Stories from around the world poured into the office through computerized wire services while editors sorted through reams of information and argued about whether children starving in Uganda was a better lead story for the World News section than Saddam Hussein’s latest threat against American armed forces. Whatever was deemed worthy of writing was passed on to the other reporters.
It was a powerful job—one where perspective was difficult to maintain. At the Miami Times, editors did not walk in the same hurried fashion as reporters. They sauntered, carrying with them an unmistakable aura of importance and often causing reporters to shrink in their presence.
Except for the editors, Ellen’s peers at the Times generally enjoyed their jobs, thriving on the kind of pressure that causes stress disabilities in other people. Angry sources, missing information, daily deadlines, mistakes in print … the reporters would have taken it all in stride if not for the wrath of the Times’s editors. Among media circles, the Miami Times’s editorial staff had a reputation for being demanding and difficult to work for.
Reporters at the Times credited one man with earning that reputation for the paper: managing editor Ron Barkley.
For three years Barkley had been in charge of the Times’s news desk. Every section of the paper had at some time come under his scrutiny, but he paid particularly close attention to the front section. Stories that made the front section were produced by Barkley’s general assignment reporters, a handful of the papers best writers who gathered and crafted stories that did more than entertain readers. Front-page news changed lives. The real news, Barkley called it.
If anyone knew Barkley’s wrath, or the impossibility of his demands, it was the general assignment reporters. His presence among them had caused more than a little grumbling in the newsroom. Ellen had even heard talk of a union forming to combat what some reporters considered inhumane treatment.
Ellen had once interviewed J. Grantham Howard, the papers owner, for a piece about the Times’s evolution over the years. Howard had acknowledged the friction between Barkley and his staff and told Ellen he kept himself apprised of the situation. Certainly the owner understood that Barkley did not make conditions pleasant for his reporters. But Howard was a multimillionaire with a keen business sense and he readily admitted he was not about to disturb the very successful chemistry in the newsroom.
Howard told Ellen he’d kept a close eye on Barkley and found him to be as brilliant as he was demanding. In the years since Howard had hired the managing editor, circulation numbers had reached more than a million on Sundays and advertisement rates had nearly doubled. The same thing had happened at the paper Barkley had run in New York, and Howard believed the editor was the common denominator. Still, whenever Howard would visit the newsroom, Ellen had seen him cringe at the way Barkley treated the staff. Especially her.
“Barrett!” Barkley would boom across the newsroom on occasion, shoving his chair away from his desk and rising to his full height of six feet, four inches. His eyes would blaze as he pointed toward his computer screen. “Get over here! We can’t run that story unless you verify those things Jenkins told you. You wanna spend the rest of the year in court?”
His voice would echo off the fiberboard walls of the newsroom as other reporters busied themselves in their notes. Ellen knew they were empathizing with her and envying her at the same time. For all the grief she took from Barkley, Ellen knew the position she held at the paper. She’d heard it too often to doubt it: she was unquestionably the Miami Times’s best reporter.
Ellen smiled, and glanced toward Ron Barkley’s office. He drought Ellen feared him much the way her peers did. Her smiled broadened. Poor Ron would have been shocked had he known that his prize reporter really thought he was an emotional kitten of a man, a fifty-six-year-old gentle giant, whose rough exterior was only a cover-up for who he really was inside.
Ellen had been at the paper before Barkley’s arrival. She had moved to Miami four years after earning her journalism degree from the University of Michigan and had been a sportswriter for a year before being promoted to the front page. When the Times hired Barkley, she heard rumors that he was hard to work for. She researched his background and found the names of several reporters who had worked for him in New York.
“Tough as nails,” a senior reporter told her. “He’ll yell and scream and throw a fit until you get the story perfect. But don’t let him fool you.”
And then the man told Ellen a story she had never forgotten. Ten years earlier Barkley’s son had been a bright investigative reporter with a brilliant future in the business. The young man was driving home from the office one night when he was hit head-on by a drunk driver and decapitated. After that, there had been something different about Barkley’s presence in the New York newsroom. He still sounded loud and acted angry, but there were times when he would be reading a story about somebody else’s tragedy and suddenly start coughing.
“I’d catch him swiping at a tear or two when he thought no one was looking,” the reporter said. “Eventually the memories were too much and he needed out of New York.”
“You liked him?”
“I understood him. The man knows the stuff we write about is more than a way to fill a newspaper. Another thing. He’s the best editor you’ll ever work for. Ignore the rough package and listen to him. He’ll make you a better writer than you ever dreamed.”
That had been three years earlier, and Ellen had taken the reporter’s advice to heart. When other writers fought with Barkley, Ellen Barrett gave in. When he demanded, she produced. When he screamed, she produced faster, nodding in agreement and accomplishing all he asked of her. She learned to rely on the man, ignoring his outbursts and allowing him to fine-tune her journalistic talent with each story. As a result, if Barkley got wind of a sensational tip or a front-page lead, he would always pass it to Ellen.
