Chasing the Dream

by Paige Lee Elliston

  “Excellent. I’ll see you shortly, then. The front desk will send you back to my office. I’ll make sure they know you’re coming.”

  Amy was about to respond when the connection was broken. This lady is all business, she mused. No wonder Julie says she’s such a strong editor and manager. She looked down at her outfit after hanging up the telephone: boots, jeans, a sleeveless Western-style shirt. The jeans were fresh that morning, as was the shirt. For a moment Amy wondered about the propriety, wondered whether she should change into a skirt, and then decided against doing so. This isn’t a business meeting, she thought, and this is Coldwater, Montana, not Dallas or New York City. She tugged a couple of sheets off the roll of paper towels on her counter, whisked some grit and blades of grass from her boots, and went back out into the garage.

  The News-Express building was situated not far from the cluster of businesses—Drago’s Café, Kornoelje’s Bakery, the gas station/car wash, the Book Nook, the Bootery, and the other commercial operations that made up the town. Amy parked on the street, made certain that the Jeep’s windows were cracked to provide Bobby some ventilation during his wait, locked her vehicle—a habit no one else in town seemed to bother with—and walked down the sidewalk to the large glass front doors of the newspaper.

  As she approached the entrance she felt a not-unfamiliar thrumming—the vaguest sense of vibration—under the soles of her boots. The massive presses on which the News-Express was printed were located in a cavernous basement under the main building, and were in operation. Amy had visited production centers of major publishing houses in her editing career and had experienced the same sensation.

  A cheery young receptionist took Amy’s name and directed her on to Nancy Lewis’s office on the first floor. Amy followed a long corridor from which offices and a series of cubicles branched. There was a businesslike buzz in the place, but whatever intensity existed was eased by the occasional bursts of laughter. Dress was casual at the News-Express; everyone, it seemed, wore boots rather than shoes, and the women wore pantsuits or slacks and blouses. The men favored clean jeans and short sleeved shirts. Ties were as rare as wingtip shoes.

  The door marked “Nancy Lewis, Managing Editor” was half open. Amy tapped lightly on the frosted glass. The woman seated behind the large, old-fashioned wooden desk looked up at Amy and smiled. “Amy,” she said in a slightly husky voice, “I’m Nancy. Our receptionist let me know you were on your way. Please come in—have a seat.” She motioned toward an armchair positioned in front of her desk.

  Amy smiled, crossed the room, and sat. “Good to meet you, Nancy,” she said.

  The editor appeared to be in her midfifties. Her hair was shoulder length, brown with a good amount of undisguised silver. She wore a tan business suit and a white, frilly-collared blouse. Amy found it almost impossible to imagine Ms. Lewis in jeans or shorts or a sweatshirt. Except for a single file in front of her on the polished surface, her desk was clear of all but a telephone and a yellow legal pad off to one side.

  “Coffee, Amy?” Nancy asked. “It’s the one luxury I allow myself here—Jamaican beans, freshly ground.”

  “Sounds good,” Amy said. “Please.”

  Nancy picked up her telephone receiver, said a few words Amy couldn’t quite hear, and hung up. “Again, thanks for the good work on such short notice.”

  Amy nodded. “I was glad to help Julie out. We haven’t known one another long, but she’s a special woman. The News-Express is fortunate to have her.”

  “And we realize that every day,” Nancy said. “The thing is, we no longer have her—at least not for a while.”

  “Oh?” Amy asked.

  “She’s on a... well... a sabbatical for a few months, maybe longer.”

  The news stunned Amy. “A sabbatical? Is she sick? Is there something wrong? She loves her work here.”

  “No.” Nancy smiled. “Nothing like that—not at all. I’m really sorry to leave you in the dark, but I’m sure Julie will be in touch with you later today. She’ll fill you in on what’s going on.” She paused. “I’d dearly love to tell you more, but I gave her my word.”

  “I see,” Amy said, not really seeing at all. “As long as she isn’t ill...”

