by D. M. Barr
But there was one other constant message that Cam couldn’t dismiss so easily—the one about Chamorro solidarity, how you respected your parents’ wishes and you never abandoned your people. It was a conflict that caused Camarin great resentment every day of her adolescence.
As a twin, she considered herself half of a larger whole. She couldn’t just turn her back on her weaker half or abide anyone’s harassment of the heavier of the two sisters. So, she and Monaeka isolated themselves from the other kids at school, the ones who laughed at anyone even slightly different. No parties. No dates. For years, her honor became her albatross, because it simultaneously separated herself from whatever supposed group her mother insisted was her unequivocal duty to join. Until that fateful day when she finally took matters into her own hands and broke free…
“Cam…are you crying? Are you okay?”
Wynan stood by her side bearing espresso, the holy water of journalism.
“It’s nothing,” she said, angrily wiping a tear from her eyes. “A speck of dust, that’s all.”
“Ah, good, because if it was something more, I’d need you to set it aside and buckle down. Any progress?”
Camarin quickly reclaimed her composure and tried to ignore her boss’s glaring lack of empathy. “Thank you for the coffee. I’m almost done with the preggo-in-a-bridal-gown story. I’ll get it to you in a few.”
As he walked away, she wished she really was the miracle worker Rachel had alluded to during her initial visit. She was going to need divine intervention to survive at Trend long enough to make the type of impact she intended. One that would make millions of women who hated their bodies take notice and start loving themselves, no matter what their size. And simultaneously force Wynan to realize her talents extended beyond copyediting, all while making Lyle proud? Just icing on the proverbial cake.
Chapter 12
Fletcher was touring the third of four Putnam house rentals with Remy, his realtor, when his phone began vibrating. Recognizing the caller ID, he excused himself and sought privacy in the kitchen while Remy remained in the living room, chatting up the owners.
“I told you no interruptions.”
“She was on the computer, crying. I thought you should know.”
“Did you yell at her? Is that why she broke down?”
“Fuck, no. I’ve been a veritable saint, just like you ordered, boss man. No, I think it was something she saw online.”
“Well, I did tell her I wanted her to research some of her own stories wherever she could snatch a minute or two, as long as it didn’t interfere with whatever she was doing for you. Thanks for giving her a little slack, Hans. I know you weren’t the biggest fan of this hire but—”
“Biggest fan? I told you flat-out it was unwarranted. The last thing this magazine needed was another unnecessary expense. Especially an overinflated salary.”
“I know, but you must have a little faith. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Or is your cock calling the shots on this one? You lured me over here, promised me absolute editorial control. Then you take a train ride, meet a girl, and suddenly you’re espousing our magazine’s ‘new direction’ when the old one was absolutely fine.”
“If that direction was fine, the magazine wouldn’t have been losing money hand over fist before I took over. Even now, we’re barely coasting by. Look, I don’t want to rehash this. It’s done. You’ll change your tune fast enough if her stories bring in double her salary in new ad revenues. Help her if you think she needs it and keep me apprised. I should be back in the office a little later.”
There was a pause.
“Any luck with the rental search?” Wynan asked in a less combative tone.
Fletcher winced as he surveyed the 1970s high ranch, with its decades-old green appliances and black-and-white checkerboard floor. “Remy claims that for two grand a month, it’s the best Carmel has to offer. Maybe I’ll just bite the bullet, eat into my savings, and rent something more expensive in town. Or Jersey City. At least the commute won’t kill me.”
“I told you that you can always stay with Austin and me until you get situated.”
“And barge in on your newly wedded bliss? No way.”
“Honeymoon ended two years ago. What we need now is some conflict, something to fan the flames. It’s always hotter when we’re fighting.”
Fletcher’s attention strayed from the conversation as he remembered his own conflict with Camarin the previous day, when he’d been forced to douse her hopes concerning the Blubber Be Gone investigation. How quickly that encounter had turned scorching hot as she’d sniffed the back of his palm…
“Lyle, are you still there?” Wynan’s voice quickly snuffed out the blaze that had started to sizzle in Fletcher’s imagination.
“So, what I’m hearing is that I get to be a catalyst for makeup sex? That’s what my life has come down to? Maybe I’ll just go home and shoot myself in the head.”
“Nah, I’d miss all this witty repartee. Not to mention the salary. The offer stands. Den with a sofa bed, midtown, for as long as you need it. I’ll see you later.”
Fletcher ended the call, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and then pulled open the sliders to the deck, yearning to be alone with his thoughts. More than his precarious living situation, or Trend’s financial situation, Camarin’s feelings of distress were what concerned him most.
He couldn’t rid his mind of the fantasy that had intrigued him since the afternoon they’d met: the vulnerable editorial newbie, her tight body leaning on him for comfort, craving direction and support. He’d pull her closer, adorn her face with butterfly kisses, look deep in her eyes…and she’d cry foul, call him a perverted old man, and go running for a lawyer. He hated the way that daydream always took a turn toward litigation and assisted living.
He debated for about half a second and then pulled his phone back out and dialed the office.
