"I'll make some fresh." She left and brought back a pitcher of water she had filled at the water fountain. "Matt, can we talk about some other things? I've put together samples of special pull-out sections for you to look at; we should start them as soon as possible. And we have to do something about our political coverage—Herb Kirkpatrick needs more direction; he isn't as good as he thinks he is—and there's my column; I'd like to—"
"This isn't the time to discuss it," Matt said absently.
She turned, the coffee pot in her hand. "Why not?"
"We've just added another debt to our little empire; is that a time to talk about expanding? Just staying alive is more important than new projects and your col—" He caught himself. "Hell, I'm sorry, sweetheart. I know how important that column is to you. But I'm trying to keep a newspaper together."
"You're trying? What am I doing?"
"Talking about spending money. I'm not criticizing you, but one of us has to think about the future—"
"And that's you, is that right?" Elizabeth's voice was cool. "What about my ideas to make the paper more exciting to attract new readers and advertisers—"
"Your ideas cost money."
"Of course they do. But you were the one who wanted to double circu= lation in less than a year—"
"Damn it, don't throw that back at me now! I'm out one truck, I need a new roof on this place—"
"You 're out one truck? You need a new roof?"
"We. We need a new roof. You know that's what I meant."
Elizabeth was silent. A few minutes earlier they were luxuriating in being together. But there was another side to that. Maybe we're together too much; working, eating, living together . . . maybe we're getting on each other's nerves.
"Just let me take care of the truck," said Matt. "And the roof. And I have to balance the books for the month, and the IRS quarterly reports— someday we'll be able to afford a business manager—and I promised Dunphy I'd look at that enlarger . . . then we'll talk about your column. And any other problems you have."
"I don't have any other problems I can't handle," Elizabeth said, almost distantly. "That is, if I get to work on them. I'll be at my desk if you need me."
They stayed apart for the rest of the day. Matt called Spencer and that afternoon, together, they picked out a used truck. Spencer waved aside Matt's typewritten IOU. "Personal loan, Matt. Of course if you'd listened to me in the first place . . . well damn it, there I go! Promised Lydia I wouldn't bring it up. You'll keep it to yourself, right? And don't be in a hurry to pay this back; we think the two of you are a good bet."
A good bet, Matt thought later that afternoon when his secretary had arranged for a roof repairman and he finally was able to tackle the pile of stories on his desk. Elizabeth had edited most of them and before he turned to the rest he scanned hers, reading her penciled changes. Incredible how good she was—too good to be editing others; she ought to be doing her own writing. Writing, he thought. We were going to talk about her column.
But as he was getting up from his desk Herb Kirkpatrick stormed in. Elizabeth had assigned him the story on the Taos crafts show because Artner wasn't around, but why the hell should he do it? He had his own story to write on a political race for sheriff in—
"Hold on," Matt said. He didn't want to argue with Kirkpatrick; he wanted to smooth things over with his wife. And why the hell was this dumped on his desk anyway? "Herb, Elizabeth and I are sharing the job of managing editor, and she's also features editor. If she gives you an assignment, you damn well do it."
"I'm a political expert," Kirkpatrick declared. "I don't give a shit about arts and crafts."
"So we'll turn to you only in an emergency." When Kirkpatrick started to object again, Matt stood up. "Herb, it's an assignment. You're a reporter. Write the story." Their eyes met; Kirkpatrick was the one to look
away. "By the way," Matt added, "did Cal tell anyone he was taking the afternoon off?"
"No," Kirkpatrick said shortly, and turned on his heel and left.
By eight o'clock, Matt was able to leave the office. Elizabeth had left at seven, and when he got home he found her eating dinner with Holly and Peter. "Can a partner apologize?" he asked. "Can a husband join his family for dinner?"
"Yes to both," Elizabeth said, smiling, and they kissed briefly before he sat down. But the air about them was still tense and there was no time to make everything right: they spent the evening talking about the day's crises and the schedule for the next day and when they got to work in the morning they worked separately on last-minute stories and changes that had to go to Axel Chase before four-thirty, when he printed the paper. Only when the finished papers were bundled and tied and being trucked to hundreds of points in Santa Fe and surrounding towns did they finally sit together in Matt's office, drinking coffee, with a newly printed, unopened newspaper in front of each of them.