For her part, the effort paid off immensely. She was the highest paid reporter on staff and her name was known throughout Miami. Twice she had worked on Pulitzer-prize-winning articles and she was only thirty-one years old. She had no problem with the fact that the crusty veteran editor credited his editing practices as the cause of her success. Whatever the appearance of their working relationship, Ellen was not looking for sympathy. The situation suited her perfectly.
She flipped through her notepad and considered the homicide story on the screen before her. She wanted to scrap the whole thing and write a story blasting the dead man’s son, painting him as the primary suspect. But that was impossible unless the police were at least headed in that direction. If only they’d arrest him and make it official.
She tapped her pencil on her notepad and wondered whether she should call Ronald Lewis, the sheriff’s homicide investigator. Earlier that morning she’d visited his office and he’d told her there were at least a dozen leads on the case.
“What exactly are you looking for, Lewis?” Ellen had asked impatiently. “The guy’s son did it, and you know it.”
Lewis had studied her thoughtfully for a moment. He trusted her. She was thorough and truthful and careful not to burn her sources, and he knew that. She’d made sure that when someone talked off the record with Ellen Barrett, the information never appeared in print. It had been a long road, but she had earned the department’s respect—and Lewis was no exception. There were things he would tell her that he wouldn’t consider sharing with another reporter.
“Listen, you’re probably right,” he had admitted finally. “But let me make the arrest first, will you?”
That was six hours ago, and now Ellen stared at her story knowing it was noticeably vague and really only half written. She reached for the telephone just as it rang. “It’s about time, Lewis,” she muttered, picking up the receiver. “Miami Times, Ellen Barrett.”
“Ellen, it’s me.”
It was Mike. She relaxed and glanced at her watch. Five-fifteen. He would be home wondering when she was leaving work. Lately their schedules had been hectic; sometime
s weeks passed without a single dinner shared together. But that was the price of being successful reporters, she supposed. The success they both had achieved before they married had continued and grown after the marriage. Mike knew the business well, and so had understood the long hours. He’d even been the one to encourage Ellen to keep her maiden name since that was the name people in the industry knew.
“Hey.” She softened her tone. “How was your day?”
“Ellen … ” There was a long pause. “Ellen, I have bad news. Your dad’s had a heart attack, honey. Your mom wants you to call right away. She’s at the hospital in Petoskey.”
Ellen felt the blood drain from her face and she hunched over in her chair, elbows on her knees, feeling like she’d been punched. A heavy pit formed in her stomach, and she pressed her fists into her midsection in an effort to make it go away. She felt nauseous. Dear God, help me. Deep breaths, Ellen. Take deep breaths and stay calm.
She had expected this phone call for as long as she could remember.
“He’s alive, right?” Her voice betrayed none of what she was feeling.
“Sweetheart, I don’t know anything. Your mom said for you to call her. I think you should come home.”
She was silent a moment and Mike exhaled softly. “I should have waited until you were off work—” He broke off, then, “Are you okay?”
Ellen squeezed her eyes shut. “Yeah. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
Friday was the day Sunday’s front-page stories were filed and approved by the city desk. None of the general assignment reporters dared ask Barkley if they could leave before he cleared their Sunday stories. Even so, Ellen stood up, gathered her purse and her notes, and moved mechanically toward Barkley’s desk.
He looked up as she approached. “What is it, Barrett?” he barked.
“Something’s come up and I need to leave. My story’s finished; it’s in your file. I’ll be at home.”
Ellen studied Barkley, waiting, and she thought she saw a flicker of compassion. Maybe losing his son had enabled Barkley to tell when something equally devastating had happened in another’s life. His response surprised her.
“Fine.” Barkley’s tone was almost gentle. He returned his eyes to the computer screen and stretched his long legs beneath his desk. “I’ll call you.”
Ellen turned, barely aware of her surroundings. She made her way to the elevator, and then to the parking garage outside where she climbed into her dirty, black convertible BMW. Vanity plates on the front and back read, RTNBYEB: “Written By Ellen Barrett.” She switched off the car radio and screeched out of the parking lot, intent only on getting home.
“Please let him live,” she whispered. “Please, God.”
When Ellen pulled into the driveway of the two-story house she and Mike owned near the beach, he was waiting on the porch.
Even masked with deep concern, her husband’s face was strikingly handsome. Marked by masculine angles and high cheekbones, punctuated with piercing pale blue eyes, Mike Miller’s face looked like it belonged in a high-fashion advertisement or a cologne commercial. For some reason it seemed unfair that he should look virile and healthy when her father was fighting for his life eighteen hundred miles away.
“I’m sorry.” He met her halfway down the sidewalk and nervously pulled her close, stroking her hair. “I’ve been praying.”
Ellen remained stiff, unwilling to be comforted. Mike had never known how to deal with the emotional moments in their marriage, and she didn’t want him practicing at a time like this. She refused to allow herself to break down. Her father was sick, but he was alive.
There would be time for tears later.
She pulled away. “I need to get inside and call.”
