He answered with a downturned mouth and hands raised in surrender. “On another subject, you’ll love Tommy Dorsey.” He launched into a story about a time when he’d met Mr. Dorsey. Now it seemed he would have opportunity to see the famous bandleader again.
Meg’s thoughts conjured up an image of the two of them spinning around the new dance floor beneath a mirror ball. She hadn’t danced much lately…
“Ready to go, Meg?” Dad stood in the aisle beside them, his coat on. Had the meeting ended? How long had she and Mr. Wallace been talking?
She jumped to her feet and grabbed her coat by its collar. It slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. As she reached for it, Mr. Wallace’s hand landed on top of hers. Electric-like sparks zinged up her arm. She gave a nervous giggle and straightened. Mr. Wallace gathered her coat and held it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves.
Dad frowned, his eyes on Mr. Wallace until the coat was in place. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.” He stuck out his hand. “Louis Alden.”
“Jack Wallace.”
The men shook hands.
“I’m a new reporter at the paper,” Mr. Wallace said. “Can I get a quote from you on that little disturbance?”
Sandwiched between the men, Meg’s thoughts spun. She’d have to work fast.
“Give me a call at my office in the morning,” Dad said. “Ready, daughter?”
“Yes, sir.” Careful to avoid his eyes, Meg whispered a good-bye to Mr. Wallace and followed Dad to the door. He’d said at dinner that he had to be in court first thing in the morning. She’d get her own quote on the way home and have her notes ready for typing before Mr. Wallace had a chance to talk to her father.
When Meg arrived at work the next morning, Lester sat in front of his typewriter, staring at it as if words would magically start typing themselves onto the paper.
She stuffed her coat and hat into the closet then patted her hair. She had to admit, she liked her new hairdo. Even Dad, who at first had had a fit over such frivolous fussing, admitted at breakfast that it suited her.
She sidled up to Lester’s desk, waving his smoke away. “Morning, Lester. I’m surprised you weren’t at the town meeting last night.”
Lester mashed his cigarette butt into a glass ashtray, sending still-burning embers flying. He looked up through dark-framed oval glasses then rubbed the scruff on his narrow chin. “I met the war vets at the bowling alley. Why would I go to the meeting when the building is Jack’s story?”
“You never know when an article idea might leap out. A good reporter is always digging, always looking for a story.”
“Oh.” He looked at his typewriter and the blank page. “You’ve said that before. I’ve been here the last ten minutes, waiting for an idea. Dad asked me to report on new construction happening around the area besides the lakefront building. With the economy, not much is going on except for a house on Dodge Street and a barn on Highway 50.” He handed her a typewritten page. A brown burn mark marred one corner. “He wants more than this, I’m sure.”
Meg read the article. Except for a few grammatical mistakes, it looked to be acceptable. When Lester did pieces citing facts and figures, he usually did okay.
“This is good, but you need to give your dad more than what he assigns.” She handed him the three pages of meeting notes she’d taken. “I know we talked last week about my not helping you anymore, but a group from Linn Township is rankled that a second contest to name the new building has been announced. Fred Newman seems to be the ringleader. Here’s a list of who was there and the reason for their protest. Be sure to use the quote from my father at the bottom of the third page.” Meg gave him a moment to skim. “Any questions?”
He frowned. “Dad didn’t assign this to me. Won’t he wonder why I’m writing the piece?”
She worked her lower lip. He had a good point. Until now she’d only ghosted his assigned articles. “It will impress him that you’re always looking for interesting stories, like I said.”
He shook his head. “He knows I didn’t attend the meeting.”
She forced her voice over the massive lump in her throat. “Maybe someone tipped you off.”
He cast her a skeptical look. “You’re the one excited about the building. Why don’t you write it yourself?”
Meg bit back her words and took a deep breath.
“Hello, this is Jack Wallace from the News-Trib.” Mr. Wallace’s voice carried across the two desks between him and Lester. “I’m calling Mr. Alden for a quote on last night’s lakefront building meeting. Is he there?”
A wry smile played on Lester’s lips. “Now I get it.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels. Meg sent him a hard stare, and he tossed them onto the desktop displaying more burns marks than Helen had lipsticks. “I found out last night the war vets want to march on Washington again to demand their bonus money.” His brows knit together. “That should be making news.”
She was losing ground. Meg forced a chuckle. “Lester, you’d think you’d fought in the war, the way you carry on.”
“I would’ve, if I’d been old enough. At least now I can support them.” He turned to his typewriter and set Meg’s notes beside it. “How about tit for tat? I’ll do this article for you and you use your magic on a second article about the war vets for me.”
Meg’s chest constricted, and she pressed a palm over the spot. Although she’d not been on good terms with God lately, she hadn’t forgotten what the Bible said about dishonesty and disrespecting those in authority. If Mr. Zimmer heard of any of this, she’d be the one out on the street, not Lester. “I’ll rewrite your article on the war vets. But then we’ll need to stop. What we’re doing is wrong.” She turned, and her knees almost gave out.
Mr. Wallace stood within earshot, his arms folded across his chest.