Matt held out his hand and Elizabeth put hers in it. "Crazy week," he sighed. "But you've been wonderful. You're the best editor, the best partner, anyone could dream of. I'm sorry for my bad tempers; you have a lot to put up with."
"Love conquers tempers," Elizabeth said lightly. "I think we're pretty good together."
"I think so too. Now let's talk about your column."
"As soon as we unwind." Sipping her coffee, Elizabeth opened the newspaper in front of her. Her face froze. "Matt."
"What?" Following her gaze, he saw the paper, upside down, and flung open his own. Together they stared at the pictures across the bottom of the front page: two large photographs looking down on Indian dancers, with the headline: exclusive inside look at a sacred dance, and the story beneath them, datelined Nambe Pueblo, written by Cal Artner.
Elizabeth had never seen Matt so enraged. Her own anger was a hard knot inside her, tempered by the need to be a sounding board for Matt. At first he'd been ready to fire everyone on the paper; later, when he was cooling, the Nambes' lawyer had called them at home, threatening to sue the paper, and that set him off again. Elizabeth wanted to smash some= thing, shout at someone, vent her own frustration over the sidetracking of their plans, but she couldn't do any of those wonderfully violent things: she had to make coffee, sit at the kitchen table, and talk calmly to Matt. "We have to fire Cal."
Matt nodded, his mood swinging from rage to suspicion. "No question about it; Cal goes. But who else goes too? Someone did a new paste-up after you'd approved the front page, and sent it to the pressroom, and Axel Chase made a new plate from it ... Of course if you'd followed through—"
"What was that?" Elizabeth sat straight in her chair. "Am I one of those you're going to fire?"
"I said you didn't follow through. Did you?"
"I checked and initialed each page and when the plates were made I checked and initialed them. When the paper went to press, I assumed—"
"Incorrectly."
She took a long breath. "What about Matthew Lovell, editor-in-chief? Why didn't he follow through and check each page of the paper as it came out of the pressroom?"
"That's the managing editor's job."
"Which we supposedly share. I did my half. Are you saying I should do it all so you have someone to blame if we're sued?"
"It's not a question of blame; it's whether we're behaving like professionals or amateurs."
"We're learning to be professionals. And we made a mistake. We knew Cal was going to be trouble. I suppose when he didn't show up yesterday we should have paid more attention—"
"He works for you. Did you try to find him?"
"He works for us. And, no, I didn't. I was very busy yesterday, putting a newspaper together, and I had to spend time on an idiotic argument with Herb Kirkpatrick over whether a woman has the right to assign him to a story he doesn't want to do."
"I backed you up on that."
"Did you? Did you tell him I was the features editor and he was to follow my orders?"
"Yes."
"Or did you—" Elizabeth stopped short. "You did?"
"In almost those words."
She frowned. "That isn't what he said."
"What did he say?"
"That you told him no one else could take on an assignment at the last minute, and you promised him twice the space next week for his sheriff story."
Matt began to laugh. "The self-serving son of a bitch! I told him one thing: that he was a reporter and he'd been assigned a story and he'd damn well better write it."
After a moment, Elizabeth sat back in her chair. "I wish you'd told me yesterday."
"I had other things on my mind. You're taking things too seriously, my love."
44 Am I? How would you describe a man who talks as if he might fire his wife who is also his partner?"
Matt cleared his throat. "I'd say he's lost his mind. In the first place, I couldn't fire you; you own half the joint. In the second place—my God, Elizabeth, I couldn't run this place without you. I need your steady hand ... a partner to talk to. . . ."He frowned. "Which brings me back to the angry Nambes. What the hell are we going to do about them?"
"Apologize in print."
"They want more."
"Then we'll have to give it to them. We can't win this one, Matt; we're so clearly in the wrong."
"It's too bad you aren't writing your column yet: you could do a spectacular profile of one of their top people and that plus a front-page apology might make them feel so kindly they'd call off their lawyer. We can't afford a court case: we don't have the money and we need good publicity, not bad."
Elizabeth ran her finger around the edge of her coffee cup. "Who says I'm not writing my column?"
