Gathering String (5 page)

She seemed to weigh his anger and then she sighed, her voice gentle, “Baxter asked to see me. When I got into the office, he shut the door and told me he was risking his own job by giving me a heads up that it looked like layoffs were coming. He said my work was great, but he was still concerned he couldn’t keep me off the cut list. When I asked him why, he hemmed and hawed, and finally told me that you and I had been less than discrete. He said your asking for me on all your out-of-town assignments had become an office joke. And people were gossiping and laughing every time we were both out of the newsroom at the same time. And of course there were all those fights everyone knew about. He said unless I cooled things down one of the two of us would go. And he was certain it wouldn’t be you.”

“Jesus,” Sam felt his throat close, the heat from the liquor suddenly bitter in his mouth.

“It was just so humiliating, I resigned right there. I knew Stapleton at the
Record
, and called her before I left the newsroom. By some act of divine mercy, she actually had a spot. At seven that night, I was on a flight to Des Moines for the interview. It meant a 10K pay cut, but I accepted on the spot and didn’t even go back. Marcy helped the movers pack my stuff.” Sam didn’t say anything, just sat pressing holes into his empty cup with Jack’s letter opener, swearing to himself that someday he’d find a way to make Baxter pay. “Wasn’t it better that way?” she finally asked.

“Not for me,” he answered, looking up. “Why didn’t you come to me? I could have …”

She held up her hand. “Yeah, that would have made me feel so much better, to have my married lover pulling strings to help me keep my job.”

“At least you could have looked me in the face and told me it was over.”

“Like I hadn’t tried that before?”

He pulled back, drawing a breath, and she knew in a few seconds they’d be yelling, all the feelings they’d always stirred bubbling out of control. “Oh, Sam.” Her frustration and exhaustion were suddenly plain. “We were both so messed up after what happened in South Dakota. It had to end and Baxter was right. One of us had to leave. Down deep, you know it too. Do we have to pick it apart?”

“No,” the abrupt concession came gruff and thick from his throat, and he took her empty cup in place of his ruined one, pouring himself a little more. “There’s no point now, is there? But you can’t know how I …” She waited, breath suspended for the word he’d choose, but those green eyes dropped as he asked instead, “And now? You’re OK now, with this guy?”

He met her eyes. “You’re one sophisticated lady for a backwater publisher to handle. There’s nothing worse than seeing a newsman with his hand down the candidate’s pants, and you know it. Come on, Tess. I know you too well to believe you thought it was just great seeing Thor up there on that platform today. Erickson is using him. It suits his image, having the hometown paper break the announcement story. And you’re too savvy not to know it.”

“You think I should have called Jack off?” No way would she admit to him that she hadn’t known.

“I think it would have helped the putz out, yeah. I haven’t forgotten how you’d sound off about any journalist who was too cozy with a source. If you couldn’t tell him how much it must have made you squirm, what else aren’t you telling him? I’m an expert when it comes to keeping secrets from the spouse. You sure that’s what you want?”

She shook her head. “You don’t know about him and Erickson. The Governor is really his family. Besides, Jack’s run a successful news outlet for a long time without me. However he sees his role, it’s OK with me. I’ve quit the business, Sam. I don’t work news or secrets anymore.”

“So he knows all about me?”

He caught her off guard, and she stammered, “No … not exactly … we’ve never exchanged lists of past lovers, if that’s what you mean.” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking? That I didn’t tell him about you because I’m still carrying a torch? That I’ve run off and married a rebound guy?”

He smiled that bad-boy grin that always drove her a little crazy. “Well, he’s a pretty big swing from me, Toughie.”

“Sam, you weren’t that hard to get over.” She laughed over the lie.

He shrugged. “Probably not. But you were always so goddamned guilty about what went on between us, I can’t help wondering if tying up with Mr. Green Jeans isn’t some kind of self-inflicted punishment.”

Expecting defensiveness, her mild tone surprised him. “Sam, all you see is a small-town guy who runs a little daily. And it’s easy to snark about Jack’s close relationship with Erickson. But there’s so much more …”

“Yeah, I saw it, all six feet, six inches of it. A little brawn goes a long way with you, kid. Farther than I’d have guessed.”

She didn’t rise to that bait either. In fact, a funny little conspiratorial smile snuck in at corners of her mouth. “Well, the fact that he is so goddamn beautiful didn’t hurt a bit. But he’s smart, Sam. He sees the opportunities in being small and nimble, and he’s doing some really innovative stuff. He’s helped set up news bloggers in every little town in the county, and the
Journal
homepage delivers them based on the viewer’s zip code. He’s got that blog network selling and sharing ad revenue. And there’s more than just advertising. He’s actually brokering online sales between customers and local businesses. Do you know any other operation this size that has a full-time web developer? His site had the first iPhone app in the state. On top of that, he really cares about this town and the people in it, and they love him for it.”

“Yeah, yeah, a real Renaissance man. But if he’s so inn-o-va-tive,” Sam drawled the word, “why does his newspaper still print in the afternoon? I thought p.m.’s were all killed off a couple decades ago.”

“Well, the guy he bought the
Journal
from didn’t want to make that change, and Jack has known for years that morning papers are yesterday’s news.” Tess snorted, “Even you’ve got to admit that, Sam. Jack found that it really suits going digital first to update the website all through the day and then pull the print edition together from that work. The traditionalists who don’t read online get fresher news and they usually have more time to read it in the evening after work. He’s actually had an increase in subscribers. Think the
Trib
can say that?”

