by Amy Brent
When she woke the stillness of the house left her feeling empty. He was gone, and he was getting married. She had never asked him, never thought about it. She sat up silently trying to sort through the heartache she was feeling. Glancing at the clock she knew she needed to go see Miss Margie, it was time for her meds.
She went through the motions for almost a week before she let herself really feel what she already knew. She had fallen in love with him, and he had simply left. Despite his words the sting of his reject hurt more than she wanted to admit to anyone around her. Work was the only thing to keep her busy, and she found more and more of it to occupy her time. She volunteered to take on another patient nearby, which kept her traveling between both houses.
Miss Margie knew something was wrong, but every time she tried to talk to her, Lila changed the subject, carefully avoiding any talk about Ray at all. The days became weeks and Lila did her best to keep working. She knew she had taken on too much, and she was always tired. She made her way into the garden one night as the sun was setting and she settled in to her favorite spot to watch. Just the sun setting seemed to be enough to make her emotional these days. She cried for no real reason at all, and for Ray. He hadn’t even tried to call her; he hadn’t tried anything at all.
The morning came and she did her best to drag herself out of bed but she knew she was sick. She called Miss Jeannie and after some discussion she rolled over and snuggled even deeper into the comforter. What she needed was rest, something she’d had very little as of late. By the afternoon she felt a little better and it only confirmed her need for rest. When she woke the next morning feeling the same way she knew she was in trouble.
On one particular day she decided to take a nap, something she was doing more and more of these days. She woke and the sun was setting. She knew he was there, but she didn’t want to face him just yet. Somehow he already knew she was awake.
“I know how you sleep Lila, and I know you're awake. I need you to sit up so I can talk to you… please.”
She sat up carefully, checking her eyes to make sure they were still wet from her tears. She turned to face him. He was sitting there on the chair by the bed, unmoving.
“You don’t owe me anything Ray, really.” She let her eyes meet his.
“Actually, I do. I want to tell you the truth and try and understand.”
“Its fine Ray, I don’t need to understand.” She moved to walk past him but he stopped her his face close to hers.
She let her eyes meet his. “Why are you doing this Ray?”
“You are so beautiful Lila, I’ve missed you.” He pulled her into a hug and despite her reservations she let his arms wrap around her in comfort.
She pulled away slowly, feeling her stomach doing flip flops of another kind. She took a deep breath. “You can’t do this ray, just leave for weeks and then come back and tell me I’m pretty again and think everything is ok.” She pressed her fingers against her temples.
“It’s not like that Lila, not at all. Just let me explain.”
She nodded, unable to speak as a wave of nausea rolled over her.
“I was engaged to her, a long time ago. We drifted apart and I found out she was stealing money from me, and sleeping with a hotel manager. I caught them, and I ended it. Sadly, I broke the guy up pretty good when I found them. He is pressing charges and I had to go back to New York to get them dropped. My lawyer had sent me here for a few weeks until the situation was resolved. I knew if I played along she would go back home with me, and I was right. I called the police and they came and got her, only then did we realize how many times she has done this before. She’s gone, Lila for a good long time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just couldn’t tell you until it was over, but trust me being gone has killed me, and I’ve thought about you every day.”
“I see.” She wasn’t sure what to say.
“No, I don’t think you do Lila. I know you and how you think. I know you think somehow that you’re not good enough, but it’s just not true. I never had a good night’s sleep in my life until that night, until you Lila.” He said it with force.
She looked up at him, surprised.
“I don’t know how we are going to make this work, but I guess we will just have to find a way.” He said it with a sense of finality.
“Make what work Ray? I mean, don’t I have a say in anything?” She stood and crossed her arms over her chest.
“No, you don’t. Mainly because I know you love me too, and will try and convince yourself it won’t work or you’re not good enough so I am saying no you don’t get a say.”
“Love you too, huh?”
“Yes, Lila, I love you now come over here and kiss me.”
When she didn’t move he stood, taking a step towards her until she found herself falling back on the bed.
“I need to tell you something too Ray, and it may change everything.” She felt him lay beside her on the bed, his arm pulling her closer so that he could look down on her.
“It’s not possible Lila, nothing will change how I feel. I was running from the commitment and from life but with you I want everything.” He smiled down on her.
“I certainly hope so Ray, because it’s not just us anymore.” She swallowed hard as she looked up at him and with his look of confusion she gently took his hand moving it to her stomach.
She wasn’t sure what to expect from her revelation, but his face took on many expressions until he lit up completely.
“You’re sure? I mean just from one night?” He waited.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been sick for weeks and I took a test, does it change things Ray?”
“Yes it does. I mean I was going to propose later when I could make it memorable but looks like you beat me to it. I guess we will just have to get married sooner.” He shrugged as though it was the most natural thing to say in the world.
She looked up at him flustered. “DO you always get your way Raymond?”
“Yes, yes I do, now shut up and kiss me.”
She smiled and did so, gladly.