  Nancy opened the file on her desk and glanced at the first page inside of it. Amy saw that the tab on the folder read “Hawkins, A.” After a moment, Nancy closed the file. “I asked you here to offer you a job, Amy,” she said.

  “Whew,” Amy breathed. “I have to admit that you’ve caught me by surprise.”

  “I’m sure I have. The thing is, with Julie out for some time and my other feature writer about to retire, I need someone to cover the local events and happenings in a way that’ll draw and keep readers. Julie has that skill, and so do you. You’d be ideal in the position.”

  “That’s very complimentary,” Amy said. “But I’m not a journalist. If anything, I’m a novelist and an editor. And, I’m brand new to the Coldwater area. I don’t have the contacts—the friends and acquaintances Julie has.”

  “I realize all that,” Nancy said. “I took the liberty of Googling you before I asked you to come in. Your background is quite impressive.” She smiled. “I think we both know that writing is writing, in a sense, whether it’s news or pure fiction. And, from what Julie and a few other people have told me, you’ve fit in wonderfully in Coldwater. You’d develop sources and contacts with no problem.”

  Amy held eye contact but didn’t respond immediately.

  “You’d have time to work on your novel, Amy, and you’d have a paycheck coming in every two weeks.” She named a figure. “That’s full reporter pay, and it’s not bad, considering our size and circulation.”

  “No,” Amy had to agree. “It isn’t.” She paused for a long moment. “Still... I don’t know, Nancy. It’s a great offer, but...”

  Nancy smiled at her. “Please, give it some thought. I don’t need an answer right this minute. Let me know what you decide, OK?”

  Amy’s answer was postponed by a young lady carrying a small tray and setting a cup of coffee in front of each of the women. She placed a tiny cream pitcher and an equally minute sugar bowl on the desk and left the office. Amy sipped her coffee, black. It was excellent.

  “I’ll think about it, Nancy,” Amy promised, “and get back to you in a couple of days, either way.”

  “Good. You do that.” She raised her coffee cup, drank, and said, “Enough about business. Tell me how you decided on Coldwater, and what you think of the Old West so far.” The conversation shifted comfortably to other topics. They chatted until their coffee cups were empty.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” Amy said, standing. “Thanks for asking me in. I’ll be in touch.”

  Nancy Lewis stood behind her desk and extended her right hand. As Amy took it, Nancy said, “My pleasure. I hope I’ll be welcoming you aboard the next time we talk. If not, though, let’s keep in touch.”

  Amy felt the barely noticeable rumble far beneath her feet as she walked back to the entrance at the News-Express and out onto the sidewalk. Suppose it was one of my stories those presses were churning out? The thought intrigued her.

  There was no line at the car wash—another benefit of small-town living. Bobby went berserk as the big, soapy brushes circled the Jeep; he barked wildly and leaped in the rear area to follow their movement.

  The drive home was uneventful. Amy replayed her visit with Nancy Lewis in her mind, still a tad dazed by the woman’s cordiality and the offer of employment. It’s been a while—other than the Eagle Scout piece—since I’ve been a journalist. Fiction is my focus now, the direction of my writing. Still, there’s not a thing wrong with drawing a paycheck every two weeks, and there’s no reason I can’t work on my novel on my own time. I don’t know, though—can I produce what the News-Express wants day after day, story after story? Another, stronger thought took the place of her self-doubt. Of course I can! And as Nancy said, writing is writing, and that’s what I am—a writer. I just
don’t know about the job right now.

  It started slowly at her kitchen table, the first words tentative. But the magical flow of images and the words to express those images were returning rapidly. Amy smiled as her fingers punched at her keyboard, the tiny clicks sounding wonderful to her ears. The story moved; the characters were once again alive. The Great Depression had been hiding from her in her computer. Now it was coming out—racing out—and when Amy finally sat back and read the seven pages she’d written, she whooped in a most unladylike fashion, jolting both of her animals out of their afternoon naps. She was running spell-check and grinning joyfully when her phone rang. She was relieved and very pleased to hear Julie Pulver’s voice.

  “Are you in the middle of something?” Julie asked. Her voice was breathless.

