Front Page Love

by Paige Lee Elliston

  “Seems like the temperature’s gone down a few degrees,” Danny observed. “I’ve been sitting outside late at night a lot, and it’s rare that I’ve felt a temperature change.”

  “Can’t sleep in the heat?” Julie asked.

  “Not real well, no. I can’t afford to have my place rewired to carry an air conditioner, and even if I could, I can’t afford the unit.” He laughed. “So I sit outside and watch Sunday chase fireflies until he gets tired of that. Then he comes and sits next to me.”

  “A little lonely?” Julie asked, and then wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

  “Sunday? No.” He laughed. “I take him with me every day—no reason for him to be lonely.”

  Julie pushed Danny’s shoulder playfully with her free hand. “You, I mean—ya goof.”

  “Sometimes,” Danny admitted, and then qualified his answer with an “I guess. I don’t think much about it.” He waited a moment and then asked, “You?”

  They took a few more steps before Julie answered. “At times. My life is full, and I have wonderful friends, and the church, and Drifter and barrel racing, and all that. I love my work. I’m content, really—and grateful for the life I have. But some nights I come home and there’s nothing there, you know? I mean all my stuff is there, but that’s what it is—stuff.”

  “What do you do on those nights?” Danny asked.

  “I usually go out to the barn. This is probably dumb, but I pull up a bale of straw and sit in the dark and listen to Drifter breathe and move around in his stall and snort at me.” She built up a thought in her mind for a full minute before speaking again. “It’s the idea of having a living creature near me who loves me and depends on me and genuinely wants to have me around, I think. It makes me feel better.”

  “It’s not dumb at all, Julie,” Danny said so quietly that she barely heard the words. They stopped at the top of the rise, where the pasture fence veered off to the left on its way down the grade. A shooting star flashed across the sky, its shimmering tail streaking south to north.

  “Beautiful,” Julie breathed. The stars seemed close enough to touch, their glitter profoundly bright, as intense as the facets of a perfectly cut diamond. She leaned against her fence and released Danny’s hand. “There’s such beauty in the world, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that.”

  He moved a step closer. “It’s a shame we don’t see that beauty more often. It’s always there, but we’re too busy with minutia to pay attention to it.”

  And then he was kissing her. Julie felt suspended in space, no longer part of the world, and her entire universe became the sensation of Danny Pulver’s lips on hers, his closeness, the strength of his body, the texture of the shaggy hair at the back of his collar where her hand rested.

  They parted wordlessly and by unspoken consent began back down the hill. Danny put his arm around her waist, and she held him in the same manner. Sunday bounded past them, anxious to get back to his bone.

  When they stood at the kitchen door, Julie grinned at Danny. “Cherry Garcia time?”

  “Absolutely.” Danny smiled back at her.

  As Julie flicked on the kitchen light, the telephone rang. She held up a finger to Danny and took the receiver from the wall. “Julie Downs.”

  “Julie—Nancy Lewis. I hate to bother you at home this late, but it’s important. I need you to come in to the office now—as soon as you can get here.” Nancy’s tone of voice made it clear that she wasn’t issuing a request, that Julie had next to no choice in the matter.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Nancy,” she said.

  Nancy broke the connection.

  Julie turned to Danny. “That was my boss,” she said. “I’ve got to go to the office.”

  Ten-thirty on a Friday night and Nancy calls me into the office. It wasn’t a request either. It was an order. So. My piece didn’t knock her socks off. That’s no big deal. I can fix it, bring it up to whatever standards Nancy wants.

  Julie swallowed hard. But couldn’t it have waited until Monday? What’s she doing at her office at this time of night?

  Confusing and contradictory thoughts chased one another frantically through Julie’s mind as she drove to Coldwater. Nancy’s voice had sounded neither angry nor pleased. Rather, she was businesslike, just as she always was. She sounded tired, maybe, but that was the only difference Julie could discern.

