Dream a Little Scream Read Free Page A

We’ve been friends since college, and I was thrilled to have her living soclose to us. “Are you interviewing Sonia for the paper, or did Neal grab that one?”
    â€œI got it,” she said triumphantly. “Neal’s taking his annual two-week vacation in Maine, so the timing couldn’t be better. For me, I mean,” she added with a giggle. “I did a quick sit-down with Sonia at Riverfront today and got some good quotes. I’ll put it together with my background material and I think I’ll get above the fold in the Sunday edition.”
    â€œThat’s impressive.” I reached out my hand for a fist bump. “How did you manage to interview her without interruptions? Didn’t the tourists at the Riverfront pester her for autographs?”
    Sara shook her head. “No one even spotted her. She was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses and we sat at an outdoor café. She picked an umbrella table hidden behind a palm tree, which was a smart move. I think the waiter recognized her, but he never said a word.” Sara laughed. “I tipped him well, so he’s happy.”
    â€œThat was smart,” Ali said as she waited for the taping to begin.
    The back door to the studio was open to the parking lot and a few minutes later, I spotted a man and woman step out under the awning, deep in conversation. I assumed they were part of Sonia’s entourage because the woman, a fortyish blonde, was holding a notebook with the Sonia Scott logo on it. There was something intimate about their body language, and I wondered if they were a couple. When the man lit a cigarette and offered it to her, I realized it was Jeremy Watts, Leslie’s husband. The woman smiled and shook her head, touching his lapel, letting her gaze linger on his face just a second too long. Interesting.
    The taping started then, and the next ninety minutes flew by. Sonia was at her best, talking directly to the camera, tellinganecdotes about the recipes she was preparing. The menu called for grilled chicken with mango and oranges slices, scalloped cheese potatoes, and peach cobbler. These were all staples from her previous cookbooks, and she put them together effortlessly, all the while keeping up a playful banter.
    The filming stopped for a few breaks and Sonia’s bubbly persona vanished as she moved out of the bright lights, talking on her cell. I had hoped she might interact with the studio audience, but she seemed distant and preoccupied.
    Sara raised her eyebrows. “She seems to switch off when the cameras do,” she said shrewdly. “Interesting.” Sara pulled out a pen and jotted a note in the steno pad she carried everywhere.
    â€œYou’re not putting that in the article, are you?” I supposed it would be a juicy tidbit, but that kind of observation certainly wouldn’t portray Sonia in a good light. Nobody likes a celebrity who ignores her fans.
    â€œNo, I’m just saving it, in case I write an in-depth piece about her down the road. The article I’m doing for the Sunday paper is a puff piece, all positive. But who knows? Someday I might do an unauthorized biography and this sort of detail might be important.” I know Sara plans on moving to New York or Los Angeles and hopes to snare a job as an investigative reporter with a major paper. At the moment, she’s happy to get freelance work writing arts and entertainment pieces in Savannah, but it barely pays the bills.
    We were filing out after the taping when a harried-looking young woman carrying a clipboard approached Sara. It was the attractive blonde I had seen chatting outside the studio with Jeremy Watts. “Excuse me, are you Sara Rutledge from the newspaper?” When Sara nodded, she raced on, “It seems we’re going to be in Savannah for another half day. Sonia’s flight to Richmond tonight was canceled.” She realized wewere blocking traffic and motioned us over to the