  “Not really,” Amy said. “What’s up?”

  “You have to come over here right now! OK?” There was such excitement in Julie’s voice that Amy was confused. “Sure. But what’s going on? You sound like a little kid on Christmas morning.”

  Julie laughed. “It’s much, much better than that, Amy. Come on, get moving. You need to be here!” There was a sound in the background Amy couldn’t quite identify. “I gotta run,” Julie told her. “But hurry over here.”

  Amy did hurry. She clipped Bobby to his chain outside the garage, filled his water bowl, and jumped into her Jeep. As she swung out onto the road from her driveway, her tires chirped as she stepped a bit too heavily on the gas pedal. She was very curious about what had her friend so wound up, but there was no doubt that it was good news, and she smiled to herself as she drove.

  Only Julie’s pickup was in the driveway at the Pulver home. Danny’s veterinary van was missing from its parking spot. Amy pulled behind Julie’s truck and got out of her Jeep. As she started toward the front door, Julie called to her from a side window. “Come on in, Amy. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Julie’s living room, as Amy remembered it, was neat, orderly, and welcoming. The furniture was far from brand new, but it was of good quality, and it was comfortable, meant to be used. When she heard her friend’s footsteps, she turned to find Julie standing in the doorway of the living room with a pink blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. The smile on Julie’s face was genuinely beatific.

  “This is Tessa Sarah Pulver,” Julie said, her words so full of love and awe. Amy moved forward to mother and child. The infant had a tangle of black hair, and her tiny hands moved as if reaching out to Amy. When Amy extended a finger, Tessa grasped it, holding it with a strength that seemed impossible for such a young baby.

  “She’s beautiful,” Amy said.

  “Tessa is what all the rush and the secrecy were about the other night,” Julie explained. “Danny and I applied through an adoption service a while back, and we were told that when a baby became available, we had to be ready to move fast. We did all the paperwork—and waited and waited. When we got the call we had to race to Billings to catch a flight to New York City—and here we are.”

  “I’m so happy for you and Danny,” Amy said. “Will Tessa call me Aunt Amy?”

  “Of course she will! Let’s sit down, and you can hold her while I make us some tea.”

  Amy was somewhat dubious about that. “I don’t know. I haven’t had any experience with babies.”

  “Neither have I,” Julie said cheerfully. “And I’m doing just fine. So will you.”

  Tessa squirmed a bit when Julie put her into Amy’s arms, but the baby settled down quickly. In moments the infant was asleep, her breathing even, her breath warm against Amy’s neck. Tessa smelled of milk and baby powder and baby shampoo. Amy relaxed holding the child, wondering if she’d ever hold a baby of her own. Maternal instinct washed over her like a sudden tidal wave. One day... she thought.

  Julie came back into the living room with two mugs of tea and sat next to Amy on the couch. “We didn’t know when—or even if—this would happen,” she explained. “We checked with agencies in the major cities, the national ones, but the fees were astronomical. Then Ian and Maggie told us about this group that places children from third world countries. We were put on the list after the agency did a home visit and reviewed our backgrounds and all that.” She sighed. “We decided we wouldn’t tell anyone until our baby was actually with us, because we didn’t really know that it would happen. We believed it would, and we prayed about it, but we wanted to keep it to ourselves until it actually happened.” She reached for Tessa. “She’s zonked out. I’ll put her in her crib, and then we can chat.”

  Within a few moments Julie returned to the living room and sat down once again next to Amy. “So,” she said, “how’s the novel coming?”

  An equivocal “OK” almost escaped from Amy’s lips—but didn’t. “It’s moving real well,” she said.

  “Good. Speaking of writing,” Julie said, “the Bennett story was dynamite. Nancy loved it. I talked to her earlier, and she told me about your meeting this morning.” She hesitated for a moment. “I hope you take the job—I really do. When I come back we’d be working together. Lou, the other reporter, will be retiring within a few months. But I guess you knew that.” She paused again. “I think it’d be great to work with you, Amy.”