Chapter Four
Meg raised her chin. “Good morning, Mr. Wallace.”
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t wait to hear his words. By the time she hurried into the restroom, her knees felt as if they would buckle. She gripped the sink on both sides and leaned forward, studying her reflection in the mirror. Was Mr. Wallace telling Mr. Zimmer what he’d overheard? How could she be so daft?
She wet a pinky finger and smoothed down her left brow—it tended to have a mind of its own—checked her seams, took a steadying breath, then opened the door.
Back in the newsroom, Mr. Wallace hunted and pecked on his typewriter, Emily plugged and unplugged cords at the switchboard, and Thelma drummed up news for “Town Talk” on the phone. Grabbing a want-ad form from her desk, Meg went to Mr. Zimmer’s door and peeked in.
“Oscar is out until three.”
She faced Mr. Wallace.
He leaned back in his chair. His tie was slightly loosened at the collar, and his mischievous grin seemed to say, “I’ve got the goods on you.”
She pushed out a smile. “Thanks. I’ll see him later.” She returned to her seat, certain his gaze followed her with every step.
He cleared his throat. “Change your mind about collaborating?”
“No. How’s your report on last night’s meeting coming?”
He rolled a paper out of his typewriter. “See for yourself. Short and to the point. The contest chairman was out, so no quote from him yet.” He handed her the article.
She skimmed his work. His report had all the facts, but it lacked depth. She handed it back and inserted a blank sheet into her typewriter. Maybe he hadn’t overheard the conversation after all.
On Sunday after church, Meg took the stairs with her sister nipping at her heels. “What’s the hurry, Laura? You can’t be in such a rush to get out of your church clothes to help Mom with dinner. If you were, it would be a first.”
“I got out of helping because I have a huge English test tomorrow. Yesterday’s play practice took up all my study time. I’m surprised Mom didn’t ask you to help.”
They reached the second floor, and Meg stopped
and rested her fists on her hips. “Wish I’d thought of that excuse when I was in high school.”
Laura tipped her blond head. “Maybe if you had, you’d have gotten better grades and finished college.”
Meg stepped toward her bedroom door. “You know my leaving college had nothing to do with my grades.”
“You weren’t here listening to Dad before he pulled you out. If you’d been doing better, he’d have left you there.” Laura raised her chin. “The depression was only an excuse. He has an education fund for both of us and made sure the money was protected.”
Meg bolted into her room and flung the door shut. The sound of wood hitting wood cracked the air, and she flinched. How did Laura always manage to get her acting like a child? Dad didn’t tolerate tension between them any day of the week, but especially not on Sunday. Hopefully he was still in the basement adding coal to the furnace and hadn’t heard the commotion.
She removed her gloves then unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it, letting the flowered print garment puddle on the floor. Without bothering to put on the more casual wool skirt and blouse she’d planned, Meg plopped onto the chintz-upholstered chair. Through the window, her dad leaned against the old oak tree, puffing on his pipe. Above his head, remnants of a rope that once held a swing lifted in the breeze.
Meg couldn’t help but smile. Dad laid down the law in many ways, but when it came to smoking, Mom ruled her roost. If she’d hoped that banishing him to the backyard when he got the urge to puff would convince him to quit, it hadn’t worked.
Meg’s thoughts went to her sister. Until a couple of years ago, the girl had been tolerable, but since then Laura had become snippy and sarcastic. Meg had chalked it up to growing pains, but now the girl was eighteen and graduating soon. Time to grow up.
A knock came. “Meg, it’s Mom. Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
The door opened and her mother stepped in, still wearing the jersey knit she’d worn for church. She gaped at Meg. “What are you doing by the window in only your slip?”
“I’m back far enough, and no one can see in during the day.”
Mom crossed over the green rug and picked up Meg’s dress, giving the garment a shake. “The wrinkles have already set. Now come away from the window.”
Meg stood and took the dress from her. She pulled a hanger from the closet. “Maybe the wrinkles will hang out.”
“I heard you girls fighting again. I’d hoped that with age you two would grow to like each other. I know she goads you, but can’t you turn the other cheek and give her a good example?”
A million answers raced through Meg’s mind, but they all made her sound younger than Laura. She faced Mom, noticing for the first time wisps of gray marring her dark brown hair at the temples. “It’s just because of habit that we squabble. I’ll work at it. She said you gave her permission to study and not help with dinner. I guess we won’t be playing games today either.”
“Your father isn’t going to like the change in schedule, but homework comes first. We’ll play something anyway.”
“Laura already gets straight A’s. How much better can she do?” Meg took the wool skirt and blouse from the closet and slipped into the top. “Dad took me out of college because of the cost, right?”
Mom stared at her with a start. “What brought that up?”
“It wasn’t because I’d been on probation the second semester of my sophomore year, was it? I’d buckled down and was getting better grades.” She stepped into her skirt and worked it up around her hips. “Laura said he has education funds for both of us.”
Mom worried her lower lip. “He does. But when your tuition went up, he thought it better to have you come home and finish college later, after the economy righted itself. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to protect the funds he’d set aside for you girls. Fortunately, he was able to do that. I didn’t think you wanted to return to school.”
