Fast Courting

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Do you go to the games?” Nia asked.

  “Occasionally. When I can get tickets. And, let me tell you, that’s not so easy lately. It’s been one sell-out crowd after the other.”

  “Do you follow the televised games?” There was method to Nia’s questioning, but Chris hadn’t caught on yet.

  “You bet!” He fell right into her trap. “And that’s how I know that Strahan is a wizard. He’s put together a team that works like a team; he’s the one who holds it together. His pregame interviews and postgame comments are amazing—precise, to the point, always accurate.”

  Nia smiled. “Thank you, Chris. You’ve made my point.” She turned her sharpened gaze on Bill. “That’s why I question Strahan’s inclusion here. He’s probably been interviewed ten times as often as the other four combined.”

  As though Bill had anticipated her argument, he nodded. “You’re right about that. But what do you know about him? I mean the person Daniel Strahan. Forget basketball.”

  Nia’s lips curved up mischievously. “Forget it? I don’t know anything about it to forget! I’ve never been a fan of basketball!” If her declamation was a bit too intense, none of her colleagues noticed.

  “That’s good.” Bill caught her eye and held it with a force that took his words a step further. “If you’re divorced from the game you’ll be able to put together an insightful, very different story about the man. You won’t have to go near the court, if you choose not to.”

  The understanding between Nia and Bill was immediate and gratifying. He knew of her vulnerability, had glimpsed that flicker of pain that she usually covered so well. Of the group gathered here, only Bill seemed to realize that David Phillips had been a die-hard Breaker fan, that he had written up their games for years. Rarely had he missed a home game, or even one on the road. That was what he had especially loved—the road trips. While the players found them exhausting, David Phillips thrived on them. Nia knew she had no right to blame the Breakers for what had come between David and herself. But she couldn’t deny the bad taste in her mouth that came with the mention of the New England Breakers.

  “Anyway,” Chris quipped, lounging back in his seat, “I can help you when it comes to the technical information.” He held a hand out and studied his fingers. “I used to play myself. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of a need for a five-foot-four forward.”

  The laughter that filtered through the room lightened the air a bit. “And how tall is this Strahan?” Nia asked, curious as to what form of giant she would be facing.

  James reeled off the statistics. “Six four. Short by present standards. When he played— that was roughly ten years ago—they didn’t come so tall. In his heyday, he weighed in at 190. From the looks of him today, he hasn’t gained a pound.”

  Bill patted his rounding belly. “That’s nice,” he murmured, half to himself. “Exercise. That’s the key. But what can I do? I’m stuck behind a desk all day.”

  “You could always run with me during the lunch hour,” Chris offered. “Less time to eat.”

  “Why not have Gail pack you a salad?” Priscilla grinned. “You know, a little cottage cheese, a few fruit slices, some melba toast…”

  Nia joined the attack, welcoming the respite. “I think he gets too much exercise,” she spoke.

  “Too much?” James challenged.

  “Too much arm exercise,” she specified with a grin.

  Chris eyed her askance. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know.” She smiled broadly as she moved her hand in a repeated lap-to-mouth motion. “Too much arm exercise. After all, it takes some effort to shovel it in.” She turned mirthfully to Bill. “What do you think, Bill?” She mimed his own recent request.

  “I think,” Bill cleared his throat and frowned, “that we’ve gotten off the track. If there’s no further discussion right now on the eligible easterners feature, we’ll move on—”

  “Hold it!” Nia exclaimed. “I still have discussion on that piece. Is there no one else who can do it?” Bill shook his head emphatically, feeling little remorse in the wake of the stinging, if humorous, assault on his waistline. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. What’s the matter, Nia? You’re really not up to it?”

  “Oh, I can do it,” she replied, using the inflection of her voice to make the point. “It’s more a question of whether I can do it well, considering the prejudice I feel before I’ve even begun.”