  “I need to—” Amy began but was interrupted by a sound that almost immediately became a howl from Tessa’s room. Both women got to their feet. “I’ll think about the job,” Amy promised. “Go take care of your daughter. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Amy’s happiness for Julie and Danny rode with her on the way back to her home. Danny and Julie were a couple who had all the love in the world to give to each other, to animals, to their friends, and now to their child.

  She sat in her Jeep in the driveway for a few minutes, knowing that there was a telephone call she owed—one she had to make, as difficult as she knew it’d be. For a moment she considered driving over there but decided against it. That’d just make things harder on both of them.

  What a day, she thought as she let herself and Bobby into her house. The meeting with Nancy Lewis, the happiness at the Pulver home.

  Amy went directly to her telephone, checked her directory, and placed the call.

  “Hello, Ben Callan.”

  “Ben, it’s Amy. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, Amy. I, uh, was going to call you a little later. Hold on for a second, OK? I’m just about to fill Zack’s water bowl, and then I’ll be right with you.”

  Amy heard steps move away from the telephone and a door open. Honesty is the best policy, she assured herself. I’ll tell him about my feelings for Jake and how I find it impossible to be a part of two men’s lives at the same time. I know in my heart that what I feel for Jake doesn’t leave any room in my life for another guy, except as a friend. I’ll tell Ben that I hope we can be friends and apologize for how things appeared at his place. If things were different... but they’re not different. She looked down at Bobby, who was sitting at her feet with his eyes on her face, staring at her as if he expected her to explain her sudden tension. She reached down with her free hand and scratched between his ears. If it hadn’t been for Ben...

  “Amy? Hi. Like I said, I was going to call you.” His voice sounded different to Amy—tight, somehow, as if he were about to convey bad news. She heard him take a breath. “When we were together I had some strong feelings.”

  “I did too, Ben. But that’s why I’m calling. I’m afraid that I—”

  “Wait. Please.” He drew another breath. He spoke more rapidly than was normal for him. “I hadn’t really spent any time with a lady since Sandy. Being with you made me... the thing is, I could feel interest on your part, and I really enjoyed that, and we got along so easily. I loved talking with you, and I loved looking at you too.”

  “Ben, there’s something I need to—”

  He went on as if he hadn’t heard her last words. “You reminded me of how good I used to feel with Sandy. I called her after you left. I’ve never stopped loving her, Amy—not for a second. We ta
lked for a long time. She’s coming back for a visit here in a couple of weeks. If there’s anything I can do short of moving to Chicago to get us back together, I’m going to do it.” He paused for a long moment. “Us seeing one another would be unfair to you, Amy—and I won’t let that happen. I hope you can understand.”

  Amy swallowed before answering. “I understand perfectly, Ben. You’re a good man, and I appreciate your candor and your honesty. I hope for the best for you and Sandy—and I mean that.”

  Ben sounded tremendously relieved. “Thanks, Amy. You’re a great lady. If things were different, well...”

  “I know, Ben. But they’re not.” She paused. “Maybe after a while we could have coffee at the café or something. After all, Bobby and Zack are friends now. Maybe they can play together again.”

  “Sure,” Ben said. “Let’s do that.”

  Amy figured that Ben knew as well as she did that the meeting would never be planned, that any contact between them, at least in the near future, would be fortuitous, that they’d perhaps run into one another in town.

  But it was a good way to end a conversation that was difficult for both parties.

  Jake’s gentle tapping at the door came at about ten o’clock that night. Amy checked through the peephole—a habit she’d carried to Coldwater from her city-living years—and opened the door. She saw immediately that Jake’s face was drawn and pale and that he looked terribly weary. He stepped inside wordlessly, and Amy moved to him.

  “What is it, Jake? You look terrible. Did something happen?” she said, moving her face back an inch from his shoulder but not pushing back from their embrace. For a time he clung to her without speaking.

  “Come on,” she said quietly. “Let’s sit down.”

  They sat very close together on the couch. Only the reading lamp was on, but there was enough light for Amy to see the pain in Jake’s eyes.