Hot Off the Press

by Nancy Warren

  She finished his coffee, refilled it and put it back at his elbow.

  Then she gathered her things and slipped her shoes on. She debated a goodbye kiss, decided he didn’t deserve one and opened the door.

  “Last night was fantastic,” she said to his back.

  He turned and heat leaped into his eyes. There was a pause while she waited for him to say something—anything—but this man who made his living crafting words seemed to be out of stock. He merely nodded.

  She had words, though. Lots of words. And whether he wanted to or not, he was going to hear the most important of them. “I love you,” she said, and walked out, shutting the door behind her.

  15

  I guess I’m as much of a cynic as the next guy. But sometimes, even miserable old Mikey buys into a happy ending.

  “AFTERNOON, WALT,” Ty Cadman boomed in his confident I’m-the-guy-who-makes-this-town-tick voice.

  “Ty, glad you could make it on such short notice.” Tess’s father nodded, ushering the other man into the boardroom of his company’s corporate office in downtown Pasqualie. Tess had chosen it as a neutral location for this all-important meeting, and her dad had set it up for her without asking a lot of questions or trying to take over. In fact, he’d trusted her—a notion that filled her with pride.

  Cadman’s eyes narrowed as they took in Tess, then widened as he got a glimpse of the other parties already assembled in the main boardroom. Of course, he was the last to arrive. She imagined it fit with his sense of himself to keep others waiting. Typical of his arrogance.

  She bit her lip when his gaze fell on Mike, who sat in an executive chair with the same easy slouch as he sat a motorcycle. He’d left his hair free. She didn’t think it was to turn her on—which it did—but to irritate Cadman, and probably her father.

  With his shoulder-length hair, cream linen shirt and jeans he was very much his own man, as different from Cadman and her father as he was from the Bald is Beautiful board members in all their green-and-proud-of-it glory. In their creased hemp shirts, hand woven skirts and pants from co-op projects in Guatemala, long hair and beards, they were the polar opposites of Ty Cadman and her father. And, of course, Nate Macarthur, the only other suit in the room.

  This, thought Tess, ought to be fun. Nerves and excitement warred in her stomach, although right now nerves were definitely winning.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Cadman finally asked, standing rigid beside the chair to the right of her father’s at the head of the rosewood table.

  “Please, sit down, Ty. My daughter asked me to chair this meeting, and, since I am on the board of the Standard, and an impartial party, I agreed.”

  “You should have told me what was going on.”

  “In point of fact, I don’t have a lot of details. Sit down and we’ll all find out.”

  Cadman turned a reddening face. “Nate?”

  Nate Macarthur shrugged. “I came because Walt Elliot asked me to. Figured it was something to do with—”

  “Yes, all right. Fine,” Cadman interrupted and finally sat. He made a performance out of checking his diamond-studded watch. “I’ve got another meeting. I can spare fifteen minutes.”

  “Then let’s not waste one of them,” her father said smoothly. He sent Tess an encouraging smile, and she thought, that’s it. He just treated me like a business professional, not the daughter who had to be coddled and protected, but as a colleague. Somehow, that was enough to calm the tension in her stomach and to steady her voice when she spoke.

  “Thanks, everyone, for coming. I know this seems an unlikely collection of people to have a common purpose, but I think we may all be able to help each other.”

  To her left, Cadman was scowling.

  Refusing to be thrown by his expression, she went on. “Each of you has an interest in a certain piece of land adjacent to the Pasqualie River. The land once owned by Eugene Butterworth.”

  Cadman’s head jerked up and his gaze narrowed, as he glanced first at Mike, then at Tess as though he’d like to squash both of them beneath his shiny black loafers.

  Nate Macarthur said, “Eugene Butterworth was my great-uncle. The land was passed down to me.”

  “Yes, I know.” Tess said. “To be held in trust as a refuge and breeding ground for bald eagles.”

  Macarthur reddened and shuffled in his seat. “That was eighty years ago and it wasn’t anything official. I own that land.”

