Chapter 2
Chloe landed on the well-worn plaid couch, clunked her stocking feet on top of the cheap wooden excuse for a coffee table, and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t have the apartment to herself long.
But it shouldn’t be hard to doze for a few minutes, after the two days she’d had. On the inside of her closed eyelids, she saw her computer screen at the office, with its eccentric news editing software and square gray cursor blinking at her. Until the cursor started moving by itself. Backward, over the words she’d just typed, their meaning unintelligible. The letters blurred and faded away . . .
And the front door opened, jarring her halfway out of her skin. Kate came blustering in with Tiffany right behind her, both still dressed in the obligatory pink Pine ’n’ Dine uniforms. How had they both pulled the day shift the first week Chloe was gone?
“Hey, sunshine.” Kate held out a narrow white box. “Dick Rickard misses you.”
Chloe sat bolt upright, this time not because she was startled. Dick was one of her nicest customers, an older gentleman who loved the Early Bird dinner special. And if Chloe wasn’t mistaken, that white box contained candy from Sue’s Sweets on Evergreen Lane. It might not be a heaping plate of her mother’s mashed potatoes and gravy, but it would do for comfort food tonight.
Not worried about spoiling her appetite for her frozen dinner, Chloe took the box from Kate and snatched the lid off. She scrutinized the chocolates. A lot of times, the oval ones had maple filling, her favorite. She picked one up and bit into it.
“Orange.” Oh, well. The candy was a gift, and chocolate was chocolate.
“If you look inside the lid, there’s a diagram that shows you which ones are which.” Tiffany perched on the arm of the sofa on Chloe’s right.
“That’s cheating.” Chloe contemplated the rows of candy in their little brown paper nests. Was it her imagination or did it seem a little roomy in there? She tilted the box, and the candies slid, exposing quite a bit of the white cardboard bottom. She cast a distrustful look, first at Tiffany, then at Kate.
Tiffany looked a little shame-faced. Kate shrugged. “We taste-tested a few.”
Chloe tried to muster the energy to glare at her roommates. Tiffany, with her short, dark hair and passion for punky eyeliner, probably had the softest heart of anyone she knew. And Kate, with her straight, shoulder-length brown hair, always speaking before she thought. Chloe had known them both all her life, even though she and Kate hadn’t really been friends until their junior year of high school. Kate had spiked a volleyball that smashed straight into Chloe’s face, Tiffany had rushed to her defense, and Kate had apologized profusely while the three of them tried to stem the flow of Chloe’s bloody nose. Somehow, out of that messy experience, the three had forged a bond that had lasted through all the comings and goings of Chloe’s college years.
There was no point getting mad at them. After all, it wasn’t reasonable to expect self-control when chocolate was involved.
“Thanks for saving me some.” Chloe tried for a little sarcasm, just on general principles, but she knew it didn’t convince anyone.
It would have taken a sledgehammer to get through to Kate, anyway. “How was Day Two with Simon Legree?” Kate plopped onto the couch on Chloe’s left, suspiciously close to the box of chocolates.
“Ask me tomorrow.” Chloe gestured weakly toward the open box of candy. After her roommates each grabbed a piece, she closed the lid. “I don’t think I have any words left in me right now.”
Even from across the newsroom, Bret’s presence had hung over her like a vaguely disapproving shadow, and she couldn’t dispel the feeling he was just waiting for her to screw up. For the past two days he’d barely gone near her, except to drop more press releases on her head. How she was supposed to get any work done on the three out of five article ideas he’d approved, Chloe didn’t know. But at least she had an interview scheduled for tomorrow morning. She’d better be able to speak English again by then.
Maybe Bret was God’s way of trying to cure her of her weakness for smart, quiet guys. The kind who had never approached her in high school, either because they were too shy or they just plain weren’t interested. Bret was like one of those guys grown up—just take away the quiet and shy and add in a healthy dose of terror. It sounded like the perfect vaccine to Chloe.
“You could come back to work with us,” Tiffany said.
“Or we could break his legs,” Kate chimed in.
Chloe huffed out a weak laugh in spite of herself. But the laugh and the chocolate were just what she needed. She didn’t plan to jump ship for the Pine ’n’ Dine, at least not until this fill-in gig was over. And when McCrea got back, there was always the chance it could turn into something permanent. After all, unless you were planning a career in restaurant management, no one wanted to wait tables for too long.
