Love Easy

by Roe Valentine

  “Just no?” Her knees locked, and her hands balled at her hips. She may as well have been on her knees. “Don’t I get a chance?”

  “You do get a chance,” Mr. Chapel said, still impassive. He truly had her fate in his hands. With one word, she could be out on the street.

  “How?” She didn’t like the way he toyed with her. She would rather he fire her than make her believe he was doing her some sort of favor.

  “Well, I’m letting you keep your job. Have new weather copy for me before lunch. We can run the report in the late edition.”

  Jeez, thanks. Did he think he did her a favor? Norma would have loved to address his “favor” but knew she’d better quit while she was ahead. Her head hung in defeat…again. Ugh! How did that man make her relent twice in nearly a week? Anyone who knew her well knew that was an impossible task. Yet, Mr. Chapel succeeded like a champ. Twice.

  She didn’t know what else to do but quietly thank him. She turned away, feeling the weight of his stare on her back. He probably scrutinized her.

  “Norma,” he called just as she reached for the door knob.

  Turning, she found his face softened, and the light gleamed in his glossy eyes. Her heart stopped.

  “I don’t have a problem with women, by the way.” His voice was soft—human—and unlike the voice she’d become accustomed to.

  Taken aback by his words, she might actually like him in that moment and not just because of the pleasing-to-the-eye part. His curved lips parted for a brief moment and then closed. Did he have more to say? Nodding, she turned again and put the door between them.

  Darn him.

  She returned to her desk, feeling a little relieved she wouldn’t be canned, again. How many times could she push him until he’d have enough of her shenanigans? Did keeping her job even matter? The thought she may never be a serious reporter under Henry Chapel disheartened her. Could she ever be anything under Henry Chapel? It all made her uneasy; especially since she wasn’t convinced she only referred to crime reporting.

  “He thinks you’re the cat’s pajamas,” Ingrid whispered once Norma returned to her desk. Ingrid’s bright red lipstick stained her front tooth. She always managed to eat some lip color.

  Norma considered the statement just to dismiss it straight away. Henry Chapel, interested in me? No, she clearly wasn’t his type. She was too…mouthy, and from what she’d heard, Henry Chapel liked his women silent, willing, and able.

  And being a total Sheba didn’t hurt either, which Norma wasn’t—probably the least of what she was. A Sheba didn’t wear hand-me-downs, and they knew the intricacies of applying kohl liner and rouge, which Norma didn’t know the first thing about.

  “Mary Harper said he’s made an art of necking.” Ingrid giggled, bringing her glove-clad hand to her mouth, and inadvertently wiped the red from her tooth. Mary Harper had worked as a secretary for a season at the Daily, Mr. Lawson’s favor to his bored niece. Of course once she realized using her brain was involved, she quit and returned to her Hampton’s vacation spot.

  Norma imagined Mr. Chapel necking. He certainly had the lips for it. She recalled his lips curled around the cigar before he took a long drag. He probably was good at kissing and other things, she mused. Everything south of her belly button clenched up.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to know,” Norma lied. She pressed her knees together with the mere thought of his lips kissing hers. Her brain flip-flopped, and she took great lengths to repress all inappropriate thoughts of the Big Cheese.

  Ingrid snorted, probably knowing Norma was full of it.

  “I have to see a man about a dog on Friday.” Ingrid lowered her voice, her large sapphire eyes shifted around the room to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Want to come?”

  “Oh, you know I just can’t. I wash my hair on Fridays. I’ve also been thinking about getting a bob,” Norma lied again, groaning at her pathetic excuse.

  Alcohol-talk made her uncomfortable. She had been goody-two-shoes about following Prohibition and earned the nickname Too Dry Two Shoes. She really hated that. When did it become against the law to follow the rules?

  “You’re not cutting your long beautiful hair, and you know it.” Ingrid shook her head, the level-with-me-Norma look on her face. “I’m having a shindig and need a little hooch…”

  “Where?” Norma asked after about twenty seconds of debating, which wasn’t long for the matter at hand. The idea of being in a speakeasy made her nervous. She was like a fish out of water in a place like that.

