Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
I glance about the studio, looking for the best place to have a last-minute Zoom call with producer Marsha Langston forty minutes before I go live for Monday’s segment.
"Right here on the couch is perfect," Nellie says, plopping onto the navy-blue sofa where Good Morning Virginia Beach shoots their daily 5 a.m. segment.
With the laptop cracked open in my hands, I hurry to sit down beside her. "I was hoping for somewhere more private, but I guess this will be fine.”
"You have earbuds, don't you?" Nellie asks.
I do, and though they’re almost out of juice, I pop them in, click on the link, and set the laptop on the coffee table.
Nellie shoots to her feet. “Don’t stress. You already cleared the air with Mr. Bruce, and that went perfectly. You’re one for one.”
She’s right. Mr. Bruce took the news very well. In fact, he offered to shoot the segment with me while his ‘sweet little Jinxy represented the fur family’—minus the fur, of course.
"Thank you," I say. "You're the best." I love the way Nellie's mind works, and her pep talks help every time.
A notification flashes on the screen that Marsha has started the meeting.
“Good luck,” Nellie says, then rushes off to give me privacy because she knows I’ll be more nervous if she listens.
I click the button and suck in a deep breath as Marsha’s familiar image fills the screen. A sleek dark bob, slightly narrow chin, and piercing eyes that say she means business. Emphasizing that point is the life-sized, teeth-baring shark framed behind her.
"Good morning, Ginger. Thanks for agreeing to meet. In the business, we have the rare chance to jump on bandwagons, if you will. When something goes viral—which you know can happen in a matter of hours—shows like yours can take advantage and strike while the iron is hot.”
I nod, mind racing to guess which trend she has in mind.
“I’ve got two words for you." She holds up her hands like she's framing the words before her. "Pistachio cream."
I know instantly what she’s referring to. "Yes, they’re putting that in the viral chocolate bars.”
"Exactly. My challenge to you is two-fold. First, incorporate pistachio cream into your cookie creation. Second, make it irresistibly simple. So simple that dozens will make it by the end of the day and tag you when they post about it.”
I nod, repeating the tasks in my mind. “Pistachio cream, and easy as a dream. Got it.”
Marsha chuckles. “I do love your wit.” Her mouth keeps moving but suddenly I'm not hearing her through the earbuds. I do, however, hear her muffled voice beyond the small devices.
I hold up a finger to indicate I'm having trouble. I remove the earbuds and pop them back into my case. “That’s better,” I say, nodding for her to proceed.
"There’s just one last thing I hoped to discuss. When Patty asked me—only moments before going live—if she could have her famous father on the show, you came to mind. Since you’ve had your father on prior segments, I agreed.
“Still, it could give her an unfair advantage with the test audience if you don't do a similar thing. To even the playing field, I hoped you’d consider having your dad come on the show again. And maybe that sweet bulldog of his if he’s available.”
My pulse spikes. I feel like my heart just landed flat on a cutting board, and the chef is chopping toward it at high speed. “Umm…” I start to say, but then a familiar voice pipes up from the kitchen area.
"You haven't told her?"
My eyes double in size as I see Patty sampling the sauce I made for today's feature.
"I'm sorry," Marsha says. "What was that?"
Patty skips toward me with the spoon in her hand, today's polka dots, pink and brown. She stops in front of the laptop, her body taking up most of the frame while her head’s cut off. Headless is not a bad look on her.
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I’m helping Ginger set up for her segment. Tragically, her dad’s a convicted felon, and her mom's a boozehound, so she can't have either one of her parents on the show.”
Patty shoots me a sympathetic look, then skips back to the kitchen.
Now, my heart is directly beneath the blade, taking one violent cut after the next as I stare, speechless, at Marsha Langston.
Her nostrils flare as her jaw clenches. "I'm sorry to hear that," she says at last.
I gulp, knowing I’m turning red now. Not just my face, but my neck, hands, and arms. It’s my body’s go-to reaction when something upsetting occurs.
"That’s not exactly true," I defend, "but I wouldn’t be able to have either of them join me—that part’s right." And since I worry this will hurt my ranking, I add, "But Mr. Bruce said he would join me with his cat, Jinxy. Will that work?" I feel tears brimming behind my eyes. Please say yes so I can get off this call before I break down.
Marsha observes my reaction with an expression I can't quite read. "That will do just fine,” she says at last. “Good luck, Ginger. I look forward to the show."