by LETO, JULIE
Mike nodded. “Oh, yeah. I haven’t taken a day off since I started. I get two weeks a year. If we schedule this for December, we’ll be cool. What about you?”
Anne grimaced. The thought of asking Pamela for time off— even for hours she’d accumulated as part of her vacation package— turned her stomach. Just getting permission to light out early on Friday for their festival trip, despite the fact that she’d filed every single story she’d been assigned early, had been a major production. And as she’d gone to Israel and Egypt, she wasn’t sure she could finagle more time off.
Because of her employment start date, the trip to the Middle East technically counted as her vacation time from the previous year. By December, she’d be able to use up the next year’s allotment. But following the letter of the law when it came to employee’s time off wasn’t Pamela’s style. She preferred to keep her staff on a very short leash.
More and more, Anne had found herself with really sucky hours in an increasingly hostile work environment. She’d covered more weekends than any of her colleagues and since no one had taken the initiative to replace the night-desk guy, she’d filled that spot more than anyone else on the crime beat. Under any other administrator, Anne would have been able to use this as leverage to negotiate the time off in December, but with Pamela, there was just no telling.
“I can try,” she said, her fingers hovering over her keyboard as amazing pictures of the rain forest scrolled across her screen.
The next morning, after a particularly long staff meeting where everyone seemed to yet again ignore the serious need for a new night-desk reporter, Anne asked Pamela if she could meet with her for a few minutes.
The woman grunted in response, then charged off to her office.
Once inside, Anne shut the door.
“Actually, I’m glad you came in,” Pamela said, tossing a stack of old papers off of her chair before logging in to her computer. Her frown emphasized the wrinkles on her chin. If this was her version of glad, Anne wondered if she understood the meaning of the word.
“Really?” Anne asked, skeptical. “Why?”
“You’ve been doing a good job on the night desk.”
Anne nearly lost her footing. A compliment? From Pamela?
She narrowed her eyes and then crossed her arms. With any other editor, opening with a compliment would have boded well. Not with Pamela.
Never with Pamela.
“I do a good job whatever shift I’m on,” Anne insisted.
Her confident reply caused Pamela’s right eyebrow to arch as if challenging this claim, but instead, the editor smiled in a way that made the skin on Anne’s neck crawl. “So good that you’ve become our most versatile reporter. The powers that be have decided to put you on the night desk permanently.”
“What?”
This was what she got for venturing into Pamela’s lair willingly. The night desk, with its four o’clock to midnight shift, was bad enough as a temporary fill-in, but on a weekly basis? Every weekday? She might as well slice her wrists open because she’d have no life anyway.
“And by powers that be, you mean you?” Anne asked, unable and unwilling to restrain the rancor in her voice.
Pamela chuckled. “For the most part, yeah. You always show up. You always file competent stories. What more can I ask for?”
She let the competent insult slide.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Anne snapped. “How about someone who actually wants that job?”
The glint of sick humor dancing in Pamela’s keen blue eyes narrowed into a deadly stare. “But can I assume that you do, at least, want a job?”
Anne’s heart seized. She’d never seen Pamela resort to blackmail before, but there was a first time for everything.
“Of course I want a job,” Anne said, her brain working to find another option, even though she knew there wasn’t one. Pamela wouldn’t be taking such sadistic pleasure from this tête-à-tête unless Anne was going to walk out the door miserable.
“Then this is it,” Pamela said. “Take it or leave it.”
Anne concentrated on keeping her jaw shut while her brain processed this cruel turn. The Daily Journal had, from the beginning, been her stepping stone to the bigger publications. The newspaper was, current management notwithstanding, highly respected. And it was also pretty much the only game in town.
Although she had every intention of living in one of the five boroughs of New York City sometime in the near future, she loved her life in Albany. She had a new man in her life—one who wanted to sweep her off on a grand adventure in another hemisphere. But even beyond Michael, she had friends and an apartment she loved. Even Sirus was getting used to sharing Michael with her for more than an hour at a time.
She loved being a journalist, but if she left the Daily Journal, she’d have to move to another market. She couldn’t make such an important decision based on her fury at Pamela. Her editor had placed her in a no-win situation—which doubly sucked because she was enjoying it.
“I want two weeks off in December,” Anne said.
“You just had three weeks off,” Pamela argued, waving her hand dismissively.
“I have two weeks coming to me after November, because that’s my anniversary date. If you’re going to stick me with the night shift, I want two weeks off. Paid.”
Pamela leaned on her hand, stroking her chin like some sort of maniacal villain out of a bad B movie. “You’ll have to do some weekends, too, then.”
“No way,” Anne shot back. She may need this job bad enough to take one untenable work situation, but not two. “You’ve got me nights. That’s more than enough torture.”
With a curt nod of acknowledgment, Pamela turned to her computer and grunted. Anne took this as agreement—though she would get it in writing the minute she returned to her desk.
She resisted the urge to slam Pamela’s door on her way out. She’d gotten her time off, but the price had been exorbitant. What good was a vacation with the man you loved if chances were you’d be broken up before the plane tickets arrived in the mail?
