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Avery cleared the doorway and moved to the microphone as Eddy had instructed her to. She looked like Carole Rutledge. She knew that. It was remarkable to her that the charade hadn’t been detected by those closest to Carole, even her husband. Of course, none had reason to doubt that she was who she was supposed to be. They weren’t looking for an impostor, and therefore, they didn’t see one.
But as she approached the microphone, Avery was afraid that strangers might discern what intimates hadn’t. Someone might rise above the crowd, aim an accusatory finger at her, and shout, “Impostor!”
Therefore, the spontaneous burst of applause astonished her. It took her, Tate, and even Eddy, who was always composed, by complete surprise. Her footsteps faltered. She glanced up at Tate with uncertainty. He smiled that dazzling, all-American hero smile at her and it was worth all the pain and anguish she had suffered since the crash. It boosted her confidence tremendously.
She graciously signaled for the applause to cease. As it tapered off, she said a timid thank-you. Then, clearing her throat, giving a slight toss of her head, and moistening her lips with her tongue, she began reciting her brief, prepared speech.
“Thank you, ladies and gentleman, for being here to welcome me back after my long hospitalization. I wish to publicly extend my sympathy to those who lost loved ones in the dreadful crash of AireAmerica Flight 398. It’s still incredible to me that my daughter and I survived such a tragic and costly accident. I probably wouldn’t have, had it not been for the constant support and encouragement of my husband.”
The last line had been her addition to Eddy’s prepared speech. Boldly, she slipped her hand into Tate’s. After a moment’s hesitation, which only she was aware of, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Mrs. Rutledge, do you hold AireAmerica responsible for the crash?”
“We can’t comment until the investigation is completed and the results have been announced by the NTSB,” Tate said.
“Mrs. Rutledge, do you plan to sue for damages?”
“We have no plans to pursue litigation at this time.” Again, Tate answered for her.
“Mrs. Rutledge, do you remember saving your daughter from the burning wreckage?”
“I do now,” she said before Tate could speak. “But I didn’t at first. I responded to survival instinct. I don’t remember making a conscious decision.”
“Mrs. Rutledge, at any point during the reconstructive procedure on your face, did you doubt it could be done?”
“I had every confidence in the surgeon my husband selected.”
Tate leaned into the mike to make himself heard above the din. “As you might guess, Carole is anxious to get home. If you’ll excuse us, please.”
He ushered her forward, but the crowd surged toward them. “Mr. Rutledge, will Mrs. Rutledge be going with you on the campaign trail?” A particularly pushy reporter blocked their path and shoved a microphone into Tate’s face.
“A few trips for Carole have been scheduled. But there will be many times when she’ll feel it’s best to stay at home with our daughter.”
“How is your daughter, Mr. Rutledge?”
“She’s well, thank you. Now, if we could—”
“Is she suffering any aftereffects of the crash?”
“What does your daughter think of the slight alterations in your appearance, Mrs. Rutledge?”
“No more questions now, please.”
With Eddy clearing a path for them, they made their way through the obstinate crowd. It was friendly, for the most part, but even so, being surrounded by so many people gave Avery a sense of suffocation.
Up till now, she’d always been on the other side, a reporter poking a microphone at someone in the throes of a personal crisis. The reporter’s job was to get the story, get the sound bite that no one else got, take whatever measures were deemed necessary. Little consideration was ever given to what it was like on the other side of the microphone. She’d never enjoyed that aspect of the job. Her fatal mistake in broadcasting hadn’t arisen from having too little sensitivity, but from having too much.
From the corner of her eye she spotted the KTEX logo stenciled on the side of a Betacam. Instinctively, she turned her head in that direction. It was Van!
For a split second she forgot that he was supposed to be a stranger to her. She came close to calling out his name and waving eagerly. His pale, thin face and lanky ponytail looked wonderfully familiar and dear! She longed to throw herself against his bony chest and hug him hard.
Thankfully, her face remained impassive. She turned away, giving no sign of recognition. Tate ushered her into the limo. Once inside the backseat and screened by the tinted glass, she looked out the rear window. Van, like all the others, was shoving his way through the throng, video camera riding atop his shoulder, his eye glued to the viewfinder.
How she missed the newsroom, with its ever-present pall of tobacco smoke, jangling telephones, squawking police radios, and clacking teletypes. The constant ebb and flow of reporters, cameramen and gofers seemed to Avery to be light-years in the past.
As the limo pulled away from the address that had been her refuge for weeks, she experienced an overwhelming homesickness for Avery Daniels’s life. What had happened to her apartment, her things? Had they been boxed up and parceled out to strangers? Who was wearing her clothes, sleeping on her sheets, using her towels? She suddenly felt as though she’d been stripped and violated. But she had made an irrevocable decision to leave Avery Daniels indefinitely dead. Not only her career, but her life, and Tate’s, were at stake.
Beside her, Tate adjusted himself into the seat. His leg brushed hers. His elbow grazed her breast. His hip settled reassuringly against hers.
