Talk of the Town (30 page)

I will not cry anymore.
A sob burst out like it had been heaved up by emotion so strong even her iron will couldn’t stop it.

I’ll let myself cry for five minutes.
She curled into a fetal position, rocking back and forth with the power of her painful sobs. It wasn’t just her heart breaking, it was her body ripping in two parts.

How had it all gone so wrong when it had seemed so perfect? Only hours ago she’d marveled at how she’d ever lived without David, without the emotional explosion love brings, lighting up her life like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It was worse now because she’d had it for an instant and knew what she was missing from her life.

Exhausted, sucking in a hiccupping breath to try to stop her fading sobs, Rebecca turned onto her back to stare up at the ceiling, her eyes tired and burning.

She knew she could never go back to the
Daily Mail.
That was finished. A part of her life she must cut away. Like David had cut her off.
Why?
She hadn’t seen it coming. Could it have anything to do with his promise? Did she underestimate the depth of his commitment to that promise? Had he been looking for an excuse to break it off with her because the force of his feelings frightened him, like they once had Rebecca?

Or am I spinning the truth again to make it less painful?

Her eyes open, she faced the truth. She was alone again. But this time she felt so desolate, she couldn’t move or think beyond the pain. Life had taught her not to wallow in self-pity but to take action.

I have to do it again.

She forced herself up off the bed to stand in front of the mirror and stared into her pain-ravaged face. She knew she’d been a fool to risk this heartbreak, but it was too late now.

She pressed her palms into her eyes, blotting out the world and wiping away her tears.

With a ragged sigh, she dropped her hands and looked in the mirror to see the slight difference in her eyes. She was ready to do what had to be done.

Charlie’s business card was tucked safely in the back of her small purple Symthson Panama diary. One glance at the clock confirmed it was past the dinner hour.

“Charlie Bartholomew here!”

A little frisson of shock ran through her at the sound of his voice. She couldn’t believe she was making this call. Yet she knew it was the right thing to do. This must be the true definition of courage.

One part is the primal me howling in the wilderness. The other is the me that says get a grip on yourself and do something about it.

“Charlie, it’s Rebecca Covington.”

“What a nice surprise! I’ve been hopin’ to hear from you before the end of the year.”

Her time had been nearly up. “Here I am!” She forced a laugh, a half-baked one, but at least she wasn’t crying. “I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible.”

“Well, now, I’ve got a busy schedule tomorrow. Could we do breakfast? I have it served in my office every mornin’ at eight a.m.”

“I’ll see you at eight. By the way, I like my eggs over medium.”

His belly laugh sounded deeper than usual. “Always liked your spunk. Lookin’ forward to seein’ you tomorrow.”

She slowly hung up, closed her eyes, and counted eight beats of her heart, relishing the feeling of coming back alive. That extra little spurt of energy she depended on to see her through flickered back to life.

The phone by her bed rang, and her heart seemed to skip a beat.
David?
Hope and dread made her hand shake as she answered. “Hello.”

“Rebecca, I’ve been trying to track you down.” Kate’s worried voice cut through her like a knife. “Your cell phone is off. I was concerned when you didn’t call about your meeting. Are you still with David?”

Rebecca willed herself to ignore the nearly overwhelming urge to wail out her pain. She couldn’t burden Kate. Certainly not tonight. “No, I’m alone. I need to talk to you tomorrow. But I won’t be at the office.”

“Something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice. If David didn’t like our ideas for the program, I’d prefer to hear it from you first tonight.”

“No, it has nothing to do with you. I promise.”

After a short silence, Kate sighed. “If you’re not going to be at work tomorrow, then come to my place at twelve-thirty for lunch. Harry has arranged for a delivery, and I must be home to sign for it. Something about a holistic approach to my recovery.”

“That’s my darling Harry. I’ll see you then.”

It felt good to have a plan. Some reason to get up and face the lonely day. She’d call Harry next. Then Pauline. By noon tomorrow, everything would be in place for her to start fixing herself.

The next morning, Rebecca took a last look at herself in the foyer mirrors. She’d learned about survival over the years. Brick by painful brick, she’d walled in her feelings for David. Only when she was stronger and could bear examining her feelings would she risk little by little taking the wall down.

