Talk of the Town (19 page)
“I’m tired.” Kate raked her fingers through her hair, but it appeared too weak to spike up. “I’m going home to work for the rest of the day.”
“Don’t work.
Sleep.
What can I do to help you?”
“I can’t sleep, and there’s nothing you can do. The deadline to give David my answer about the finance column is Monday.”
“I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do,” Rebecca said carefully, wishing she knew if Kate’s fatigue had anything to do with depression. “But if the
thought
of writing the finance column is making you sick, maybe you should decline David’s offer.”
Kate sighed so deep she shuddered. “David isn’t the problem. The problem is I want to write the finance column even though I know the pressure might not be good for me.”
Having just had a similar conversation with herself about wanting what wasn’t good for her, Rebecca empathized with Kate. “Darling, I know
exactly
how you feel. Do you want to go shopping this weekend? I do my best thinking when I’m helping the retail economy. Or dinner? You know
feed
stress is my motto.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine,” Kate replied in her matter-of-fact way.
Rebecca didn’t quite believe her. “Honestly? Or are you bluffing?”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “Have you become a poker player, Rebecca?”
“No, but you can teach me. Take all my quarters, or dimes or chips or whatever you play with. Wouldn’t that cheer you up?”
At last, a ghost of a smile curved Kate’s firm mouth. “I’ll call you if I feel up to some fun. Honestly.”
As soon as Kate walked out the door, Rebecca picked up the phone to reassure Pauline.
“Sweetheart, all is well. David has absolutely no plans to replace you. In fact, he thinks you’re wonderful,” she ad-libbed a little to make Pauline feel even safer. “I think Maybella was getting back at you for the other day at RL’s. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Oh, that Maybella and awful Shannon.” Pauline gasped, a little catch of emotion in her voice. “Thank you so much. Wait until they want me to make a Starbucks run for them. Oh, Rebecca, you have a call coming in.”
Rebecca heard a click, then answered. “Rebecca Covington.”
“Rebecca, it’s Charlie Bartholomew.”
“Charlie, what a pleasant surprise!” She glanced around to make sure no one was listening to her conversation with the competition. “What can I do for you?”
His deep belly laugh made her smile. “How’d you know I need a favor? Any chance you’re free to join Martha and me Saturday night? It’s a little birthday party for her. Don’t tell your boss, but Martha reads the
Daily Mail
’s Home and Food because of you. In fact, she’s asked the chef at the Carlton Club to prepare some of your recipes for the birthday party.” The belly laugh again. “Remember, the two of you are Libras. Thank goodness she reads the horoscope in our paper. She says things are goin’ to be good this month for the two of you.”
Laying it on a little thick, Charlie. This good old boy is up to something.
She didn’t believe for one second this call was about dinner, even though she liked Martha very much. Curiosity demanded she find out what was going on with the competition.
“Rebecca, are you still there?” Charlie said.
“Sorry.” She laughed. “I was looking at my schedule. Yes. I am free.”
“Wonderful news. Martha will be thrilled to pieces. We’re sure lookin’ forward to seein’ you on Saturday at seven.”
After she hung up, Rebecca stared at the phone, debating whether or not she’d done the right thing. If something was going on at the
Journal and Courier,
she needed to know so she could give a heads-up to Kate.
The nasty memory of being blindsided by Tim,
and
David, she quickly reminded herself, played through her head. David, the enigma. Was he the commando mogul, taking no prisoners, or was he the kind, lost man who touched her heart in so many ways she needed to steel herself against the emotions?
She needed to think of David, the business mogul. After all, he had declared her demotion a business decision, not a personal one. Amazing how men could differentiate so cleanly, truly believing one thing had nothing to do with the other.
Women just didn’t think in the same way. Of course the two were inseparable to her, even if she wished it wasn’t true.
Her need to seize back some control in her life demanded she find out what Charlie Bartholomew had up his sleeve, before he pulled whatever it was out and hit them all over the head with it.
