Talk of the Town (3 page)

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. “Rebecca, 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.

She looked around for the manager, Jessica, who had sent her a lovely note after Rebecca wrote a fabulous column about their linens being simply the finest gift to truly impress.

She heard Jessica’s voice before she spotted her in the corner, talking to an older woman.

“. . . believe she’s out shopping after getting fired. I heard the new owner thinks she’s too old for the job. I’m not surprised.”

Hearing enough to feel slightly ill, Rebecca backed up to escape and hit her heel against the leg of a display table. The clatter caused both women to turn and stare at her.

Plastering on her best PR smile, she grabbed up the closest two pillow covers and swept toward the corner. “There you are, Jessica. I simply
must
have these.”

Instead of Jessica rushing to assist her, like she always had before, the older saleswoman took the linens from Rebecca’s hands. “Let me help you.”

Feeling even sicker, Rebecca realized she didn’t know the price of her impulse purchase. Idly tapping the toe of her stiletto, she feigned boredom, hoping they couldn’t see her panic at how much her pride was costing her. She glanced over at Jessica, who immediately scurried off into a back room.

“That will be three hundred and eighty dollars apiece. Plus tax. Are you still interested?” the sales associate asked solemnly.

“Of course.” Determined not to show a flicker of her burning shock, she whipped out her Visa card.

A few minutes later the saleswoman returned. Her face devoid of emotion, she handed the card back. “I’m sorry. Do you have another card?”

Rebecca felt rooted to the floor by embarrassment.
How late did I send that payment?

Her devilish pride won again. “Here, try this one.” She pulled out her second credit card, the one she used only for
extreme emergencies,
because the interest rate was criminally high. The horrible thought it might not still be active crossed her mind, but surely she’d had her quota of rejections today.

“I’m sorry. This card has also been declined.” The saleswoman inched the pillow covers closer to her side of the counter.

Rebecca eyed the linens with loathing.
Let the damn store keep them.
Again her pride reared its fierce head.
No. I can’t let them see me sweat.

“I’m sure the problem is in your system.” She opened her checkbook. “I’ll write a check.”

“I’ll have to okay it with the manager.” The poor embarrassed woman bolted into the back room.

Almost immediately, Jessica was forced to appear. She didn’t look happy, and she absolutely refused to meet Rebecca’s eyes. “You may write a check, but we need to see your driver’s license.”

The ugly truth hit Rebecca over the head. She might spin it any way she wanted, but not everyone would be supporting her. The ping of disappointment hurt more than a little, but she refused to show it. She shot the manager a haughty look and pulled out her driver’s license. “Please hurry,” she said, trying to sound as confident as she’d been when she first walked in here. “I’m late for an important meeting at the newspaper office.”

Moments later, bruised but unbowed, Rebecca swept out the door, swinging a Très Treat bag stamped with their slogan, “Our Linens Dress the Beds of the World’s Rich and Famous.”

These seriously priceless linens weren’t going to be used until she was
in bed
with someone rich and famous. Or someone she was so absolutely mad about she might marry him.

Determined to continue her charade of “everything is marvelous,” she continued to stroll down Oak Street. She stopped to admire a dress in the window at Luca Luca but dared not go in, for fear she’d spend
next
month’s mortgage payment, too.

When Simone, the manager, spotted Rebecca looking in the window, she rushed to fling open the door. “Tell me it’s not true. You are not leaving the paper.”

Rebecca laughed as convincingly as she could muster. “Really, how do these rumors get started? Of course I’m not leaving the paper. How could they possibly get along without me?” She knew she’d succeeded when Simone nodded and smiled.

“That’s what I told everyone on the street.” Simone glanced meaningfully at her snooty neighbors. “Your column is the only reason I read the paper.”

Wanting to break the news gently, Rebecca leaned closer. “Can you keep a secret? Seriously, you can’t breathe this to anyone.”

Simone’s dark eyes lit with interest and she tilted her head forward to catch every word. “Yes, I promise.”

“I won’t be writing my column for a short while, because I’m on special assignment. The new owner is going to revamp the paper, starting with the Home section. It’s going to be absolutely marvelous! Kate Carmichael, the editor, is a brilliant Pulitzer winner. Together, we’re going to do things that will revolutionize the whole concept of home and food.”

Simone looked stunned, which is how Rebecca felt at realizing how easily she could spin the truth. But Simone also appeared to be a trifle skeptical.

Eager to convince her and the world that everything was truly divine, Rebecca dove deeper into her fantasy. “Yes, there’s talk of several TV spots. Perhaps even our own network show. Which is why I’m out shopping for Kate’s new wardrobe.”
That
was the grain of truth in everything she’d said, just like the stories in most of the tabloids had at least one fact correct.