magazine down on the desk and held up the printout. Did you read this, Warren? She was her usual I’m-taking-on-everything-evil-in-this-world-starting-with-you self. If there was an adversary to anything having the merest potential for being exposed as a sham, it was Venice Gilbert. According to this advertisement, for a mere fifteen thousand dollars, she sneered the word ‘mere’, and a week of your life, these people have the nerve to say they can find the weaknesses in your marriage and tell you how to repair them. However, she added with an upraised finger and a slightly smug note to her voice, statistics show that fifty eight percent of all couples going to these seminars end up getting a divorce within one year.

That’s not all that remarkable, Warren ventured. The overall divorce rate in America is right at fifty percent now.

Fifty eight percent of such a small sampling – and in such a short time frame - is still pretty significant. She picked up the magazine. They say they’re doctors. Huh, doctors of what, I wonder.

Being a married man, Warren was tempted to confess that he thought a marriage support group could be a great boon to a lot of floundering marriages, but he knew better than to say that to his partner and co-host of their evening magazine show. Well, he began carefully, in some cases, there can be a lack of communication in marriage. Men and women talk differently and we don’t always understand those differences. Sometimes the counselors can translate for the couple and help find solutions.

Do you and Mitch have a lack of communication? Venice asked, sliding from the edge of the desk, and giving her short skirt a sharp tug to keep it right at mid-thigh where it belonged.

Warren schooled his eyes away from the desk so as not to watch the gesture but it was hard. Venice had terrific legs. Oh, no, we’re fine, he insisted, knowing full well that Venice was not above planting enough seeds of paranoia in his wife’s ear to make Mitch feel compelled to drag him up into the mountains where he could investigate the situation. We’ve been married so long we’ve worked out all our kinks. He didn’t mean to give her such a desperate look. You know that.

Well, someone ought to go up there and take a look. Venice tapped a bright red fingernail against bright red lips. Who have we got on staff who has marital problems?

No one, Warren said quickly, to protect the men and women he worked with from his partner’s zeal. We’ve got a staff full of bachelors and bachelorettes. He caught her determined expression in the reflection of the glass door and smirked. Why don’t you go? he suggested with a chuckle.

Don’t think I wouldn’t, Venice answered, beginning to pace, but a single woman isn’t going to get too far in a marriage counselling camp.

So, get married. Warren was almost beside himself trying to contain his laughter. He had known four men foolish enough to propose to that comet in heels and each one had come away with severe ego burns.

Venice wasn’t laughing. Her mind was on the story she wanted to get. Venice was an archetypical reporter, the kind who would do anything for the story. If I knew a guy who would be willing to get married for the duration, I’d do it. She smacked a fist against her opened palm. I’m that sure there is a story up there.

Are you serious? Warren stopped laughing and picked up the magazine. He must have missed some red flag in the wording. You’d get married just to get that story? Running his eyes over the ad again, he still didn’t see what had started her blood boiling. You, the Queen of the Single People?

Of course. Venice looked up at him, surprised by his surprise. "It is about marriage, isn’t it? The ad says you have to be able to furnish proof of marriage or lengthy cohabitation on request. She reached over the top of the magazine to point out the fine print. In order to provide proof, I’d have to get married. She pulled her hand back to her mouth and tapped her lips. In order to get married, I’d have to find a groom."

Oh, well, that’s easy, Warren waved toward the window overlooking the dirty brown skies of Burbank, California, My brother’s in town. He laughed again, loudly, as he reached for the door.

Venice closed in on his remark. You mean Price? The writer? Of all the men Venice had met in the eight years since she graduated from Hollywood High, Price Harvey was the man most like-minded about marriage that she had met. He had as little use for the institution as she, and he didn’t have much for romance of any sort, either. If any man was perfect for this little charade, it was Warren Harvey’s brother, Price.

He’s the only brother I’ve got. Realizing he had made a potentially huge mistake, Warren began to back away. Oh, no, Venice, I was kidding. I remember what happened the last time he was here and you two went out. I wouldn’t dream of trying a-

Venice didn’t even take into account that their last meeting had ended in disaster. He was the man for the plan and she wanted him. She reached for the powder blue ’57 Chevrolet that was really a telephone, and handed Warren the chassis. Get him on the phone, she commanded, in her usual brook-no-excuses tone. See if he’d consider it.

Oh, now, Ven-

Don’t ‘Now, Venice’ me. Just call. She shook the Chevy at him. Tell him I’ll make it worth his while.

A panicked look came over Warren’s handsome face. Don’t say that, Venice. He might come steep. He hasn’t forgotten that you dumped a bottle of burgundy over his white dinner jacket the night before an awards banquet.

If he’s any man at all, he knows he asked for it, Venice snapped. Now, call. If you’re too much of a coward to do it, then tell me where he’s staying and I’ll call him myself.

Venice, this is a mistake, Warren insisted, reaching for the phone.

Venice shrugged the warning away. Then let me make it. Her fingers curled around his. Where is he staying?

I’ll call, I’ll call. He began to punch buttons. This is going to be a catastrophe, Venice, he reiterated as the phone began to ring on the other end. Hello, Mitch...yeah? Yeah? How did the soccer match go? Oh, that’s a shame. And...oof! he grunted as Venice jabbed him impatiently. Hey, is Price hanging around? He made a face at Venice as the phone changed hands. Hello, Price...yeah, I heard. How’s he taking it? He ducked as Venice moved in as though she planned to poke him again. Hey, Price, you remember Venice Gilbert, don’t you? He winced. He remembers you, he assured Venice. I know, I know, his voice became soothing. But she’s right here and she wants to ask....he fumbled on words he did not wish to speak.