T
he twelfth-floor lobby of the Ritz-Carlton hotel was busy on Saturday night with nearly every lawyer in town and their wives, dressed in tuxes and evening gowns, going to the Chicago Bar Association’s annual dinner in the ballroom. A few of the women shot Rebecca curious looks but didn’t speak. For years, she’d attended the cocktail portion with a photographer in tow to cover it for the paper. And though she felt a little ache of loss, it wasn’t as wrenching as she’d expected. Perhaps it was because tonight she was on a different kind of mission.
Across from the huge, glorious bronze fountain of two phoenixes, the private members-only Carlton Club was a serene, elegant oasis off the lobby. She stood for a few seconds just inside the heavy, etched-glass double doors. A few steps down in the cozy bar area, a man leaned against the baby grand piano, making a request to the musician playing it.
The maître d’ approached her in the same moment the pianist began playing “Send in the Clowns.” It seemed somehow appropriate.
Smiling, Rebecca followed the maître d’ through the cranberry and taupe dining room, with the coved ceiling that kept the noise to a minimum. There were few diners, and the tables were placed far apart so privacy was ensured.
Martha and Charlie were sitting at a table by the large windows overlooking Lake Michigan. By seven p.m. in mid-October, the lake had disappeared into blackness, with the city lights strung out like jewels around its invisible shoreline.
Rebecca kissed Martha’s blushed, round cheek and placed the small blue bag from Tiffany’s on the table in front of her. “Happy birthday.”
“Rebecca, you shouldn’t have brought me anything.” Martha smiled, her small eyes bright as new pennies. “Should I open it now?”
“Of course.” Rebecca sat across from her and watched with interest as Martha tore into the small blue box with the sterling silver heart-shaped bookmark. Her mind was racing with the possible reason why this birthday party was set for only three.
“Thank you. This is lovely,” Martha exclaimed. With her rosy cheeks and beaming smile, she looked exactly like Rebecca’s childhood vision of Mrs. Santa Claus.
“I’m an avid reader, you know. For years I’ve told Charlie I wished you’d do a compilation of your old ‘Rebecca Covington’s World’ columns for a book. Haven’t I said that, dear?” She gazed at Charlie with adoration.
“Yes, you have, Martha. Yes, indeed.” His belly laugh was truly infectious.
Despite the legendary rivalry, Rebecca had always liked Charlie and admired his business prowess. Often more than she liked Tim.
Martha and Charlie’s five grown-up children were the topic of conversation before the Lobster and Mushroom Quesadillas arrived. Remembering how they had tasted dipped in chocolate, Rebecca contained her shudder of revulsion. Martha and Charlie dug into the dish with obvious enthusiasm. To be polite, she had to follow suit.
Pictures of the fifteen grandchildren came out with the soup course. They kept up a running dialogue about the joys of being grandparents until their entrées arrived. Listening to them, she couldn’t get the image of David’s face out of her head. She wondered if he’d carry baby pictures in his wallet, too. The idea made her feel toasty inside.
By the time Rebecca was picking through the Baja Chicken, her insides were so stuffed the waistband on her black silk Ralph Lauren cocktail suit was digging into her stomach, and her curiosity was stretched to the snapping point.
Daintily pressing a cranberry-colored napkin to her rosebud mouth, Martha sighed. “That was delicious. Rebecca, would you mind keeping Charlie company while I go powder my nose?” Not waiting for an answer, Martha stood, gave Charlie a pat on his shoulder, and disappeared.
Here it comes.
Rebecca widened her eyes and smiled across the table at Charlie.
“This has been like havin’ family to dinner. You know, the
Journal and Courier
is a big happy family.” Charlie gave her his benevolent Santa Claus smile. “Remember, I told you I was goin’ to be keepin’ my eye on you.”
Needing to be a little more proactive to get answers, Rebecca leaned toward him. “Charlie, you have a gossip columnist in the
Journal and Courier
family.”
“We’re announcin’ her retirement next week.” He held up his pudgy hands as if to ward off any accusations. “Her idea. Her choice. Fine woman, but her likability quotient never rose as high as your own.” His eyes twinkled above his snowy beard. “Rebecca, you have talent. You’re a real fine people person. And you know what the readers of Chicago want.”
His words so closely matched her own thoughts yesterday about how she wanted to convince David to give her job back, she got the eerie feeling Charlie might be reading her mind.