Through her bleary eyes, for the first time, Chloe saw this apartment for what it was: a way station. The lumpy couch, donated by one of Tiffany’s ex-boyfriends. The coffee table, a discarded woodshop project from Kate’s older brother. And the brick-and-board bookshelves Chloe had thought were so ingenious the first time she’d constructed them in college. By her senior year, they’d looked a little tacky and tired even back in the dorm.
This place was temporary, and in most ways, that was a good thing.
But for right now, it was nice to know that either of her friends stood ready to beat Bret to a pulp—at least metaphorically—on her behalf.
There was just one thing. This town was small, and words had echoes. “I didn’t call him Simon Legree,” she murmured weakly.
With that pronouncement, she vowed she was officially done talking for the day. She slumped silently, flanked by her roommates, who eyed the candy box like two sparrows on the prowl for a dropped sandwich crust in a parking lot.
Chloe gave up and pulled the lid off the box. “Okay, have at it. Just save me some of the oval ones.”
And she let her head drop onto the back of the couch.
* * *
Wednesday morning, and it was shaping up to be a long week.
Bret’s newly inherited office felt more and more confining, its glass walls cutting him off from the newsroom more than letting him see into it. It was unexpectedly hard to write in here. Somewhere along the line, he’d not only mastered the art of working with activity around him; it felt strange trying to work without it. He closed the window of the article he’d been working on—he was spending way too much time second-guessing his own prose—and returned to editing some of the material for tomorrow’s paper.
Chloe came back into the office, lugging that impractical briefcase, and plunked into her chair. Without wasting any time, without opening her briefcase, she jiggled the mouse to wake up her computer screen and started to type. She hadn’t worn her hair pulled back since the first day, but now she paused long enough to twist the shoulder-length locks into a hasty bun, as if it were an annoyance.
It was an annoyance to Bret. It was distracting. The tumble of blond hair kept catching the corner of his eye, reminding him of the new presence in the office. Qualified or not, a pretty female shouldn’t have that effect on him. He had better concentration than that.
As for her qualifications . . .
He redirected his focus to his screen, which displayed Chloe’s latest news brief. She was, at least, a competent writer. There was one problem, and it was setting his teeth on edge a little more with each edit. He finished going over the article and closed it, biting his tongue once again.
But as he started on her next piece, a detailed list of weekly events, a sound escaped from him that bordered on a growl.
He’d been putting it off, but it wasn’t going to get better on its own. He had to deal with this. He didn’t give himself any more time to hesitate. He picked up his phone and hit the intercom button.
“Chloe. Can I see you in my office? Now?”
* * *
The summons hit Chloe like ice water down her spine. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good. She saved the three lines she’d written so far and went to the editor’s office, remembering to grab a notepad and pen on her way.
Bret waited for her behind his desk, the wide expanse of oak between them making him look even more formidable. All business, despite the fact that he didn’t wear the traditional power suit. In fact, Chloe realized, he wore the same simple gray sport jacket he’d worn since the day she started—casual, but versatile, and above the curve for day-to-day business in Tall Pine.
He barely waited for her to settle into one of the little straight-backed chairs across from him. “We have a problem,” he said without preamble.
Her stomach, which hadn’t felt great all week, lurched. Don’t show fear. He can probably smell fear. Chloe sat tall in her chair. “Yes?”
“Your copy’s okay. Your punctuation’s decent. But if you’re serious about this, there’s something you need to work on.”
If you’re serious about this. She stiffened, if that was still possible. “What’s that?”
“Style.” He tapped his monitor, which faced away from her, so the gesture didn’t do much good. “On your calendar of events, you have ‘p.m.’ abbreviated three different ways. The accepted form is lower case, with a period after each letter. Those details may not seem important to you, but they are. Your AP style leaves a lot to be desired.”
She kept her steady posture, but her heart pounded. She didn’t have a bluff for this one. “What’s AP style?”
His features went utterly still.
“Associated Press,” he said slowly, as if speaking to someone who’d recently arrived from Minsk. “Remember? From Journalism 101?”
“I never took journalism.”
In the flood of silence that radiated from Bret, Chloe realized for the first time that McCrea had a clock on his desk, and that it ticked. Deafeningly. She didn’t move her eyes to look at it, though. For better or for worse, she held Bret’s disbelieving stare.
He spoke without inflection. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I never—”
“I heard what you said. I’m just trying to wrap my head around it. You have a degree in English, and you never studied journalism. What did you take?”