Sixteen
SOMEHOW, ANNE MANAGED TO remain focused on her work for the rest of the day. After filing the vacation request and ensuring that Pamela signed it, she skipped lunch in lieu of punching through her last two articles and cutting out an hour early. Pamela, oddly enough, had the sense not to complain. She’d already wrecked Anne’s life. Yelling at her for taking off when all her articles were ready for print would only have been salt in the wound. Apparently, even her editor had limits to her taste for torture.
She avoided the concerned stares from Billy, the intern, and the gossipy whispers of her colleagues, grabbed her stuff, and headed down to her car. Without petty crimes and contentious trials to keep her mind occupied, she could think about nothing but Michael.
His excitement over their trip to Peru had been palpable. All day, she’d been ignoring e-mails dropping into her inbox with subject lines like Machu Picchu with You and Lima is Prima. He’d even hinted that he’d been scouring the Victoria’s Secret website with the expressed purpose of selecting a sexy swimsuit for her to wear that bore remarkable resemblance to the tropical print lingerie she’d worn last weekend in the Catskills.
Desperately, she wanted to fill her mind with fantasies about making love in the raw Peruvian jungle, but she and Michael couldn’t keep up a relationship with her new schedule. He worked the traditional eight a.m. until five p.m. He enjoyed rising early on Saturdays so they could hike until late afternoon or spend hours in a park with Sirus before heading home, showering and hitting a cool café for dinner or cooking an elaborate meal at home so they could enjoy the privacy of his bedroom instead of dessert.
They’d already fallen into this intimate routine and Anne cherished every minute. After hitting the momentary bump in the road after her trip to the Middle East, they’d finally reached the point where spending time together wasn’t something they asked for, but simply assumed they’d do whenever possible.
Now, it would be impossible.
On the night desk, she’d leave for work an hour before he got home. She wouldn’t wake up until after he’d left for the office. She’d need her Saturday mornings to catch up on sleep while he explored the New York state hiking trails alone. She wasn’t a night-shift virgin—she knew the toll this job would take.
In the parking lot, she loaded her bag into her car, climbed into the front seat, and after turning the key and fiddling with the radio settings, she stopped, unable to move. Automatic action couldn’t withstand the welling of her emotions. Fear. Anger. Regret. Utter and complete sadness. She’d worked hard. Her reliability and talent should have been rewarded by her employer— not punished. The indignity and injustice were just too much and in seconds, tears splashed down her face while her chest heaved and her lungs burned.
She didn’t know how long she cried, unaware of anything until her cell phone rang. She scavenged for a tissue and then glanced at the caller ID.
Michael.
She let the call go into voice-mail, but before she could shove her car into drive and try to make her way home through clouded eyes, he called again. She shut the engine and answered the phone.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.
“You don’t want to know,” she said.
“Did someone die?”
Her chest ached when she forced a laugh. “No, but our relationship just received a death sentence with no chance for reprieve.”
“What are you talking about? Where are you?”
“In the parking lot. At work.” In between each phrase, she sniffled loudly.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said and before she could beg him not to come, he’d disconnected the call.
She scrambled to put herself back together. She didn’t want him to see her this way. She didn’t want anyone to see her this way. She found a pile of napkins from the bakery in the console and tried to remove all evidence of her breakdown. She dug into her purse for makeup and was just swiping lip balm across her mouth when Michael pulled up behind her. She took a deep breath and blinked rapidly to dry the last of her tears from her eyes.
He rapped on her window. “Open the door.”
She did as he ordered and immediately fell into his waiting arms. Unbidden, her tears renewed, and though his muscles tensed around her, he didn’t let her go. He smoothed his hand up and down her back and kissed her hair, attempting to soothe her misery with words she couldn’t entirely process.
“Damn it, Anne. You’re scaring the hell out of me. Whatever is wrong, we’ll fix it.”
She tugged out of his embrace. God, she couldn’t believe she’d broken down like this in front of him! No one had died. The world hadn’t ended. There were so many more worthy things to be blubbering about than her stupid job. She recriminated herself until she was able to switch off the waterworks.
“I’m sorry,” Anne said. “Ignore me. I just had a bad day.”
“A bad day?” he asked. “Whatever happened had to be more than a generic bad day to rip you apart like this. Tell me what’s wrong.”
He had every right to know, but she needed time to regain her calm before she opened up. “Not here.”
She scowled toward the building.
He didn’t argue. “Want to go home?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I think I could use some snuggling on the couch.”
“I’m sure Sirus would be happy to oblige,” he joked.
She couldn’t help but smile. She brushed a kiss over his cheek, loving how the rough texture along his jaw ignited the sensitive skin of her tear-stained lips. The thought of losing him on account of her career tore at her insides.
“You’re okay to drive?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine. I just had a moment. I don’t have them often.”
Her attempt at humor failed. His brow was knit tight and for the first time in a while, she noticed the twitch in his neck and eye.
