“Did you hear about Rossetti’s office?” the staffer asked.
Ever on the lookout for news, Julia stopped washing her hands and strained her ear to the door.
“Oh, that business about tax fraud? Is that true?”
A chuckle could be overheard. “I can’t confirm or deny. But don’t be surprised if you see something in the papers soon.”
Something else was said, but it was too muffled for Julia to make out. She leaned on the bathroom door and it jiggled. The men must’ve heard her, because footsteps quickly fell away and down the tiled corridor. Julia had emerged, stunned. Was Mayor Rossetti being investigated for tax fraud? Could she have an exclusive story?
Miller was now rattling on, but Julia was too distracted. Her mind raced. If only she’d had more time to follow up, to gather her sources, whatever she’d overheard had the potential to be a big scoop. The cocktail party hadn’t been too long ago, and she’d intended to sniff out the truth of what she’d overheard.
Only she hadn’t, and unfortunately, the only thing she had to base her claim on was idle party gossip.
“And we’re back,” a voice from the control room signaled.
Julia’s head swiveled as the assistant’s words came over her earpiece. Suddenly, there was Rossetti’s large face, hovering on the screen before her.
“Good morning, Mayor Rossetti.” Miller was already laying it on thick, swapping toothy smiles with his guest. “How nice to see you.”
“Thanks for having me, Miller and Julia. I’m a big fan of the show.” His plump cheeks pushed back into a greeting.
Julia nodded with a tight smile.
Miller beamed. “Why, thank you. It’s an honor.”
“The honor is all mine.”
Oh, for god’s sake, Julia steamed. The men were wasting valuable airtime fluffing one another up. If Miller doesn’t get into it soon, I’m jumping in.
“You’re nearing your one-year anniversary as New York City’s mayor. Your State of the City address is going to be delivered next week. Can you give our viewers a hint at the status of things?”
“Why, yes. I’m looking forward to celebrating the accomplishments our city has achieved as well as previewing the year ahead and what’s in store for revamping parts of downtown.”
“The city has a lot to celebrate. From what I understand, we’re seeing a record low for homelessness. Isn’t that right?” Miller asked.
“Yes, that’s right, Miller.” Rossetti’s chest puffed slightly. “In just one short year, I’ve brought together various leaders and businesses to address what is a very big problem in our community. The system isn’t perfect, but I’m hopeful for more progress in the future.”
Miller nodded and glanced briefly at his notes. “You’ve started a campaign to collect private dollars to build more housing for the city’s homeless. How’s that going?”
Julia’s ears pricked up. Money.
“Yes, that’s true. My office has been facilitating this campaign. But we’re also working with several nonprofits to handle aspects of this new program. It’s a team effort, after all.”
“Mayor Rossetti,” Julia jumped in. “Which agency is collecting and distributing the funds for the program?” She couldn’t resist. Miller was practically leading her down the path. If she didn’t take her opportunity now, then she might not get another one. These guys were going to do nothing more than slap one another on the back for the next five minutes, and then the interview would be over.
“Where are you going with this, Julia?” The producer’s voice came over her earpiece with a distinct tone of caution.
“Who’s handling the funds?” The mayor repeated her question, his expression quizzical. Julia swore his ruddy color turned a shade deeper. She watched as his lips parted, closed, then parted again.
“Yes, does your office handle the donations?” she pressed.
Again, her earpiece buzzed. “Julia.”
She ignored her producer’s second warning and fixed her focus on the screen.
“Oh no.” Rossetti averted his gaze and shook his head. “Like I said, we’re working with businesses in the nonprofit sector. My office is merely facilitating.”
Miller kicked her hard with the toe of his loafer under the desk. Julia winced but ignored the painful warning.
“Is that because—”
“What my colleague is trying to say, Mayor Rossetti”—Miller’s eyes flashed with abhorrence as he pitched forward to interrupt; Julia caught the muscles of his jaw tightening before he continued—“is that you’ve taken on a lot of responsibility only one year into your term. You’ve been able to get a lot of people working together in such a short amount of time.”