CARRYING HIS BABY
“This story isn't right for me,” I told my editor, propping a hand on my hip. “I'm not a sports writer!”
“This isn't a sports story,” Jim said. He sat behind his desk, looking rumpled, his tie half-undone and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “It's finance.”
“The guy's a football player!” I threw up my hands, frustrated at being stuck with this crap assignment. I reported on the events taking place on Wall Street, on the financial heights and pitfalls that shook our very economy. I had no interest in interviewing some smug sports player who probably thought he was the best thing ever to grace the face of the earth. Sports players acted like they were gifted, as if God would take the time to make sure they scored the big points at the end of a playoff game and lead them to victory, instead of worrying about the pain and suffering going on in the world. I couldn't see the point of sports, and I didn't want to waste my time, or my column with The Dawson Post, with a story about some athlete I'd never even heard of before today.
“He's also a billionaire,” Jim said. He picked up a page from the open file folder in front of him and skimmed the notes on it. “Not only is he one of the highest paid players out there, he's apparently also a genius when it comes to investing. Played football for Columbia University while studying financial economics. His bio says he was originally going to go into banking, but he was good enough at the game to get drafted. He makes millions per year now as a quarterback and he's invested a bunch of that in risky startup companies that became huge hits on Wall Street. And he just got traded, got a huge signing bonus, put the bonus into the market, and the payoff raised his net worth to over one billion.”
He put down the paper and looked up at me. “I want you to interview him for the finance page. Find out his secrets. Ask him what tips he can offer our readers on investing strategies. That sort of thing.”
I folded my arms under my generous
breasts, frowning at Jim. “I don't need to ask him a bunch of fluff questions about winning the Superbowl?”
“Jane, I told you,” Jim said, rising from behind his desk and walking around it to face me. “This isn't a sports story. Hal Masterson has been interviewed a thousand times over the course of his career by every sports page in the industry. But no one,” he shook a finger in my face, “has ever done a story on him for finance. It'll be a hit. Trust me on this one.”
I sighed and lowered my arms to my sides. Jim had his heels dug in on this one, and it seemed like I didn't have much choice in the matter. Though at least, I figured, I could make an interesting story out of it, as long as Hal didn't spend the entire time talking about football.
Jim handed me the folder and I left, heading down the hall to my office. I wasn't happy about being stuck with the Hal Masterson story, but I figured I might as well get it over with as soon as possible. Then I could get back to reporting the real financial news, writing stories about the changing shape of the American economy and making predictions about upcoming shifts in employment trends. The types of stories I'd studied and worked hard at for years to make a name for myself with this paper.
I spent the next few hours in my office, doing research and making phone calls. I always believe in being thorough in my work, so I researched all the major news on Masterson, going back ten years to the day he was first draft pick out of college, on through his rise as a major sports star, and up to the more recent news about his financial windfalls. Jim had been right about one thing: there was really no financial news on Masterson. There were some reports listing him among the top ten highest paid athletes in the NFL, with a few mentions here and there about his investments and the money he'd made on Wall Street. But all the reports were written by sports page reporters, who focused on his skills at the game, and only mentioned his wealth as a side note.
Once I had enough information to begin building a foundation for my story, I picked up the phone and called the PR office for Masterson's team. When someone answered I put on my most professional tone and said, “Hello, this is Jane Edison with The Dawson Post's Finance and Economics page. I'd like to set up an interview with one of your players, Hal Masterson.”
“Did you say finance and economics?” the woman asked me. Her tone sounded like she was as doubtful about this story as I was.
“That's right,” I said. “We'd like to do a profile on Mr. Masterson, in light of his recent financial success. Talk to him about his investment strategies, how he managed so much success, that sort of thing.”
“Hold on a moment.” The woman set the phone down, though I could hear muted voices coming through the line, as if she were whispering with someone nearby. After a minute she picked up the phone again and said, “I'm sorry, Ms. Edison, but I'm afraid the finance pages aren't really the sort of publicity we're looking for.”
“But—”
“I'm sorry,” she said again, cutting me off. “Thank you for your interest. Have a nice day.”
She hung up on me and I sat there, staring at my phone, a scowl forming on my lips. I didn't want to do this stupid story anyway, but I wasn't about to let this woman just dismiss me like that. I was going to find a way to talk to Masterson, no matter what it took.
I thought about how to proceed. I had some colleagues who had done crazy things to get interviews with sports stars, from stalking them at their homes to sneaking into the locker room after a game, pretending to be a towel boy. That sort of thing wasn't quite my style, however. I needed to approach this from the same angle I was approaching my story: the finance angle.
I smirked as the idea came to me. I looked through my notes until I found the name of one of the companies Masterson had invested in. He had a large number of shares in a company called Jonas General Merchandise Suppliers. GMS had started as a small, family-owned business before their smart online practices and their innovative marketing campaign, which blended social media, video advertising, and traditional marketing strategies, had launched them into a nationwide powerhouse. According to my research, Masterson had first invested in them because he had gone to school with one of the Jonas kids, who now, ten years later, sat on the executive board of their company. There was a connection that I could exploit in order to get my interview.
