Gathering String Page 4

  “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?”

  Her voice softened. “I’m great with this guy.”

  He shook his head, and she knew she wouldn’t like what he was going to say. “It just doesn’t fit.”

  “Oh God, what does that mean?”

  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?”

  “Very funny.”

  He tipped his cup at her with a grin and downed the last of his drink. “Going back to you and the big guy . . .”

  She groaned. “Oh, let’s not. Just to be fair, let me ask some questions.”

  “Hold it, let me fortify myself.” He leaned forward and poured one more splash into the cup.

  “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.”

  “Did she … ?”

  “Yeah, dead. Not quite three months.”

  “I’m sorry. And Judith?”

  “Took it hard. It looked for awhile like the old lady might beat it.”

  “No kids?”

  He shook his head. “She still doesn’t want
any, and I probably really don’t either. So . . .” his voice trailed off.

  “So, you didn’t leave. You don’t cheat any more. Does that mean things are …”

  “Flawed,” he finished for her, the cup at his lips.

  “Flawed?”

  “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.

  Sam and Tess

  Chapter 4

  Waterman came awake gulping for air. Propping himself on an elbow, he gasped the ghostly smell of burning gasoline back into his memory, hoping his hammering heart slowed before it threw a valve. Brushing his hair back from his damp forehead, still breathing hard, he squinted into the dark, knowing he was in a hotel room and trying to remember where. When it came to him, he rose and pulled on some jeans, jerking a sweatshirt over his head.

  He rummaged in his computer bag and pulled out the pouch that held his laptop power cord. Inside there was also a tiny, plastic case holding two cigarettes and a book of matches. No matter which airport, the TSA agents never caught them.

  In spite of the cold, Sam opened the door of the Tall Call Inn’s non-smoking room and propped it with his hip. Cupping his hands, he lit the Marlboro and shook out the match as he looked up into the night sky. The clouds were clearing. The stars were bright, out here on the edge of town. And on the rustle of wind in the bare trees, Sam could have sworn he heard her whisper, “I think we’re going to be frightened dreamers.” Raising the cigarette back to his lips, the past pressed down on him.

  **************************************************

  He noticed her the first day she appeared in the Washington Tribune newsroom. Slim, with short, blond, curly hair, and wide blue eyes, she had the shiksa looks that always caught his eye. He figured her for an intern, but Rick Higgins told him she was Tess Benedict, Arnie Baxter’s new hire. The photo chief always kept an eye out for cheap young talent, and she’d made a quick mark for herself at the Portland Oregonian.

  Watching her swing through the newsroom every morning, toting her camera equipment and a giant cup of coffee, Sam was intrigued, not just by her looks, but with her vitality. Her energy for the work seemed boundless and he was always drawn to others who loved what he loved best. But he kept any interaction to a quick nod in the hallways and aisles. She was a little too tempting for the workplace.

  She’d probably worked there about four months before they had an assignment together. The chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee had called a press conference at the Russell Senate Office Building to announce that Republicans had the votes needed to block the President’s nominee for the Supreme Court. They’d hustled over together, Tess listening silently as Sam groused the whole way.

  “Just one more bloody clusterfuck,” he’d muttered as he slammed the door of the cab. “Everyone writing the same story and shooting the same pictures.”

  She heaved the equipment bag to her shoulder. “But that’s the way news happens on The Hill.”

  Sam shook his head as they ran up the steps. “Bullshit. This isn’t news. It’s just confirming what everyone already knows. It’s about as interesting as spit. Nothing’s better than breaking the story, finding the fucking skeleton in a senator’s, or a congressman’s, or a candidate’s closet. News is telling people what they need to know but don’t.”

  Taking the steps two at time to keep up with his long strides, she asked, “So is it hard work?” He glanced at her aghast, ready to snap, “You bet your ass,” but before he could speak she added, “Being the renegade all the editors complain about?” Used to the deferential treatment of younger staff members, Sam pulled open the door with the narrow glare that quelled most people. She laughed, “I hope I get to take the picture: Sam Waterman with a politician’s bloody scalp in one hand and a Pulitzer in the other.” He couldn’t quite stop his lopsided, answering grin.

  She glanced around the rotunda, then looked up. “I’m going to take a quick look from upstairs.” She jutted her dimpled chin up at the gallery. “I like to get an overview.”

  Sam frowned as she hurried away. Most photographers thundered right into the pack, and he wondered if she actually knew what she was doing. Good art meant better play for his story, and he hoped to hell she wasn’t screwing this dog up for him. The press conference was over before they connected again. “You get what we need?” he asked tensely.

  She shot him a glance that showed she understood he was questioning her work. “Look for yourself,” and he was startled as she tossed him one of the cameras.

  “I trust you.” He handed it right back.

  She snorted, “You don’t even know how to review pictures on a camera, do you?” At his shrug of admission, she tucked the camera into her bag. They started walking at a good clip back to the newsroom. Huffing with exertion, she said, “Sam, there was a guy up in the
gallery who hit on me.”

  “So?” Did she expect him to go defend her honor?

  “So, he said he was there to watch the press conference.” She slowed and Sam moved several steps ahead of her. “And he said he was an aide in Judge Barbara Evans’ office.”

  Sam looked back over his shoulder. “Evans? She’s a judge …”

  “In New York. Handed down that big RICO ruling just a few months ago.” Tess stopped walking, and so did Sam. She raised her eyebrows. “Kind of interesting, that he was down here …”

  Sam was already nodding and grabbed her elbow, putting his fingers to his mouth and hailing a cab with a whistle. With just a few phone calls, he broke the story that Barbara Evans would be President’s next choice for the Supreme Court.

  That’s when he started to follow how things went for Tess. If there was a rumor of a hot assignment on the horizon, he’d often give her a heads-up and encourage her to make a bid. He’d frequently suggest her to an editor in planning meetings. And as the months went by, he developed a habit of looking in at photography. If she was there, they’d chat, and if a little flirting went on, well, it seemed harmless.

  It wasn’t until one night over a beer with Higgins that Sam realized others had noticed. They’d just finished ripping apart Steve Johnson’s latest divorce and his penchant for tying up with online editors, when Rick abruptly said, “So, you and Benedict seem to hit it off. What’s the deal there?”

  Sam was genuinely surprised. “No deal,” he shrugged. “She’s good at her job. I like working with her.”

  “Yeah,” Higgins frowned at him, and Sam realized his friend disapproved. “And?”

  “And she’s a kid.” Sam’s sharp face pulled down into forbidding lines. “She’s new and she’s hungry. Why shouldn’t I steer a few assignments her way? Christ, Higs, you’ve got a dirty mind.”

  “Maybe.” Higs raised his beer to lips. “But I’ve never noticed you waving the flag for any of the young guys in photography. You telling me your philanthropy doesn’t have a thing to do with her being so goddamned cute?”