Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(51)

“I understand. Can I meet you at work, maybe on your lunch break?”

“My schedule at work is very busy. I eat lunch at my desk.”

“If Monday through Friday doesn’t work, how about over the weekend?” Gina persisted.

“I don’t know. My daughter is with me then.” He told me to talk to her, Meg thought. “Can’t we do this over the phone?”

Gina had to make a quick decision. She knew she was taking a risk, but decided it was worth the gamble. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It has to be in person.”

Meg panicked. He ordered me to talk to her. Fumbling for words, she said, “I’m dropping my daughter at a birthday party at one o’clock on Saturday.”

“Then I’ll come to your house at one-thirty,” Gina confirmed, trying not to sound too eager.

Meg agreed and Gina jotted down the address.





56





The traffic was predictably light as Gina drove northbound on the Henry Hudson Parkway. She passed under the George Washington Bridge and fifteen minutes later had passed through the Bronx and entered Westchester County. Its roadway and mass transit system made it a prime choice for those who worked in Manhattan but chose to raise their families in a nearby suburb. A few years earlier it had had the dubious distinction of having the highest property taxes anywhere in the United States.

The Waze electronic voice guided Gina closer to her destination. Realizing she was early, she veered off and drove through the center of downtown Rye. Smart-looking shops and restaurants lined both sides of Purchase Street. Rye appeared to have escaped Amazon’s devastating effect on small retailers. Every storefront was occupied. Mercedes-Benz, BMW, and Lexus automobiles were more common than their less pricey counterparts.

Enough time as a tourist, Gina said to herself as she followed the Waze directions to a small tree-lined street walking distance from downtown. Twenty-seven Pilgrim Street was a charming colonial Cape. A late model BMW was parked in the semicircular driveway. A girl and a boy who both appeared to be about ten were kicking a soccer ball on the lawn of the home across the street.

A reporter who had served as a mentor early in her career had given Gina advice about how to proceed when interviewing a potentially reluctant source for a story. Always park on the street. People feel more threatened when you violate their space by parking in their driveway, he had cautioned. They feel like you’re trapping them. She wanted to do everything she could to avoid making Meg Williamson feel trapped. She eased the rental car to a halt at the curb in front of the house.

She glanced at her watch. 1:27. She had considered but decided against asking if she could record the interview. Too threatening. Notebook in hand, she walked up the driveway and rang the bell. The door opened in less than thirty seconds.

“You must be Gina. Come in please.”

Meg was strikingly attractive, with dark blond hair and large blue eyes. Gina guessed she was in her early thirties.

She followed Meg into the living room and found herself admiring both the room and the way it was attractively furnished. Meg has good taste and the money to fund it, she thought as she accepted the invitation to sit down.

Pictures of a very pretty young girl, mostly alone, a few with a beaming Meg, were on the piano, the end tables, and the coffee table. Conspicuously absent were any photos of the young girl with her father, or for that matter grandparents.

Meg chose to perch on the edge of a wing chair not far from her. She did not settle down but sat rigidly straight, suggesting that this would be a short meeting.

Now that she was here, Gina intended to make the most of every minute. “Ms. Williamson—”

“Call me Meg, please.”

“Thank you. Before we begin, can I trouble you for a glass of water?” It was a strategy Gina had learned from the same reporter who’d recommended against parking in the driveway. “You might need a little more time to form the question in just the right way or how to segue into the most sensitive area. Taking a sip of water, swallowing it, slowly putting down the glass gives you about ten more seconds to think while avoiding an awkward silence.”

“Of course. I’m sorry for not offering,” Meg said as she disappeared into the kitchen. She returned a minute later, handed the glass to Gina, and sat again on the edge of the wing chair.

“I want to thank you for making time for me. You live here with your daughter and—”

“It’s only with my daughter, Jillian.”

“Jillian’s father?”

“Divorced three years ago. He’s not,” she paused, “part of our lives anymore.”

“I see. Meg, I’m interested in the stories of women like you. Women who over the past ten years entered the field of broadcast journalism but chose to leave it to pursue other careers. How did you find your way to REL News?”

“I went to Iowa State, and the university had its own TV station. I started working, volunteering would be more accurate, my sophomore year. I learned a lot. Before long, I was writing segments, producing others, doing interviews, helping edit pieces.”

“Were you a Journalism major?”

“Originally Psychology. But I was enjoying myself so much that I switched to Journalism and graduated with a double major.”

“So how did you connect with REL News?”