Unable to stop himself, Bret found himself backing up a step, then another, until he was alongside Chloe’s desk again.
“How many of those do you drink in a day?” He nodded toward the energy drink.
She raised her head, and it took a moment for the cloudy look to fade from those gray-green eyes. He knew that hazy feeling. She really had been engrossed.
Her gaze shifted to the can on her desk. “I don’t know. Two, sometimes three?”
“Three is the maximum on those things.”
“And I never drink more than that. And only sometimes.” A grin slipped across her face. “You’re looking at a veteran of college all-nighters.”
Bret remembered those years. He held back a smile. “You should stick with coffee. It might not be great for you, but at least it’s a known quantity.”
“The coffee’s pretty gross by the afternoon. And I wouldn’t want to break McCrea’s record.”
“Make another pot. If you keel over, I don’t want to be responsible.”
Her brows descended in the most delicate frown he’d ever seen. “Are you some kind of a health fiend?”
“No. I just try to avoid things that can kill me.”
“This?” She picked up the can and peered into it, one eye closed.
Then, to his surprise, she swung the can in a slow arc toward Bret. Then she swung it back toward herself. Then out again toward Bret, as though she were threatening him with some kind of supernatural wand. Her eyes gleamed. In another context, Bret might have thought she was flirting.
Bret took a step back. “You really are sleep-deprived,” he said. “Or else the chemicals are kicking in.”
Her smile widened, a dimple deepening below one corner of her mouth, and Bret’s knees unexpectedly weakened.
Pretty. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed before. His dad’s report about Winston’s remark shouldn’t have any effect. It didn’t take two elderly men to make him realize a woman was attractive.
She was undeniably pretty—lovely, in fact—but it took more than that to get to Bret.
It was her spark, her humor, her determination. And heaven help him, she was smart.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I don’t want you burning yourself out. And you can’t live on caffeine and ramen noodles.”
She looked a little startled. As if he wouldn’t have noticed that, like Bret, she’d gotten into the habit of staying in the office for lunch most days, and that her lunch generally came out of a Styrofoam cup. More chemicals. But he couldn’t go into a full-scale nutrition lecture. He’d said enough; he’d just have to hope that some of it took root.
For now, her eyes held his, the way they tended to do whenever he challenged her. Her chin tipped up just a fraction, and Bret’s knees turned to butter.
“I’m a big girl,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
“Make sure you do.” He kept his voice brusque, but he felt a smile escape. “Can’t have you falling over, or you’ll miss your deadline.”
And, as briskly as he could with faulty knees, he started back toward his office.
* * *
He’s going to hate it, Chloe thought, seconds after she sent the hospice piece over to Bret Friday morning.
She reminded herself she’d felt this way before, whenever she turned in a paper to a demanding professor in college. The urge to second-guess herself, wishing she’d given her work just one more look. But she knew this story backward and forward by now; on the last pass, she’d found herself changing back changes she’d made earlier.
She knew the panic was normal. Up until she sent the article, she’d been sure it was the best thing she’d ever written. She’d wanted to make it the best thing she’d ever written—not just to prove herself to Bret, but because she owed it to the people she’d interviewed. She’d turned up uninvited in the lives of surviving families, asking them to reopen healing wounds and share a little of their grief with her. It had taken more of her heart and soul than she’d expected. One of the hospice workers had even brought her near tears when she talked about reading Marley & Me to a patient.
She had cried when she wrote it up. And if that wasn’t the way a reporter was supposed to feel about a story—well, she didn’t know any way around it.
She glanced at Bret’s office, just the top of his head visible behind his computer screen, and had no idea whether he’d seen the article land in his in-box.
But it was literally out of her hands, and she had work to do. By the end of the day, thanks to the late-night hours she’d been putting in at home, she’d be able to finish her tenth story of the week.
* * *
Bret got the e-mail from Chloe late that afternoon: Did you get the hospice piece? Sent it over this morning.