  “You did, until you sold it to Cadman,” Mike threw in.

  “What?” Jeremy Dennis from B.I.B. almost jumped out of his seat. “Why didn’t you tell us? You can’t just sell that land, you—”

  “Please, everyone, just calm down,” Tess said, and shot Mike a dirty look. He’d promised to let her lead the meeting and already he was causing trouble. He returned her look with one that said he just couldn’t help himself. His eyes crinkled in the corners when he gazed at her and she knew it was true. It was one of the reason she loved him; he always spoke his mind. If he had a lie to expose, he’d expose it. A truth to tell, he’d tell it.

  But she’d really like it if he’d follow the agenda they’d agreed on. So she glared at him, anyway, resisting the urge to melt when their gazes locked.

  “Mr. Macarthur, supposing you were to sell the land, what do you think it’s worth?” She crossed her fingers under the table, hoping Mike’s source was reliable.

  The man shuffled some more, glanced at Cadman for help, got glared down for his trouble and finally dropped his gaze to the blank notepad and a ballpoint pen engraved with the name of her father’s company. There was a similar pad and pen in front of each person. “Hard to say with a piece of land out in the boonies. There’s zoning—”

  Cadman cleared his throat loudly, and Nate Macarthur looked at him, then back down at his pad. He picked up the pen and started doodling. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that the zoning could be changed to…oh, I don’t know. Let’s call it industrial/commercial?”

  “But that’s—” Jeremy’s outburst ended in a grunt of pain. She glanced over and had to assume Mike had stepped on the guy’s toe. Mike was scribbling on his notepad and Jeremy was reading it, a puzzled frown creasing his face.

  “I fail to see what you’re getting at, young lady,” Cadman chimed in. “Did you want to buy this property?”

  “You never know.” She smiled sweetly and continued. “If the zoning could be changed, that would make the land more valuable, wouldn’t it, Mr. Macarthur?”

  “I suppose so. Yes.”

  “What might it then be worth, do you suppose?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  She glanced at Mike. Now it was his turn to speak.

  Mike let Macarthur’s words hang in the air for a beat then said, “Maybe eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” This was the amount he’d heard Cadman had paid for the land.

  Macarthur’s jaw fell open. “How did you—”

  “Shut up, Nate,” Cadman said. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’ll lose badly,” he warned Mike.

  Mike leaned forward, hostility bristling, and Tess was thankful a length of rosewood table separated him from Mr. Cadman. “What are you going to do? Get me fired again?”

  “I’ll sue you for—”

  “Gentlemen, please.” Walt Elliot spoke up. “No one’s accused anyone of anything. Let Tess continue.”

  She turned to Eugene Butterworth’s squirming descendent, thinking the naturalist’s faith in future generations had been misplaced. “Would you like to sell that property, Mr. Macarthur?”

  Macarthur glared at the people around the table, looking like a child caught in mischief. “It’s easy for you to be so high and mighty about a bunch of damn eagle nests. That land is all I’ve got, and it’s worth a fortune. Why should I be stuck paying taxes on a bog just because some old coot said so eighty years ago? It’s not fair.”

  Tess glanced at Mike, and
he winked.

  She squeezed her fingers tighter under the table and tried to keep her voice casual. “Did Mr. Butterworth leave your family anything else?”

  “No, just the land. All the papers and his paintings, everything else, went to B.I.B. We got bog.”

  “So you’re definitely open to selling the land?”

  “Yes!”

  Now she turned to the B.I.B. president. “If the money could be raised, would B.I.B. be interested in buying the property?”

  Cadman snorted. “How the hell are a bunch of granola-heads going to raise that kind of money?”

  She beamed at him. “That’s an excellent question. Dad?”

  Her father took a moment to flick over a few papers on the table in front of him. A stagy gesture that held everyone’s attention. She was surprised at how well she and her father worked together. She was more like him than she’d realized. It was so quiet she could hear Cadman’s watch ticking, sounding as angry and impatient as its owner.