  “It’s a little place west of downtown that’s totally Jake and underground,” Ingrid explained with enthusiasm. Then she added, “It’s that Al fella’s place.”

  “Al?”

  “Yeah, he gets hooch for private parties and the Jazzy Cat Club. You know the one that Clara Bow goes to when she’s in town. I took you there once, remember?” Her eyes squinted. “Capone. That’s his last name. He’s kind of a dark fellow you know, psychologically, but he delivers the gin straight from the bathtub. He and his rum-runner goons keep us anti-prohibitionists very saucy.” She didn’t take a single breath as she spoke in lightning speed, throwing her head back in a full-bellied laugh. Perhaps Ingrid had imbibed in a little bathtub gin with breakfast.

  “Sounds like a gay time,” Norma said, though half sarcastically. No argument that she needed a good time.

  Chapter Three

  The Chicago Daily News reveled in a successful week. Mr. Chapel had a staff meeting each morning to report sales of the previous day, and for the first week of his arrival, sales had increased by fifty percent. The workforce was especially upbeat and hopeful. It would appear the paper would survive after all. Mr. Chapel was good at his job, and no one could say otherwise, not even Norma.

  After the Friday meeting, the group dissipated throughout the room like pigeons on the Navy Pier, and Mr. Chapel returned to his office, shutting the door behind him as usual.

  Norma sat hard in her chair, wondering why Mr. Chapel hadn’t singled her out like he had nearly every day since her arrived. Did she like the attention—his attention? Maybe he wasn’t that bad after all? Obviously, he cared about the newspaper…or maybe he just cared about saving the Chicago Daily News for the bragging rights alone and winning another Pulitzer. Would he leave once he accomplished the task? That didn’t sit well with her for some reason.

  “You carry a torch for Henry Chapel, don’t you?” Ingrid asked Norma, almost reading her mind.

  The question was frank, as she’d expect from Ingrid. What she didn’t expect was the effect it had on her. Someone voiced what she might have been feeling, and it was unsettling to hear outside of her own mind. “What? Nonsense!” Norma’s shrill voice drew the attention of other reporters nearby.

  Perhaps her reaction was a telltale sign that Ingrid wasn’t off the mark, but she couldn’t let that be known. Not when she quite despised Mr. Chapel and his poor employee relations, particularly in the female department. But still, there was something about him that made her heart flutter. She missed his attention, even if it was to embarrass her.

  She shifted in her seat, yanking at the too small dress. The top button hadn’t cooperated all day and had come close to popping off more times than she could count on both hands.

  Ingrid’s eyes narrowed—always such a skeptic.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” Norma gained control of her body. “I can’t stand him…he’s…insufferable.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The accusatory glare made it hard for Norma to keep her feelings under wraps.

  “I’m not in the least bit interested in Mr. Chapel. He’s the boss and not a very nice one at that.” Norma’s words stumbled over her tongue, and the whole time she fidgeted with the top button of her dress. Darn Ingrid and her prying eyes.

  Norma smoothed stray hairs back into the old-fashion chignon knotted at the nape of her neck. The silence brought attention to her actions, whether it was smoothing her hair or fiddling with that darned butto
n. None of that escaped Ingrid’s all-knowing stare.

  “Well, I hope you can contain your bubs better tonight at the Jazzy Cat. We have to put on the Ritz if we want to snag a rich husband,” Ingrid teased, her gaze glossed over the straining material attached to the loose button.

  Norma laughed, tugging again on the uncooperative dress.

  Turning back to her typewriter, she wondered what creative weather report she would come up with today. Mr. Chapel hadn’t said anything about her Thursday report, Chicagoans should be glad Mother Nature is not unpredictable like a greedy mob boss. So, dear ladies and gentlemen, wear your coats again. The snow is expected to fall hard like bullets from a Tommy gun.

  What was she trying to prove with the reports? What did she really want to get out of him? Conflicted didn’t begin to describe what she felt.