Oh, give me that, Venice growled, snatching the phone from him. Only men would make such a big deal out of a little wine and a few vague threats going back almost two years. Hello, Price? How would you like to get married for a week?

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. Hello? she prompted, flicking a glance at Warren, wondering if he’d only pretended to make contact with his brother. Hello?

Venice? The deep voice sounded uncertain. It is you. Did you actually say something about getting married?

Yes, she answered. What do you say?

He was chuckling. What in the world would put you in the mood for marriage: an unexpected blessing from Heaven?

Venice scowled into the phone. Don’t be vulgar. I want to do a story about marriage counselling scams, but in order to get in there I have to provide a groom and proof of ownership.

I like that, he drawled.

Oh, put away your ego. This is a chance to save a lot of innocent people a lot of heartache and money.

Since when did you care about that?

Venice set her jaw to keep from responding as she really wanted to. Let’s just put it under the heading of ‘The People Have the Right to Know’, she suggested sweetly.

Thank you, Clark Kent, Price laughed without humor. And what do I get for this trip to Paradise?

Venice shrugged carelessly. That was unimportant to her. I can have my lawyer work out something equitable.

Oh, we’re going to be legal about it? Maybe I ought to work something out with my attorney, Price countered.

Go ahead, if you prefer, Venice retorted, but you needn’t worry that I’m after your vast baseball card collection or your brewery stock. I don’t want a single thing from you but your name on a piece of paper for a week, and for you to show up at this retreat with me.

Well, that’s certainly worth thinking about, Price said. It was obvious that he was savoring the moment.

Then what do you think? she prompted.

I’ll tell you what I think; meet me for a drink and we’ll discuss it.

A drink? Venice looked at Warren, who was shaking his head frantically. For the first time it didn’t seem like such a good idea.

Yeah, it’s the consumption of beverage. Common enough practice, he drawled.

I don‘t think...oh, all right, she conceded, glancing at her watch. I’ve got to tape the show and make some calls but I can meet you after that. Do you know Benny’s?

It’s my baby brother’s favorite watering hole, of course I know it. Price didn’t sound as if he approved of the choice.

I’ll see you at seven, then. Goodbye. Venice replaced the receiver. You see? she told Warren, practically painless.

Well? he demanded, trying to restore his previous level of humor. Shall I call you Sis?

Venice looked at the phone again, uncertain. I’m not sure. Your brother is so hard to read. But, we’re meeting at Benny’s to discuss it. She picked up the magazine and clipped the printout to it. Now, scoot. She pushed at him with her free hand. I’ve got a script to go over and a lawyer to call.

Warren hovered near the door, shifting from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. I wish you wouldn’t try this, Ven, he began, his perpetual off-camera frown back in place. Price has his own brand of justice. He doesn’t like women like you, and he doesn’t like you in particular. He might play rough if you let him get near enough.

It was a bottle of wine, for Heaven’s sake! For Venice the event was so insignificant she had forgotten about it within days. And what do you mean, women like me?

Well, you know, Warren hedged, squirming, man haters.

The epithet surprised her and she sputtered. I don’t hate men, she protested, finally. Good grief, Warren, you made me sound like some super radical feminist or…or… her large violet eyes widened. I don’t hate men, she repeated, I just resent men who believe I’m nothing without them. You’re brother is the king of that kind of man. Look at me, she invited, pirouetting, do I look like nothing?

Warrant allowed himself the rare luxury of a good, long, unabashed study of her body. She had the leg to torso ratio of a Barbie doll without the other unrealistic measurements, evident in the striped knit skirt and blousy pink sweater. He considered her jet hair, cut short and jagged edged to curl around her heart shaped face, and he admired, as always, her full, pouty mouth. No, he conceded, you are certainly not nothing.

Warren knew what the demographics said; that fifty five percent of their viewers wanted only to see her, regardless of what she had to say, and another thirty five percent appreciated her fine journalistic approach to anything and everything. The remaining fifteen percent enjoyed the light patter the two of them shared on camera. Warren had no illusions. He knew he was merely handsome comic relief for a good journalist. He also knew that someday the network would come calling and Venice would and should leave him behind.

Thank you. Venice reached for her script with one hand while waving him away with the other. Now, go away. I’ve only got an hour before make up to learn my script, call my lawyer and…and…oh, yeah, convince Rudy to let me do the story.

Oh, you’ll get the story, Warren assured her as he pulled open the door. Your nostrils are flaring.

She shook her head at him, not looking up from the papers in her hand.

Warren explained, anyway. Your nostrils flare when you’re hot on a new story. He tapped the tip of his own nose. "The producer sees that he and he lets you go, carte blanche."

Venice looked up and winked at him. I’d better go see him now, then, while I’m still flaring. She pushed past him, into the bustling hallway, clutching the magazine to her bosom.

Warren sighed. Maybe he was warning the wrong person. Maybe he ought to be warning Price.

Venice looked across the room, saw him and waved away the help of the hostess. Even in the darkened room he stood out. Price Harvey was the sort of man who looked as if he checked his appearance at every available reflection to keep it that flawless, but Venice had spent enough time with him the last time he was in town to be assured that he never gave his appearance a second thought once he stepped out for the day.

He was sitting in the back of the bar, smiling to himself, clearly anticipating something with satisfaction.