by Nancy Martin
I knew Emma was trying to deflect me from the fact that she was leaving us.
She said, “I’ve got a place to stay with a bunch of other riders. They’re the Grand Prix team, so it’s good for me. Good for Cookie.”
“It’s your dream,” I said.
Michael hugged Noah close to keep him contained. “You’re not leaving so you can get away from us, Em, are you? Because we’ll have Noah?”
“Hell, no. I’m happy he’ll be with you. God knows I’m not his mother, never have been.”
He said, “Well, thanks. We owe you.”
“Forget it, big guy.”
“Em,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “It’s true, y’know. I’m not his mother. I’m not like you, Sis. I think I know what I’m going after now. I don’t need kids to make me who I am.”
Was that me? Did I need children to make me complete? Maybe so. I’d always known I wanted a family of my own. It might be a slightly unconventional family, perhaps not what I had envisioned before I launched myself on this particular journey, but here I was. A mother, a wife, a sister. Feeling woozy, perhaps, but definitely happy.
17.
At the Intelligencer several weeks later, I called a staff meeting at the end of our first week to touch base with the reduced number of employees who remained to keep the newspaper afloat. The hard job had been done by the owners—firing more than half the staff, clearing out the furniture and equipment that had been leased, and terminating the contract with the printing company that had produced the newspaper for more than a hundred years. But I had gathered up the people who stayed, and for a week we’d worked together.
Before I took command of the new version of the Intelligencer, Michael’s only advice had been, “Don’t be afraid to intimidate.”
Lexie had agreed with him. “You’re the boss now, sweetie. Show it.”
But pushing people around wasn’t my style.
That afternoon, I left my office by giving a fluff to the huge bouquet of flowers on my desk. The card read: Flowers were Emma’s idea, but I paid for them. Much love and good luck on your first week at work! We love you! Xoxo, Libby
With a smile, I headed to the conference room. But the faces that turned to me as I sat down at the head of the table were glum. The always-grouchy guy who’d been kept around to write political columns was downright surly, and all the others weren’t far behind him. I swallowed hard.
Everybody had brought their electronic devices, or they rattled papers in front of them. Nobody wanted to meet my eye.
“Tell me what’s going to be in the weekend edition,” I said. “Skip? What’s going on in sports?”
We went quickly around the table, and my staff kept their reports succinct. I thought I had made it clear that I wasn’t going to second guess anyone, and maybe they were testing me by not thinking out of the box. Their ideas were nothing new. I nodded and only asked a question or two as the reports went on. The political columnist used a snide tone at one point, so I stopped him with a question about a change in the administration’s foreign policy, and he had to backtrack and be more specific once he realized I wasn’t just the social columnist anymore. I could have heard a pin drop at the table while he hurried to correct himself.
After that slightly tense interlude, I asked about where they wanted their work to go next week.
Silence. Skip Malone, the last remaining sports reporter cleared his throat, but didn’t speak.
I took a deep breath.
“Listen, everybody,” I said finally. “I know you’re all worried about your jobs. We feel as if we’ve been handed a failing proposition, and we’re all going to be out on the street any day now. But I’ve been promised that we’re all safe for a year, and I firmly believe that’s true. The lawyers back me up. Here’s the way I’m looking at it: newspapers that we all grew up loving are different now. But here’s our shot at starting something we can love just as much. Something new and young. We’ve been given a chance to invent something. The future of journalism. Big words, but we can start small. We start local.”
One by one, my staff lifted their heads. I had their attention. I said, “I trust you all. Honestly? If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. But you were chosen. And I know you all. We’ve been friends. You’re all brilliant and fun, and yes, young and creative enough to adapt and change to make something big happen. So I don’t want to tell anybody what to write. Not yet. I want us all to cut loose. To be innovative. Tell me your pet ideas—the crazy stories you haven’t had the guts to suggest to anyone yet. With an online paper, we’ve got all the room we can use to try things. So let’s throw some spaghetti at the walls.”