  In the midst of her musings, a loud slam followed by Mr. Chapel’s growl boomed over the sounds of the printing press.

  “I will not have a paper riddled with typos!” He stormed from the room with resident typesetter John Davis at his heels.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” John stood at the edge of the press room floor.

  “Sorry won’t sell papers, son,” Mr. Chapel said.

  Norma frowned. Mr. Chapel was at least ten years younger than John.

  “It won’t happen again.” John twisted up his face as he tried to ignore the snickering reporters at their desks.

  Norma didn’t like this one bit. She was reminded why she went as far as she did. It was about employee relations. That is why she continued to bust Mr. Chapel’s chops.

  She glanced over to Ingrid who stared wide-eyed, watching the heat of Mr. Chapel’s anger ripple through the room. Norma sighed heavily, her heart sped up three fold, and the urge to jump in weighed on her mind. Still, she sat silently while the conversation continued.

  “You’re damn right this won’t happen again.” Mr. Chapel tossed a freshly printed newspaper.

  John barely dodged it.

  That was it. Norma wouldn’t stand for that disrespect.

  She stood, her hands planted on her hips. “Well, Mr. Chapel, if you didn’t have everyone in here scared to death with your tyrannical ways, maybe mistakes wouldn’t be made.” Her voice was well above a normal speaking volume, and no mistake she said every word.

  Silence.

  The room was so silent the air drifting through could be heard. Mr. Chapel’s breathing could be heard. Norma’s breathing could be heard, too, and though she wished she’d kept her mouth shut, she wasn’t sorry she spoke up.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Chapel’s voice dropped an octave.

  Now was not the time to bust his chops.

  She couldn’t stop now, though. She’d started that train and had to follow through.

  “Yes, that’s right. If you weren’t so demanding, we might be doing a better job.” Her voice was lower this time, and shaky. Her hands shook, too.

  “I would speak for yourself, Miss Hill,” he said carefully, though nothing was careful about the glint in his eyes. He was sufficiently peeved.

  Silence.

  The reporters’ gazes shifted from the other side of typewriters between Norma and Mr. Chapel. John appeared relieved the spotlight was off him.

  Norma stood, firmly planted against the floor or else she’d fall over. Her heart pounded against her chest, and a small voice in the back of her head chastised her for taking it too far this time. The beef had nothing to do with her, but she didn’t appreciate the way Mr. Chapel spoke to John and embarrassed him to boot. No one deserved that, not even a typesetter.

  “What are you suggesting, Mr. Chapel? My weather reports aren’t up to par?”

  “I’m saying it’s a good thing sales aren’t dependent on your weather reports.” His nostrils flared like Victorian skirts, though he didn’t move toward her.

  She bit down on her lip, the reality hitting her like a ton a bricks. She really should apologize and sit. But she continued with mindless words. “John’s typesetting has played a part in increasing sales.”

  Mr. Chapel snorted, tossing a look at John, who slunk toward the doorframe of the printing press room. “Why don’t you worry about improving your weather reporting skills, and I’ll worry about everything else.” He was so darn cool and collected. He didn’t say anything else, just walked with graceful arrogance into his office, closing the door behind him.

  Norma released the breath she held, now feeling like a spectacle. The reporters flashed disapproving glances her way. Apparently she was alone in wanting Mr. Chapel to improve his employee relations. She looked to her sweating hands, now clasped in front of her dress, which nearly unraveled during her confrontation.

  “Jeez, Norma,” Ingrid squealed, eyes still wide. “You really should stop instigating Mr. Chapel. He’s going to can you one of these days.”

  She didn’t reply, only sat her trembling body in her chair, wondering what would be the last straw.

  ****

  The day had finally come to an end, and Henry needed a stiff drink. Not just to celebrate his successful first week at the Daily, but also to realign the receptors in his brain, especially after dealing with a tiny Miss Hill. What a rough start. He sighed, looking at the exhausted man gazing back at him in the reflection of his office window. Many would be surprised to know that firing more than half of the workforce was not easy for him. To the contrary of popular belief, he disliked letting people go. But he learned many years ago, it was a strong motivator. It was his father’s personal belief—Leonard Chapel, the shrewd bastard. When employees are made to believe they are expendable, by intimidation or otherwise, they’ll work harder.