Sam shrugged, “Not my problem anymore.” He hooked his thumb at the wall behind him. “At least Stretch recognizes talent when he sees it. He sure must be bustin’ his buttons, hanging your work like that.” Hidden in the dark were four framed pictures he’d studied earlier. Clearly hers, they were the same orchard scene, each in a different season, the same red wheelbarrow in the foreground, a little rustier in each one. Hung together, they made a strange impact, the feeling so different, yet the composition meticulously identical.

“Oh.” She was surprised he’d even noticed, “I did the first one …” She frowned suddenly, then murmured, “It’s just a pretty spot out on the farm.”

“Out on the farm,” he repeated. “That’s where you live? Out on the farm?” He smiled broadly now, nearly laughing.

“Yes.” With that one word, he knew he’d finally found her tender spot.

He leaned back in the chair. “That’s damn hard to picture, you as a farmwife. You raising chickens and collecting the egg money?”

“Are you OK after leaving the
Trib
?”

He frowned. “I still love the work, but it’s different at Politifix. Good writing is fine, but it’s just not enough. Now I have to blog, I have to fucking
tweet
.” Only Sam could pack so much disdain into one word. “I’m supposed to personally engage with the community, create a dialogue. Jesus,” he snorted, “like I ever thought much of the readers. I sure as hell don’t want them as Facebook friends.” He shook his head. “Remember, Toughie, the day at the last Republican convention, when the protesters were outside and the police arrived? Things got so crazy you were shooting digital with one hand and video with the other, as the cops pushed us back behind the barriers. Remember what I said in your room that night?”

She nodded. “That if the
Trib
would just buy me a pair of cymbals I could bang them between my knees as I ran and be a one-man-show.”

“Yep. People coulda dropped money in your camera bag as they went by and the
Trib
would have made even more off your time. Well,” he sighed, “now I’m the street performer.”

For a second she was quiet, and then she said, “Things changed, Sam, for all of us. I’m sorry about the Tribune. I know how hard you worked to get there. I know how much you loved it.”

His face shifted, somehow the edginess turned inward. "You worked hard for it too. And they probably would have realized you were one of the best they ever had if I hadn't muddied the waters for you."

She didn't know what to say to that. She'd long since stopped blaming Sam for her own choices. She shrugged the comment off and asked again, “But how are you?” He frowned, confused, and she explained, “Not your job. I mean your life. You stayed with her.”

He balanced the letter opener over a finger, not answering right away. The only time Sam wasn’t quick with a word was when it came to his wife. Finally, it tipped and fell to the desk when he said, “I didn’t have anywhere else to go after you left. And then her mother got sick, breast cancer. It was a long haul.”

“Means we’re pretty much the same as we always were. Except the disconnect is deeper now.” His eyes were sad. “How many times did I tell you that you had nothing to do with our problems?” Suddenly she didn’t want to probe any more, and the silence began to grow. Sam started to reach out to take her hand. Tess caught her breath, but his eyes went beyond her and narrowed. He pulled back and softly muttered, “Damn.”

Turning to the long window, she saw Jack bounding up the front stoop, his key scraping in the lock. With a blast of cold air, he let the door slam behind him and flipped on the lights. She hadn’t realized how stuffy the room had become.

“Ready to go?” He grinned at her, filling the room in his thick winter coat, his blond hair messy, and his face ruddy. “Sorry, I'm late.” Jack shot a quick glance at the man at his desk, and Tess could tell he changed his next words. “Everyone must be waiting.” He looked down at the open bottle and cups, and added, “Happy hour?” The grin deepened. “If I’d known, I’d have run right over with fried cheese sticks and ice.” Stripping off one of his gloves, he offered Sam his hand. “Jack Westphal.”

“Sam Waterman.” Sam stood and shook the hand, feeling suddenly old and pasty. “I hope you don’t mind.” He smiled, easing the sharp angles from his face. “We were just catching up and . . .”

“I figured the least I could do was offer Sam a drink,” Tess filled in. “We worked together when we were both at the
Trib
. Sam’s with Politifix now.”

Jack nodded. “Sure, I know the name. Won the Ernie Pyle a few years back, right? I always meant to read that piece ... ” Sam waved him off. For a split second, Jack studied the dark-haired man, and then inclined his head toward the bottle. “No problem about the drink. It was a cold day for old bones.” Sam’s smile faded as Jack looked back at his wife. "I hate to break up old times, but we’re really late.”

“Right,” Sam grabbed the stopper to the liquor bottle. “I’ll clear out and let you both go.”

“Unless you’d like to join us?” Jack asked. “I bet you’ve got some killer war stories from back in the day.” There was indifference in the deep voice.

Sam’s sharp eyes swept the tall figure. “Thanks, she already offered, but I’ve got one of those o-dark-thirty flights in the morning. So this
old man
,” Sam's hooded green eyes sparkled, like a wolf eyeing prey, “better pack it in. I appreciate the drink though.”

“Any time. You know where I keep it.” Jack laughed again. As Sam gathered his things, Jack looked down at the liquid in the bottle and suddenly suggested, “Hey, why don’t we give you a ride back to the Inn?” It was the only place in town Sam could have a room. “It won’t take 10 minutes. You could pick up your car in the morning.”

Moving toward the door, Sam stopped dead in his tracks, the predatory glare open now as he looked back at the younger man. But catching Tess’s eye, just beyond her husband’s shoulder, he paused, then said firmly, “I’m fine. Anyway, our photographer is over at that little café just down from the grocery store. He’s got the car, and I’m meeting him.”

“Great.”

Sam didn’t acknowledge Jack’s reply, just grabbed the doorknob and shot over his shoulder, “Take care, Tess,” and went out into the windy dark.