Heart of the Night Read Free

toe.
    â€œThis is Jared Snow, warmin’ you in the heart of the night. WCIC time is one forty on a cold and quiet March Monday in Providence. Keep your blanket pulled up and your dial set at 95.3 FM, for a little country in the city. WCIC Providence, kickin’ in now with K.T. Oslin and a cut from 80’s Ladies…”
    Perfectly timed, his voice faded as the singer began. Susan wondered how he did that. Wealthy or not, owner of the station or not, he knew what he was doing. He was competent, like Savannah. He had power, like Savannah. He was just what Susan wanted but couldn’t have.
    Taking a healthy swallow from the glass, she sank lifelessly onto the chaise and brooded.
    Savannah could have Jared Snow; Susan would bet on that. Savannah could have just about any man she wanted, and none of them would be losers. During the past year she had dated the dean of admissions at Brown, the city editor of the newspaper, the evening anchor at WJAR-TV, and one of the more prominent professors at RISD. The fact that she didn’t seem interested in getting involved brought them on, if anything, in droves. It wasn’t fair. The less she cared, the more they persisted. And Susan, who did care about having a relationship, who would give anything for just one of those dashingly prominent men, was stuck on the same old carousel of Newport society.
    Up and down, round and round.
    Screw old wealth, she thought, and drained her glass. Then she lay back against the pillows and waited for the liquor to numb her, or sleep to take her, or for the song to end and Jared Snow to talk her through the night.
    *   *   *
    Megan Vandermeer sat in the center of the huge jacuzzi with her knees drawn to her chest. The long, fleecy robe that flared around her was the only thing that had flowed in the tub in weeks. Like the elaborate ice maker on the refrigerator door and the sophisticated burglar alarm system, the jacuzzi was broken. Repairing it would cost a bundle. Will didn’t have a bundle.
    Tightening her tremulous arms around her legs, Megan buried her face in the folds of the robe and rocked back and forth in gentle time to the slow ballad that hummed from the speaker on the wall. At least that still worked, she mused gratefully. How she’d loved lying in the jacuzzi late at night with the water swirling around her and Jared Snow’s voice gentling her nerves. She couldn’t use the jacuzzi now, but she could still listen to Jared Snow. He was so calm, so smooth, so reassuring. He suggested the kind of deep inner peace Megan had always searched for but never found.
    Why was life so damned difficult, she asked herself despairingly. Why was life easier on some people and harder on others? Why did she have to struggle and struggle for the smallest reward?
    Dropping her head back, she cast a pleading glance at the stuccoed ceiling, but no answer was written there. All she saw was a spot where the toilet on the floor above had overflowed. The ceiling should be painted, she thought, then realized that the toilet had to be fixed first. But Will could not do even that until their finances improved. After all, no one knew that the toilet was broken, he had said, or that the jacuzzi, the alarm system, and the ice maker were broken. If one of the stately white columns at the front of the house were to fall, Megan suspected he would hawk his mother’s heirloom china to fix it. Appearances were important. It was critical, he said, critical that people not suspect the Vandermeer fortune was gone.
    Megan gritted her teeth and wondered whether there was a term for the Midas touch in reverse. Everything she touched fizzled.
    â€œWCIC Providence,” came the soft, deep voice from the wall. “You’re in cool country, 95.3 FM.”
    She relaxed her jaw, closed her eyes, and listened.
    â€œThis is Jared Snow in the heart of the night, bringing you the best of Nashville at six minutes after two in