  Her dad spoke. “I have in my possession a journal. Handwritten and illustrated by Eugene Butterworth. It’s one of several. And, according to Eugene Butterworth’s will, as confirmed just now by Mr. Macarthur, that journal belongs to Bald is Beautiful.”

  A few gasps and some whispers flew through the air as Walt Elliot picked up a phone on the console behind him. As prearranged, he was alerting his secretary to send in their guest.

  The door opened and in came a stylish middle-aged woman in a gray suit. She wore white cotton curator’s gloves and held the journal in her hand.

  She greeted Tess’s father and he introduced her to the group. “This is Ms. Myra Stein. She owns a private gallery in Seattle and specializes in Pacific Northwest art. She was so enthused about this find that she flew to Pasqualie to examine it.”

  “This journal, which I understand is one of several, is a very significant find, indeed.” The woman could barely keep the excitement out of her voice. “If a university doesn’t want it, a private collector will.”

  “Can you estimate its worth?” Walt Elliot asked.

  “You understand it’s impossible to be certain, and of course I’ve only seen this one journal.” She glanced around the room. “If all the volumes are like this one…I think the collection will bring at least one million dollars at auction.”

  “A million bucks for a few diaries?” Nate Macarthur’s jaw dropped.

  “May I take a look?” Jeremy’s voice quivered with excitement and Tess knew it wasn’t the money that had him so worked up but the material in the journal.

  Ms. Stein brought the book over and held it in front of the B.I.B. executive, turning pages slowly as the other members crowded closer. “Oh, man. Look at this one. An eaglet with its first salmon.”

  “Look at the plumage on this one,” another said.

  Jeremy glanced at Tess. “Do we have to sell these?”

  “It’s up to the membership, I guess. But if you sell the journals, you can buy the land Mr. Butterworth intended to preserve.”

  He nodded, his forehead creasing in thought. “Maybe we could publish these? So anyone could have a copy?”

  “That’s a great idea.” Tess agreed. “And you could auction off the originals.”

  “Before you get too carried away, I already own that land.” Cadman interrupted. “And it’s not for sale.”

  “But—” Nate Macarthur spluttered.

  “You signed the contract, Nate.”

  “And if you can’t get the zoning changed? Then what’s the land worth?” Mike smiled coldly and shot a sheaf of papers across the table.

  Cadman scanned the first page of Mike’s story and snarled. “The Star will never print this. You’re already fired.”

  “Maybe the Star won’t print it,” said Walt Elliot, “but the Standard will. The mayor will never get away with that zoning change once the public gets wind of this. The mayor will pretend he doesn’t even know your name. Then what’s that land worth to you?”

  “Come on, Walt. You can’t seriously be siding with this bunch of tree-huggers. What about my hotel and casino? They’ll bring money into the economy, create jobs.”

  “There’s a nice big piece of vacant land down by the old railway station. I know the fellow who owns it. Maybe we can work something out.”

  “It’s not waterfront.”

  Walter Elliot picked up the abandoned papers and started reading. “This is damn fine writing,” he said, almost in surprise. “I don’t know, Ty. This is the kind of story that could go national. Americans have strong feelings about the eagle. Do you really want to be known as the guy who destroyed their home?”

  “I made a call to ’60 Minutes,”’ said Mike. “They’re interested.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Cadman said.

  “Look, Ty,” Nate Macarthur said, taking out a large white handkerchief and wiping his brow, “maybe we should reconsider. My great uncle wanted the land preserved, and…well, I have to live in this state. I don’t want to be the bad guy on ’60 Minutes.”’

  “Now that’s a funny thing,” her father said, ignoring Cadman and Macarthur and glancing across the table to Mike. “I made a call to USA Today. They’re also interested. No. ‘Enthused’ would be a better term.”

