Talk of the Town

by Sherrill Bodine

  Tim sighed like a balloon deflating. “Thank you, Rebecca. You’ll be working under Kate Carmichael. She’s a good egg.”

  “She’s also a Pulitzer Prize winner and a real professional.” With a last disdainful look at Tim, who deserved every drop of her disgust, she swung away to the door, determined to let no one see how much this blow had stunned her. “I’ll clean out my office and move to the Home section.”

  “Rebecca . . .” His voice stopped her, but her fierce pride wouldn’t let her give him the courtesy of looking back.

  “Shannon has already moved into your office.”

  Rebecca took a deep, steadying breath to calm her raging anger so he wouldn’t see it. Then she glanced over her shoulder to smile sweetly at him. “Only temporarily, Tim. Only temporarily.”

  With her head held high, and ignoring Tim’s smirking secretary, who had never been one of her fans, Rebecca forced herself to stroll slowly toward the brown cardboard box with her personal mementos sticking out the top. It was sitting forlornly outside her former office.

  She couldn’t believe how badly she’d misjudged Shannon’s ambitions. Rebecca had believed her when she confessed her goal was to be a serious journalist. She’d even helped Shannon with a few in-depth features on society in Chicago and commiserated with her when one of Shannon’s pet goldfish had been found belly-up in the small aquarium she kept on her desk.

  Rebecca gazed into her beloved sanctuary, ready to confront Shannon, but she was hidden by the high-backed, ergonomically correct chair, which was turned away from the open door.

  Everything else appeared the same. The much-coveted window, the oversized desk, and the large-screen computer monitor. But now next to the computer where her silver canister of Leonidas chocolates should be, there was a tiny aquarium with two goldfish and, beside it, a clear glass plate of edamame.

  She’d always admired how Shannon embraced healthy eating, and she vowed every morning she would do the same, until inevitably she gave in to her passion for a chocolate-filled croissant. Now it seemed ridiculous to prefer soybeans to chocolate. Shannon would need those endorphins to survive Chicago’s society beat.

  Rebecca shook her head to clear it of the very thought of someone else doing her job. Shannon would quickly realize she didn’t have the life experience to write Rebecca’s column, and so would the mysterious, obviously ignorant, new owner. Then Rebecca would be right back where she belonged.

  The chair swiveled around and there was Shannon, dead-black hair falling straight around her pale oval face. Did Rebecca see surprise in her slightly bulgy blue eyes?

  “Rebecca, I didn’t know you were here,” Shannon gasped in her soft, saccharine voice and made the little movement with her mouth that somehow always made her appear sympathetic.

  Now that she knew Shannon was such a backstabber, Rebecca wouldn’t be surprised if the girl practiced the expression in front of a mirror. The ugly thought that Shannon could have had something to do with the false lead flit across her mind.

  “Shannon, I’m amazed that you’d settle for this position. I wouldn’t think it was serious enough for you.”

  A self-satisfied smile curving her lips, Shannon shrugged. “Circumstances change. I don’t know what else to say, except good-bye and best of luck to you.”

  If her iron will to always appear in control hadn’t clamped down like a vise, Rebecca would have given in to her burning desire to toss Shannon’s skinny butt out of her chair. Instead, she smiled back so hard her face ached. “No need to say good-bye. I’ll be right through the newsroom and around the corner in the Home and Food section.”

  Hoping her calm facade was still in place, Rebecca swept up the box and turned to walk away. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Shannon hastily picking up the phone. If she was calling Tim or the mysterious new owner so they could plot their next move to get rid of her, they should save their breaths.

  Let them do their worst—this time I’m not going anywhere.

  She held her box of office treasures like a shield. On top, the picture of her with Harrison Ford, taken when he was in town shooting The Fugitive, stared back at her.

  So we both looked a little younger in those days. But damn it, we still look good today. If I wasn’t in the media where they judge my age in dog years, I’d be considered in my prime.

  She felt a remarkable connection with her aging hero. Both their careers might be down at the moment, but certainly they weren’t finished.