"You did. You said you were waiting to talk about it."
"But I could be writing it now. That's why I brought it up the other day. When we vetoed Cal's helicopter idea, I thought the next best thing would be a portrait of a Nambe leader."
"That's what you wanted to talk about? I thought you were just impatient even though you'd agreed to wait two months—"
"We weren't communicating very well," Elizabeth said quietly.
"No." Matt scowled at his coffee cup. "We're quarreling too much. This was supposed to be such a wonderful time . . . why do you suppose it isn't?"
"Isn't it?"
"Not all the time. Not often enough."
We're together too muck "Maybe because we don't have any place to escape. Other people get away from the office by going home, or they get away from home by going to the office, but we can't do that. We just dump all our problems on each other."
"I'm the one who does most of the dumping," Matt said, "You deserve better."
"A better partner? But I love the one I've got."
"Amazing. So do I." He stood, bringing her with him. "I'm sorry for hurting you, I'm sorry I make your life harder—"
"You make my life wonderful."
"Not always, and I know it; things pile up and I lose sight of what's most important . . . but it's always you, my love, even if sometimes it doesn't seem that way." Their lips touched, lightly, then with growing intensity. "Bed," Matt murmured. "There isn't much of the night left."
"A good idea. Would you turn out the lights?" And as he nodded, she slipped away.
Her muscles ached with fatigue, but the warmth of their talk still flowed through her. In bed, she stretched out, eyes closed, listening to Matt move about the room, opening windows, winding his watch, undressing. He slid beneath the covers. "You're not asleep," he said. "Your mind is spinning."
Eyes still closed, she asked, "How do you know?"
"Eyelids flickering, beautiful mouth smiling, nose twitching."
Her eyes flew open. "My nose does not twitch."
He kissed the tip of it. "I know. I wanted to see if you were listening."
"I always listen when my husband is about to make love to me."
"How do you know he is?"
"He kept the light on."
Matt chuckled. "No mysteries anymore. You're not tired?"
"I'm always tired these days. I'm ignoring it. What about you?"
"Tired and ignoring it. I wish we could get away for a while, just the two of us."
"We will. When things quiet down, and we find a managing editor, and my column is started, and we have money for vaca—"
"Stop. I'm sorry I brought it up." Raising himself on his elbow, Matt pulled back the covers and looked at his wife's slender body, her delicate bones barely outlined in the muted light of the bed lamp. In the midst of the hectic days of buying the Chieftain, they'd both celebrated their fortieth birthdays, but Elizabeth was as slim as a girl, firm and lithe from tennis and skiing—though who had time for sports anymore? Matt thought wryly—her loveliness stronger, more individual than the softer beauty of the girl he married. Extraordinary woman, he said to himself, and leaned down to kiss her breasts, smiling as the nipples puckered beneath his tongue. "Not too tired at all," he murmured.
"What do you think my mind was spinning about?" Elizabeth retorted, and then she closed her eyes again and let herself sink into the sensations of his mouth and hand tracing the curves of her body and the feel of him beneath her own hand as she slid it slowly down the length of his back
and around his narrow hips. And as their bodies came together, so familiar but somehow so new, Matt kissed Elizabeth and said, as if for the first time, "I love you."
At seven-thirty the next morning they were at the newspaper, waiting for the staff. In his office Matt plucked dead leaves off a sad ficus tree left by the previous publisher. "Do you remember what time the Nambes' lawyer said he'd call?"
"About eleven. I'll talk to him if you want, and tell him about my column: he may suggest someone for me to interview."
"I think we both should talk to him, but you can go first."
"And you'll take care of firing Cal?"
He chuckled. "Since we're learning how to be partners, we should do it together. There he is."
Artner was talking nonstop to Barney Kell as he walked in, looking everywhere but at Matt and Elizabeth. Barney's face was heavy, and when Herb Kirkpatrick came in, Barney and Wally joined him at the coffeemaker, leaving Artner alone. The pressman, Axel Chase, walked in, followed by the advertising manager, the production manager, and the two photographers. No one went near Artner, who stood at his desk, rolling a pencil between his palms.
Matt went to the door. "Come on in, Cal," he said, his voice carrying through the newsroom. But they all came in and stood in what looked like a protective semicircle behind Artner.