Meg plopped on her bed. “I would, but Dad probably wouldn’t approve of the college I want to attend.”
“Which one is that?”
“Northwestern, down in Evanston. They have a great journalism school.”
Mom’s mouth tightened into a flat line. “It’s also one of the most expensive schools in the Midwest. What about a state college like Whitewater?”
“Whitewater is for teachers. I don’t want to be a teacher. I need to go to a journalism school.” Meg grabbed her mother’s hand. “Don’t you see, Mom? I’m meant to write. I’m no teacher.”
“I do see, Meg, more than you know. Let’s get Laura settled up at Whitewater next fall, and then we can find a good school for you.” Mom jumped to her feet. “I need to get the meat into the oven if we’re to eat by three. Can I count on you to set the table?”
“Sure. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Mom left, and Meg returned to the window and pushed the priscilla curtain back with her hand. A bird fluttered past and perched on the bare branch of a crab apple tree. He let out a tweet. “Okay, Mr. Robin, if you can be happy, I can too. At least while I was at college I worked hard for my grades. Jack Wallace didn’t have to work to get that job, but I’ll get it away from him by proving to Mr. Zimmer that I deserve it. And when I get the job, I won’t need any journalism school.”
After setting the table, Meg joined her parents in the living room.
Dad looked up from his paper. “Ready to begin our game? Your mother and I thought the three of us could play Landlord’s and Prosperity.”
Meg fought rolling her eyes. That game made her brain hurt. Numbers were not her strength, and the game centered around buying and selling properties and counting money.
“Dad, can’t we have a Sunday off from games?”
He closed the newspaper and set it on the ottoman in front of him. “Maybe if you played it more often, arithmetic would come easier for you.”
She shrugged. “You know words come easier to me than numbers.”
“I heard about a new game coming out called Monopoly. It sounds similar to Landlord’s, but maybe it will be easier for you.”
Meg glanced toward the front window. “It’s a beautiful day. If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk to the lake with my Bible. I’ll be back in time to help Mom with dinner.”
Dad rubbed his back against the wingback chair as though he had an itch. “This is Sunday—”
“Louis, why not let Meg go?” Mom asked. “She is planning to take her Bible. I’d like to work on my knitting. A break from games this week might be nice.”
“Okay, go.” He gave a wave. “Before I change my mind.”
Meg dashed to the hall for her coat and the red beret she’d worn to church. She collected her Bible from the side table and called out a good-bye.
Outside, she lifted her face to the sun’s welcome warmth. She should thank Laura for having homework, since it got them out of playing Dad’s boring board game. Ever since Prosperity came out last year, the new version of The Landlord’s Game, he hadn’t wanted to play any of the card games they used to play. The new Monopoly game didn’t sound much better.
At least she didn’t have to play anything today. Hopefully she’d find a spot to sit and be able to think over the reverend’s sermon. She crossed Main Street and ambled through Elm Park to the lake, claiming the first empty bench she came to.
A distance out, past the ice, open water sparkled in the sun. Down the shore, the windows encasing the new building’s second-floor ballroom glistened. Soon warm breezes would float through those windows on the night of the grand opening, cooling dancers as they kicked up their heels. She and Helen would have to start scouting for new dresses.
Meg opened her Bible. Reverend Hellman had mentioned that he planned to preach on Proverbs 3:5–6 over the next month or so. Today he’d said trusting meant knowing that God had your best interests in mind. Meg worked her lower lip. Lately that didn’t seem to be true for her. Every time an opportunity beckoned, He slammed the door in her face. Why, when she�
�d followed Him faithfully?
She randomly flipped to Isaiah, one of her favorite books of the Bible, and read: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”
God had made it clear that He didn’t agree with her. No wonder going to church was becoming a chore, the Scriptures seeming stale and the hymns even dryer. Maybe next weekend she’d stay home even if she had to feign an upset stomach.
She crossed her arms and focused on Geneva Bay’s eastern shore. Without leaves on the trees to shield it, the huge Younglands estate with its rumored gold doorknobs and private bowling alley ruled the bay. The other lakeshore mansions, no doubt including Mr. Wallace’s, paled in comparison to the gargantuan building.
Whatever the size of his estate, Jack Wallace was probably reclining on one of his half dozen davenports, enjoying an unmatched lake view. He mentioned the other day that he was living in the house without any family. Well, it served him right to spend Sunday alone in his ritzy home.
“Miss Alden? Fancy meeting you here.”
Meg turned. “Mr. Wallace. What a surprise.”
Chapter Five
Trapped in the woman’s mesmerizing gaze, Jack forced himself to move his eyes away from Miss Alden’s face. Problem was, the rest of her looked just as appealing. Especially with that red beret perched on top of her wavy hair.
“Nice day.” He should get moving, but she was the first person he’d recognized all day. It felt good to speak to someone…someone as attractive as she.
“It’s such a pretty afternoon, I thought I’d come here and read.” She held up a Bible with her gloved hand.
How had he missed the black leather-covered book? This was obviously a private moment. “And I’m interrupting. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stepped back.
Love Finds You in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin Page 4