Stay Tuned

Chapter 3

The Post-it wasn’t a surprise.
    
My husband worked late every night. More than once this past year, my husband had slept at the office. He kept an extra shirt, suit, and tie in his car just in case.
    
Chris was a portfolio manager for Macon Financial, the city’s largest investment firm. His job was high-pressure and enormously challenging. Fortunately, Chris was brilliant, ultra-organized, and able to multi-task.
    
Despite the economic downturn, he’d managed to keep clients and, more importantly, his job. In a recent shake-up, one of the senior VPs retired, his boss had moved up, and Chris was now in the running for a big promotion.
    
Knowing that Macon Financial put a huge emphasis on philanthropy, Chris divulged that his parents had bequeathed a substantial part of their fortune to the local medical center. His boss jumped at the opportunity to marry the corporate philosophy with a huge public relations event.
    
This morning, the project was unveiled at a press conference. I’d arranged for WSGA to cover the event, but my shift didn’t start for a few hours. I was there for Chris.
    
When I’d arrived, a throng of people had assembled. Among the sea of heads, programs waved like miniature flags, providing brief respite from the breeze that had all but disappeared.

Chris’s assistant, Elijah Banks, shifted in his seat by the podium. He leaned close to Chris’s shoulder and cupped a hand over his mouth, his dark eyes shifting nervously over the crowd. Reporters from the newspaper, public radio station, and WSGA were standing by.
    
Sitting from my angle, I could read Elijah’s lips. “Time to get started?”

Chris didn’t respond. He glanced in my direction. I met his gaze and fretted for him. He had to wait. He wasn’t about to blow off an opportunity for coverage, even if it was my rival station that was late. He had his career to think about. This included helping Macon Financial look benevolent, caring, and generous.

The CBS Survivor show motto came to mind. Outwit. Outlast. Outplay. That was Chris, though he wouldn’t, for any amount of money, spend weeks on a desert island building tribal alliances and eating bugs.
    
I grinned at the thought. Back when I was a busy college student, no time for a serious boyfriend, his persistence and charm had won me over. Chris simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d asked me out, what, a dozen times? Two dozen? I’d lost count by the time I said, ‘yes’ to dinner.

A familiar clack and rumble announced the WXTA truck’s arrival. At the sound, Elijah turned his head.

A burst of chatter rippled through the audience. Chris lifted his eyes and focused on the road leading up to the hospital. The news vehicle moved steadily up the pavement. I glanced at my watch. Chris was now ten minutes behind schedule.

The truck rolled to a stop. A pixie of a girl jumped out, dressed in red, microphone and notebook in hand. A tall, skinny man in a tee-shirt and jeans hoisted a camera onto his shoulder.

The breathless reporter, close to tears, apologized profusely to Chris. I was close enough to hear every word. “There was an accident, we had to take a detour. I’m really sorry.”

Chris stood up and gave the reporter his best, most understanding smile. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” he said with a nod. “Everyone’s ready.”

The girl clipped her microphone on the podium and stepped away, visibly relieved.

“Good afternoon,” Chris’s voice boomed across the Macon Medical Center campus. “Thank you all for coming. And your patience.”

Applause rippled through the mass of people before him.

Chris smiled. “My parents would have been thrilled to see you all here today. It was their dream to see this portion of the Medical Center come to fruition.” He paused, careful to let his eyes fall briefly on each of the hospital’s board members. “Several years ago, my father succumbed to cancer after a long and valiant battle. He traveled hours for oncology treatment. He died away from home.”

I glanced around. Faces were awash with concern.

“Great strides have been made in oncology treatment since my father passed away. These tools are now here at the Medical Center, thanks to my parents’ gift and a matching grant from Macon Financial.”

Thunderous applause this time. When the noise died to a reasonable level, Chris continued. “What we have here today is nothing short of monumental. State-of-the-art cancer treatment in your own hometown. I give you Macon’s new Premiere Oncology Center.”

Chris nodded toward the shiny new building. Board members had assembled alongside the oncologists, Macon Financial’s CEO, and the city’s mayor. With a quick slice of scissors, the thick blue ribbon held across the entryway fluttered apart and fell to the ground.
  
Chris stepped down from the podium to mingle and shake hands. There would be an open house and a reception later.
    
I couldn’t imagine how my husband was holding up. His parents had made this incredible donation. They’d sprinkled other charities with smaller gifts. The SPCA, Make-A-Wish Foundation, and Smile Train. All worthy. All deserving.
    
But Chris, their only son, wasn’t named as a beneficiary.
    
He’d been left out of the will entirely.
    
And my husband refused to discuss it.