It had been a lot easier to fix her red, swollen eyes with hourly applications of soothing masks. To be absolutely, positively sure she could pull off this meeting with Charlie, she put on what she fondly called her “drop-dead gorgeous suit.” The red Valentino suit people were so busy admiring that they didn’t notice if she looked a bit haggard around the edges.

Twenty minutes later, with her leather portfolio of “Ask Becky” columns under her arm, she strolled confidently into the Chicago Journal and Courier building. It was a Gothic structure, older than the Daily Mail building. The heavy wood moldings and fine glass fixtures in the lobby harkened back to the days Colonel McCormick ruled his newspaper empire.

The security guard checked her name and showed her the private elevator to the executive offices. There the doors slid open to a walnut-paneled foyer with a thick, rich ruby-colored carpet.

There was such an air of quiet elegance she felt she should whisper to the older, austere-looking receptionist who was looking sternly up at her.

“I’m Rebecca Covington. Mr. Bartholomew is expecting me.”

“Beautiful suit,” the woman said coolly. She stood and, with a glance that indicated Rebecca should follow her, walked down a short hallway. She had the best posture Rebecca had ever seen.

At the end of the hall, the woman rapped once on thick double doors topped by a magnificent carved lintel. Without waiting, she opened one side for Rebecca to walk through.

In front of large windows with a view of Lake Michigan and the Chicago River, Charlie Bartholomew sat behind an antique desk of mammoth proportions. Everything about the room was scaled to match. Bookcases lined two walls, and a built-in bar ran the length of another. In front of the second set of windows, a small round table was set with china and crystal for breakfast.

She saw all this in the minute it took Charlie to get up from behind his desk and meet her in the center of the room.

“Beautiful suit, Rebecca. Martha would love it. Yes, indeed, she would.”

“Beautiful office!” Rebecca said. “Quite frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He looked around, a proud smile splitting his round, ruddy face. “I spend most of my days here. Needs to feel like home. I told you, we’re family here at the
Courier.
Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” she lied. Her nerves were strangling her at the magnitude of what she was about to do.

She sat down at the table, placed the portfolio on the floor beside her, and gripped her fingers tightly together on her lap to hold herself together.

Two waiters walked in carrying plates covered with silver domes. One was set in front of her. She looked up and smiled. “Thank you.”

With a timed flourish, the waiters lifted the domes.

Feeling slightly queasy, she gazed down at two over-medium eggs, asparagus spears, half a grilled tomato sprinkled with Parmesan, and breakfast potatoes.

“Hope you enjoy your breakfast, Rebecca. To me it’s the most important meal of the day.” Charlie tucked the huge white linen napkin under his chin and spread it across his heavily starched shirt and conservative striped tie.

Since she started writing about food, she’d spent more time than ever in her life eating, buying, and thinking about food. Now she had to wait in agony over her professional life while Charlie ate his breakfast with gusto and she picked at hers.

Her heart was already broken. She honestly didn’t know if she could stand up under another nearly lethal blow should Charlie withdraw his offer.

“What do you have in your portfolio, Rebecca?”

She nearly fell off her chair in shock at Charlie’s abrupt switch to business. She was still pretending to enjoy her asparagus.

He pressed his napkin to his lips, his white beard still pristine, while she fumbled for her portfolio.

This is it. Do or die.

She handed the scrapbook across the table. “Here are copies of an advice column called ‘Ask Becky’ I did for my college newspaper. If I join the
Courier
family, I won’t be bringing ‘Rebecca Covington’s World.’ I want to do four advice columns a week. There’s been a void since Ann Landers passed away. I believe I can fill that niche.”

Charlie looked at her long and hard and then opened the portfolio.

Since she had nothing to lose, she felt oddly reckless. “I think the columns have a certain grit and spunk to them. Isn’t that how you’ve described me the last few times we talked?”

Not looking up, he nodded. She couldn’t see his eyes, so couldn’t gauge his reaction as he shuffled the pages, reading.

Stress. I need to feed it.
She took another bite of cold asparagus.

He glanced up, and she dropped her fork. It clattered on the edge of the plate and landed in her congealing eggs.