“Thank you. Those are very kind words coming from a newspaperman of your caliber.”
“I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m damn impressed with how you’ve taken the changes at the
Daily Mail
in stride. Hell, you took that lemon of a recipe column and turned it into such tart lemonade the city can’t get enough of it. That’s the kind of grit we value at the
Journal and Courier.
”
He put his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “The baby boomers are a market segment to be reckoned with. They want their own tellin’ them how it is. Not a snip of a girl, half their age. Did I mention we’re startin’ a daily half-hour segment before the news on our station, WXY, devoted to the sort of thing you do best?”
If it wouldn’t give her feelings away, Rebecca would have pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Even if she’d still had “Rebecca Covington’s World,” this was such an attractive offer she would have had to give it careful consideration. Coming from her present status, this was like rubbing a genie lamp and having her dreams come true. She’d be back doing what she loved, with the added bonus, both financially and professionally, of having television exposure.
“Is this an offer, Charlie?” she asked, controlling her voice not to sound too eager.
“If you’re interested, it’s an offer.” Again, laughter rumbled up through his barrel chest. “If you’re not interested, it’s two old friends shootin’ the breeze over a nice dinner. I’ll wager you’ll be lettin’ me know which it is by Monday.”
His final salvo gave her forty-eight hours to decide whether or not to change her life forever.
Maybe this was the answer. Separating business, meaning the
Chicago Journal and Courier,
from pleasure, David and the
Daily Mail.
Then she could have her cake and eat it, too.
On Sunday, sitting on a stool in Harry’s kitchen, helping him prepare Wednesday’s recipe of Sausage Surprise, Rebecca tried to convince herself and him that she should make a change. “Accepting Charlie Bartholomew’s offer is a wise business decision, don’t you think? Right, Harry? I’ll have a real column again. ‘Rebecca Covington’s World,’
the sequel.
More money. Television exposure. I’d be a fool to pass up such a fabulous opportunity at my age. At any age!”
He turned away from the stove to level his physician-as-superior-being look at her. It didn’t happen often.
“I know. I know,” she sighed. “You told me it was a choice I have to make for myself.”
“To be exact, I’ve told you ten times tonight. In answer to the ten times you’ve asked me the same question.” He sipped at his red wine and stirred the bleu cheese sauce. “I’m not the one you need to convince, sweet pea. I will add I believe extreme change is not always bad. In fact, it’s often a wise choice.”
His voice sounded wistful. She tried to see more of his face, turned half away from her. “Harry, is there something you want to tell me?”
“Absolutely not!” He glanced over his shoulder to smile at her. “Only one midlife crisis allowed at a time. How long do you have to talk yourself into this life- altering decision?”
“Twenty-four more hours.” If she left the
Daily Mail,
she could explore her feelings for David without her current baggage. No strings. No wanting anything from him. They were two consenting adults who would enjoy each other’s company for as long as it lasted. It was enough for her.
On top of that, this was a career opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Decision made, she slid off the stool and went to the stove to check on the progress of dinner.
“Are you sure about this recipe?” He lifted one eyebrow and gazed down at the ingredients of one large sausage and two organic figs. “Have you given any thought to how it might taste?”
“I’ve been reliably informed this dish was served at an aphrodisiac-themed dinner I’m going to write about for Wednesday’s column. It does look a little gross, doesn’t it?”
She placed the sausage on the serving plate and positioned the figs on either side of it.
“Good God, Rebecca, it looks like a penis and testicles!”
“That’s the idea, Harry.” They both eyed the bleu cheese simmering on the stove. “And that sauce is supposed to be dribbled over the whole thing, like . . . you know.”
Looking pained, Harry took a gulp of his excellent Cab. “I feel ill.”
“So do I. And so did most of the people at the aphrodisiac dinner. It might be a fitting column to end my days at the
Daily Mail.
”
Today is the first day of the best of my life.
Rebecca kept repeating the refrain as she dressed for work, as she walked to work, and as she pushed through the revolving door at work. Strange how,
again,
her life was altering forever on another Monday morning.
Pauline didn’t see Rebecca immediately, because Rose Murphy was getting her messages and a few sports writers were standing, talking around the reception desk.