by Neesa Hart
“Well, it’s just that…”
Molly stopped walking. “I want to know what you were going to say.”
Colleen took a careful breath. “You seem serious, Mol. Really serious.”
Molly contemplated that. Considering Sam had spent every night since Sunday in her bed; considering that they were lovers and intimate friends; considering that she was beginning to picture what her life would be like when he was no longer in it; she’d have to say that yes, she was fairly serious. “Why do you say that?” she hedged.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“You’ve never asked me that before.” Colleen shrugged and began walking up the sidewalk again. “It never seemed relevant before. The men you dated—I didn’t think you’d ever actually fall in love with them.”
“Colleen—”
“I’m serious. They were okay guys, don’t get me wrong, but you weren’t the type to settle for an okay guy. Me, I’m the kind of woman who falls for a man like Todd. He’s stable, he’s predictable—and don’t you dare say he’s boring.”
“I don’t think Todd is boring,” Molly objected.
“You did when I first started dating him.”
“He grew on me.”
“Which is my point,” her sister said. “Sam—he’s not in the same league.”
“And you think he’s out of mine.”
“Don’t get defensive. I’m just worried.” Colleen sighed, and her breath formed a plume of mist in the crisp fall air. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“You sound like Eileen.”
“I’m your sister. I know you. I love you.”
“And you think Sam’s going to hurt me.”
“I think that Sam’s going to outgrow Payne in another couple of months. You told me yourself that the paper was showing signs of improvement.”
Molly had avoided thinking about this for many reasons. “We have a very long way to go before we’re back on track. Years, maybe, before the Sentinel fully recovers.”
“How much of that journey will Sam have to be here for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not much? Some? A lot? Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“I’m trying not to,” Molly told her sister. They reached the corner across the street from the Sentinel. Molly shoved her hands into her jacket pockets to ward off the chill. “Look, Colleen, I appreciate your concern—”
Her sister placed a hand on her arm. “I’m not meddling,” she told Molly. “I just want you to know I think you’re in love with Sam. I don’t want him to break your heart, that’s all.”
“And you think it’s inevitable.”
“He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who gives his heart away. And you’re not the kind of woman who settles for less. When it comes right down to it, Molly, you aren’t going to accept any less from him than a complete surrender. I just don’t think he’s the type to give it to you.”
Molly studied her sister. “I’ll be all right,” she said softly. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t—” From the corner of her eye, something near the Sentinel entrance caught her attention. She glanced across the street and studied the two black sedans that had rolled to a stop in front of the building. “I’ve got to go, Colleen. All right?”
Her sister followed her gaze to the two vehicles. “Trouble?”
“I don’t know.” Molly jabbed the button on the light post that activated the crosswalk. “I’m going to find out.”
“Same time tomorrow?” her sister asked as the light changed.
Molly nodded. “Same time tomorrow.”
Chapter Ten
Sam gave Molly a cautioning look as she entered his office ten minutes later. “Molly. Glad you could join us.”
She glanced at the four men seated across from him. “I just got your message. Sorry if I’m late.”
The four men had risen. Sam introduced them as officials from the Boston Department of Transportation and the Election Commission. “We’re not the only ones looking into the mayor’s transportation project,” Sam explained. “Have a seat, Molly.”
She raised an eyebrow, but took the remaining empty chair. “What’s going on?”
One of the election officials handed Molly a bound report. “As you probably know, the governor launched a major initiative last year to clean up the election process in our state. We’ve successfully prosecuted fifteen cases, and have twice that many under investigation.”
Molly nodded as she leafed through the report. The most publicized case had been a federal prosecution against a Massachusetts congressman for bribery. “I covered the congressional case for the Sentinel.”
“We’re not just looking at federal officials,” the other election official told her. “The governor has asked us to examine local elections as well.”
Molly glanced at Sam. “Cobell?”
“The Department of Transportation,” Sam said, indicating the other two men, “has some concerns about the bidding process for the hub.”
“They should,” she responded. “I’ve done the research.” In her investigation she’d discovered evidence of everything from fraudulent environmental reports to suppressed zoning laws and possible election tampering in the mayoral race. She’d assumed that no one had been paying very close attention, or Cobell couldn’t have gotten away with so much.
“We’re extremely interested in your research, Ms. Flynn,” the youngest of the four men said. Sam had introduced him as Ronnie Teasdale, an environmental engineer for the transportation department. “We’d like the chance to compare it to our own.”
“Sure,” Molly told them. “I’m filing a major story this afternoon. It’ll run Friday as the teaser for our front-page edition on Saturday. In case you don’t know, small-town papers have a greater circulation on Saturdays.” She shrugged. “It comes as a surprise to a lot of people, but yard-sale shoppers also read the front-page news. You can have a copy of everything I’ve got after I’m done writing the piece.”
One of the election officials coughed. Ronnie Teasdale gave her a grave look. “That’s why we’re here, Ms. Flynn. We came to persuade you and Mr. Reed that running the transportation piece right now may not be in the best interests of our investigation.”