All traces of the good ol’ boy persona wiped away, he looked her steadily in the eyes. “These advice columns would need to reflect your unique style.”

“Of course.” She was trembling with excitement. “It will be me imparting my worldly wisdom with humor. My Rebecca Covington philosophy that we’re all on this journey together. We need to deal with one another with as much grace, humor, and compassion as we can muster.”

“Five days a week.”

She’d planned for five but hesitated for effect before nodding.

“Sunday you’ll do a big gossip page like ‘Suzy’ in
W,
or ‘Page Six.’”

She could taste victory. “More like ‘Suzy’ than ‘Page Six.’ I want to give good press to the movers and shakers who are making the arts and charities work in Chicago. I’ll need at least two pages of colored photos. Readers like to see their pictures in the paper. They clip them. Send them to family and friends. Often they need to buy extra copies of the paper. Advertisers like that.”

“We need to agree on the television segments. It has to be both gossip and advice.”

“Of course. Advice and gossip. Plus guests. I have some ideas that will put
Oprah
on alert.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Should those fine gals on
The View
be worried?”

“You never know.” She met him eyeball to eyeball, exhilaration coursing through her veins. “Do we have a deal?”

“Three-year contract. I’ll match your salary from the
Daily Mail.
Plus a ten percent signing bonus.”

I need to show some grit.
“Six years. My present salary. Plus fifty percent more for the television spots and the Sunday feature. Twenty percent signing bonus.”

He lifted his bushy white eyebrows and crossed his arms across his barrel chest. “You put a mighty high price tag on yourself, Rebecca.”

He wants spunky, I’ll give him spunky.
“We both know I’m worth it, Charlie.”

His belly laugh echoed off the thick crown moldings of the high ceiling as he spread out his arms. “Welcome to the family, Rebecca.”

After three hours filled with a tour of the newspaper, seeing her new truly spectacular office, and talking to Martha, who was ecstatic at the news, Rebecca finally arrived at Kate’s. She still hadn’t decided how to tell her friends.

They were all sitting in the dining room, laughing and playing poker. Most of the chips were in front of Pauline.

Pauline looked up and smiled. “Beginner’s luck. Kate is teaching us how to play.”

Rebecca gazed around, noticing the town house felt warmer and looked more inviting. Green plants, a ficus tree, and several large poinsettias were now placed artfully in all the rooms she could see. In the long hallway, two electricians were working on new larger light fixtures.

“The place looks great.” She slid into the empty chair at the table.

Kate nodded. “Harry believes I need to add brighter lights and vegetation into my environment. It’s a holistic approach to dealing with my condition. I rather like the greenery.”

They were all studying Rebecca, which made her try harder to be
upbeat.
“Love it!” She smiled around the table.

“You look feverish, sweet pea.” Harry reached across the table, and before she could stop him, he was feeling her pulse. “Racing.”

“Oh, I knew you called this meeting to tell us the good news! You and Mr. Sumner are getting married! Right?”

Pauline’s enthusiastic outburst kicked in Rebecca’s protective wall with one shout of joy. All the primal feelings rushed out to swallow her.

How will I ever get through this?
The ache of loss again scalded her throat. “No . . .” she squeezed the word through the burn. “We . . . we . . . actually . . . it’s over.” She rushed the last words out while she could.

Thank God, no one spoke. Before she lost control and starting wailing again, she needed to tell them. “I’ve left the paper. I’m moving to the
Journal and Courier.
” She stared into Kate’s shocked face. “I feel like the worst friend in the world leaving you right now, but I desperately need you to understand. This is a tremendous opportunity for me. I know the timing is appalling. Please forgive me.”

Her mouth firm and hard, Kate shook her head. “I can’t tell you this isn’t a blow.”

Harry lowered his eyebrows, watching her. And Pauline’s lip began to quiver.

Wanting them all to understand, she stared pleadingly into each of their faces. “I’d like you all to understand that this change is good for me.” She smiled hopefully around the table. “I may not be at the paper, but I’ll still be here for you, even when you don’t need or want it. Kate, you should have celebrity chefs do the food columns, starting with Harry. He’s a great cook. Plus he has a huge fan base.”