“Good afternoon. How’s your day Trend-ing?”
“Really, Rachel? We don’t just say hello anymore?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher, I was trying to make us sound a little edgier.”
“I prefer the simple, old, boring greeting. Could we please go back to ‘Good afternoon’?”
Silence. “Of course, sir, if that’s what you want.”
“It is, and could you kindly put me through to Ms. Torres?”
“One moment please.”
The phone clicked, followed by one ring.
“Camarin Torres, senior investigative reporter.”
He stifled a laugh.
“Senior? Did I miss that promotion somehow?” he said, hoping humor would lighten her mood.
She tsked his sarcasm away. “For your information, Mr. Fletcher, it lends gravitas when I request interviews from potential leads.”
“Uh-huh. And have you found time today to interview any of those leads?”
“I’ve actually made some headway.” She sounded excited. His anxiety lessened, at least about her mood. He really had to concentrate on finding her something other than BBG to research.
“I’ll be back at the office in a few hours. How about dinner?” he said on a whim. Then he realized what he had just done and tried to mitigate the damage. “A business dinner. We can celebrate your second day on the job, and you can debrief me on all of your progress.”
The pause that followed made him want to kick himself for rushing things. Damn. He had absolutely no sense about how people ‘hooked up’ or whatever they called it these days. He was about to apologize when she broke the silence.
“I’d love to. Really. But I’m afraid I can’t—”
“That’s okay,” he said in a more professional tone, trying to quickly save face. “I should be back in around forty minutes. We can discuss it all then, yes?”
“Absolutely. That would be great. See you later.” Click.
He looked at the phone, cursed his impulsivity, and wandered back into the dreary living room to give his real es
tate agent some unwelcome news: he was relocating to his friend’s guest room. Not only would it save him money, he’d never be more than ten blocks from any desolate reporter who might need his shoulder to cry on. Namely one Camarin Torres.
Chapter 13
With Wynan in a meeting with the layout team, and her edits on the bridal gown exposé already complete, Cam followed up on a hunch and researched Terry Mangel’s Feel Good About Yourself revival tour schedule prior to Chicago.
His year, thus far, had included stops in San Diego and Los Angeles in January—no fool, she thought, scheduling warm-weather stops during the winter months—Phoenix and Santa Fe in February, and then heading east to Dallas and then north to St. Louis in March. Effusive reviews followed each appearance, but that was no longer what held her interest. She checked the local newspapers in those cities for any Blubber Be Gone franchise disturbances during those periods but came up short. Nothing. Damn. She’d been so sure.
She strolled over to the reception area to stretch her legs. Rachel glanced up from her crossword puzzle, apparently welcoming the interruption in her day of paid leisure.
“Ah, good, something to do. Grab a lion, and we’ll have a bowler.”
Camarin shook her head. “I swear I’ll never understand you.”
“Ah, it’s easy. Look, I’ll teach you—I desperately need someone in this godforsaken place to talk to. What’s something you might grab if you walked into a room?”
Camarin squinted and shrugged. “No idea. A drink of water?”
“Nah, that would be a ten. Ten furlongs is a mile and a quarter, water. Think...wouldn’t you want to sit down?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So, what would you grab?”
“A chair?”
“There you go. A chair. Lion’s lair, chair,” Rachel explained in triumph.
Camarin hit her head in mock epiphany. “And what was the rest?”
“A bowler. That you should get easily enough. What’s a bowler?”
“A hat?”
“Yes. Of course. And if you were sitting in a chair and having something that rhymed with bowler hat…” Rachel waited in exasperation.
“A chat?”
“Finally. You’re practically an honorary Cockney. Go on and sit down. Let’s have a chat.”
“Ah, can’t. No time.”
“After all that? You’re shitting me.” Rachel threw her crossword magazine at Camarin’s head. She ducked just in time. It landed by the entry door.
“No, really. I’m trying to work something out. Remember the Blubber Be Gone murder?”
“How could I forget? I’m the one who told you about it.”
“And I eternally owe you one. So, it turns out that the clinic wasn’t as crowded as usual that week because a weight-loss evangelist was in town with some traveling revival show.”
“And…”
“And, I thought maybe, if Terry Mangel—that’s the leader—stirred up enough emotions during that Come-to-Jesus-type gathering that every riled-up overweight attendee was encouraged to strike out against their so-called oppressors, then other BBG franchise in the show’s path might have experienced a similar type of attack.”
“But no?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I’m no hotshot reporter, but why would it have to be limited to BBG franchises? Wouldn’t the fatties be mum and dad about anyone they thought was having a laugh at their expense?”
Camarin decided not to protest the derogatory term fatty or request another translation but instead seized upon the revelation inspired by Rachel. Of course, it didn’t need to be a BBG franchise! They weren’t the only ones out there offering to fix something not everyone considered to be broken. Blowing the confused receptionist a kiss, she pulled open the door to the inner offices and raced back to her deck, ignoring Rachel’s call behind her.
“Looks like you owe me a second drink!”