Matt's shoulders stiffened. As he stood, with Elizabeth beside him, the room was divided into two groups facing each other across his desk. Matt gazed at the uninvited staff, thinking of asking them to leave. Then, mentally, he shrugged. What the hell; it was a small paper; they were all involved. "Since this has become a staff meeting," he said evenly, "we'll discuss the first item now, then continue with the regular Friday meeting in the newsroom, where there are chairs for everyone."
No one spoke. "Cal, I assume you know you're fired. I'm damned if I can figure out why you pulled that half-assed trick after I'd expressly forbidden it, and I'm sorry, because you're a good reporter, but you can't work for me—for us—and do your own thing as if we don't exist. This staff takes orders or it doesn't work here. Clean out your desk; I want you gone by ten."
"Matt." Barney Kell looked like a worried father. "Would you take a few minutes to think this over? We don't want—"
"I've thought it over," Matt said curtly. "Elizabeth and I have talked about nothing else since we saw yesterday's paper."
"God damn it," Herb Kirkpatrick sputtered, "can't you see that we're standing with Cal? We won't allow an arbitrary firing—"
"Not that way," Barney warned Kirkpatrick. "Matt, of course Cal shouldn't have done it; he knows it and he's ready to apologize and promise it won't happen again. But we don't want anyone fired."
"It worries us," added Bill Dunphy earnestly. "If you fire one of us, who's safe? We work better, you know, when we feel secure."
Axel Chase chimed in, "Everybody should get a second chance, right? Shouldn't penalize somebody for one slip—"
"It was more than a slip," Barney objected.
"Whatever," Kirkpatrick said. He challenged Matt. "We all go if Cal goes."
"I don't . . ." Barney began, but then he stopped, uncomfortable, but standing with the others. Artner gave Matt a triumphant look and Elizabeth saw Matt's rigid back begin to give way: not a slump, but close. She put her hand on his arm, noticing that her fingers were trembling— Well why not? We could lose everything —and said to him, as if they were alone, "We're going to be busy, putting out the Chieftain by ourselves until we hire a new staff."
Artner's eyes slid from Matt's face to hers. She looked at him contemptuously. "You disobey an order, you violate a sacred ceremony, and then you encourage others to destroy a newspaper. You get a tin star, Cal. I hope it makes you feel proud and grown up."
"Good job," said Wally McLain under his breath.
"Bullshit," Artner spat. "You couldn't turn out a one-page flyer without us. Who's kept this rag going all these weeks while you two've been playing editor?"
"Cal, stop it," Barney ordered.
"Good advice," said Elizabeth. "Don't you talk to us like—"
"Fuck it, lady, you fired me, right? I'll talk any way I goddam please. You two babes in the woods had a chance to make this the best paper in New Mexico and you blew it. If you'd made me managing editor when Engle left, this place would be running like a fucking steam engine. That was my job! I waited five years for it and then those bastards sold out to a couple of spoiled, rich ignoramuses—married, for Christ's sake! Lovey-dovey, necking in the office, taking the whole show for themselves—and when they get bored, bring in somebody from the outside. Right? Not somebody who's waited five fucking years—"
"Shut up, Cal." Kirkpatrick looked at Elizabeth. "He's saying we don't like the idea of outsiders taking jobs we've worked up to."
"I heard him," Elizabeth replied curtly. "The paper was dying; we
decided it needs a managing editor who has nothing vested in the past, who can change everything if necessary." Matt was watching her and she took a deep breath. "We're not rich, we're not taking the whole show. We've dreamed of owning a newspaper for a long time and we're trying to build this one up without much money or experience—you're right; we have a lot to learn; we told you that when we first got here. But we're not ignorant or stupid; we know what we want to do and we're pretty sure how we're going to do it. And nobody here is going to stop us or destroy what we've started." Her breath came faster. "Every one of you can walk out of here this minute, but it won't shut us down. We'll put out a two-page newsletter if that's all we can manage—it doesn't matter as long as it's called the Chieftain —and we'll keep publishing every week until we hire another staff and go back to full size, because you may be willing to let this paper die, but we're not."
Private Affairs Page 8