“Literature, composition, creative nonfiction—”
“Creative nonfiction.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, just above his glasses, his eyes closed.
“I knew I wanted to write.” Now that his eyes weren’t fixed on her, Chloe found her tongue and a bit of conviction. “I love words and I’m good with them. I just didn’t know what kind of writing I wanted to do.”
He opened his eyes. His stare remained expressionless. “I’ve got a reporter who doesn’t want to be a reporter.”
“Not then. But things change. Not everybody knows what they want to be when they’re in college.”
“I knew when I was ten.”
Bully for you. She kept that immature thought to herself. “That’s great,” she said instead. “For some of us it takes a little longer. I’ve been writing for the Gazette for over a year and a half—”
“And McCrea’s been cleaning up after you. But I don’t have that luxury. He had two seasoned full-time reporters, and you were turning in, what? A couple of stories a week?”
More like three or four in a month. “Something like that.”
“Well, you’re one-third of our writing staff now. It’s time to step up your game.” He opened a desk drawer, brought out a chunky, spiral-bound volume, and tossed it onto the desk in front of her with a thunk. “Here’s the AP Stylebook. That’s where you get your standardized forms of abbreviation, word use, you name it. Learn it. Love it.”
* * *
“Pie.” Chloe spoke as soon as Sherry reached the corner booth at the Pine ’n’ Dine. “I need a piece of Hal’s peanut butter chocolate pie. And coffee. Please.”
If she survived these next three months, she’d probably gain thirty pounds. At least the peanut butter had some protein in it.
“Okay.” Sherry made a show of jotting down the order on her pad, but she studied Chloe with brown eyes that missed nothing. “Tough morning?”
Chloe expelled all of her breath with a helpless shake of her head. She was out of words for the day already. And it wasn’t even eleven-thirty.
She’d brought along her briefcase with the notes from her interview inside. Half an hour ago, when she first returned to the office, her head had been buzzing with lines for her article. Now she couldn’t even muster the enthusiasm to look at her notes. She brought out the style guide instead. It must weigh about ten pounds.
“Hey, sweetie.” Kate appeared beside Sherry. “Simon Legree giving you a hard time again?”
“Don’t call him that.” Chloe cast a hasty glance around the diner, where early lunch patrons were starting to drift in. “I never called him that.”
“Ebenezer Scrooge, then.” At least Kate remembered her literary references from school.
Sherry skittered away with her order pad, only to be replaced by Tiffany. Didn’t anyone work the night shift anymore?
“Hi,” Tiffany said. “Is he giving you a bad time again?”
“Stop. Stop.” Chloe leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands pressed to her temples. She didn’t come here for sympathy. She came here for pie. Except she’d come to the place where everyone knew her. Because the pie was here. But they had pie at The Foggy Notion, too.
Okay, she wanted some pity, and she’d known where to get it. She couldn’t have it both ways. Venting had to take a backseat. She was practically drawing a crowd, and anyone within earshot might tell Bret she’d been in here griping about him.
She raised her head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her voice low. “Not here. I don’t want everyone to—”
“What’s this?” Tiffany fingered the well-thumbed stylebook on the table.
“My homework. Did you know there’s a right way and a wrong way to abbreviate ‘p.m.’?”
“You’re kidding,” Tiffany said.
“Who cares?” Kate added.
Chloe found she did care. Even if Bret thought she didn’t. That phrase stung her again: If you’re serious about this . . .
Chloe pulled the book toward her and cracked it open. It was learn this stuff or run away screaming, and she couldn’t do that without finding another job. Coming back to the diner with her tail between her legs, she resolved, was not an option.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Sherry sandwiched her way between Tiffany and Kate to slide a plate of pie in front of Chloe. “You guys had better get back to your stations before Hal kills you. Kate, turn around the ‘Please Wait To Be Seated’ sign. We’re starting to get the lunch crowd.”
When they left, Sherry turned Chloe’s coffee cup right side up and poured, remembering to leave plenty of room for cream.
“Thanks,” Chloe said. Sherry would know it wasn’t just for the coffee.
“No problem.” Now that the other girls were gone, Sherry stared at Chloe with naked curiosity, but offered no comment. Which was unusually restrained for Sherry. Then again, she’d worked at the Pine ’n’ Dine longer than any of them, so she probably realized the walls had ears.
“What’s that?” Sherry nodded toward the style guide.
Chloe stared at the table of contents and fingered the two inches of pages beneath it. “It might be my tombstone.”