Meanwhile, everyone knew where GE chairman Jack Welch stood. In 2000, he’d been accused of trying to sway election-night coverage by distracting editorial staff at the decision desk, doing his own analysis of voter data, and pressuring them to call it for Bush just as Fox had. He actually said at one point, “How much would I have to pay you to call the race for Bush?” When NBC finally did, a grinning Welch apparently brandished a thumbs-up.
54
Dear Katie
THE EARLY AUGHTS were a blur of busyness. TODAY was cranking away. The girls were at Spence, working much harder than I ever did at their age. Lori Beth kept the trains running on time—the homework humming, the playdates coming. I juggled it all as best I could—dashing out of the show early if there was a school performance or field trip. I’d always instruct Matt to share with the viewers where I had gone, hoping it would encourage employers everywhere to have family-friendly policies.
I made it my mission to instill in Ellie and Carrie the good values I’d learned growing up, which wasn’t always easy amid the outrageous affluence of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Chauffeur-driven Escalades were lined up outside the private schools at drop-off and pickup; there were 12-year-olds with Prada backpacks, classmates with weekend homes…in Gstaad. And don’t get me started on the bar and bat mitzvah arms race—parents feverishly trying to outdo each other with seven-figure shindigs: renting out Yankee Stadium or the Museum of Natural History, Flo Rida performing before a throng of screaming 13-year-olds, Beats headphones in the goody bags.
My daughters grew up so financially secure, around people with so much, I wanted them to understand the value of things. When Ellie begged me for a Baby-G watch, all the rage for a nanosecond, I said absolutely not, explaining that a $100 watch for an 8-year-old was just gross. In middle school, Carrie called from an outing with a friend and her mother and innocently asked if she could buy a bra from La Perla. I practically dropped the phone before delivering another hard no. （As if—I didn’t even get my underthings from La Perla.）
Granted, sometimes the over-the-top perks of my job made it hard to keep everyone grounded. How could I not bring the girls to the Olympics in Salt Lake City, Sydney, Athens? They met gold medalists; Ellie interviewed sprinter Michael Johnson for a school paper, and he autographed one of his gold running shoes for her. When their idols Britney Spears, LeAnn Rimes, and, yes, Beyoncé performed on the plaza, they got photos with them afterward. Carrie rode on Hilary Duff’s float during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. When the girls came to the show, they’d get the star treatment—their hair blown out, a little lipstick and eye shadow. The TODAY staff always made such a fuss.
Tom was incredibly sweet to them too. When he bought the Red Sox, we’d sit in the owners’ box or front-row seats near the dugout; Ellie and Carrie would bring their American Girl dolls and stick their high-grade-polymer arms over the fence so Big Papi and Nomar Garciaparra could fist-bump Samantha and Felicity. And we took Robin Leach–worthy vacations—Costa Rica, Cabo, Hawaii, London, Paris, Venice.
It was a high-flying romance—until it wasn’t. Tom went from hot to trot to cold and distant. It got to the point where I never knew quite what to expect from him, which kept me perpetually off balance. At one of my colon cancer benefits, rather than play the debonair co-host and help me welcome guests and gin up support for our cause, he spent the cocktail hour on his phone listening to the Red Sox game.
Tom had never actually finalized his divorce, which turned me into that slightly pathetic, needy girlfriend asking, “So, when…” I couldn’t help myself; I had two girls, and I wanted them to have a father figure. I wanted to create a family. I’d even started asking West Coast friends about schools in and around LA.
One July, we traveled from Martha’s Vineyard to Nantucket on a yacht that belonged to billionaire John Henry, principal owner of the Red Sox. Pulling into port, the opulent vessel all but screamed Mine’s bigger than yours. That afternoon as we lounged on the deck, John’s wife, Peggy, showed off a wide-brimmed raffia hat she’d just bought at Peter Beaton on the island. Some of the ladies tried it on; when it was my turn, everyone oohed and aahed （I have to admit, I’ve got a good hat head）。 “Maybe I’ll get one!” I said.
A bit later when we disembarked, Tom turned to me and said, “Do you have your credit card?”
Yes, I had my credit card—I’d slipped it in my back pocket. I was more than willing and able to purchase my own hat. But that was beside the point. Did Tom think I was taking advantage of him? He was someone who loved spending money and giving gifts. I got the distinct sense this was about more than a hat. So what was he trying to tell me?