Molly stared at him. “It’s in the best interests of the people of Payne.”
“Not if it hinders us from exposing further corruption,” Teasdale argued.
Molly glanced at Sam. “What do you think about this?”
Sam steepled his fingers beneath his chin and gave her a grave look. “That’s why I asked you to join us.”
The election official Sam had introduced as Martin Deslin said, “Mr. Reed felt you should be consulted before a final decision was made.”
Molly tossed the report onto Sam’s desk. “I can’t believe you’re asking me not to report on what we’ve learned.”
“Not to report it now,” Teasdale countered.
Her temper rose another notch. “Do you expect me to believe that if the Payne Sentinel were the Boston Globe, you’d even be having this conversation?”
“It might surprise you to learn,” Deslin said, “that we have these kinds of conversations with editors at the Globe all the time.”
“Do they do any good?” Molly asked. The four men had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I didn’t think so.” She met Sam’s eyes. “I hope you told them it’s out of the question. We’re supposed to break the first part of the story on Friday.”
“I told them we might consider waiting to run your teaser until the Monday evening edition.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Sam—”
“We asked for two weeks,” Teasdale said.
Sam nodded. “I told them that was out of the question.”
Molly leaped to her feet and leaned over Sam’s desk. “Don’t you know what this is? They’re trying to coerce us into letting them break the story first. It’s politics. The governor’s of
fice doesn’t want the public to think we discovered what was going on before they did.”
His expression remained inscrutable. “I know exactly what’s going on,” he assured her. “And I’m interested in the public good.”
“You’re supposed to be interested in the good of the Payne Sentinel.”
“The two don’t necessarily have to be in conflict.”
“Sam—”
He met her gaze and held it for a long, breathless second. “You have to trust me, Molly.”
He’d trapped her neatly, she realized. His mind was already made up, and the ruse of letting her in on the decision actually had no bearing on its outcome. Molly straightened slowly and turned to face the four men. “Well then, I guess your trip from Boston was time well spent. It looks like we won’t be breaking the story before you schedule a press conference.”
Ronnie Teasdale was pulling on his tie. “Er, there is the small matter of your research—”
Molly glared at him. “Do your own damned research,” she said, and stalked out of the office.
She was muttering under her breath, tossing personal items into a box when Sam and the four men swept through the main floor of the Sentinel. She’d been fending off her colleagues’ questions since she’d stormed out of the elevator. Around her, activity had continued at its usual breakneck pace, except for the occasional curious glance. When the large glass doors swished shut behind the four visitors and Sam turned to face her, his expression was tense and frustrated, and the room fell suddenly silent.
Cindy Freesdon gasped out loud as Sam took several measured strides toward Molly’s desk. “I’d like to see you upstairs,” he said through clenched teeth.
Molly fingered the clay pencil cup—another Christmas present from her artistically inclined nieces—and thought that over. “No,” she said finally. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it here.”
Every eye in the newsroom was trained on them. Sam’s gaze narrowed. “Molly—”
She looked around. “We’re like a family, here, Sam. I’m not sure you ever really got that.”
He hesitated. “I’d rather not—”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Molly wrapped the pencil cup in some tissues and stuffed it into the box. “But I would. I think they have a right to know what’s going on.”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice a low warning, “is going on.”
“Sure it is. You just sold us out so you wouldn’t have to tick off your family’s friends in the governor’s office.”
She was fairly certain she saw rage flicker in his gaze. “It didn’t have a damned thing to do with that.”
“Didn’t it?” Molly placed her hands on her hips. “You forget, Sam. I was there when you got that call last night from Mark Slenton. Don’t you think I know he’s the governor’s press secretary?”
“I didn’t try to hide it from you.”
“You also didn’t bother to tell me what the call was about. Personal business, you said. He’s a friend of the Reeds.”
“He is.”
“And because he’s a friend of the Reeds, he called in a favor. The governor doesn’t want to be trumped by a small-town paper. You agreed to give Slenton time to put his own spin on this story.”
By now, the editorial staff had begun forming a semicircle around her desk. They were watching Sam with a mix of fascination, anxiety and anger.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said quietly. “I really wish you’d come upstairs with me.”
“No.” She scooped up another stack of personal papers and threw them in the box. “That’s the whole problem. You haven’t been telling me the whole story, and I haven’t been telling you the whole story.” She looked around at the other occupants of the room. “And Sam and I haven’t been honest with you, either.” Molly took a deep breath. “Before I ran that personal ad, Sam and I hadn’t even had a private conversation.” She paused to let that sink in.
“Molly—” Sam warned.
She held up a hand, but didn’t look at him. “It’s true. I know you’ve all assumed from what’s been going on here the last couple of weeks, that things were okay between us. That was Sam’s idea.” Behind her, she heard Sam swear. She ignored him. “And I agreed to it because I owed him that much. He should have fired me for running that ad. It was juvenile and irresponsible, and it caused him considerable embarrassment. When he asked me if I would stay on here at the Sentinel and allow all of you to think we’d had some kind of lover’s quarrel, I agreed.” Molly shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “I’m sorry. We deceived you. It was unfair.”