Well, at least she was getting the hang of communicating by e-mail within the office. The first time he’d e-mailed her from across the room, she’d been bewildered. But it was the best way to communicate quickly and keep interruptions at a minimum.
She was catching on to AP style and office communications, all right. Learning patience appeared to be taking a bit longer.
Of course he knew how it felt. Waiting to hear back from an editor on an important article could feel like hanging from a rope over Prospect Lake, not quite able to get the rope swinging enough to put you back over the shore. He knew how it felt because he’d been there. Chloe would just have to learn, the same way he had, that it went with the territory.
But it was only humane to e-mail her back: Got it. Working through the stories I’ll need for the weekend first.
A few minutes later, he watched Chloe take one of her frequent strolls to the coffee machine. He admired the resolute set of her shoulders, covered in a slate-blue cardigan sweater. She must have a cardigan for every day of the week, and each one looked just a little softer than the last.
Bret could use some of that coffee himself, but he’d need to walk past her to get to it.
Instead, he pulled himself up straight and opened the file Chloe had sent him this morning. Her headline read: LEAVING WITH DIGNITY.
His throat tightened. He closed the file.
Maybe he’d look at it tonight. After everyone else was gone.
* * *
When Chloe came in Monday morning, instead of the customary one-on-one meetings, Bret announced a meeting of the newsroom staff. Which meant herself, Bret, and Chuck. Bret stood facing them, arms folded, leaning back against the desk where he did his writing.
“This is Thanksgiving week,” Bret said, “which means we have five days of holiday weekend to cover, including next Monday, before the office closes Wednesday. That means we go into what McCrea calls ‘crank’ mode. We need to generate as many stories as possible, to fill the days when the office is closed. So we start now. Let’s look at the articles we can work on ahead of time. Chuck, what have you got?”
Chuck seemed prepared. “Holiday traffic projections. Ski conditions up at Mount Douglas. I’m interviewing the church that does that annual Thanksgiving dinner. And I got some quotes last week from the kids at the elementary about what’s on their Christmas wish lists.”
“Okay. A good start.” Bret gave a spare nod, and Chloe wondered if that was as effusive as praise from him ever got. He picked up a yellow legal pad from the desktop behind him. “I jotted down a few to dish out. A rundown of the restaurants in town that serve Thanksgiving dinner—I’ll take that one. The annual toy drive at the town hall—Chuck. Turkey tips to run Wednesday—Chloe.”
“Why me?” Chloe interrupted before she thought.
“I’m sorry?” Bret’s eyes shot to her. His glare seared like a laser.
Pick your battles, she reminded herself. But the female-centric assignment rankled. She tried to hold her ground gracefully. “I mean, that sounds like something we could get off the wire.”
Bret’s eyes stayed fixed on hers. From her peripheral vision, Chloe caught a glance from Chuck. She had the feeling that, if he’d been ab
le to, he would have been waving his arms over his head in warning.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Bret said crisply. “The more we rely on the wire, the less local we are. The less local we are, the more likely the corporate office is to start thinking about all the money they could save if they got rid of some of the human beings around here.”
That deadly look didn’t release her, and Chloe wondered why she hadn’t transformed into a puddle of sizzling goo by now.
“Turkey tips,” Bret concluded quietly.
Adjusting his glasses, he returned to his list.
* * *
By Wednesday afternoon, Chloe had a vivid understanding of what Bret had meant by “crank” mode.
She’d whipped out fourteen stories in three days, if you counted news briefs taken from press releases. But with five days of newspaper to fill, those seemed to be fair game.
All through the week, Bret had never said a word about the hospice article.
A few minutes after four, Chuck stood and shrugged into his coat. “I’m headed to the airport. Wish me luck.”
“You’re kidding.” He’d mentioned he and his girls were going to visit family; she hadn’t realized he was flying out of town tonight. “You’re a brave man.”
“Brave or foolish.” Chuck grinned at her on his way out. “Have a happy Thanksgiving.”