“Thank you.” A strained smile returned. “Yes, we work hard around here. I’ve got a great team. And we live in a great city. It’s the best city!”
He’s covering something up, Julia thought. She just had to jump back in and find out what. She parted her lips to speak.
“Julia!” her producer hissed into her ear. “Let Miller take it from here.”
Julia scowled. She knew her boss was more than annoyed. But it was a risk she was willing to take. This could be breaking news.
Her producer didn’t know what she knew. None of them did. It was the kind of information that would keep viewers in their seats, their eyes glued to the screen. If Julia could pull this off, she might secure that spot on the evening news after all. She had to try.
Julia’s gaze flicked to the digital clock on the wall. Three short minutes to go until the segment ended. And then they’d lose Rossetti. Adrenaline coursed through her veins; her heart thumped against her rib cage. If she was going to do this, it had to be now. There wasn’t any time to analyze. No time to ask for a break and bring her producer up to speed. They had a potentially juicy story right there in the palms of their hands, and Miller wasn’t going to stifle her.
Your viewers just aren’t staying engaged. They’re tuning out. McBride’s harsh words from yesterday’s meeting echoed in Julia’s mind. She’d practically been given an ultimatum: produce something big or step aside.
She had to make a decision. It was now or never.
“Mayor Rossetti,” she broke in. Her breath was suddenly shallow. “Is it true that your office is being investigated for tax fraud? That you’ve been accused of mishandling state funds?”
The teleprompter wobbled.
Everyone froze. The room fell quiet. Both Rossetti and Miller looked on with gaping mouths. Julia’s remarks were met with utter disbelief.
After a beat, she heard her coanchor suck in his breath. Miller was at a loss for words. It was in that instant that Julia realized she’d made a terrible mistake. She hadn’t any proof or evidence to back up her accusation. And Rossetti wasn’t about to admit his crimes to a lowly newscaster who was obviously bluffing.
Now what?
She swallowed and waited for Rossetti to form an answer. She suddenly had the nauseating feeling of time standing still and her entire future crumbling down around her. There on the screen in front of her was a purple-faced man of great power and influence, whom she’d just accused of a crime on national television with no evidence to support it.
There was no taking this back.
“Julia,” Rossetti uttered through gritted teeth. “I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but that is false. For the record, I am not being investigated for any such thing, and you, I’m afraid, are the victim of salacious gossip. And because of that, I can’t continue this interview or support the integrity of this network. I have to say goodbye.”
A high-pitched ringing flooded Julia’s ears.
Rossetti ripped his mic from his jacket lapel, shoved his chair backward, and stormed off camera. The air went dead and Daybreak immediately went to commercial. There was more commotion in her ear as Julia registered profanities and the sound of something being thrown in the control room. Out of self-preservation, she removed her earpiece and ba
cked away from her desk. The floor under her feet felt as if it had dropped away, leaving her dangerously in limbo. It was clear things were on the edge of going from bad to worse.
“Holy shit, Julia! What have you done?” Miller gaped at her, all color draining from his face as he appeared genuinely afraid. His hands flew to his hair, suggesting he might rip it out.
Julia’s mind blanked. A swirl of McBride’s threats and Miller’s outbursts filled her brain. The only thing she could focus on was the sheet of sweat blanketing her body. “I . . . I didn’t want to let the opportunity slip away. I heard from a source that his office—”
“What source? What are you talking about?” He stopped her stammering, new rage coming to the surface. “You can’t just break a story like that, something of that magnitude, on a show we do together, without telling anyone. You just accused the mayor of New York City of tax fraud. What the hell, Julia? Is it even true? Because we’re all screwed if it’s not!”
Julia blinked back the stinging in her eyes and dropped her head into her hands. With the full weight of what she’d done bearing down on her, she became acutely aware that her career had just officially come to an end.
