“That’s kind of the idea.” Bret gave a shake of his head. “I can’t get used to writing in there. Too quiet, or too boxed in, or something. I might save the office for when I’m wearing my editor hat.”
And just like that, they were a newsroom of three.
Bret’s fingers resumed their impressive speed, producing a steady, soft clatter of sound on the keyboard. It wasn’t anything like Chuck’s forceful hunt-and-peck jabbing. Or Chloe’s own sporadic output, broken by long pauses for thought. She forced her attention back to her own screen and reread her last paragraph. But there was a leak in her concentration now. She felt her attention pulled toward Bret, sitting across from her, probably wondering why she wasn’t typing. Just write something. Good, bad, or indifferent. You can always fix it later.
She wrote:
Millie Bond first discovered her passion for knitting when her two children were both away at college. “I guess you’d call it classic empty-nest behavior,” she said. “And of course I started with one of the hardest things to master. Socks, that I could put in the kids’ college care packages. I still have the first pair I ever made, because they wouldn’t fit either my son or my daughter. One was too small even for me, and the other one was huge. A little lesson in humility.”
There. A whole paragraph, even if most of the words were a quote from Millie. Verbatim, of course.
To her left, the unbroken sound of Bret’s typing continued. Did he ever stop? Chloe listened. After a moment, she was reassured by a temporary pause, only to hear him pour on the speed again as if to make up for lost time.
She sneaked a look at him. Even in college, she’d met very few men who’d bothered learning to touch-type. Most of them typed with two fingers like Chuck, or they made big, sad eyes at their girlfriends and asked them to type their papers.
Clearly, that wasn’t Bret. She couldn’t help being fascinated by the relentless clamor of keystrokes, the fierce look of concentration as he studied his screen.
Okay, it was kind of hot.
She remembered a joke she’d read once in a women’s magazine: Any man becomes exciting if you think about him long enough.
She just needed to get out in the daylight a little more. But she’d always liked the smart ones. Except that this one was her boss, not to mention the fact that he—
Bret glanced up suddenly, dark eyes locking on hers. “What?” he prompted.
Heat flooded her face. She stammered, “How fast do you type?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Seventy, eighty words a minute?”
Chloe could type that fast. She just couldn’t think that fast. And apparently Bret had never been through the indignity of a typing test. A few job applications had put her in a room with thirty other women, typing like drones for five minutes until a timer went off. It was like a cattle call. One of those things they pulled on women.
She managed another paragraph about Millie Bond, doing her best to shut out the presence of the typing dynamo across from her so she wouldn’t get caught watching him again. That had been embarrassing.
And she needed to focus, because she needed to turn in two stories a day if she was going to make it to ten in a week. She’d only finished one Monday, so she was already an article behind. She’d started doing some of her writing on her laptop after she got home. Maybe that was why her mind was so sluggish today. That, and the fact that it was raining.
She stood and went to the coffee maker. She’d gone out on a limb and brewed a second pot before Bret came out of his office. She poured a cup, added the vitally necessary creamer, and allowed herself a moment to stand beside the little cabinet as she took her first sip. She closed her eyes and let the slightly stinging warmth and flavor flood her senses. There was nothing like fresh coffee.
She opened her eyes. This time Bret was watching her.
He remarked, “Our coffee consumption is up since you started here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll pick up an extra can.”
“Not what I meant. All I’m saying is, if you drink more coffee than Frank McCrea, you just might have a problem.”
“It’s one of the other two major food groups.” Chloe cupped her hands around her mug’s warm sides. “Coffee and chocolate.”
“Coffee, I’ll grant you. You can keep the chocolate.”
“You’re kidding.”
She stared at him in what wasn’t entirely mock horror, but his eyes were on his work again. What kind of person didn’t like chocolate?
As she settled back into her chair, Chuck hit a key with a definitive smack and stood to stretch. “School board story coming your way.” He nodded at Bret.
Barely glancing up, Bret returned the nod, fingers still in motion. Fascinating.
Chuck paced a slow circuit around the room. He showed no interest in the coffee. Were she and Bret the only ones who drank it? That was concerning. The pot she’d discarded had been nearly empty. Maybe one of them did have a problem.
“What is it about rainy days?” Chuck completed his brief stroll and returned to his desk. “We don’t even have windows in this room, and I still feel restless.”
“Back to work,” Bret said brusquely. “You can get started on your dream story: EVERYONE GOES TO BED EARLY.”
“Better than your dream story.” Chuck settled into his chair. “TALL PINE SLASHER ON THE LOOSE.”
“Hey, I told you. Just one lousy murder. Of a really evil tourist.”
Chuck glanced at her over his shoulder. “What about Chloe? What’s her dream story?”
She smiled a little. Chuck was always kind to her, but he’d remained as neutral as Switzerland between her and Bret. She’d probably never make it into the boys’ club, but the question felt like a conscious effort to include her.
Bret studied her briefly. “That’s easy,” he said. “FIREFIGHTER RESCUES KITTEN FROM TREE.” His eyes glinted. “AGAIN.”