Cam started to click on the link for the San Diego Union-Tribune when her cellphone started vibrating. One look at the caller ID, and she grimaced. Just what she needed right now. Her mother.
“Hello, Nana.”
“Håfa ådai, Camarita. Håfa tatamanu hao?”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Why are you calling? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, bonita. Do you have some time to talk?
“Hunggan, didide’ ha’. Only a little, I’m at work.”
“Working? During the day? I thought the bartending was only at night.”
Cam lowered her voice to a whisper. She didn’t want anyone to know she was moonlighting, that one hundred percent of her attention wasn’t focused here, on her day job.
“I told you last week. I took a second job. At Trend magazine. As a writer. Remember?”
Camarin felt the sensation of pins and needles on her skin, a reaction to anxiety that she’d had to contend with since childhood. Sometimes her mother could be so infuriating.
“Hå’å, I remember now. Are you enjoying it?”
“It’s only my second day. So far so good.”
“Are you…”
“No, Nana, I know what you’re going to ask, and, no, I’m not seeing anyone.”
“You think you are so smart, but that is not what I was going to say. I was going to ask if you are taking care of yourself, eating right.”
Camarin sighed deeply and considered banging her head on her desk until she rendered herself unconscious. Then she wouldn’t have to finish the editing either. Two birds…
“Why not say what you’re really thinking?” Cam asked.
There was an awkward silence on the other end of the line, followed by a cough.
“Fine, Camarita. Are you still…dalalai?”
It was all her mother ever worried about, her weight and her dates. She should write a country song.
“Funny you should ask. I thought I could stay dalalai eating Entenmann’s and Ben and Jerry’s all day, but the joke’s on me. I’m starting to look like quite the guäkä,” she said with a smile. She knew the idea of her daughter resembling a cow would drive her mother insane.
“Camarin Torres, that is not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny, Nana. I’m trying to make a point. I need you to love me just the way I am. Is that so much to ask?”
“You know that I do, kirida. But you know that no man is going to want to marry—”
Camarin looked over toward the door and saw Fletcher entering the bullpen area, right on cue. She felt a pang of regret, remembering the dinner invitation she’d been forced to decline. Even dressed down in faded jeans and a lightweight, gray cashmere pullover, he still looked good.
“I’m sorry, Nana, but I have to run to a meeting. You can remind me some other time of my impending spinsterhood as a chebo’.” Satisfied that the unmarried pig reference would continue to horrify her mother for the remainder of the afternoon, she disconnected the call.
Fletcher was chatting with Wynan, but as soon as she put down her phone, he called out and asked her to head over to his office, where he would soon join her.
It was the first time Camarin was in the office alone. She studied the titles in his bookcase, a combination of business hardcovers like Swim with the Sharks Without Being Eaten Alive, textbooks on journalism and publishing, and surprisingly, A Prayer for Owen Meany. She pulled out the novel and was thumbing through it when Fletcher walked in and caught her red-handed. Startled, she dropped the book and started to tremble.
“I-I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been going through your things.”
He walked past her, bent down to pick up the book, and handed it back to her before taking a seat behind his desk.
“I wouldn’t worry too much. Those books are for anyone who cares to read them. And that one? You might particularly enjoy it since, like me, you enjoy rooting for the underdog.”
“That’s me, a cheerleader for life’s runners-up,” she murmured. She took a seat across th
e desk from him, scrunching her toes inside her shoes to ease her nerves.
Fletcher also seemed edgy, fumbling with the pencils on his desk. She waited, unwilling to disturb the silence. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“First off, Ms. Torres, I owe you an apology.”
She was confused. Was he trying to make amends for demoting her from investigative reporter to Wynan’s lackey?
“The dinner invitation was out of line and—”
“Oh, that. Don’t be sorry. I really wanted to go. It’s just that—” She glanced at the clock on his desk. 5:15. Dammit. If she didn’t leave now, she was going to be late for work, something they didn’t tolerate at Benji’s. She stood up abruptly. “It’s me who should apologize. I didn’t notice the time. I’m afraid I have to run. Can we meet and discuss this tomorrow?”
“Sure, of course. Sorry to keep you after work hours,” she heard him call as she ran back to her desk. She grabbed her purse and raced out the door.
Chapter 14
Fletcher was still sitting in his office, staring blankly at the seat Camarin had just vacated, when Wynan stuck his head through the door.
“Did you find out what upset her?”
“I think she has a boyfriend.”
“He’s the one who made her cry?”
“No…I don’t know. I think she has a date tonight. A date with him.”
Wynan shrugged. “Wanna talk about it over dinner?”
* * * *
Most New Yorkers had to wait weeks to get a table at Le Bernardin. Wynan’s husband, Austin, could arrange it with a half hour’s notice, but only because his brother Dallas was the maître d’. Hence Austin’s motto: It’s never about what you do; it’s all about who you know.
“Get that guy to smile,” Fletcher overheard Dallas whisper to his brother after they’d been seated at a prized corner table. “We are an exclusive restaurant, not a wake.”