“Seriously,” she said, not wanting to make his Tourette’s worse by adding to his stress. “Once we’re home and I’m in your arms, I’ll be fine.”
Mildly satisfied, Michael headed back to his car. Anne had absolutely no doubt that once she spilled the whole disastrous day to him, he’d reassure her that they’d adjust. What else could he possibly say? That he wouldn’t stand for not coming first in her life and that she had to either pick him or pick her job? She’d met more than a few guys who would make that demand, but not Michael.
No, she wasn’t afraid he was going to dump her outright, even if that might be the less cruel way to go in the long run. Her job would kill their relationship slowly and quietly, like poison gas rather than a flash explosion. And there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t quit. She wouldn’t. Outrage at Pamela’s treatment of her was one thing—her ambitions were quite another.
The trouble was, as much as she wanted a long career as a journalist, she also wanted Michael. And for the first time, she simply couldn’t see how the two needs could coexist.
“How many days?”
At Anne’s question, Mike thumbed through his calendar and checked the tally he kept in the corner of each successive day. He wished they’d reached the double-digits, but three numbers stared at him today just as they had yesterday. He hesitated before answering, then decided that they were going to have this conversation anyway, no matter how much time was left until they left for Peru.
“One hundred and eleven,” he answered.
She collapsed against his shoulder, groaned, and made whimpering noises. Except for times like this when they met for lunch (her breakfast) in the park, ate sandwiches out of their laps, and watched Sirus scamper around on the long leash Mike had tethered to the bench, they rarely saw each other anymore. They had a standing Saturday-night date that lasted well into Sunday, but even that was being disrupted more often as Mike’s responsibilities to the Quality Education Initiative had started to include weekend events. The only thing keeping him going was knowing that with every twenty-four hours that passed, he was one day closer to the vacation of a lifetime—with the woman of his dreams.
But the hardship on him was nothing compared to the torture she was going through. The shadows beneath her eyes had darkened to the point where she’d started wearing heavier makeup everyday rather than just on special occasions. He’d also noticed that her jeans looked a little snugger around her backside, her face was fuller and her arms thicker.
But there was no way in hell he was going to mention it.
He knew she’d let her yoga and spinning classes go by the wayside. Their time together was already restrained to a few hours a week—he certainly didn’t want to put it in her head that he’d prefer her to spend that time in the gym rather than in his bed. However, with her mental health so beaten down, did he really want her physical health to suffer, too?
Mike kept hoping that Anne would, eventually, find her own way to adjust to this freakish schedule without any input from him. He was a fixer. He could think of a half-dozen more effective means for her to reorganize her life, but Anne did not like to be fixed. Any repairs had to be done on her terms . . . and in her own time.
“Four months sounds better than one hundred and eleven days,” he pointed out, not wanting to ruin the brief time they had together with yet another conversation about how much she hated her job. Instead, he dipped into his own expertise and created a positive spin. “So let’s say four months, which I should point out, is much shorter than five months.”
Unfortunately, Anne’s dour mood would not be deterred.
“I should quit,” she said.
“You could quit,” he repeated, emphasizing the second word without really meaning to.
“The Daily Journal was supposed to be my stepping stone. Maybe I should start looking for something else.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said.
“But newspapers are hurting right now. Jobs are harder to come by. I’d have to move and
I don’t want to move.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” he said, giving her a squeeze.
She snuggled closer. “Maybe I should try something different. But what?”
He didn’t answer. She didn’t expect him to answer. The first time he’d attempted to list a number of jobs she’d be incredibly suited for with her top-notch talent at research and mad skills with the written word, she’d jumped down his throat. He didn’t need more than one press to learn a woman’s hot buttons.
“What could you do?” he asked, keeping his voice even and calm, posing the question without any hint that he might have an answer on the tip of his tongue.
“I could go back to school,” she said. “Get my masters degree.”
“Yes, you could,” he agreed.
“But that takes money,” she lamented.
“Yes, it does.”
She crumbled the napkin she’d laid across her lap and together with the sandwich wrapper from the deli, she formed a ball and tossed it, free-throw style, into the nearest trash can.
“Maybe the Knicks are looking for someone,” he suggested, risking a joke.
The pay off was a rare, but genuine, smile.
“You’re getting tired of listening to this, aren’t you?” she asked.
He shifted so that her torso slipped across his lap and he could gaze unhampered into her fathomless brown eyes. Deep inside those mesmerizing irises, he caught a glimpse of the light that used to shine there so brightly. She wasn’t entirely beat down by her new hours and her isolation from him and her friends, but she was getting close. Too close.
“No,” he said. “I’m not getting sick of hearing any of this. What I am worried about is you. No one should be this unhappy.”
She allowed him to kiss her for a second, but before he could get his groove on, she was twisting out of his reach. “Did you read my piece on the boy who draws comic books to help him deal with cancer?”
“With my morning coffee,” he said, not surprised by her sudden change of subject, but not happy about it, either. “Some of your best work.”