  With a vow to win whatever battles with Shannon and The-New-Evil-Boss-from-Hell lay ahead, she clutched the picture of Harrison to her breasts, pushed open the glass double doors to the newsroom, and walked defiantly back into chaos.

  Chapter 2

  On the ball field in Ellen Sumner Park, Juan Cortez’s leadoff was too aggressive at second base. “Back a step, buddy, back a step,” David Sumner muttered to himself while pacing in front of his Little League team.

  At home plate, Pedro got fisted with an inside fastball that blooped over the first baseman’s head and down the right-field line. Short on power but long on speed, he legged it into a double.

  Juan did a header into third base, and David cheered along with the team when the umpire yelled, “Safe!”

  David’s cell phone vibrated against his thigh and he yanked it out of his pocket. “This better be good, Louise. We’re down two in the bottom of the seventh.”

  “David, it’s Tim Porter. Your secretary gave me this number when I told her it was important.”

  “Make it quick.” David made a mental note to let Tim know this time was only for the kids he coached. Only half listening to Tim, David watched little Miguellia place the helmet over her regular hat because it was too big for her.

  “Rebecca Covington took the job in the Home section. There won’t be an age discrimination suit.” Tim finally had his attention.

  David felt a jolt of relief, and then it was lost in his concern for Miguellia, head down, dragging the bat behind her, moving toward home plate.

  He tried to focus on Tim for one minute. “Rebecca Covington has pride. She won’t give up her column that easily. She’ll take the money for a while, but this isn’t over. Keep me informed. Thanks. Gotta go.”

  David watched Miguellia take a warm-up swing. He ached inside, as it looked as though the bat was swinging her. After digging in, Miguellia took a wild hack with everything she had, missing the ball by a foot when the pitch was over her head.

  David signaled the umpire for a time-out and motioned Miguellia off to the side, where no one else could hear them. He knelt and smiled at her. “How you doing?”

  “Coach, we need a home run to win,” Miguellia said, eyes downcast.

  “Don’t try to win the game in one swing. Just try to make good contact. That’s all we need, and you can do it.”

  When he saw a grin spread over Miguellia’s tiny face, David stood and gave her a gentle pat on top of her helmet. “Go get it.”

  Among the sprinkling of parents watching from around the field, David saw Miguellia’s dad give him a thumbs-up. Beyond the spectators, kids and adults were playing in the Boundless Playground, accessible to all regardless of their special challenges.

  He knew Ellen would have loved this park that he’d funded and named in her honor. He could almost hear her voice cheering on little Miguellia . . . just like sometimes he could still hear and feel her cheering him on.

  Chaos!

  Stepping inside the newsroom doors, Rebecca was hit by a tidal wave of ringing phones, scraping chairs, rustling papers, shouted curses, and murmuring voices. She swayed to a halt and stared down the room, lined on both sides by dozens of cluttered desks.

  It all blurred together, except for the central aisle, which appeared to be narrowing dangerously into a black hole right before her eyes.

  I can’t go back here!

  She gave herself a mental kick in the butt.

  Stop whining, you coward. Remember who you are.

 
She took two deep yoga breaths, silently chanting the mantra she’d lived by since her tenth birthday, when she looked up the word narcissistic, after she heard her granny shouting it at her parents.

  It wasn’t my fault my parents were so self-absorbed I lived more at Granny’s than with them.

  Another breath and the mantra she’d added later.

  It wasn’t my fault Peter turned out to be such a jerk.

  One last deep yoga breath for her new mantra.

  I will not be defeated by an ambitious girl or a new boss who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

  She vowed to save herself like she’d always done and show a brave face to the world, in the hopes that the facade would fool both them and herself into believing it.

  Rose Murphy, a young writer from Tempo, glanced up over the pile of papers on her desk, which was crowned by a sign that read “Creative Minds Are Seldom Tidy,” and saw Rebecca. Rose’s shy smile but frankly curious stare left Rebecca no choice. If she wished to maintain her dignity, she would glide gracefully forward, like heroines always did.

  Head held high, stomach sucked in, she smiled gently at all who gazed up at her and kept walking. The corner that led to the small alcove housing the Home section loomed only a few feet ahead.