And he went back to work without missing a beat.
Chloe laughed, because it was funny. If there was one thing she’d learned growing up in her family, it was how to take a joke.
Then her eyes went back to her article about Millie Bond’s knitting.
By the time her son and daughter finished college, Bond had branched off into crocheting. She discovered she could make an eye-catching purse out of old plastic grocery bags. “I got all kinds of compliments on it,” she said. “So I whipped up a few on consignment for Linda’s Crafts. . . .”
Maybe Bret’s headline wasn’t so far off.
By her story conference in Bret’s office the next Monday, Chloe had a solid idea for an article that extended well beyond light and fluffy. She saved it for last.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’d like to do a story on hospice care.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
It was exactly what he’d said when she told him she’d never studied journalism, and he wore virtually the same expression. Unreadable. She’d kind of expected it. And yet, somehow, she hadn’t prepared a response.
Bret saved her the trouble. Sitting back in his chair, arms folded, he asked, “How’d you come up with that topic?”
For that, at least, she had an answer. “November is National Hospice Month. The local visiting nurses’ association has been running ads in the paper all month.”
“Right.” He stared at her. “It’s a pretty heavy subject.”
“Well, it’s not exactly kittens in trees.”
“Chloe.” Had he called her by name before, if she wasn’t twenty feet away? “That was a joke.”
“I know.” She held herself straight. “But there’s a little truth in most jokes. You had a point. My stories have been pretty light. But that doesn’t mean that’s all I can do.”
He surveyed her from across the desk, as if he were measuring her. He was about as physically distant as he could get without hitting the bookcase with the back of his chair. “Sure you don’t want to try something a little lighter first? Like maybe global the
rmonuclear war?”
“It’s timely,” she pointed out.
His eyebrows dipped slightly, the only change in his near-blank expression. “Do you know someone who’s been through something like this? Lost a family member?”
“No. But I’ve heard my mom talk about it. She worked with a lot of the visiting nurses, and she always admired people who worked in hospice. A lot of them are volunteers. She said it takes someone with a really special heart to see someone through the end of their life.”
Bret nodded slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose above his glasses. “All right. Let’s look at this for a minute. For this story, you’d be interviewing—who? Not a hospice patient.”
“No.” It had crossed her mind, but obviously that was out. “I thought—a family member of someone who’s passed away. Not last week or anything, but someone who’s been through the process in the last year or so. And one or two hospice workers. I’d start by getting in touch with the visiting nurses’ association, see if there’s anyone they’d refer me to.”
“Okay.” Bret fixed her with one of his dark-eyed stares. “But go easy on this one. I wouldn’t usually advise a reporter to be sensitive, but this is one of those times. You’re going to be asking people about a difficult subject. I don’t want my phone ringing.”
“Understood.”
“And this one’s going to be more involved. Allow yourself some extra time on it, but don’t make it your only project. Keep getting the simpler stories written while this one’s in the works.”
“Got it.”
He inclined his head, still leaning far back in his chair. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather solve nuclear war instead?”
“I’ll be careful.” Chloe stood. She’d gotten the go-ahead; better not to prolong the discussion and give Bret more time to raise objections. “Anything else?”
“No. We’re good.” As Chloe started to leave, Bret sat forward, elbows on the desk. “Get the door on your way out,” he added.
* * *
Bret watched Chloe’s retreating sweatered back through the glass door as she left.
Really, God? Seriously?
He didn’t see any sign that Chloe’s motives were anything other than innocent. And she’d never struck him as a spiteful person. Still, what were the odds?
He didn’t waste any time. He pulled the phone toward him and called the visiting nurses’ association. He dialed the number from memory.
Some things, you didn’t forget even when you wanted to.
“Paula? Bret. I wanted to give you a quick heads-up.”
Chloe’s first stop was the coffee machine. Good.
“Bret. How are you doing?”
“Good. Thanks for asking. You’re going to be getting a call from a new reporter. She wants to do a piece on hospice. She’ll want to interview a staffer, and ask for some contacts. Use your judgment,” he said. “If you tell her it’s not a good idea to interview family members, I’m pretty sure she’ll back off. And I’m sure this goes without saying, but—don’t mention my mother. I don’t think she knows anything about it, and that’s the way I want to keep it.”
Chapter 5
At one time, Bret never would have envisioned himself standing over a hot stove, but it happened with great regularity nowadays. Especially Tuesday nights.
At least once a week, he went over to his dad’s house for dinner. When he did, he made it a point to see that his father ate something that resembled actual food, rather than the processed stuff that lived in David Radner’s kitchen. Stocked with preservative-laden canned foods, salty snacks, and powdered donuts, the inside of his dad’s cabinets looked like the set of a game show called Name That Carcinogen.
He’d already lost one parent to cancer, and it wasn’t going to happen again if he could help it.
