more taciturn, and knew that she’d be prime gossip on the network grapevine. Comes with the territory, she reminded herself.
Her office was at the end of the hall. As they approached, Nicci called out, “It’s a fatty,” and thrust a thick packet of papers into Jenna’s hands—a set of computer modeling data on worldwide weather. The report was generated by the show’s assistant meteorologist, who worked the overnight shift and was often gone by the time Jenna came in. Years of experience let Jenna usually guess the report’s length within a few pages. Seventy-two, she figured, then looked: seventy. Not bad.
“I remember you,” Nicci said to Dafoe, offering him a smile that seemed to expand her size-two proportions. “Our helicopter almost hit you.”
“Yes, that would be me, the helipad.”
Nicci turned her barely bundled energy on Jenna: “Weather girl, I’m having problems getting video of a huge tornado down in Arkansas. I’m on my way to pound some heads and find out why.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“No.”
“Tell me it’s not more trailer park footage.”
“No, that’s what’s so great,” Nicci exclaimed. “It’s a gated community.”
“Yes!”
The two women high-fived.
“We’re so tired of seeing trailer park video,” Jenna explained to Dafoe, “that sometimes it’s nice to be reminded that weather is a great equalizer.”
“Tell me about it,” Dafoe said sympathetically.
“I talked to the affiliate,” Nicci said. “Supposedly you can see the actual gate sticking out of the roof of a McMansion. Oh, and a flyaway mattress the size of Manhattan jammed into a bay window. Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Any interviews?” Jenna asked, already flipping through the weather data.
“With the owner of that house, who—get this—is the conductor of the Little Rock Symphony. But the affiliate says she sounds like she’s straight out of Bah-stuhn.” Working the Kennedy accent.
“Why can’t people fulfill their cultural stereotypes? Is that asking too much?” Jenna pleaded playfully. “It would make our jobs so much easier. Do we have anyone who actually sounds like they’re from Little Rock?”
“I’ll check on that, too.” Nicci rushed off.
Jenna was about to get serious with the weather packet when she realized that an important and highly appealing task had yet to be undertaken. She closed the door, walked to Dafoe, and kissed him. “Good morning.” She clasped her hands around his head. “You look great.”
“You really do.”
“Well, get a gander now because they’ll be putting me through makeup in a little bit.”
Another quick peck and she planted herself back at her desk, scrolling through a list of video on her three large computer screens—the two on the sides angled slightly, like a three-way dressing room mirror. As she shifted the cursor over each listing, weather video from around the world came to life on the screen to her right, just enough to give her a flavor of the disasters of the day. She had three minutes and fifty seconds to fill in each of her four Morning Show appearances, and each had to be packaged differently to keep viewers watching, even though they would contain the same key information.
She explained to Dafoe what she was doing. “If this is putting you to sleep, you can go hit the buffet. The food really is good.”
“No worries. It’s just good to see you.”
“Back at you. I’m looking forward to the end of this show.”
She returned her attention to the videos, then reviewed the rest of the world’s weather. She checked the Maldives, as she did most days of late, thankful that there were no tsunamis or bulletins about anything turbulent—meteorologically speaking, anyway—taking place. Rick Birk, the network’s crusty old investigative reporter, was nosing around the capital city, no doubt in search of Rafan or anyone else he thought could give him a lead on the Islamists terrorizing the country. At least Birk had given up badgering Jenna for contacts.
She heard a knock and looked up, instantly charmed by the appearance of Kato, a sable German shepherd bomb-sniffing dog, and his handler, Geoff Parks.
“May I?” Jenna always checked with Geoff, who nodded. “Kato, come,” she called.
The dog walked over to Jenna and looked at her with what Jenna always felt was a smile. “Kato, sit,” she said.
The shepherd snapped to and waited, ears rotating like radar dishes, always on alert. “Kato, shake.” The dog extended his right paw. This was no sloppy stab at a handshake—Kato had a king’s dignity.
She held his thickly padded paw. “You’re a sweetie.” Glancing at Geoff, she said, “Dafoe here has an amazing border collie on his dairy farm. Totally trained for herding.”