Must be nice, she thought, but she couldn’t begrudge him his early freedom. Besides the fact that he was a nice guy, she knew by now just how much of the paper Chuck wrote.
So now the newsroom was down to Chloe, her monitor, and one more story to finish before she left. While Bret sat in his editing cage. Mount Sinai, Chuck had called it.
It had been a busy week. She knew that. But was Bret going to run the hospice piece or not?
Every fiber of her being warned her not to nag him, especially after their face-off Monday. But the waiting and wondering was driving her nuts.
Concentrate. The article refused to come together. Maybe because her brain was starting to fizzle out. Chloe eyed the coffee maker, but that seemed wasteful this late in the day. She’d finished her last energy drink a couple of hours ago, trying not to notice the way Bret’s eyes lingered on the can, almost imperceptibly, as he passed. Even the way he didn’t comment on it amounted to a comment.
She pulled herself straight and took a couple of long, deep breaths, trying to pull in extra oxygen to revive herself. Then she started slogging at the article again. If she could just stop moving words around and write the darn thing . . .
“Chloe.” Bret’s voice jarred her like an alarm clock going off way too early in the morning.
Her head jerked up. How in the world had he managed to sneak up on her in plain sight? He stood in front of her, arms folded, and she wondered what it meant that he hadn’t e-mailed her as usual.
He asked, “What have you got left for tonight?”
“Just finishing the interview with Arnie Jacobs about the goose problem at Prospect Lake.”
She willed him a telepathic message: What-about-the-hospice-piece?
If Bret was telepathic, he showed no sign of it. “So, you’ve got about half an hour, forty minutes left?”
I wish. “Something like that.”
He passed a hand through thick dark hair that already looked mussed. Appealingly mussed—if it had been anyone else. And if it had been anyone else, she might have said he looked just a tad uncertain.
Then Bret spoke, squelching any fatigue-induced delusions before they could take root.
“There’s still a lot of work backed up.” The words came out quick and flat. “Can you come in on Friday?”
Chloe’s mouth went dry. In a flash, she saw her shopping plans go down the drain.
She’d planned to hit the big mall out of town with Tiffany and Kate first thing Friday morning, gunning for the kind of after-Thanksgiving doorbuster sales that didn’t exist in Tall Pine. But when your brand-new boss made a request, it wasn’t really a request.
“You don’t have to come in first thing,” Bret added. “Ten o’clock is good. And I’ll feed you. Breakfast and lunch.”
Breakfast and lunch. Which meant she’d be here quite a while.
It wasn’t really a request, and she didn’t really have a choice, even though he was trying to make it seem otherwise.
She squared her shoulders and kissed her bargains good-bye. “Okay.”
Ten o’clock. Not a minute sooner. And you’re getting me as-is. Jeans, no makeup. I may not even brush my hair.
As if he’d notice.
Chapter 6
“Don’t let Chloe burn the salad, Mom.” Her older brother, Todd, paused by the kitchen island to steal a handful of walnuts from the stack she was chopping.
“Hey,” she said, “don’t mess with me when I’ve got a knife in my hand. I don’t see you doing any of the cooking.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” her mother said. Jan Davenport stood at the kitchen sink on Chloe’s right, carefully spooning stuffing into the turkey. “You don’t really want either of those lunkheads in the kitchen, do you?”
Her mom had a point.
Raising her eyes past the kitchen island, Chloe watched Todd saunter into the adjoining family room. From the back, he looked like the sturdy, broad-shouldered twenty-eight-year-old man most people probably saw him as. Somewhere along the line, Todd had grown up, gone to school, and opened a practice as a veterinarian. She still couldn’t wrap her head around it. If the good people of Tall Pine could only see him the way Chloe did. Moments after stepping into their parents’ house, both of her brothers reverted to adolescence.