  Just as she turned it, Joe Richards, the ancient, irreverent sports columnist, raised his Cubs-baseball-cap-clad head from his chest, where he habitually napped the day away, and bellowed after her, “Give ’em hell, Becca!”

  Rebecca could have wept over Joe’s show of support, but she caught sight of Pauline and Kate, her new boss, waiting beside an empty desk. The last thing she wanted was for Pauline to start hyperventilating again. Her face was still the same shade as her natural brilliant red hair.

  A rush of protective love for Pauline, like older sisters surely must feel for younger siblings, strengthened Rebecca’s resolve. She turned on her brightest, aren’t-we-having-a-fabulous-time smile.

  “Rebecca . . . I’ve . . . put your messages on your . . . new desk,” Pauline gulped and blew her nose into pink Kleenex.

  “Sweetheart, everything will be fine. I’m looking forward to working with Kate for a while.”

  Blinking wet, spiky lashes, Pauline looked back and forth between Kate and Rebecca until obviously satisfied enough to nod. “Okay, if you say so. Oh, and Dr. Harry Grant wants you to call him at home as soon as possible. He’s worried about you. And Cathy Post from Three Thousand Communications called five times. She wants the scoop.”

  Rebecca thumped the box onto the desk, perched beside it, and laughed as convincingly as possible through the tight dread constricting her chest. “Did everyone know except me?”

  Kate held out a copy of Crain’s. “Today’s issue has a story on the Daily Mail acquisition.”

  “Did they spell my name correctly?” Rebecca asked, still trying to be funny, for everyone’s sake—including her own.

  Kate didn’t appear amused. She shook her head. “They only mention that the paper has been acquired by an unknown buyer. Very hush-hush. However, they do speculate that there will be personnel changes.”

  “Personnel changes,” Pauline echoed and straightened her hunched shoulders. “I suppose I’d best get back to the switchboard. Are you sure you’ll be all right, Rebecca?”

  “I’m absolutely wonderful.” Reaching into the cardboard box, Rebecca pulled out the silver canister. “Here, I promised you chocolate. Take two. Remember the small ovals are the caramels. Your favorites.” She kept smiling while Pauline slipped two chocolates into her pocket and Kate took one.

  Rebecca held her painful forced smile until Pauline was safely away. Then she collapsed in a heap against the cardboard box and glanced up to find Kate watching her like a benevolent schoolteacher.

  She stiffened her spine and tried to recapture her fake grin, but her face hurt too much. “I’m fine. Really, I am,” she lied to her new boss.

  “You don’t need to pretend for me. We should talk in my office,” Kate said in her crisp, matter-of-fact way.

  They stepped around the short gray partition separating Kate’s barely adequate cubbyhole office from Rebecca’s lone desk, situated in what was essentially a short hallway.

  Afraid her facade was cracking around the edges, Rebecca carefully sat firmly on the small, hard chair. “Kate, I promise not to become hysterical. If you have any information that might shed light on what just happened to me, I’d really like to hear it.”

  Leaning against the file cabinet, Kate gazed down at her with clear brown eyes. “Here is what I know. Our owner, Perry Communications, suffered a year-end loss of four hundred million after it had to slash the value of its stock. The PC board voted to pull the news megalith back to its media foundations in an effort to stop any further corporate crumbling. The Chicago Daily Mail is one of the crumbs someone picked up. There will be others.”

  Grateful for Kate’s no-nonsense approach instead of sympathy, Rebecca nodded. “Thank you. Brilliant and concise.” She glanced at the Pulitzer for business writing on Kate’s desk. “The owners of Wealth Weekly were fools to let you get away from them.”

  A flicker of a smile curled Kate’s narrow lips. “I thought so at the time. They wanted younger, hungrier writers. A similar situation to what just happened here to you.”

  Drawn to Kate, Rebecca leaned forward. “Isn’t it unbelievable when it happens?”

  Unblinking, Kate stared her straight in the eyes. “I didn’t believe it at first. It took a breakdown and four months in a hospital to come to grips with it. Now Prozac makes it possible for me to happily edit the stress-free Home section. But you knew all this, didn’t you?”