  Julie’s high beams picked up a pair of eyes—and then another set—at the roadside twenty or so yards ahead. They glowed strangely, and then there was a flash of white below one set of eyes—light reflecting off the teeth of a large coyote. Julie’s headlights pinned the animals for a second: a big one, about the size of Sunday, and another standing next to him, a few inches shorter at the shoulder. The larger coyote stood near some roadkill in the center of the street. The smaller coyote spun away into the brush as Julie’s truck came closer. The larger one made another attempt to drag the roadkill free, but it was stuck to the soft tar of the road. Julie hit her horn. The coyote flashed his teeth at her again and then was gone. She noticed how thin the haunches of the predator were, how clearly defined his ribs. Even the coyotes are hurting from the drought, she thought.

  Julie rolled past the Bulldogger. The thumping bass line from a blaring heavy metal number on the jukebox created a physical sensation, even in the cab of her truck with the windows closed. Ken Townsend in his sleek cruiser passed her and flashed his lights. She raised her hand in a wave.

  Several cars and trucks still sat in the News-Express lot, but Julie was able to park her truck within a few steps of the rear door of the building. She noticed Nancy’s red Toyota Celica in the spot marked “Mng. Editor”; next to it, she saw a barge-sized blue Lincoln Town Car she didn’t recognize. She looked up at the building before walking to the door. A newspaper of any size never sleeps—but most of the windows were dark.

  Julie straightened her shoulders and used her after-hours key card to open the door. She stopped to take a long drink from a fountain and then headed down the corridor to Nancy’s office. She saw that the door was open this time. Murmurs of voices reached Julie from her boss’s office, and some of the words were strident, but she couldn’t make out the context.

  Julie tapped on the door frame.

  “Here she is,” Nancy said to the man sitting on the couch to the side of her desk. “Come on in, Julie.”

  Nancy looked rumpled and tired—and angry. Her usually orderly desktop was littered with papers and empty Styrofoam coffee cups. Prominent among the papers—directly in front of Nancy—was Julie’s article. The man stood up from the couch.

  “Julie,” Nancy said, “this is Chad Worther. He’s from the corporate counsel office of the fine folks who own the News-Express.”

  Worther looked distinguished and quite fresh and crisp. His suit fit him perfectly, moved with him as he extended his hand to Julie, hugged the back of his neck and shoulders with no off-the-rack gap. His hair, a flowing mane of pure white, looked both casual and at the same time freshly barbered. His eyes were an icy blue that conveyed none of the warmth that his smile indicated. Julie estimated his age at about sixty.

  “Ms. Downs,” Worther said, “I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m very impressed with your writing.”

  Nancy snorted. “Cut the hype, Chad. Tell Julie that you’re here to step on our First Amendment rights and that we can’t run her story.”

  Julie took the attorney’s hand. His grasp was firm and dry. “Please have a seat, Ms. Downs,” he said, releasing her hand. Julie took the chair facing Nancy’s desk and waited for an explanation.

  Nancy broke the silence. “Chad was here with the budget guys today,” she said, her voice weary and a bit scratchy. “I showed him your story. By the way, I think it’s quite good, particularly in the context of effective writing—of arguing your points coherently and articulately. If it were up to me, Julie, you and I would be tweaking some of the points and tightening the structure and blocking it out to run next Wednesday
.” She paused and took a breath. “But it isn’t up to me.” She made eye contact with Julie. “I’m genuinely sorry.”

  It took a heartbeat for Julie to assimilate what she’d just heard. She had to force her words, to struggle to keep her voice even. “What’s the problem? What do I need to fix or change?”

  “The problem, Ms. Downs,” Worther said, “isn’t in your writing, necessarily. It’s far more a matter of legal liability. You accuse a business owner of serving a minor illegally, and you have absolutely no proof of your allegations. You portray a place of business as a foul cave frequented by drooling drunks and frustrated and hostile farm workers. The picture of the owner is scandalous, and the pictures of the road prove nothing beyond the fact that there are skid marks on it. The article is like a tabloid—and not something that the people to whom I report will allow to be printed.”

