“Just one trip a month,” he replied. “We try to vary the places we cover, in terms of both geography and the kind of people they’re likely to appeal to most. And the length of the trips ranges from a couple of days to close to a week.”
“How about the articles? How long would they be?” Mallory imagined staying up until two a.m. night after night, putting together an in-depth report about a place she’d visited only for a few days.
“About two thousand words,” he said. “Eight pages, double-spaced. But we’re not looking for a detailed analysis. If you’re familiar with the magazine, you already know that the tone we go for is lighthearted. While our primary goal is imparting solid information, entertaining our readers is at least as important. In other words, we’d want you to take a positive approach and make traveling to each of the destinations sound like fun.”
Mallory sat frozen in her seat, just staring at him. But while her face and body were showing few signs of movement, her mind was racing.
I can’t do this! she was thinking. I’m still having such a difficult time just getting through the day that I have to check to make sure I’m not still in my pajamas every time I leave the house! Taking on a brand-new career is light years beyond me right now.
Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that this man, this stranger with the impressive title of managing editor, apparently believed in her. Not only was he confident that she could do this job, he had just said in so many words that he thought she could do it better than someone twenty years younger.
The debate inside Mallory’s head continued to rage. In fact, she felt as if somehow the fillings in her teeth had started channeling CNN, one of those news analysis shows featuring two snarling individuals on opposite sides of the political spectrum fighting like pit bulls.
Just because he thinks you can do this doesn’t mean you can, one of the voices insisted.
But you’ve been writing for decades, the opposing voice countered. Trevor Pierce read your work and he liked it. And once upon a time, back when you were Amanda’s age, you dreamed about working for a big national magazine.
What about all that traveling? the first voice demanded. For all you know, you’d be forced to cover extreme destinations like Antarctica and the Gobi Desert. Or countries with unstable governments and bad water and strikes every ten minutes that leave garbage piled on the streets and commuters stuck in subways. And what if you’re assigned to write about a nudist colony?…
“What I need for the issue we’re currently putting together,” Trevor continued, oblivious to her hesitation, “is an article on Florida.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “The old Florida, that somewhat hokey, somewhat tacky but always fun place so many of us remember with such affection from our own family vacations back in the fifties, sixties, and seventies. I’m thinking plastic pink flamingo lawn ornaments. Alligator farms with gator wrestling. Roadside attractions like caged tigers at gas stations. Hot dog stands shaped like giant hot dogs. The precursors of the giant theme parks, like haunted houses and talking mermaids.
“That’s what I mean by the old Florida,” he concluded. “Your job is to find out if it still exists despite Disneyfication, not to mention the Internet, computer games, iPods, and all the other high-tech toys that have become part of everyone’s life.”
Florida! For the first time since entering Trevor’s office, Mallory felt herself starting to relax. Florida was something she could handle—if there was anything her limited travel experience had prepared her for, this was it. She couldn’t help smiling as she found herself imagining a slide show that catapulted her back to her childhood.
She could remember the thrill of pulling into the parking lot of Horne’s, a chain of roadside stops that popped up practically every five miles. Lingering over enticing displays of alligator wallets and pecan log rolls at Stuckey’s, its number-one competitor. Begging to stay at the Mexican-themed South of the Border Motel, which was advertised by dozens of billboards along the interstate and was readily recognizable by the hundred-foot statue of the motel’s sombrero-sporting mascot, Pedro.
And that was just driving there. She had fond memories of so many things that these days were considered kitsch—a term meaning “bad taste in good fun.” Those alligator farms Trevor had mentioned, glass-bottom boats, snack bars shaped like giant ice-cream cones, Cypress Gardens with its thrilling waterskiing shows…
All that must have changed by now, Mallory reflected. All those quirky places that endeared Florida to me and a whole generation of young travelers have undoubtedly been put out of business by the Disney parks, Sea World, and Universal. Or maybe not.
“Of course, everything will be completely paid for,” Trevor went on matter-of-factly, as if free trips like the one he was describing came along every day. “Tourist destinations generally do whatever it takes to get media coverage in their strongest markets, which means Florida’s tourism bureau is picking up the tab for most of it. The Good Life will cover all your other related expenses, like getting to and from the airport and any meals that aren’t comped.”
“Comped?” Mallory repeated without thinking, then immediately regretted letting her ignorance show.
“Comp as in ‘complimentary,’” Trevor explained, without showing the tiniest shred of impatience. “In other words, free. Sorry to use jargon, but you’ll catch on fast enough. And I should mention that you’ll be part of a press trip. That’s a group of travel writers who are hosted by the tourist bureau folks. On this trip, your base of operations will be Orlando. The fact that the Disney parks and Universal Studios have such a stronghold there has made the area a natural center for the family-oriented tourist industry—which means it’s the ideal hunting grounds for the kind of attractions you’ll be writing about.”
He hesitated before saying, “I suppose I should mention that our writers generally travel alone.”
Mallory frowned. “Sorry?”