Cindy took a step forward. “Nobody thinks—”
“It was,” Molly insisted. “You people have been my friends for years. But instead of simply facing the consequences of a stupid mistake, I let everything get out of control.” She shook her head. “Now the stakes are too high. What it comes down to is this: We have a chance to break the biggest story this paper has ever known in Saturday’s edition.” No one in the news-room was unaware of the implications of the transportation story she’d been working on since last Monday. At Friday’s editorial meeting, although Sam was still in Boston, he’d relayed his instructions to leave space for a three-page spread in the Saturday morning edition.
Molly went on. “But the governor’s office has asked us to sit on it so they can break the story first.”
“There are political reasons,” Sam said. “They think Cobell is involved in election fraud.”
Molly shot him a quelling look. “I was planning to cover that in the piece. They could have taken it from there.”
“It’s a good compromise,” he insisted.
“That’s just it,” she said angrily. “It’s a compromise. That’s the difference between you and me. I take what we do here seriously. I don’t think we should have to compromise just because we’re a small-town paper. If the governor’s that interested in this story, he can call and give me a quote for it.” She could feel the momentum in the room shifting in her direction. Sam was watching her warily.
“You don’t understand—”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m the one who gets it. I’m the one who sees that no matter what you said about wanting to maintain the integrity and character of the Sentinel, when it comes right down to it, your Reed name and your Reed connections got in your way. The governor called, and you couldn’t turn him down. Well, you know what, Sam,” she scooped up her box, “that’s the biggest difference between you and Carl. Carl would have told the governor to shove it.” She shouldered past Sam and exited the large glass doors without looking back.
THURSDAY’S WEATHER WAS dreary and wet, and the dark skies perfectly matched Sam’s mood. He was bringing the Sentinel’s new editorial director up to speed on some long-range plans he’d discussed with Carl. Sam had decided last night that the time had come for him to play a lesser role at the paper. He could still give directions from his Boston office, and with the help of his fax machine, high-speed internet access and laptop, from just about anywhere in the world. After yesterday’s fiasco in the newsroom, the only hope he had of extricating himself from the situation with any dignity was to leave the Sentinel in other hands.
He’d tried calling Molly three times yesterday. Either she wasn’t home or she wasn’t taking his calls. Twice last night he’d stopped himself from going to her house and demanding that she talk to him. He couldn’t decide whether he was more furious that she’d jumped to conclusions or that she’d been partially right.
When he’d arrived at the Sentinel that morning, there had been a pall over the newsroom. Without commenting, Sam had dropped his key to Molly’s brownstone onto her nearly empty desk. The sound of the key plinking on the laminated desktop had seemed startlingly loud in the nearly silent room where everyone was watching him. This was twice in as many weeks, Sam had thought moodily as he stalked toward the elevator, that Molly had turned his life into a spectacle.
His assistant had been tiptoeing around him all day. He’d managed to avoid his sister’s calls twice, but figured he couldn’t put her off much longer. A brief conversation with Ben had confirmed what Sam already knew: that Ben was eager to have him back in Boston on bigger projects than the Sentinel. Sam couldn’t explain why he didn’t find the idea as tantalizing as he should. Ben had informed him there was still work to do in London, and that they were considering a major buyout in the Midwest. Sam usually enjoyed the challenge and pace of the negotiations, but today the burden seemed unnaturally heavy.
“Er, Mr. Reed—”
The editorial director was looking at him curiously. Belatedly, Sam realized he’d been staring out the window. “Sorry, Greg. My mind’s not on this, I guess.”
Greg Jessen, a talented writer and outstanding editor Sam had discovered languishing in the Sentinel’s editorial department, was looking at him curiously. “I, um, wasn’t at work yesterday.”
“I heard,” Sam told him. “Your daughter’s school play. How was it?”
“Fine, fine. Shakespeare survived the third grade at Payne Elementary.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I heard, though,” Greg said. “About Molly.” Sam’s lips twisted into a slight grimace. “I imagine everyone’s heard.”
“I hope that’s not the reason—”
“That I’m leaving?” Sam interrupted. “I assure you. Reed Enterprises has plenty of projects demanding my attention.”
Greg took the change of subject gracefully. “Well, good. I would hate to think—”
“And you’re more than ready to take charge.” Sam reached for a stack of reports. “I wouldn’t ask you to step into this role if you weren’t.” He handed the stack to Greg. “Let’s get started.”
MOLLY WAS AN EXPERT at wallowing. She’d made an art of it. True wallowing required sad old movies, lots of tissues, several pints of gourmet chocolate ice cream, comfortable flannel pajamas and serious eye-reddening, nose-running sobs.
She was more than twenty-four hours into full wallow when she heard a knock at her door. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly three on Thursday afternoon. She’d switched on her answering machine and taken few calls. When she’d phoned her sister to say she couldn’t make their lunch date, Colleen had begged to come over. Molly had refused.