  “It’s a matter of degree,” Nancy Lewis added, looking at Julie. “Your readers have come to expect your own perspectives on the matters you cover—and that’s a big part of why your column has become so popular. You were involved in this story—part of it happened right in front of you. I think, many times, a writer has to go with his or her heart, which you’ve obviously done here, Julie. Otherwise, stories and features become mechanical and without the life and spirit readers demand.”

  The attorney leaned back on the couch and placed an artificial smile on his face. “Ms. Lewis has advised our offices of your excellent work on your column and on the many features you’ve written. We need people like you, but you must realize that this is the age of the lawsuit and courtroom giveaways that total millions in cases such as these.” He increased the size of his smile. “Now, what I’d like to have happen, Ms. Downs, is for you to put this Bull-Runner situation and that poor boy out of your mind and focus on the sort of writing that—”

  Nancy stood up behind her desk. “Chad,” she said, “I don’t need you counseling or advising my staff—that’s my job. And I certainly don’t need you giving them orders. I’ve listened to you all evening, and now I need you to listen to me. Please leave.”

  Worther stood and turned to her. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten who signs your rather generous paycheck, Nancy.”

  “There won’t be any paycheck to sign unless you leave immediately. One more word and you’ll find my letter of resignation on my desk Monday morning. Don’t attempt to intimidate me, Chad, because you’d have a terrible time explaining how you pushed the best managing editor the News-Express has ever had out of her job. Now go, so I can talk with my reporter.”

  Worther picked up his briefcase, checked the lock on it, and then left the office without speaking or even looking at Nancy or Julie. The two women listened to his footsteps recede down the corridor.

  “Well,” Julie said. “I guess that’s that.”

  Nancy sighed. “Yes, it is. The problem is, that fatuous clown is right. There’s a multitude of legal issues involved in your article. That’s not to say that I didn’t love it—because I did. But Chad was correct. This is the age of the lawsuit. I doubt that Rick Castle is the money behind the Bulldogger and the other joints like it. They’d bring a suit the second the Express hit the street, and they’d win.”

  “If that’s the case, why did you haul me in here?”

  Nancy sighed again. “Let’s call it a learning experience for you. I wanted you to see an aspect of journalism you may not have been aware of. People like Worther abound in communications and, sadly, they’re powerful. If it came down to a face-off between me and Worther, he’d win. The owners would dump me in a minute. And since I made my feelings about you and your work clear to Chad, I suspect you’d get the boot at the same time I did.”

  “But . . . but you threatened the guy, Nancy.”

  “Sure I did. I meant to. The thing is, he’s not quite sure enough of himself to take this to the big money people.” She picked up Julie’s manuscript, gazed at it for a moment, and dropped it back onto her desk. “There’s another and more important reason I dragged you here tonight, Julie. I didn’t want to wait for the weekend to pass without letting you know what I think of your article. I’m expecting more big things from you. I mean that. But on this one . . . well . . . we lose.”

  Julie sat quietly for a moment. “Some alterations, Nancy. Maybe if I just—”

  Nancy shook her head. “Sorry.”

  Julie stood. Her voice was the slightest bit shaky when she spoke. “OK. I’ve got another idea I’m working on.” She faced her boss for a long moment. “OK,” she repeated. “Good night, Nancy.”

  Julie sat behind the wheel of her truck, staring at the News-Express building. After a long moment she cranked her engine, backed out of the parking space, and drove across the mostly empty lot, the white demarcations appearing pure and bright against the blackness of the asphalt.

  It happens. Every reporter gets a story squelched once in a while. It’s not that big of a deal, and the Huller failed crop story will work. I learned something, just like Nancy hoped I would. I can’t allow myself to feel that I’m a knight in shining armor. I’m a reporter—a journalist. I deal in facts, not feelings or emotions. I made myself out to be cop, judge, and jury on the story—and that’s where I blew it.

  She turned toward town from the newspaper lot, not quite ready to go home.