Todd joined their younger brother, Joel—the second lunkhead in question—on the couch with their dad to watch a pregame something-or-other. Except for the size of her brothers, it looked like every Thanksgiving at home since Chloe was a kid.
It smelled the same, too.
She turned toward her mother. “The turkey’s not even in the oven, and the stuffing already smells good.”
Jan upended the turkey, lightly shaking it to allow the stuffing to settle inside the bird. “Tell me about it. I should have had a bigger breakfast before we got started.”
Chloe walked over and popped a walnut half into her mom’s mouth. “Here. Instant protein.”
Her mother accepted the walnut without question, probably remembering all the times she’d done the same thing for Chloe.
Retirement looked good on her mom. Jan’s hair was still the same ash brown it had always been, although Chloe knew she colored it. Middle age may have thickened her mother’s waist a bit, but her movements were quick and decisive, with the kind of efficiency that came after twenty-five years of being a professional nurse. A professional who, nevertheless, had always seemed content to make Thanksgiving dinner without any help from the males in the next room.
Not that there wasn’t an art to it. Which was why, each year, Chloe was a little more inclined to help out in the kitchen.
Now, Jan slanted a frown Chloe’s way. “You’re looking a little skinny yourself.”
“I’ll make up for it today. Believe me.”
She didn’t want to talk about her wonky work schedule and the resulting wonky eating habits. Not today. Chloe squeezed her mom in a one-armed hug. Jan, still holding on to the turkey with both hands, couldn’t very well hug her back, but she shrugged a shoulder against Chloe in response.
Chloe returned to the kitchen island, glancing once more at the three male heads poking over the top of the couch as she got back to chopping walnuts and celery for the Waldorf salad. Naturally, Todd hadn’t stolen any of the celery.
She scooped up a big piece of walnut and popped it into her mouth.
* * *
Once the turkey was in the oven, her mother went to change clothes before the rest of the family arrived. Chloe went out to the backyard, where her father and brothers tossed a football around in the chilly gray afternoon.
She breathed in, refreshed by
the bite of cold air after the hot kitchen. She hoped they’d get their first snow soon. Tall Pine was low enough in the mountains that snow never came until late November, but anytime after Thanksgiving was fair game.
“Think fast.” Her younger brother, Joel, sent the ball spinning her way. Unprepared, Chloe still caught it in her arms with a satisfying thump.
“Is the halftime show over?” Todd asked.
“Beats me.” She lobbed the ball at Todd. She’d tried, once, to watch televised football with her dad and brothers. All the time-outs had driven her crazy. At least, in the backyard, the football moved.
Ball in hand, Todd took a step back, then another, his eyes on Chloe. Her dad stood by several yards to Todd’s left. As her brother held the ball cocked and ready to throw to her, Todd glanced over her head with a nod, and suddenly Chloe had a bad feeling about this.
The next thing she knew, Joel grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms alongside her as he picked her up off the ground and spun her around. Fast. She shrieked in protest. She should have known. She should never trust her brothers.
Joel deposited her on a big pile of leaves under the old oak. At least it was a soft landing. She grabbed for some leaves to hurl at her attacker, but that didn’t do much good as Todd rushed in. Both brothers scooped up double handfuls of leaves, raining a steady barrage down on her.
“Hey!” Chloe remembered to cover her face with both arms to keep from getting a mouthful of leaves. At least it hadn’t rained in a while, so the leaves were dry instead of mucky. She tried to reach for a foot to yank, or some other defense against the sneak attack, but she could barely see anything beyond the dry, crispy shower of brown and gold.
At last it was Joel, the accomplice who’d dumped her on the leaves to begin with, who grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out. Two years younger than Chloe, Joel was never the mastermind; ever since they were kids, he went along with Todd’s schemes and then made nice with her afterward. She whapped Joel with a quick backhand on the arm before she launched at Todd with the best nonlethal weapon she had on short notice: lowering her head, she charged at him like a goat and rammed him in the stomach.
Do Not Open 'Til Christmas Page 6