“What I mean is, there’s no budget for including spouses or other family members on these travel junkets,” he explained. “Some writers run into difficulties because of babysitting problems or scheduling issues. Is that something we’d have to plan around?”
She realized he was trying to find a delicate way to ask about her availability without coming right out and asking if she was married or had children.
“No,” she replied, not the least bit offended over what seemed like a completely legitimate concern. “My children are grown. And my husband died six months ago in an accident.”
A startled look crossed his face. “I’m sorry,” he said kindly. “That must have been extremely difficult.”
Mallory nodded, surprised by how sincere he sounded. From the seriousness in his eyes, she got the feeling he had some firsthand experience with loss himself.
“You’re right, it has been tough,” she admitted. “But this job—writing travel articles for the magazine—sounds appealing. It also strikes me as something I’d be good at. I loved working for the Record, but after a while it got to be too much of the same thing. But travel writing…wow. That sounds like—”
“Like what?” Trevor asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
With a self-conscious laugh, she said, “It sounds like something that will impress even my kids.”
Chuckling, Trevor gestured toward the photo of the two smiling young women. “I’m a parent myself, so I know how hard that is. But you’re right. Travel writing may not be quite as glamorous as most people assume, but it definitely has its perks. Seeing places you wouldn’t necessarily travel to on your own is just the beginning. You’ll also end up viewing the places you go in an entirely different way. Even if you’ve been there before, evaluating them more objectively forces you to see them through new eyes. It’s part of feeling responsible to your readers, as if you’re venturing there first to see if they should follow.”
“It sounds like you’ve done some travel writing yourself,” Mallory observed.
�
�Some.” He glanced around his office and sighed. “These days, I’m lucky if I can escape from these four walls long enough for lunch.”
Suddenly Trevor’s expression darkened. “In terms of this Florida trip, there is one tiny glitch.”
Aha, Mallory thought. Not surprisingly, that old adage “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is” was about to prove to be more than something grandmothers liked to say.
“What’s the glitch?” she asked. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved that this entire fantasy was on the verge of dissolving as quickly as it had swelled her head. Either way, she chastised herself for having already started a mental To Do list that included “Check expiration date of last summer’s sunblock, See if elastic on old bathing suit is still functional,” and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, “Get legs waxed.”
“You’d have to leave Sunday.”
“This Sunday?” Mallory didn’t even care that she was beginning to sound like a parrot. “But that’s in three days.”
Her head was spinning. Impossible, she thought. There’s no way I can pull this off. I’d have to squeeze a million errands into the next seventy-two hours in order to get ready. And I’d have to leave the house unattended, plus cancel whatever I’ve got on my schedule….
But she quickly remembered that Jordan was at home, so he could take care of anything that came up. As for her schedule, unless someone was throwing her a surprise party, there was nothing to cancel. It was even possible that she really could get herself ready in three days. She’d certainly accomplished more impressive tasks in the past, including staying up all night to sew a butterfly costume for Amanda’s third-grade play and getting the scoop on whether Rivington’s mayor planned to run for a second term by taking his wife out to lunch at Neiman Marcus’s tearoom and plying her with white Zinfandel.
Maybe I really could do this, she thought tentatively. Besides, if I do fall on my face, the only people around to witness my failure will be a bunch of six-year-olds wearing mouse ears.
And then, even before she’d realized she was about to speak, she heard herself uttering the words, “I can be ready by Sunday.”
Trevor responded with a grateful smile. “Perfect. I knew you were exactly what I was looking for. Welcome aboard, Mallory. I’ll e-mail the Florida tourism folks ASAP that you’re our new travel writer. Now if you’ll just be patient while I get through some of the paperwork…”
A half hour later, Mallory rode down the elevator of the Paragon Publications building, feeling dazed. She could hardly believe she had just said yes to a proposition that she now realized was completely ridiculous.
But it was too late. In her purse she had an e-ticket, the name and address of an Orlando hotel, the confirmation number of a car rental, and a cash advance for those extras Trevor had mentioned. She also had an official Assignment Letter printed on The Good Life letterhead that stated she was writing an article for the magazine. She’d glanced at it only long enough to see that it ended with the phrase, Please extend to Ms. Marlowe all courtesies as a journalist.
I have a job! she marveled. Like it or not, I’m a real live travel writer!
She wasn’t sure whether she should be rejoicing or kicking herself. But one thing she was certain of was that simply repeating those words in her mind sent so much adrenaline surging through her veins that she doubted she’d ever need a cup of coffee again.
2
“The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”
—St. Augustine
Next stop, Rivington. Rivington!”
As the Metro North train pulled into the station, Mallory took one last glance at the To Do list she’d scribbled during the ride home. It had grown considerably from the mental version she’d begun constructing in Trevor’s office. “Get summer clothes out of storage. Schedule haircut. Get cash from ATM. Buy guidebooks. Shop for sandals. Write down important phone numbers for Jordan.”
How am I ever going to get all this done in time? she wondered with alarm.
But preparing for her trip was only part of it. What she was really worried about was how her children would react to the news. She wanted to believe they’d be excited for her. Yet two decades in the mother business had taught her that the one thing children didn’t like was change. Especially if it involved their parents.