  “You’ll do it well,” Bill informed her, glancing over the rim of his glasses, then taking them off and tossing them onto the desk. “I’ll see to that!”

  His words returned to haunt her later that day as she sat in her office pondering the assignment. Bill had “seen to it” in the past, particularly at the start of her career, when he’d guided her through several tough assignments. That she had the writing skill was never at issue. What disturbed her most was effecting the most comfortable balance between intellect and emotion so that her writing remained a feature story rather than a personal editorial.

  Her first big assignment had been to write a feature on the Plymouth II Nuclear Power Plant, presenting the controversy as it had unfolded. The personalities involved, both for and against, had been explosive. Nia had her own very firm opinion on the subject, and it had been a constant struggle to hold that opinion in check. Bill had helped then, pointing out phrasing that betrayed her inner emotion so subtly that even she hadn’t been aware of it. With minor wording changes and a closer rein held on the whole, the final feature became a source of pride to her.

  That had been three and a half years ago. Since then, there had been features on such vital and varied topics as police work, venture capitalism and genetic research. On each issue she had started from scratch, reading, researching, learning from the ground floor up. By nature, she had taken positions as her writing progressed. It was Bill who helped minimize the overspill, forming an end product that was thoroughly professional and liberal in its allowance for differing opinions. Such was the reputation of Eastern Edge as a publication; of that, too, Nia was proud.

  Now, she sifted through the papers on her desk, gathering the rough draft of the story she’d written that afternoon. It was an analysis of live theater in Boston, its history and promise, as well as its reality. Many hours’ work had been spent reading up on the history of the various theaters that had, over the years, been the pre-Broadway drill grounds. Additional hours had gone into interviews with the people involved, both in the past and the present. Just this morning she had spent two hours with Samuel Humphrey, the owner of the new, startlingly elaborate theater-opera house-philharmonic hall complex downtown. It was this interview that had made her late for the editorial meeting.

  A frown creased her brow as her gaze drifted idly around the office. It was a comfortable-sized room, bright and well-kept, modern, as was the entire building, one of the more recent additions to Boston’s clustered skyline. No, she couldn’t find fault with Bruce McHale, the magazine’s owner, on that score. He believed that his people worked best in pleasant surroundings. Hence, this office.

  The walls and desks were white, the carpeting and obligatory bulletin boards burgundy. All else was done in crisp navy blue, from padded desk chairs to lamp shades to ashtrays and file cabinets. Wood was markedly absent. Rather, the furnishings and accessories were of the highest quality vinyl, formica, steel or fabric—all blended to preclude harshness while allowing for clear lines of utility. The room held two desks, each in its own work area, delineated by a freestanding, open bookshelf. It was through the fronds of a spindly asparagus fern on one of these shelves that Nia’s eyes met Priscilla’s.

  “Something wrong, Nia? You’ve been daydreaming longer than usual.”

  Nia’s gaze moved about the room once more. “I was just reminding myself how lucky we are that McHale believes in the finer things in life. We could be set up in an ancient flea-trap.”

  Priscilla chuckled. “The
re aren’t many of those left now. Urban renewal has done wonders. Believe it or not, this very area used to be one of the seediest parts of town. You would never have dared pass through here alone, and if you happened to work here, chances are you were a …a…”

  “I get the drift,” Nia indulgently rescued her friend. “But you native Bostonians take your age for granted. I grew up on the West Coast where, historically, at least, things are younger. There is a remarkable beauty in some of the landmarks here—the Custom House, the Old City Hall, Paul Revere’s house. Then, once you get out to Lexington and Concord, another whole world opens up.”

  “You do like it here, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m glad I stayed.” Her implication was clear and triggered a new train of thought.

  “Say,” Priscilla burst out, “have you heard anything about the Western Edge assignment? Wasn’t Bill going to let you know this week?”

  Nia thrust her fingers through her thick mane of mahogany layers and sighed. “No word yet. But there’s no rush; my family isn’t going anywhere. I’d like to see them, and it would be super to combine a visit with work.” She grinned conspiratorially. “One of the advantages of working for a magazine that has a sister publication on the opposite coast!”