  Unfortunately, the reporters who were canned were pinned by Lawson Publishing before Henry arrived; he was just the bearer of bad news. The horror on the faces of the women and few men he fired still haunted him. He still hadn’t become desensitized to it after all these years. Perhaps he was soft, as his father accused every chance he got.

  Henry ran his fingers though his hair and sighed again. A lot was riding on if he could save the Daily. A lot of livelihoods were at stake, and it could be the end of his career if he failed. His father would sure get a kick out of that failure. Bastard. He’d be working at Chapel and Schnell Commodities in a flash as his father urged him to do since he graduated from Harvard—he was not about to do that. He’d have to make the Daily profitable again at all cost.

  The snow had stopped, a good sign he should head home. Gathering his wool coat, he took one more look at the old girl, Chicago, from his window. His steps echoed in the vast office as he passed the doorjamb into the empty press room. All the reporters had gone home, and the printing press was shut down until the late night crew printed the early edition. The room was bright with the buzzing lights suspended from the ceiling. Some coats were left behind, as were water glasses left on desks. Some desks were peppered with ashes from pressed out cigarettes.

  His stare lingered for a moment over Norma Hill’s desk. He frowned. Though she had eased up on her antics—unfortunately not her sassy mouth—he still didn’t know what to do with her. It would seem she wanted to take on the average man’s woes and take them on as her own. Why else would she stand up for a careless typesetter?

  A sparkle caught his eye as he glossed over the neat desk; he had expected it to be a disaster. To his surprise, it was organized to perfection. A small silver art deco frame sat near the metal typewriter. Because curiosity got the best of him, he drew closer to it. He picked up the cold, ornate frame in one swoop, staring at the man in a tidy suit and top hat with a stoic expression. He needed to know who the man was. It shouldn’t have mattered. Something about her kept him wondering. Thinking. She occupied a large portion of his mind lately. He didn’t like how she made him feel.

  “That’s my grandfather.” Norma appeared from nowhere.

  The frame nearly slipped from his fingers, but thank God it didn’t. He put it down with finesse, like he tried to do everything.
He commented with complete control, “I can see the resemblance.”

  Her eyes softened for a split second as she looked at the picture, then hardened again.

  He wanted to see her soft eyes again. Something about seeing her outside of work hours made his heart thump. She looked…different.

  Her eyes flickered as she snatched the frame and placed it back perfectly where it was before. Scowling, she looked up at him.

  He towered over her quite a bit, and he probably also stood a bit too close.

  “Why are you going through my desk?” She crossed her arms as she stepped back to put space between them.

  Probably good that she did since being so close to her made his heart race faster.

  “I hardly call picking up a picture frame going through your desk, Miss Hill.”

  From the glint in her eyes, she didn’t care for his tone. He wasn’t surprised though, she always had that look when he spoke.

  “Who knows what else you would’ve done had I not returned for my coat.”

  Why were their interactions always so hostile? He wanted to be civil, but she made it difficult. She was so…angry. He really should have fired her that first day when she stormed into his office.

  “You don’t like me much, do you?” Better to be blunt than skirt around the obvious.

  Her eyes bulged.

  She jumped. Maybe she would finally level with him. Why he needed to know the answer was far beyond him. After all, he didn’t need his employees to like him. Actually, he’d rather they didn’t. His stomach fluttered as he awaited her response.

  “I respect what you are doing for the Chicago Daily News, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She hugged herself, making a perfect “x” over her bosom.

  His gaze followed the lines of her bare forearms, drinking in the silky, porcelain skin stretched taut over delicate bones. She had perfect skin.

  The assaulting lights above buzzed. He considered what she said, and though he appreciated that she had noticed, a method existed to his madness. He still had to wonder what else peeved her about him.