“Jordan?” she called as she stepped into the foyer. She dropped her keys and her purse on the marble table that was there expressly for that purpose. “Sweetie, are you home?”
She glanced into the living room, where her son was sprawled out on the couch. As usual, he was engrossed in some video game that enabled him to pulverize, mangle, and otherwise destroy a variety of digital bad guys merely by clicking a few keys.
“Jordan, did you—oh, my God!” Mallory froze, not quite believing what she was seeing. “Amanda? What are you doing here?”
“Frankly, I was hoping for a warmer welcome,” her daughter replied sullenly.
Amanda stood in the kitchen doorway with one hand curled around a steaming mug. With the other hand she twirled a lock of her long, straight auburn hair, a nervous habit left over from childhood.
And a sign that something was wrong.
“Of course I’m happy to see you,” Mallory assured her. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you.”
She rushed over to give her a hug, still amazed that her firstborn child towered a good five inches above her. Amanda was also reed-thin, although the gawkiness that had plagued her during her teenage years was mercifully evolving into a willowy gracefulness.
“When did you get here?” Mallory asked, trying to hide her shock. “And more importantly, what are you doing home from college?”
“She just showed up a few minutes ago,” Jordan informed her as he sauntered into the foyer, cradling a bag of some bright orange junk-food product. His baggy yellow T-shirt and equally baggy jeans looked rumpled, as they always did after a long session on the couch. His dark blond hair was similarly disheveled, making him appear as if he’d been engaged in hand-to-hand combat rather than merely fighting virtual enemies. “She’s having an identity crisis.”
“Wha—?” Mallory stared at her daughter, shaking her head in bafflement. “What on earth is he talking about, Amanda?”
Amanda took a deep breath. “Mother,” she announced, pushing up the sleeves of the cream-colored cashmere sweater she wore with tailored black slacks, “I needed to get away from school. I’m taking a few days to decide what to do with my life.”
I’m forty-five years old, Mallory thought ruefully, and I still haven’t figured out what to do with mine.
But this wasn’t about her, she reminded herself. This is about a twenty-year-old who up until this moment has never once strayed from any of the goals she set for herself.
Ever since she was tiny, Amanda had known exactly what she wanted, whether it was a yellow balloon as opposed to any other color or earning the highest SAT scores in her school’s history. And once she’d set her sights on something, she exhibited amazing discipline in order to get it, acting as if reaching that particular goal was a matter of life and death.
Which made the fact that for once in her life, Amanda had stepped off that straight and narrow path of hers—even going so far as to have an “identity crisis,” according to her brother—cause for alarm.
“Is there something in particular that precipitated this crisis?” she asked her daughter, trying to remain calm.
“As you know, I’ve been leaning strongly toward getting an MBA after I graduate from college next year,” Amanda replied, as usual sounding more like a college professor than a college student. “But I just got my score for the law school admission test I took in the fall…”
“And?” Mallory prompted, still bracing herself for the bad part.
“I did better than I expected. Much better.” Amanda paused for dramatic effect before adding, “I scored in the ninety-fifth perc
entile.”
Is that all? Mallory thought, nearly falling over with relief. Here I was worried that she was in some kind of trouble—maybe even the kind that requires a lawyer. But it turns out that her crisis is deciding whether or not she wants to be one.
“If you’re that smart,” Jordan piped up, “why don’t you just go to law school and business school at the same time? That way, you can make twice as much money—which is what all this is about, right?”
Mallory cast her son a dirty look. Sometimes he acted so much like a baby brother that she wondered if he was eighteen or eight.
“That’s wonderful, Amanda!” she told her daughter sincerely. “That means you can pursue either one of them. So I don’t understand why—”
“But that’s the problem!” Amanda wailed. “Even though I’ve been thinking in terms of business school, it turns out I’m unbelievably well suited for law school. Everything is suddenly up in the air. I have a major decision to make, probably the most important one of my entire life!”
“Can’t you go back to school and make your decision there?” Mallory asked, trying to hide her frustration over her daughter’s tendency to overdramatize. Especially since this time around, it meant a major change of plans that affected them both. “The semester just started. You must be missing so many classes—”
“Actually, I thought it was much more important to return to my childhood home,” Amanda replied, straightening her shoulders. “I felt it would give me an opportunity to get back in touch with my true self.”
“Don’t tell me,” Jordan said, grinning. “Your inner child, right?”
Amanda cast her brother a scathing look. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
He groaned as he reached into the bag of mysterious junk food. “Do you think your inner child gives a hoot about whether you become an executive or a lawyer? I don’t see a lot of little girls dressing their Barbie dolls in business suits and teeny-weeny briefcases.”
Amanda tossed her hair in a way that said that one thing she was in touch with was the importance of ignoring her little brother. Widening her eyes at Mallory, she said, “This is a critical time for me, Mother. I’m facing a major crisis, possibly the biggest one of my entire life. And I need you to help me through it.”
Murder Packs a Suitcase Page 2