Riding in the back seat of an Uber an hour later, Julia placed her forehead against the cool glass and watched the GBN building fade into the distance. It had all happened so fast. A piece of her had been left inside that building, and she wondered how she’d manage to get it back.
Her exit had been a nightmare. After being lectured and then accused of perpetuating “fake news” by her boss and summarily ordered to vacate the premises until further notice, Julia had packed her things and left. There’d been just enough time to snatch a few belongings from her desk, say goodbye to members of her team, and hustle out among a din of whispers and empathetic murmurs.
In a single act of foolish impulse, she’d allowed poor judgment to dismantle everything she’d worked so hard to achieve. She had no hope of gaining it back.
Julia sank farther into the seat and lamented. The clouds had drifted back over the city and drizzled once more. Her driver said something about the never-ending rain, but Julia ignored him.
All she heard was the white noise of panic filling her ears.
Instinctively, she reached into her pocket and retrieved her phone. She scrolled through her list of contacts with a shaky hand. When the screen displayed James’s face and phone number, she paused.
It was midday. He’d be working, no doubt with frantic issues of his own. Nobody rested in the hedge fund business. Especially James. However, he might have already seen something about her disastrous morning online. If that were the case, he’d most assuredly expect her to call.
And she should phone him. Shouldn’t she?
Julia stared a second longer. For some reason, she was unable to make her finger hit the call button. Thinking of how James might react, visualizing his concern morphing into potential disappointment, she felt a kind of hollowness move in and take up residence just behind her heart. Glumly, she swiped past his name and kept going.
The next name she landed on was the one she chose. It wasn’t planned, but it felt right. Like coming across a beloved blanket that had been tucked away in a closet for far too long. Instinctually, she yearned to retrieve it now. Julia hesitated for only a fraction of an instant before she dialed the number. As it rang, she calculated the time difference in Arizona. But she also didn’t care.
She just needed to talk to her sister.
CHAPTER THREE
GINNY
Ginny stood under a small shade tent and scrutinized a display of heirloom tomatoes. Inhaling, she caught the fragrant aroma of ripe fruit just off the vine. Her eyes fluttered closed. Sometimes there was nothing better than fresh produce.
Thanks to an unwanted phone call, she’d gotten up early enough to catch the outdoor market just after it opened. Being there was both an indulgence and a necessity. If anything, it took her mind off the call she’d ignored from her younger sister. It had been three years since they’d really talked, and the last thing Ginny wanted to do was pick up where they’d left off. No, she was more interested in spending her free time seeking out the perfect ingredients for her menu.
There wasn’t any room for unwelcome distractions.
The variety in the growing season would normally be limited this time of year. But today, during the weekday market, she was in luck. A rainbow of vegetables was spread out before her: deep yellows, rich and traditional reds, tucked in with vivid greens and oranges. Each tomato boasted a different size and shape. The lumpy ones were the best; they added more texture and interest to the plate. They made each dish unique.
Unique was what Ginny was after.
Bloodred and still covered with a thin veil of dusty earth, the assortment at this stand appeared to be the best selection at the farmers’ market. She’d come often enough to know which vendors to skip over entirely. Some had handwritten signs propped up, requesting that customers not handle the produce before buying. That wasn’t for her. She supposed she understood a farmer’s need to protect inventory from overzealous shoppers who fondled the food too roughly. But Ginny wanted to get up close and personal with everything before it made its way into her basket.
She wholeheartedly believed it was important to study her ingredients before adding them to a recipe. In many ways, her work was as much science as it was art. To both crafts, she was equally devoted.
Plucking a tomato that she recognized as a Brandywine variety, Ginny delicately rolled it in her fingers. Next she tipped it over. She tended to judge value by the level of darkness that lay on the underside. Glancing into the distance, she paused to recall the requirements of a specific recipe. In the process, a nearby bin from another vendor caught her eye. It was loaded with squash the color of butter. She made a mental note to grab those next.