“You?” Skip said. “You throw spaghetti, Nora?”
A few tentative smiles popped out.
I smiled, too. “I’ve learned a lot in the last couple of years, and spaghetti is one of my specialties now. How about if we all try it? Let’s write what turns us on. Readers will either love us or hate us. But knowing all of you, I bet they’re going to love us.”
Okay, there were no cheers of victory. No triumphant songs sung. But a discussion broke out, and everybody began to get excited. Within a few minutes, their suggestions overlapped each other, voices rising with enthusiasm. We had direction. I had a vision, and they were on board with it.
I let them go without any more encouraging words. I didn’t want to play the supreme leader too much. And I didn’t want to break the spell of good humor that seemed to hover around the table. There were stories to be researched and written, and they were the professionals who could do it. Everybody seemed energized as they went out into the news room.
The political columnist approached as everyone else left. “Sorry about my wisecrack, Nora,” he said stiffly. “I’ve had a long week. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
But he had been. He had wanted to put me in my place. I thought of Michael’s advice, but I refrained from pulling rank. Instead, I smiled. “I really liked your idea about photos of local military families. Maybe we could put those on Instagram. A family every day, maybe.”
“Instagram?”
I knew by his tone that he had no clue what that was. So I put an encouraging hand on his arm. “Do a little research this weekend. See you back here on Monday.”
He left, and Skip Malone stuck his head back through the door. “Hey, Nora, some of us are going to get a beer. Want to come?”
I might have gone back when I was one of the staff. And I was pleased that my colleagues still felt they could invite me.
“Sorry, Skip. Thanks, but not tonight. I have a date with my family.”
He saluted jauntily. “Okay, boss. Maybe next week!”
I returned to my office and gave my good luck flowers another fluff. They had been good luck, indeed.
My office—formerly the barebones office of Gus Hardwicke—was now pleasantly cluttered with admittedly battered furniture and some family photos tacked up on the cork board. I had talked to Gus by phone only once, early in the week. He’d called again to check on me, but I had been too busy to take his call. He hadn’t called back.
I grabbed my briefcase and stuffed it with some reading material I’d have to skim over the weekend—magazine articles and news clippings gathered by my new assistant and a few things sent by staff members. In the last few minutes of our meeting, they had all promised to email me more ideas tomorrow. Once again, I was glad not to be working on my own. Having good support was the only way I was going to make it in my new career.
I slipped my Dior swing coat around my shoulders and took the elevator downstairs. Even though I wasn’t going to social events anymore—not unless I was an invited guest, that is—I still liked to dress nicely for work. My grandmother’s vintage couture was starting to fit well again.
I walked a few blocks to Rittenhouse Square, the neighborhood where I had lived with Todd, my first husband. The November weather was cool but
dry, and the leaves on the sidewalks blew gently in a soft breeze. A golden night was gathering, but it was still light enough for me to see Michael and the children from a block away.
He waved from a bench, and with spirits rising, I picked up my pace to reach them. He had the girls in his lap—Allie sleeping and Amelia grabbing the zipper on his jacket. Noah tottered around the bench with determined steps, pushing the double stroller. He saw me, and his face lit up with a smile. He let go of the stroller handles and nearly tumbled to the sidewalk. I bent and gathered him up just in time. “Hello, little man!”
“Jeez, Nora, you shouldn’t be lifting him.” Michael belatedly got to his feet, juggling the babies in both arms. “Take it easy, will you?”
“I’m fine, no worries.” I kissed him on the mouth and felt the jolt of happiness at seeing them all together. As Noah grabbed a handful of my hair, I asked Michael, “How was your day?”
“Not bad.” He had the rogue’s gleam in his eyes, and that meant he was downplaying something.
“The gasoline business is booming again? Legitimately?”
“Of course.”