Mike followed lamely behind her, and as they entered the house he sat on the couch and buried himself in a magazine. As usual, he would let her take care of making the call. Ellen clenched her teeth, but she couldn’t exactly blame Mike. Her father, John Edward Barrett, was fifty-four that year and had undergone triple-bypass surgery the previous summer. Since then he had ignored doctors’ warnings and continued to smoke three packs of unfiltered Camels a day. He ate eggs and buttered toast for breakfast, juicy beef hot dogs for lunch, and pizza for dinner. It was fairly certain the news would not be good.
Ellen kicked off her heels and picked up the cordless phone, collapsing in a cross-legged heap on the floor as she studied the message Mike had taken. As quickly as her fingers could move she punched in the numbers for Northern Michigan Hospital in Petoskey.
“John Barrett’s room, please.” She dug her elbows into her knees and rested her forehead in her free hand.
“Nurse’s station,” a woman announced.
“Yes, John Barrett’s room.”
“Who’s calling?”
“This is his daughter, Ellen. May I speak with him please?”
“Just a minute, ma’am. Let me get your mother.”
Ellen waited, praying against all odds that she was wrong, that the news would be good. Her father’s health was poor but he had never suffered a heart attack. There was a chance he might recover completely if he had made it to the hospital in time.
“Ellen?” Her mother’s voice was raspy and tired, and Ellen could tell she’d been crying.
“Mother, is he okay?”
“No.” A single sob escaped from her mother and for a moment she was unable to continue. Ellen waited breathlessly. “He didn’t make it, honey. I’m so sorry.”
Ellen could feel the floor drop away from beneath her. She refused to believe it. “No, Mom, that can’t be true. People live through heart attacks all the time. He was—”
“Not this time,” her mother cut in. “He died four hours ago. Ellen, he’s gone.”
“No! Mom, please! He … he can’t be gone.”
“I’m sorry, honey. He loved you so much. You know that.”
Ellen was silent as the truth coursed through her veins, searing her, weighing her down. Her father was dead. “Ellen?”
“Mom—” her voice was barely a whisper—“what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to survive and we’re still going to be a family.”
Ellen nodded and fought a wave of anxiety. “Are you by yourself?”
“No, Megan and Aaron are here with me, and Amy’s on the way. I’ve called Jane. She’s coming out Sunday afternoon.”
“How are they handling it?”
“Not well. Especially Aaron. He hasn’t said a word since it happened.”
A thousand memories crowded out Ellen’s ability to speak, and she realized there was a lump in her throat. Her father was gone, and she hadn’t gotten to say good-bye. Certainly Aaron, her only brother, would be devastated. The others, too. He’s in heaven. He’s still alive, just happier now.
Ellen thought about the last time she’d talked with her father, only a few days earlier. He had sounded fine. There had been no warning that it was the last time she’d ever talk to him. She called him often, keeping him up-to-date on her latest assignments. He had always been interested in the little-known details and behind-the-scenes anecdotes that went into her reporting. Now he was gone, and Ellen wondered if she would suffocate from the shock.
“Are you okay, honey?”
Her mother’s strained question pulled her back. “Mom, what happened?”
“Well,” her mother drew a ragged breath. “He wasn’t feeling well when he woke up this morning, and he took a long nap in his chair until about one o’clock. Then he got up and had something to eat. He was walking back to take a shower when he collapsed in the hallway.”
Ellen closed her eyes, picturing the familiar house, its aging dark brown carpet and narrow hallways.
“He didn’t have a chance. We lost him before the paramedics arrived.”
Ellen was quiet for a moment. “When do you want me home, Mom? When’s the funeral?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t know. I guess we’ll have the funeral next Saturday. Tha
t’s when your father’s sister can get here from California. I don’t know, it’s all happening so fast.” Her mom’s voice cracked and she began to cry. “I guess none of us should be surprised, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”
Hearing her mother cry triggered something in Ellen and she felt her eyes well up with tears. Her parents had been married thirty-two years. How did one let go of something like that?
“Mom, you sure you’re all right? You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m okay and I’m not alone. Listen, why don’t you try to get here Sunday. Jane’s plane is coming in around noon at Detroit Metro. If you and Mike could get here about the same time you could all ride up to the house together. Then we’d have a week to take care of everything.”
“Okay. I’ll make the plans and call you back. Where will you be?”
“At the house. I’ve already signed the death certificate so there isn’t much else I can do here.” Her mother sobbed softly and struggled to speak. “Dear God, Ellen. How on earth am I going to get through life without him?”
Ellen had no answers. She was too busy asking herself the same question.
She finished talking with her mother and then moved into the next room. A shaky sigh escaped her and she stared at Mike. His long body was stretched out on the couch, his feet dangling over onto the floor. He had fallen asleep, still dressed in his designer shirt and tie, the magazine clutched in one hand. She wiped her tears and wondered why she was angry with him.
“Mike.” The word came out flat, cool.
He stirred and instantly sat up, wiping a trace of saliva from the corner of his mouth and trying to look awake. “Sorry, honey. What happened? How is he?”
Ellen sat down in a chair across from him and leaned back, staring at the plant shelves that lined the high walls of their living room.
A Kingsbury Collection Page 2