  “Further kudos for Bruce McHale,” Priscilla joked, lifting an imaginary goblet in toast. “For interior decorating and a generous travel allowance.”

  “Hmmm.” Nia glanced at the calendar on the bulletin board by her desk. “I do seem to have plenty of travel coming up, what with research to be done on the Amish in Pennsylvania and the lowdown on life on Washington’s Ambassador’s Row. Those are all immediate; then there’s that assignment Bill gave me this morning….”

  That was the true source of the nagging doubts in the back of her mind. For some reason, this particular assignment had struck her the wrong way.

  “It’s still bothering you, isn’t it?” Priscilla homed in on the problem.

  “I suppose so. I wish he could have found someone else.”

  “But, why, Nia? He was right. You’re perfect for this feature. If anyone can handle men, you can.” There were both admiration and a hint of envy in Priscilla’s voice, but Nia was too immersed in her own dilemma to appreciate that.

  “That’s just it! I don’t want to have to handle anyone. I picture these five men as enamored of their own ‘availability.’ If they’ve agreed to the feature, they’re bound to be cocky, to say the least.”

  “But…they haven’t. Have they?”

  Nia frowned. “Haven’t what?”

  “Agreed. I got the impression that you’ll be making the initial contacts.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Nia groaned. “I’d assumed that someone got their OK.”

  “Someone will. You.” At her friend’s distress, Priscilla offered encouragement. “Look, Nia, you’ll do a great job. You write beautifully and you’re much more sophisticated and socially poised than so many others. Besides, you’ve taken on other assignments where you’ve had doubts.”

  “Doubts?” Nia’s eyes widened to bright violet saucers. “This verges on sheer embarrassment! What am I supposed to do—call each of these men and say ‘Congratulations! You’ve been chosen …’ and so on?”

  “Well, if they’re as egotistical a bunch as you’d like to believe, they’ll eat up anything you serve to them. You may feel embarrassed now, but I can assure you, based on what you’ve done in the past, that the finished product will be outstanding.”

  Nia smiled warmly. “Thanks. You’re good for my ego, Priscilla. I’m going to need your bolstering through this one!”

  “Listen, if it’s bothering you, why don’t you get to work on it early? I mean, I know that you’ve got two months to write the story, but if you think that it may hang over your head, why not get it over with?”

  Nia took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “You may be right about that. I suppose that once I get into it, it won’t be so bad.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Her friend beamed, then sobered quickly as Nia shot her a pointed look.

  “Don’t get too enthused, Priscilla, or I may just let you take over for me. Bill would never know the difference.”

  But the other woman knew the threat was an empty one. “Oh, he’d know! I haven’t quite got your flair. That’s all there is to it.” This time, mixed in with admiration was a touch of relief, and that Nia could appreciate. When she would have ribbed her friend about it, her telephone beeped. Even its gentle sound had been prescribed by Bruce McHale as an antidote to the stereotypical chaos of the publishing world.

  As it happened, it was the art department seeking information for sketches to accompany an article on the revival of the process of old-fashioned quilting. Nia hadn’t written the article herself; rather, she’d edited the work of one of the newer staff writers. With the copy set now, it was simply a matter of deciding on the “accessorizing.”

  Of her own choice, Nia had researched the history behind each of the five patterns chosen for illustration; she’d found it to be fascinating. Even now, as she talked with the art director, she was easily engrossed. One day, she’d vowed, she would write a book on the arts and crafts of colonial America and their tie-in with the colonial personality. But that was for another time, a time when she had greater leisure and less need to exhaust herself in the day-today world of work. Now, the busy pace suited her, as did the unending variety of her job. All told, she spent less time brooding about David Phillips and the life they might have had than she would have done at a job with more regular hours. The excitement of Eastern Edge was right up her alley—despite occasional setbacks such as she’d had that morning.