The television droned from the next room as Bret leaned to check the steaks in the broiler. Baked potatoes were humming in the microwave, and he’d gone through the motions of bringing a bagged salad that would probably only get picked at. Bret’s skills hadn’t advanced beyond meat and potatoes—cooking was a necessity, not a passion—but properly prepared, they were at least somewhat healthier than the typical bachelor diet.
“Almost ready,” Bret called into the living room. He wondered if the television set ever got turned off. At least it was generally tuned to CNN, not some brain-dead game show or sitcom. But still.
A few minutes later, his dad joined him at the dining room table—another part of the ritual that Bret hadn’t let go of yet, although he knew his father generally ate in the living room or over the kitchen counter.
“So how about those clowns in Washington?” Bret asked. It was a running joke, because on any given week, it always applied.
“Don’t get me started. If they ever start talking to each other, instead of barking over each other, maybe they’d get somewhere.”
“Job security,” Bret said. “If they didn’t keep canceling each other out, probably half of them would be out of work.”
“So I hear you gave up on the clowns on the town council.” David reached for the saltshaker.
Bret winced. “Don’t you think maybe you could taste it before you—”
“Winston said he saw some little blonde at the council meeting, scribbling away at a notepad.”
Crotchety as Winston Frazier was, he got credit for his part in trying to keep his longtime friend involved with the human race. He dragged Bret’s father out to the diner a couple of times a week for lunch or a cup of coffee, sometimes a game of chess.
His dad went on, “He said she looked like one of the waitresses from the Pine ’n’ Dine.”
Up to now, there was one thing Bret never would have pegged Winston for: a gossip.
“I told you about her,” Bret said. “McCrea hired her right before he left. She’s green as—”
“You didn’t mention she was pretty.”
Bret shrugged. “So? Does Winston want me to get him her phone number?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Tell you what. I’ll start talking about blond reporters when you start a conversation with a woman your own age.”
“You know the answer to that.”
Bret did.
I already had the love of my life, his father had said once, in a tone that pronounced the subject forever closed.
Bret’s mother had died a few days before Christmas seven years ago, and his father had never decorated for Christmas again. The place didn’t just lack a woman’s touch; it looked nearly untouched.
Getting his dad to move out of this house sometime in the years since Helena Radner’s death might have helped. The place stayed fairly tidy, largely because not much got disturbed, and it didn’t look substantially different from the way it had seven years ago. The neutral brown sofa and loveseat set looked a bit more faded; the family photos on the wall hadn’t been updated since Bret’s graduation. The television remote control rested on the coffee table, easily findable. Beside it lay today’s Tall Pine Gazette, neatly refolded in the unlikely event that David needed to refer back to it. Bret knew for a fact that his father read the paper every day, because he always had something to say about one of Bret’s articles.
Bret glanced across the table and had a disquieting sensation he’d experienced before—that he was looking into an age-progression mirror and seeing himself at sixty-six. Similar hair, thick and disobedient, now more gray than dark brown. Similar glasses, although Bret had tried to change that the last time he’d gotten new ones, going with lighter-weight frames. And his father’s questionable diet hadn’t really added any extra pounds to his frame, probably because he didn’t bother to eat often enough.
David Radner had retired from the town council when Bret started at the Gazette, saying he didn’t want to cause any conflict of interest issues for Bret. In reality, the months of his mother’s illness would have made it hard for him to concentrate. Afterward, his dad couldn’t seem to muster interest in
much of anything beyond armchair criticism of those clowns in the news. Even then, it felt more like he was trying to do an impersonation of his old self.
If this was what having a love of your life got you, maybe that was why Bret’s relationships with women tended to stall at a certain point.
He’d try again to correct that. After he got past Christmas.
His father persisted, “I notice you didn’t say she wasn’t pretty.”
Of all the subjects in the world, his dad had to latch on to this one. “It doesn’t matter. She’s an employee. Not going to happen.”
Bret braced himself mentally, preparing to counter his father with reminders of things like business ethics and sexual harassment suits. But wisely, his dad let the matter drop.
Bret took another bite of his steak. It did need salt.
* * *
When Bret returned to the newsroom after lunch the next day, he noticed a tall aluminum can on Chloe’s desk as he passed.
Chloe sat behind the canned energy drink, typing for all she was worth.
The drinks had begun appearing on Chloe’s desk with increasing frequency over the past week or so. The phrase performance-enhancing drugs flitted through Bret’s mind. Energy drinks might be different in degree, but not necessarily in kind.
She’d turned in eight stories last week, a shade below the goal of ten that he’d set for her on her first day. Maybe he should make sure she knew the quota was more of a guideline.
Let it go, he told himself, and kept walking toward his office. As he passed, he saw her forehead faintly creased in concentration.
He hadn’t asked her how the hospice story was coming, and she hadn’t volunteered. He’d told her to take her time on it; maybe she was taking that to heart. Or maybe the story would quietly fizzle. Bret wouldn’t mind. Maybe she’d concluded that she’d bitten off more than she could chew.
Or maybe that was why she was pushing herself all the harder.
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