you’ve ever seen.”
“ Do you come to Southern California very often?” she asked.
“ I’ve been down here a few times. But it’s too hot for me.”
“ Not always. Today you could have fried pancakes on the sidewalk, but generally it’s mild and wonderful—and at times, I’ll bet our sky’s as blue as yours.”
“ I’ve seen days where it comes close,” he admitted. He folded his napkin on the table and sat back in his chair. “But I’d still never leave Washington state. I like having four seasons.”
“ Well, after a few summers in Tucson and winters in Detroit and Bangor, Maine, I’ll take this weather any day. I don’t know how long my gig will last, but I’m grateful to be here, especially since I finally got my own drive time show. Seven years of nights is enough for anyone.”
“ Seven years? Why’d it take so long to get a decent shift?”
“ There’s a built-in prejudice in this business against women. We’re stuck with the worst hours for the least pay. Midnight to dawn—they still call it the Women’s Shift. And that’s one of the nicer names for it.” Five years ago, she explained, you rarely heard a woman on the air during the afternoon, even in Southern California. “They’re a bit more progressive here. Most deejays would kill for the chance to work in L.A. or Orange County. It’s the hottest market in the country.”
“ Why? Because you’re so close to the television and film industries?”
“ That’s a big part of it. A jock with a good voice can earn good money on the side in commercials, voice-overs, and animation—or so I’m told, I haven’t explored that yet. But the biggest attraction here is the pay scale.” She finished her wine. With instinctive awareness Kyle reached for the bottle and raised an eyebrow in her direction. At her nod, he refilled her glass.
“ AFTRA, our union, takes care of us,” she went on, “sees to it that we have decent wages and working conditions. Other markets aren’t so lucky. Just a few years back, I was working ridiculous hours for starvation wages.”
“ Really? I imagined deejays were paid handsomely. Like television stars.”
“ Far from it. This might be show biz, but we’re on the bottom rung of the ladder.”
She reached across the table to offer him her last bite of lobster. He smiled and leaned forward, then closed his lips around her fork. At the same time his hand closed around hers. A spark shot through her veins at the warmth of his touch.
“ Nice,” he said, his eyes lighting up appreciatively. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to the taste of the food or the feel of her hand. He took the fork from her and set it down, leaned her elbows on the table, and wrapped her hand in both of his. “Why have you lived in so many places? Detroit, did you say? Tucson? And Maine?”
“ Change of jobs.” His hands, she noticed, were large and covered with dark springy hairs. They felt warm and dry and wonderful against hers. “In this business after a year at the same station you’re practically considered an old-timer. Unemployment’s always looking over your shoulder.”
“ Why is it so hard to keep a job?”
“ Ratings.”
The candlelight flickered across the side of his face and caught in minute flashes the reddish-gold of his day’s growth of whiskers. She wondered if his cheeks felt smooth or rough to the touch. She wondered what color his beard would be. Brown? Or bright red, like the highlights in his hair?
“ Ratings?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and continued. “If the station isn’t doing well, the program director often wipes the slate clean and starts off with all new talent. Or he might decide to switch the format of the station from music to Talk Radio or All News, which also requires a whole new crop of people. And there are so many young kids, beating down the door to take our jobs. If we forget to play one spot or say one thing the P.D. doesn’t like, he might