  It was that very setback which she pondered when, the matter settled and the conversation ended, she hung up the phone. Priscilla had gone back to her own work, leaving a legacy of advice. Nia considered that advice as she rocked back in her chair with an eye on the calendar. Perhaps Priscilla was right. Perhaps it was better to get it over with. In those childhood days of clean-your-plate-now, Nia, hadn’t she always eaten the liver first?

  Pen in one hand, phone book in the other, she lifted the receiver. If nothing more, she would make the initial overtures to each of her targeted subjects. A short introductory interview might be helpful in giving her direction, in letting her know with what she was dealing. To date, this was her most distasteful assignment. Gritting her teeth, she got to it.

  One week later, her teeth were still gritted. Of the five “most eligible easterners” on her list, four had been reached and had graciously, if somewhat reluctantly, agreed to an initial meeting. Those four were Trent, Reiss, Kiley and Wallis-Wright. She had been surprised at their graciousness, quite frankly startled at their reluctance. It seemed that her preconceptions might have been overjudgmental; each man seemed as wary of her as she was of him. No, the cause of her clenched jaw had little to do with the four she’d contacted. It was the fifth who rankled her.

  Strahan. Daniel Strahan. “Eligible,” yet elusive. “Available,” yet nowhere to be found. Christopher Daly had assured her that the Breakers were home for two weeks of near-nightly games, with the heat of the season in sight. Yet none of her calls were returned, not the slightest acknowledgment made of her efforts to reach the head coach. She had even gone so far as to switch on the television the night before—to assure herself that there was, indeed, a man named Strahan at the Breakers’ helm. Sure enough, standing absorbed at the sidelines, so the commentator said, was the coach. From the camera’s distant perspective he was an indistinct figure in a shirt and tie, casual blazer, darker-shaded slacks, with a headful of thick, dark hair. That was Strahan, all right; she was up enough on faces in the news to recognize him quickly. In the next instant, she had flipped the switch and darkened the screen. Basketball was not her thing!

  Reaching for the phone, she frowned in response to those memories she’d rather not face. Her finger punched at the buttons of the number she now knew by heart. The switchboard operator
’s sing-song “Weston Arena…May I help you?” could as easily have been a recording and a broken one at that, for the number of times she’d heard it.

  “Daniel Strahan, please.” She spoke evenly, curbing her annoyance for the sake of civility, drumming her fingernails on the laminated desk surface in frustration.

  “One moment, please.” Click. Hold. Hold. Hold. “I’m sorry. Mr. Strahan doesn’t seem to be in his office. Would you care to leave a message?”

  Sighing at the expected, Nia responded, “This is Antonia Phillips from Eastern Edge. I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Strahan for the better part of a week. My messages have never been returned. He does pick them up, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, miss.”

  “Is he in the building?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that for sure.” Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t? The end result was the same.

  “Do you know of any time that I might reach him there?”

  “Hold, please.” Click. Hold. Hold. Hold. At last the faceless voice returned. “A practice is scheduled here tomorrow morning from ten to twelve-thirty. You might be able to catch him at either end.”

  Progress. At least Nia now knew he’d be in the building then. “Thank you. I will try tomorrow. Oh…perhaps you could leave a message that I called again. That’s Phillips, P-H-I—”

  “I have it, Ms. Phillips.” For the first time, there was a hint of humanity in the sound. “Unless, that is, it’s changed since yesterday… ?” And humor.

  Nia couldn’t suppress a small smile. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that Daniel Strahan lacked the common courtesy to return her calls. “No, it’s the same. Thank you.” It was only after she hung up that she looked at her calendar. Kiley. Landover Building, Worcester. Ten.

  So it was that, at eleven-thirty the next morning, she found herself on the Mass Turnpike headed east, back from Worcester to Boston. Weston was roughly forty-five minutes away en route; the turnpike exit was no more than three minutes from the arena itself.