I located a phone number for Jonas GMS and told their PR representative that I wanted to do a story on their company's rise from a family business to a major corporation. They were only too eager to agree. I jotted down all of the details in my notebook and made the arrangements, then thanked them and hung up the phone.
I looked at the appointment notes and grinned. I'd be able to get a real financial story for my pages by interviewing someone from GMS, and at the same time I'd have the chance to milk them for a connection to Masterson. It was like getting two stories for the price of one.
* * *
My interview with Brett Jonas went smooth as can be. I got all kinds of information about their business, how they got started, and what they had done to grow into such a successful corporation. Masterson's investment had been a big part of their growth; he had dumped millions into the company with the money he'd made playing football, and they had used that money to expand the company and grow to new heights. It hadn't been tough to get Brett talking about Masterson and his role as an investor. Towards the end of the interview, I subtly slipped in the question that had been my real reason for coming here.
“So I know Hal Masterson is a big football star and all, but you say he's still involved with the company?”
“Yes,” Brett said. She was a pleasant woman, with long brown hair and a bit of baby fat still showing around her cheeks. “He's one of our primary shareholders. He doesn't get directly involved in things, of course. But he still has votes at shareholder meetings.”
“Do you think he'd be interested in speaking with me?” I asked, trying to keep myself from smiling too much and giving away my little game. “What with his sports fame and all, a few quotes from him about your company could be a nice way to draw in more readers. Make sure the story gets the attention it deserves.”
“Oh, that sounds like a great idea!” Brett said.
We chatted a bit longer, and Brett promised to contact Masterson personally and ask him to do the interview. I gave her my card and she told me she'd give Hal my number.
Now all I had to do was wait.
A few days later, Hal called me. As soon as I answered the phone, I could tell this guy was too full of himself.
“So,” he said after we made our greetings, “Brett tells me you'd like to do a story about me?”
“Actually,” I said, “the story is about Jonas GMS. But I think your input would be invaluable, considering your history of involvement with the company.” That was a lie, of course. I needed the interview with Hal himself in order to satisfy my editor. But I figured it would be easier to get the information I needed if I played it cool and pretended that Hal wasn't my real goal.
“Ahh,” he said. “Well, that's nice. Brett's a good friend. We were almost a little more than friends, if you know what I mean.”
I rolled my eyes, glad he couldn't see the disgusted look on my face. He was probably the sort of man who always had women fawning all over him. He no doubt thought he was God's gift and that he could get any woman he wanted. Not that I expected him to be interested in a girl like me. He probably dated supermodels. I was a big girl, and while I was comfortable with my weight and confident that I could be both big and sexy at the same time, I knew that some superficial types of men couldn't see past a girl's waistline and realize what a catch she was. My ex certainly hadn't been able to.
“Is this something we can do over the phone?” Hal asked.
“Actually, I'd prefer to meet in person.” Meeting in person meant I could corner Hal into answering whatever questions I needed without him being able to simply hang up on me. And I wasn't planning on being nice in my interview or catering to his stardom.
“Maybe we can do it over dinner?” he offered. “I know a quiet place where we can meet. Nice and private.”
I rolled my eyes. Was this guy really trying to turn our interview into a date?
“I'd prefer a more professional setting,” I told him.
“All right,” he said. “We're playing in Philly next week. We can meet at the hotel, in one of the conference rooms. How's that sound?”
“That sounds perfect.”
We ironed out the details and arranged a time to meet. I'd have the next week to keep digging up whatever I could on Hal Masterson. If there had ever been any dirty dealings or insider trading going on in his past, I planned to find out about it. I doubted that a football player could have become a billionaire without breaking some kind of rules, and if there was any kind of scandal to be uncovered, it would make this story more worthwhile. I just had to do my homework and dig up whatever dirt I could find.
* * *
I arrived at the hotel bundled up in the heaviest coat I owned, a thick scarf wrapped around my face. The snow had started early that morning, and the roads were already slick by the time I pulled into the parking garage. I was hoping that the bridges wouldn't be closed before I finished with the interview. If they closed both the Ben Franklin and the Walt Whitman, I'd be stuck in the city overnight.
I took the elevator up to the ground floor and spoke to someone behind the front desk. They sent me to the conference room Hal had reserved for us. It was big enough to hold a board meeting in, with a long wooden table surrounded by more than a dozen chairs. Far more than we needed for the interview, but it would do.
Hal kept me waiting almost half an hour before he showed up. Apparently big football stars didn't have to worry about being on time. He strolled in like he had all the time in the world, hands in his pockets, a bit of a swagger to his step. He was wearing a silk shirt and pants that had probably cost more money than I made in a week. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing a few tribal tattoos on his arms. I'd never seen a billionaire with tattoos before. It made me wonder if Bill Gates had any.