Page 45 of Good Days Bad Days

“This is us.” Martha grabs my focus again.

The emcee announces the next category, and when The Classy Homemaker is mentioned alongside other nominees, including serious news programs, it’s a bit embarrassing.

I’m proud of our work, and I believe Betty is incredibly talented, but do I think what we do is newsworthy and deserving of an award? No.

When our names aren’t called, I’m relieved. I think Martha secretly hoped we would win, but she also seems to understand why the series about war widows was chosen instead of our homemaking show.

“Well, that was thrilling,” she says, letting out a long breath and blinking her fake lashes several times like she may have had tears in them at one point.

Tipsy from a steady supply of white wine, champagne, and very little else, I squeeze her hand where it rests on the table and quietly tell her what I really think.

“You deserve more than this, Martha.”

She puts gentle pressure on my fingertips. “You do, too.”

Her touch doesn’t burn like Betty’s, but it still has an effect.

I’ve grown to care about this woman. I know she cares for me more than any person outside of my family ever has.

For a sliver of a second I think I might be able to fall in love with Martha if I didn’t feel such a magnetic connection to Betty.

“And the winner is . . .” The award for Best Personality is announced in the distance. It’s almost like the speaker is reading a cue card transcription of what I have on my mind when he says: “Betty Wilkens, The Classy Homemaker.”

Hollinger, back from the bar, whoops. Betty sits frozen in her seat, astounded.

Her confused gaze meets mine. I slip my fingers out from Martha’s grip and join in the applause.

The movement seems to snap Betty out of her daze, and Don lifts her to her feet, ecstatic.

I wonder how much of his happiness is for his girlfriend and how much is about his own personal clout.

Betty nearly trips over her floor-length gown as she winds through the tables toward the stage. She looks so glamorous up there, poised, ready for anything. I watch her accept the plaque, and my heart races like I’m the winner.

After thanking the station, Hollinger, her family, and so forth, she ends with one final word of gratitude. “And thank you to my producers, Martha Smith and Greg Laramie—my lifeline. I couldn’t do this without you. Here’s to many more years together!”

She holds up the prize and exits the stage as the bigger markets’ awards are handed out.

“Can you believe that?” I ask, turning to Martha, but I find the seat beside me empty. Her clutch is gone, her wrap is gone, and as I stand to survey the rest of the hall, I find that Martha is also gone.

She can’t have gotten far since I drove her here.

I abandon my seat and the dry piece of chocolate cake I’ve been picking at for the past twenty minutes and dash toward the coat check.

My feet are clumsy from a night of drinking and there’s not a lot of grace to my pursuit.

I catch a glimpse of blue, green, and white slipping behind an accordion partition that separates the banquet hall from the ballroom.

I make it through the sliver of an opening and find Martha halfway across the empty parquet dance floor. The deep bass of the presenter’s voice announcing the final award of the night—Best Station—echoes through the speakers and into the empty space and nearly drowns out my call.

“Hey! Wait!” I shout. Martha freezes, stopping before the exit. She lands in a pool of cool white moonlight that brings out a gossamer shimmer from her gown like the printed flowers are covered in a delicate frost.

“What do you want, Greg?” Her question is icy, and I stop by the partition.

“Nothing. I just . . . I just thought you wanted to stay for the party.” Martha made me promise to dance with her at the party after the awards ceremony.

“I’m not really up for it,” she says, swiveling around slowly like she’s standing on a turntable. The announcer in the other room reads the nominees for the Best Station in a Small Market award.

After some paper crinkling, he shouts “WQRX!” But I hardly notice because Martha starts to walk away again.

“You should stay, though. Clearly, it’s a big night.” She points to the speakers in the ceiling. Cheers and applause fill the room and pound at my eardrums.

“Come back. There’s champagne and”—I stammer—“and you promised to dance with me.”

The corners of her mouth lift into a half-hearted smile that drops immediately like she’s remembered something tragic. “I don’t think so, Greg. You go. Have fun.”

“Do you . . . do you need a ride?” I’m not in any condition to drive, but the least I can do is get her a cab.

“Ha, no,” she laughs grimly. “I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own ride . . .” she says, clearly referring to Betty’s panicked call nine months ago.

The unspoken part of the sentence hangs between us as Hollinger starts his acceptance speech by quoting the dictionary. “Webster’s dictionary defines a leader as . . .”

Normally, I’d roll my eyes and make a few snarky comments to Martha, but she’s not listening to his victory address, her cheeks glistening with tears.

I consider striding across the room, taking her in my arms, drying her face, and kissing her passionately like I should have that September night at my apartment.

But instead, she drags the back of her hand across her face, drying her own tears, and I stay fixed in place.

“See you Monday” is all I can think of to say.

She steps out of her moonbeam spotlight and exits without another word, and I let her leave. There’s heartache in her echoing footsteps but also relief. As wonderful as she is, I don’t know how to love Martha. She doesn’t deserve a half love story like that.

I slip back through the partition where Hollinger is still speaking.

Betty is back at the table, and I observe her as he speaks.

She’s watching him with the same plastic smile she wears on The Classy Homemaker.

The rest of the room looks impatient, ready for the Best Station announcements for the bigger markets and then to celebrate or console themselves at the after-party.

Hollinger finally starts to wrap up.

“And though I’m thankful to God for this blessing,” Hollinger says, taking on the pious persona EBN requires of him, “there’s one gift from on high that’s more valuable than money or earthly accolades.

” As he pontificates, I snake through the aisles.

“Thank you to the one woman who knows how to make every day like heaven on earth.” He holds his award out toward us at table seven.

As the meaning of his words starts to sink in, he leaves no question. Don Hollinger, a man I do not like, much less respect, a man I’d rather see behind bars before seeing him awarded with anything, especially the hand of a good woman, says her name. “My fiancée—Betty Wilkens. I love you!”

The crowd cheers, and the room swirls around me.

Betty blushes handsomely. I notice a gold-banded diamond ring has appeared on her finger like some kind of magic trick.

When the awards officially close and the folding wall opens with a thunderous crunch, the crowd slowly migrates to the ballroom. But I am stuck to my chair.

My date is gone, and the woman I love is engaged to the wrong man. My head spins with alcohol and outrage, and I’m sure of one thing—someone needs to call out that asshole Hollinger. My hand gathers into a tight fist. And I think it should be me.