“How much, Andy?” Ginny asked, holding out the tomato and leaning over to catch the farmer’s attention. Having been a local now for three years, she’d become friendly with the growers in the region. She frequented the farmers’ markets often, sometimes spending whole weekends hunting for the perfect produce.
A young man strolled over. “For you, Ginny? Three ninety-nine per pound.”
Ginny let out a low whistle. “Geez, they’ve gone up. Haven’t they?” She had the urge to haggle; this wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. If she’d been back in New York, with her usual bunch of tough vendors, her ruthless side would have quickly emerged. But this wasn’t the city. It was a close-knit community. Andy had a family to feed back home, so she refrained.
Andy pushed a worn trucker’s hat back against his head of damp curls. He dragged a checkered shirtsleeve across his forehead. Ginny felt sorry for him, standing there for hours with the sun at his back. The Arizona heat was full-on that morning. It had been an unnaturally warm winter so far, and they were all feeling the effects.
Andy replaced his hat and shrugged. “End of the season. We’re planting more in the greenhouse, but you know how it goes. These are good, though. I promise.”
Ginny stuck a hand into her jeans pocket and touched a thin fold of bills. She hesitated. A pebble of doubt materialized in her gut. Money was running low this month. It was a luxury, and possibly even a risk, to spend so much on a single produce item. But she needed the ingredients for a certain recipe. The prudent thing would be to make a compromise.
Ginny did a lot of things well, but compromising wasn’t one of them.
“Okay. If you promise . . .” She met Andy’s eye and paid in cash.
As her change was counted out, Ginny’s mind skipped to the credit card she’d hidden in the freezer the night before. Somewhere tucked behind the box of frozen peas was her maxed-out Visa, secured neatly in a plastic bag. It was necessary to keep it out of easy access, and frozen peas were just about the last thing she’d reach for in her kitchen, reserved for stubbed toes and twisted ankles only. She couldn’t afford to rack up any more debt. Things were just to
o tight.
She hoped Olive wouldn’t discover what she’d done. Additional tension between the two of them was the last thing she needed, and she didn’t want to argue over money.
With the tomatoes secured in her basket, she made for the group of squash displayed next door. Squash was a great winter vegetable, a versatile starch that added color to the plate. A puree came to mind as she moved toward them.
Easing around a confused-looking woman, Ginny reached for one that caught her eye.
“How do you know which one to pick?” the woman asked as she turned to Ginny with a face full of curiosity. Ginny’s gaze flicked momentarily to the sequined sandals and pale legs sticking out from under a pair of excessively bright Bermuda shorts.
Tourist, Ginny thought.
Her eyes went up to the large-brimmed straw hat that was almost the size of a small umbrella. East Coast, most likely. “Snowbirds” were what the locals called them, the droves of travelers renting high-priced vacation homes in order to escape frigid temperatures and dry out for the winter.
Ginny didn’t blame the woman. Trading East Coast weather for the Sonoran Desert was understandable. She’d done the same thing. Never mind that it hadn’t exactly been a vacation, or planned for that matter.
There was so much more that came with Arizona besides the weather. It took Ginny a long while to recognize this, considering the cross-country move home hadn’t been her choice. Her return had been out of obligation, and along with it had come deep grief and anger. Arizona wasn’t where she’d planned to wind up, but over time this sentiment had begun to fade, and she’d come to terms with the hand that she’d been dealt. Had come to enjoy this place and the serenity it offered, if she was honest.
The desert offered a certain sense of tranquility. All that natural beauty she’d forgotten about—the way the evenings magically morphed into stunning sorbet-colored sunsets and how spectacular shadows traversed the mountainous landscape during a storm. Looking back, Ginny supposed she’d been too jaded when she’d first arrived home. Her unease over relocating had made her unable to take in the raw beauty and the vastness of the landscape. Slowly, as things began to settle, the atmosphere eventually offered Ginny a certain level of peace. She’d never experienced anything like it in the city. And now that she was here, despite some unwanted hardships, she appreciated her environment. Mostly.
The Second Chance Supper Club Page 2