  There was a thunk, then a loud metallic click-click as Ty Cadman slapped his black leather briefcase on the table and snapped the locks. He took out a file folder and removed a legal size document. He paused, glared once at Mike, then ripped the thing in two and tossed it on the tabletop. He then refastened his case and stormed out of the boardroom.

  Walt Elliot picked up the torn paper and studied it.

  “Is it…?” Tess hardly dared breathe.

  Her dad nodded. “The sale agreement.”

  She grinned at her dad, grinned at the B.I.B. board members who were eagerly poring over the journal, when they had an entire collection shoved in boxes in their own storeroom. Last, she grinned at Mike.

  The way he stared at her had her smile fading and her heart hammering against her ribs. She’d thought of him so often as a Neanderthal with a club, but she knew now he’d never need a club to get her in his cave. All he needed was to stare at her with that burning expression in his eyes.

  She swallowed. “Will you excuse us, Dad? We’ve got a front-page story to finish.” They got as far as the hall before Mike pushed her up against the wall and kissed her, hard and hungry.

  With a moan she threw everything she had into kissing him back.

  “You were fantastic in there,” he gasped when they came up for breath.

  “So were you. Do we kick butt or what?”

  He lowered his head once more but she stopped him with a regretful hand on his chest. “We have to get stories filed before deadline and we have to get your job back.”

  He smiled down at her, tracing the curve of her cheek with one finger. “I don’t want my job back.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve taken a job in California.”

  “California?” Her elation popped like a child’s soap bubble. “But, you’ll hate it there. All those beach people and movie stars.”

  “It’s time to move on.” He kissed her again, tenderly. “You’ll find somebody else, somebody better than me.”

  “I’ll never find anybody better than you,” she said over the lump in her throat.

  But it was too late, he was already walking down the hall. Away from her.

  PACKING didn’t take long. For all the years he’d lived in Pasqualie, he didn’t own much. He’d never wanted to own much—possessions tied you down. Funny that he’d never moved out of this town before now. His father’s drunkenness hadn’t driven him away, his own wild youth and resulting bad rep hadn’t driven him away. Being demoted hadn’t driven him away.

  Dammit, Tess was right. He was running. And it wasn’t Cadman driving him out of town.

  It was Tess.

  He’d had to fight every greedy impulse not to make a fool of himself when she’d
told him she loved him. He wanted to bend down on one knee and ask her to be his wife, his princess forever.

  But she was a princess. And one day she’d realize he was just another toad. And he couldn’t stand for that to happen. She was just inexperienced enough not to realize he wasn’t good for her. He wasn’t refined; his education wasn’t from some Ivy League college but from the school of hard knocks and the public library.

  He knew he could make her happy for a while, but she’d realize one day that she’d made a mistake. He’d glance at her and her eyes wouldn’t light up. She’d start correcting his grammar and criticizing his table manners.

  And he’d know her love had burned itself out. He could take a lot, but he couldn’t take that.

  He did love her, though, so much so it was a constant ache in the region of his heart—like a torn muscle that wouldn’t heal.

  He remembered her face just before he’d turned and left her in the hallway of her father’s office. She’d looked as though her heart was breaking.

  The phone shrilled. He stared at it, having a feeling there was nothing but trouble on the other end. He checked his call display and knew he was right. Mel.

  He scowled and picked it up. “I already told you I don’t want my job back.”

  “If you don’t work here, then why did you send me a front-page article?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t think so,” Mel’s voice rasped over the phone line. “For one thing, it’s all neatly formatted, and for another, somebody used too many flowery words—and a spell checker. But it’s got your name on it. Quotes some of your sources too. Hell of a story.

  What gives?”

  “It’s a mistake. Throw it away.”

  “I bet if Woodward and Bernstein had asked Ben Bradlee to throw away the Watergate story he’d have chucked that in the garbage, too.”

  “This isn’t Watergate! It’s a two-bit local tussle.”

  “I’m thinking of calling it Eaglegate. I’ll give you your job back and promote you to news editor if you stay.”