  She knew she had been too involved in the story. She should have called the police as soon as the Kendricks kid almost hit her. That was the bottom line—and that was why she wrote that story. But guilt didn’t make for good journalism.

  She recalled a seminar she’d attended a few years ago on objectivity in writing. “Don’t hate the bad guys and don’t fall in love with the good guys,” the speaker had said. “Capture them, hold them up naked to your readers, tell the story—and end it right there.”

  Drago’s lights were still on—the café was open late to catch the after-movie daters and those who sought refuge from the heat or from loneliness. Ken’s Ford glinted under the streetlight to the left of the front door. Julie parked next to it.

  Why am I doing this? Julie asked herself. The fact that she had no real answer didn’t stop her.

  A pair of young couples sat in a front booth, drinking milkshakes and laughing about the movie they’d just seen. A couple of cowhands drank coffee at the counter while talking quietly to one another. Ken sat alone in a booth to the rear, staring into a cup of coffee, a slice of pie sitting untouched on a plate next to his silent police radio.

  Julie stopped next to the police officer. “Hey, Ken,” she said.

  He glanced up quickly, almost as if she’d awakened him, and smiled. “Julie—good to see you. Have a seat.”

  She slid into the booth across from him. “You were deep in thought,” she said. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid—thinking.”

  “Sounds bad,” Ken said. “Anything I can help with?”

  “I guess it’s not so bad—just work stuff.”

  “Me too. Maybe we should start a club.”

  She looked up at Ken. His eyes were warm and deep and blue—and somehow Julie felt a bit better. “What’s up? Or, shouldn’t I ask?” She laughed a bit self-consciously.

  “Not at all. I’m glad you’re here. After all, we’ve shared our deepest secrets.” He forced a smile. “Do you know Ross Craig—the police chief?” Julie nodded. “Seems like there’s a bit of personality conflict between us,” Ken continued. “And guess who always loses in that kind of clash—the new patrol cop or the head honcho?”

  “Whew,” Julie breathed. “I see your point. Maybe it’s because you’re so new to the PD. It takes time for people to work comfortably together.”

  “It’s a bit more basic than that, I think,” Ken said. He looked back into his coffee cup. “I shouldn’t be talking about this stuff. I like Coldwater a lot, and I like the job a lot. Things will work out.”

  “I’m sure they will. But I need to tell you this: anything you say to me is off the record.”

 
He nodded. “Let me get you coffee or something. Ice cream?”

  “Iced tea with lemon would be great.” Julie watched Ken walk to the counter and noticed how the eyes of everyone in the café followed him. He must be conscious of it, she thought, but he’s as comfortable as he’d be if he were all alone here.

  Ken set the tall glass in front of Julie. “So,” he said, sitting down again on his side of the booth, “your turn to tell me your woes.”

  It didn’t take Julie more than a few minutes to tell her story.

  “Sounds like your boss supported you,” he said. “She sounds like a gutsy lady.”

  “She’s great. I can’t say enough in favor of her.”

  Ken glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry about the story,” he said. “I know the Bulldogger is a cesspool, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about it right now.” He grinned at her for a moment and added, “Don’t toss any of your notes, OK?” He pushed out from behind the table. “Gotta run. I’m glad you stopped, Julie.”

  His right hand began to move toward her hand, resting on the table, and then it returned to its place at his side.

  “Me too, Ken. ’Night.” Again Julie watched Ken Townsend walk away—and again all the eyes in the café followed him.

  Julie clicked on her turn signal at the mouth of her driveway from habit, although there probably wasn’t another vehicle on her road within a dozen miles. She parked in her usual place next to the barn and turned off her engine. She glanced at the clock on the dash: 12:04 a.m. She opened her door but remained behind the wheel, staring off restlessly into the night. When she did leave the truck, the thud of her closing the door sounded amplified, much louder than usual in the steamy silence. Instead of going to her house, Julie began walking her fence line, taking the same path she’d followed, hand-in-hand with Danny, a few hours before.