“That’s good news. Can we afford to take this crew out for dinner? Some place with a lot of high chairs? Or should we go home?”
Michael paused and glanced pointedly at the building behind me. It was a co-op, I knew, of pricey condominiums that faced the park. I had lived across the square in an equally luxurious building. He said, “Y’know, if we lived here, we’d be home by now.”
“Here?” The idea shocked me. “Not at Blackbird Farm?”
“Life might be easier if you didn’t have the long commute to work. We might be able to swing a three-bedroom place right here if you wanted. I’ve been looking at the pictures online.”
He had his phone tucked into his shirt pocket, I could see. Lately, he’d been idly swiping through real estate ads. I hadn’t expected this bombshell, though. But live in Rittenhouse Square? In the middle of the city bustle? Surrounded by upscale restaurants and shops, not to mention tony neighbors?
Despite giving up his family business, Michael still looked like a felon. The white-haired couple that strolled past us through the fallen leaves gave him a wide berth. He’d make a strange sort of neighbor among the blue bloods and the young money crowd. And despite swearing he’d become a law-abiding citizen, I noticed he’d left the Escalade illegally parked on the curb. No, he wouldn’t fit in here.
Thinking of all the rooms and the lawn and the ponies at the farm, I tried to hide my dismay at his suggestion. “Are you serious?”
“I’m just floating it out there.”
I bit my lip. “Michael, I still owe a fortune on the farm.”
“If you didn’t, though, would you still live there?”
“But I do owe. My tax bill is almost as big as the national debt.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be.” There was something in Michael’s expression that intrigued me.
I set my briefcase on the bench, and Noah snuggled more firmly against me. I couldn’t stop a tentative smile at my husband. “What’s going on? Has something happened?”
He adjusted the girls in his arms. “A little something, yeah.”
“Michael—”
“Nothing bad.” He cut to the chase. “Very good, in fact. This afternoon a big company offered to buy Gas n Grub from me.”
My mouth must have popped open with surprise. “What? You mean someone wants to buy some of the gas stations?”
“No, the whole company. They’re my biggest competitor, and apparently they think I’m some kind of a threat to their world domination, so they want to buy me out. They’re going to absorb the gas stations into their own chain. They offered me a lot of money. A ton of money. Like, enough money to get you out of debt and set us up wherever we want to live.”
I couldn’t speak.
With a grin, he added, “Maybe even enough money to fix the plumbing in that house of yours.”
“Ours,” I corrected, dazed.
“Yeah, ours,” he agreed, leaning close to kiss me.
His lips were warm, and when we parted, I met his vivid blue gaze. “I can’t believe it.”
“Me neither.” His grin was wide and infectious. “I think Lexie set it up. She has the right contacts, and this deal didn’t come out of nowhere, so I’m betting she’s behind it all.”
Dear Lexie. She had recently run off to the Caribbean to buy a second home—a shack on the beach, she called it—and it sounded as if she planned to divide her time between Philadelphia and her island paradise. She was getting back on her feet in many ways. It would be just like her to give us a gift to thank us for our part in helping her a little.
“But what about you?” I said to Michael. “You love that business! What will you do if you don’t have it to run every day?”
He was holding our children like an every day suburban dad, but he had the buccaneer look on his face again. The look that said he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. “I dunno. Maybe start something else. Something new. But it might take me a couple of years to think of the right idea. In the meantime, I can do a little fishing. But I can mostly stay home and take care of the kids.”
“You?” I laughed. “A stay at home dad?”
“Hey, why not? You’re the one with the hot new career. And the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of staying at home for a while.” Sincerely, he said, “I want to be there for my kids.”
If nothing else, taking care of our family was definitely going to keep him out of trouble.
But genuinely concerned, I said, “Would you be happy doing that?”
“Of course. I don’t want to be like my father. I want to do it right. And as long as everybody’s healthy, I’m happy. Speaking of which, how was your appointment with the cardiologist this morning?”