  There wasn’t a hint of self-pity in Kate’s voice, but her pain hit Rebecca right between the eyes. Of course Rebecca knew, but she had forgotten. It had been the talk of the media community when the brilliant Kate Carmichael came out of forced retirement to edit the Daily Mail’s lowly Home section. But she hadn’t known until this instant that Kate was hiding her real feelings, just like Rebecca did. “I’m sorry to have brought it up, Kate. I’m an insensitive, selfish bitch to have forgotten.”

  Kate shook her head, folding her arms across her neat but utterly shapeless black jacket. “You’re not a bitch. Or insensitive. Which is why you’ve been successful for so long. Now may I ask what you plan to do? Nothing as drastic as what I did, I hope?”

  Deeply touched by Kate’s unexpected kindness, Rebecca stood with new determination. “I plan to do an outstanding job for you until I get my column back. But right now I feel the overwhelming need to get out of here. I think better when I’m shopping. Do you mind?”

  Kate’s surprisingly robust laughter soothed Rebecca’s bruised ego. “You will be punching no time clock for me. Tomorrow we can discuss your two food columns for the week. If you have time, you might begin researching recipes. Meanwhile, please go improve the retail economy. The latest numbers are dismal.”

  Intrigued, and very grateful, Rebecca gazed back at Kate, already working at her desk. Her snow-white short hair and apple-cheeked complexion complemented her black suit, but the outfit did nothing for her figure. Really, with such great legs and nice shoulders, Kate could look wonderful in the right clothes. Rebecca vowed to immediately help her with all fashion choices. Shopping for two would be doubly therapeutic. When Kate looked better, she’d feel better. Sometimes new clothes helped hide the cracks when the facade was crumbling. Like now.

  Rebecca slipped down the back stairs to the side door to avoid anyone who might be lurking in the lobby.

  She walked out onto the sidewalk and nearly tripped over Cathy Post, who was leaning against the building while talking on two cell phones at the same time.

  Seriously not wanting to inflict her private pity party on anyone else, Rebecca tried to duck back inside the door.

  Cathy spotted her. “Rebecca!” She dropped one phone into her voluminous slouchy black bag and pulled out an open Diet Coke in one sweeping movement. “Rebec
ca, you were my friend before; you’re my friend now. The grand opening of Allen’s Restaurant to benefit the Chicago Academy for the Arts is in three weeks. I want you there as my guest. Bring a date or anyone you want. You need to be seen around town.”

  Once Cathy finally stopped for breath, Rebecca got a word in. “Thank you, darling. I appreciate your support.”

  “Not everyone will be on your side. I am. I can’t blackball Shannon from PR events, because it wouldn’t be fair to my clients, who are paying me a lot of money to promote them.” Cathy stopped for another breath and another gulp of Diet Coke.

  Rebecca wished she could disagree about Shannon, but her sense of fair play wouldn’t let her. “You’re right. It would be totally unethical.”

  “I knew you’d understand. You know my business travels on the favor economy. Over the years, you’ve done me more favors than I can count. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Rebecca plastered on her pat smile and shook her head. “Thank you, darling. I’m fine. Really, I am.”

  “Do you want me to find out whatever I can about the new owner of the paper?”

  Stunned by how much she wanted to know who he was, Rebecca gasped. “Could you?”

  “By dinner tonight I will have spoken to five people who will give me all the information you need. I’ll call you.”

  When both of Cathy’s phones rang at once, Rebecca blew her a kiss and strolled toward Oak Street.

  By the time she got there, she’d wiped away the two tears that had welled up despite her best efforts not to show her feelings. Really, she hadn’t expected such an outpouring of support, first from Kate and now from Cathy. It helped her formulate a plan for how to handle this temporary setback. She’d find out who bought the paper and help him understand he’d made a colossal mistake in replacing her.

  Feeling more herself, she walked up the short flight of stairs to Très Treat. The small, low-ceilinged shop was stark. The legendary linens needed no lavish displays.