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It’s statistically impossible that my mother is always right. So why doesn’t she seem to know it?
Besides, it’s demonstrably true that I’m not always wrong. I have twenty-one Emmys for investigative reporting—won number twenty-one after I was stalked by murderous thugs, threatened by insider-trading CEOs and held at gunpoint by a money-hungry sociopath who I proved was mastermind of a nationwide insider-trading scandal. Every one of them is in prison now. So I must have been right about a lot of things.
But at this moment, struggling for balance on a cushily upholstered chair at Mom’s bedside in New England’s most exclusive cosmetic surgery center, somehow I no longer feel like the toast of Boston television. I feel more like toast. Once again, I’m a gawky, awkward, nearsighted adolescent, squirming under the assessing eye of Lorraine Carpenter McNally. Two months from now, provided her face heals in time for the wedding, she’ll be Lorraine Carpenter McNally Margolis.
“Charlotte,” Mother says. “Stop frowning. You’re making lines.” Millions of viewers know me as Charlie McNally. I’m not Ch ... read full excerpt from Face Time ebook