“Helpful. He says I’m good to go, no need for a pacemaker now, just medication for the moment. We shouldn’t worry. We can even have more children if we want.”
“I want,” he said. “Definitely.”
I did, too. Having a big family had always been my plan. Maybe I hadn’t expected it to start so fast, but I was willing—no, eager—to keep going. “He also says I probably won’t be fainting anymore. Although,” I admitted, “I’m a little light-headed right now. You have really surprised me.”
“Sorry. I should have been more careful.”
I leaned close and put my head against his shoulder. “When have we ever been careful? I lost my head as soon as I met you.”
“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. Now look where we are. Did you ever think this is the way things would turn out? You, the editor of the paper. Me, going straight. Us, married at last? With some money coming in so our house doesn’t fall down around us? And three kids already. Not to mention I feel like I’m finally starting to get caught up on sleep now that they’re giving us a break at night. Life is good, Nora.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I was guessing none of us were going to get much sleep for the next few years. We had too much to do. Too much life to live.
Yes, after Todd died, my parents had run off with my trust fund and left me stuck with the real estate disaster that was Blackbird Farm. Since then, I had sacrificed a lot to keep it standing because it represented the family legacy that meant the world to me. My Blackbird name had been an essential part of who I was, and it still felt that way. Blackbirds had been among the first settlers of Pennsylvania, and my ancestors had helped build a country from nothing. I felt connected to them still.
Okay, my immediate family were more frustrating than inspiring, perhaps. Emma still worried me with her late night phone calls from far-flung horse country, where she seemed to be working harder than ever. She sounded sober, but I would always listen for the telltale slur in her words. And Libby’s exploits would forever drive me crazy. Her fling with Perry Delbert was blossoming into a truly romantic affair full of newfound pa
ssion as well as her usual melodrama. She’d told me she was taking him to London for a long weekend, and I wondered whether I should call Scotland Yard to warn of an invasion.
Since Todd’s death I had struggled through a number of other tragic events. The murder of Rory Pendergast just weeks after he saved me from humiliating bankruptcy by hiring me to work at his newspaper was still a particularly cruel knife in my heart. But the support of my sisters, my many friends and my co-workers in Philadelphia had helped tremendously. Made me stronger.
I didn’t feel as if I was constrained by a curse anymore. I had broken free of it somehow. Maybe it had never been real. But now I felt as if it had been washed away and left me with a clean slate.
The woman I had been three years ago—the frightened, sad, tentative widow who lived in this very neighborhood—seemed a distant person to me now. The strong part of me had prevailed. I had a new life. A new family. No doubt there would be challenges to come, but I was ready to face them.
Michael said, “You have a funny look on your face.”
“Let’s go home,” I said, giving Michael’s arm another squeeze and Noah a nose kiss to make him smile. “Tonight I just want to be with the ones I love. Tomorrow we’ll think about what’s ahead.”
“Whatever makes you happy.” Michael nudged the stroller for me to grab. “Lead the way.”
The End
The Blackbird Sisters Mysteries Series includes four ebook short novellas:
Mick’s Story
Mick Abruzzo, The Second Wire
Lady Be Good
Bye, Bye, Blackbird
A note from Nancy:
I started writing the Blackbird Sisters back in 1999 when Pennsylvania was thinking about starting a state lottery. It seemed everywhere I went, people talked about what they would do with all the money if they hit the jackpot. Everybody wants to be rich, it seemed. But I began to think about money and the responsibilities that come with it once you have it. Old Money has always been an integral part of American society—for good as well as bad—and I thought it was worth exploring. Nora Blackbird came from that small idea. Her career as a social reporter who saw the value in promoting philanthropy grew into a platform I could use to write about the many good causes I appreciate and support. Nora’s adventures have always been fun to write about, but I took even greater pleasure in exploring her world and the people in it. I hope readers reached some new understandings as well.
