The Weather Girl

The sound of crashing waves, meant to calm the mind, blasts through the dead of night. The noise might as well be a freight train barreling through Molly’s tiny bedroom. She programs her alarm clock to the sounds of the sea, hoping it will make her 3 a.m. wake-up call less of a shock. Instead, each wave slams her awake, heart pounding, breath stolen. It takes five minutes of deep breathing to calm down. Humans are not meant to be yanked out of REM sleep in the middle of the night. A fact Molly is reminded of five days a week.

Molly Weathers is the new morning meteorologist for KWKA, a small-market TV station in Pennsylvania. The station is an old house converted decades ago. Some say it’s one of the oldest in town, rich with history. To Molly, it just looks like a crumbling wreck with a satellite dish stuck on top.

Her last name, Weathers, is real, something the marketing team loves. “Weather with Weathers” now runs weekdays from 5–9 a.m. Viewers can find Molly, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, waxing on about cold fronts and wind shear with as much energy as one cup of coffee can give. She doesn’t complain. She knows how lucky she is to have the job, and how easily she could be sent back to weekends if ratings drop.

She hears her father’s voice, sees his watery dark eyes and furrowed gray brows: “No one is irreplaceable, Molly.”

Her predecessor, Jack Stone, is proof of that. Jack Stone isn’t even his real name. His parents christened him Herbert, “a family name,” it was rumored. The staff whispers “Herbert” with equal parts amusement and disdain around the station. Few of Jack’s coworkers like him, making him an easy target for gossip. Baby Herbert has morphed into the cheap-suit wearing, hair-slicked, orange-faced and petulant Jack Stone. And Molly is Jack’s replacement.

“You’re late.” Jack sits in the weather center, sunk into his prized Tempur-Pedic chair, staring at the glowing monitors. He removes his special chair every day after work, forcing the evening meteorologist to scrounge for another. No one knows where he hides it. Just one more oddity adding to his reputation.

“I’m so sorry!” Molly blurts, shuffling swiftly across the ice-slick studio floor in slippers. The cameras glide smoothly on the polished surface, causing Molly to ditch her heels after a few painful tumbles. Who wouldn’t rather wear slippers to work? She envies the news anchors their suit jackets and ties above the desk, sweatpants below.

“My curling iron broke and I had to borrow Brooke’s,” she explains. Jack glances at her hair, then back at the screen. “Not sure it was worth the trouble.” Molly bites back a retort, eyeing the caked concealer in his crow’s-feet, giving him the look of peach-colored lava oozing from his yellowing eyes.

She sets her laptop on the desk and begins piecing together the forecast. Math and science aren’t her strong suits. Still, she worked through three years toward an online meteorology degree, barely passing the final exam. All so she can smile through gritted teeth when viewers call out, “Hey, it’s the weather girl.”

“I think I’m good today, Frank. You can head out early.” Molly tries to sound friendly. Frank is only there to “guide” her, thanks to his 20 years on mornings. The truth is, the forecast is the forecast. But Frank had insisted to the News Director that Molly needed supervision. “So nice of him,” she’d muttered.

When the studio clock rolls around to noon, Molly’s long day winds down. “They’re rolling them in as we speak!” anchor Brian Michaels calls out with a toothy grin. It’s a joke referring to their biggest audience, nursing homes. As they say in the business, “Noon news is where you land when you’re either on your way up or on your way down.” Molly is the former. Brian, sixty-five, is the latter.

After the broadcast, Molly gathers her things. Frank is still rigid in his beloved chair. She sighs. “Later, Frank. Have a nice weekend!”

“I’ll be working,” he sneers.

“Right. Well…see you soon.”

Outside, the November air bites as Molly trudges to her old Corolla, snow piled on its roof. She brushes it off halfheartedly before sliding in and blasting the heat. Her legs are numb beneath her short skirt and stockings, but she consoles herself with the thought of a warm glass of Cabernet.

At lunch downtown, Molly finds her friend Ava already halfway through a glass. At nearly six feet tall and blonde, Ava draws plenty of stares. Together, the two women make heads turn. Many of them recognizing Molly, with nods and stares.

“Well, how’d it go?” Ava asks.

“Frank is still hovering. I swear he’d spit on me if HR wouldn’t intervene.” Molly chuckles.

“That bastard deserves whatever karma throws at him,” Ava replies, raising her glass.

Before Molly can answer, her elbow knocks into her phone. She grabs it, intending to drop it in her purse. Except it isn’t there.

“Oh no! I must have left my purse at the station.” She rises, but Ava grabs her arm. “Sit. Get it tomorrow.”

“I can’t. My laptop’s in there. I’ll be right back.” Molly pulls her coat on and rushes out.

Back at the station, the building is silent and dark. The air is frigid, the way it always is between shows to counteract the blazing studio lights. Molly searches the weather center with her phone flashlight. Finally, she spots her purse under the desk, nudged back against the wall.

As she kneels to grab it, she freezes. A light is glowing behind the plywood paneling. She presses against it, and it pops open. A ladder descends into a hidden room. Heart pounding, Molly climbs down.

The space looks shockingly lived-in. A mattress lies in the corner, neatly made up with a gray comforter. A lamp is plugged in the wall next to a nightstand with a clock. What the heck?

“Molly! What are you doing?”

She whips around. It’s Frank.

“I think that should be my question,” she snaps.

Frank exhales and drops into his Tempur-Pedic chair. Well that’s one mystery solved. “I had nowhere else to go.” He sighs.

The confessions pour out. The gambling. The debt. The collapse of his marriage. The bets that had once felt like salvation but instead destroyed everything.

Molly listens, stunned. Her enemy, her nemesis, looks broken and defeated. The room, he explains, once served as a hiding place on the Underground Railroad. “It was boarded up and forgotten about decades ago.” He explains. Now, it’s his.

Her anger softens. For the first time, she sees him not as a bitter rival but a desperate man. “Frank, your secret’s safe. But you need help, and a new place to stay.”

He nods. “Give me a week. I’ll figure something out.”

Back at the restaurant, Molly downs a glass of wine, still shaken.

“Did you find it?” Ava asks.

“Yes,” Molly says, forcing a smile. “Thank God.”

But she knows she found much more. A cautionary tale maybe? A realization of sorts? Who knows. Tonight she celebrates. The morning news is hers.