Читать книгу Tempo Of Love - Kianna Alexander - Страница 9

Chapter 1

“Yo! Nona!”

Nona Gregory heard her name being called but didn’t bother looking up from her computer screen. She was typing, fast and furious, determined to get the latest draft of her article on her boss’s desk by the end of the day. Given that she only had twelve minutes, she couldn’t spare any time to deal with her coworker’s foolishness.

“I know you heard me, girl.” Ever persistent, Casey Dunning sidled into Nona’s office, a smirk on her face. “Did you get that thing I sent you?”

“Nah. Haven’t checked my email today.” Nona kept her eyes on her screen and her hands flying across the keys as she answered.

“Girl. You’re such a workaholic. You’re not even going to look at me?”

“Not until I hit Send on this article.”

Casey sighed. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

For the next few moments, the only sound in the office was of Nona’s seventy-five-words-per-minute typing. True to her word, she didn’t acknowledge Casey until she’d completed the last line, run a quick spell-check and sent the article on its way. Raising her eyes to her perturbed-looking coworker, she asked, “What’s so important?”

“It’s not important, per se. But it is funny, and I think most of us in this office would agree that you’re entirely too serious.”

Nona rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that this was a newspaper office and not the writers’ pen at a sketch comedy show.”

Casey shook her head. “Ugh. Just check your email when you get a chance, okay? You’re such a buzzkill.”

Nona watched Casey as she strode out of the office, leaving the door open. “And yet you continue to try to change me.”

After Casey left, Nona settled back in her chair. It was the end of another long day spent covering the Queen City’s arts and entertainment scene for the Charlotte Observer. As department head, Nona enjoyed a good amount of editorial freedom in choosing the stories she chased—most of the time. But with that freedom came some heavy responsibilities. She was charged with leadership of the three other reporters who also covered the area, and with being the final set of eyes to see their articles before they were passed up to her boss, the editorial director.

The sound of someone else entering her office pulled Nona back to reality. She straightened in her chair as her boss, Wendell Huffman, strode into the space. “I just saw your article on the art gallery opening hit my inbox. Good work, ace.”

She offered a small smile. “Thanks, Huff.” It was what everyone in the office called him. At least everyone who’d been working at the paper more than a year.

At fifty-two, Wendell had been in the reporting game for more than two decades. His face was clean shaven and retained a youthful appearance despite the gray peppering the edges of his close-trimmed black hair. He had assessing brown eyes that seemed to see through a person and a laid-back personality that kept him calm even around the tightest of deadlines. Beneath his cool exterior, though, was a true passion for getting down to the real core of a story. Today he wore his regular uniform of a vertical-striped white shirt and a pair of crisply ironed khaki pants.

“Even though I haven’t read it yet, I know it’ll be gold.” Wendell made himself comfortable in the chair on the other side of Nona’s desk. “And that’s why I have an assignment for you.”

Nona’s brow lifted in surprise and curiosity. “Really?” She chose most of her assignments, but when Wendell chose on her behalf, it usually meant the story would be a particularly compelling one.

“Yes. Are you familiar with the Grand Pearl Theater?”

She nodded. “The old building near J. C. Smith, on Beatties Ford Road, in Biddleville, right? It used to be the only black theater in town during segregation.”

“Right. Well, the city has just shelled out millions to have it remodeled and restored, and get this...the architect is Asian, and a small business outfit at that. It’s the biggest contract ever awarded by the city to a sole proprietor.”

Nona’s eyes widened. “Wow. A multimillion-dollar contract on a project like this, and it’s not going to some global architecture conglomerate? This is news.”

Wendell nodded. “You’re telling me. The higher-ups at corporate are already buzzing about this, and the editor in chief called me about an hour ago. We want you to cover this.”

Nona clapped her hands together as the excitement buzzed through her veins. “Sounds great! What’s our angle? Are we looking at the rich history of the Grand Pearl and the surrounding neighborhood? Or are we attacking gentrification and lauding the city for its efforts at restoring an important landmark?”

“Actually, we’re doing both of those angles. And a third angle.”

“What’s my third angle, Huff?”

“Learning everything there is to know about the architect, Ken Yamada. We want to know who he is, where he comes from, what he does in his spare time. But most of all, we want to know what drives him, what inspires his art. I’m told his winning design for the restoration is quite stunning.”

Cupping her chin in her hand, Nona thought about what Wendell was saying. It had been years since she’d done a personal profile, but it hadn’t been so long that she’d forgotten how odd artists could be. “So I’m getting all up in this guy’s business?”

“Basically.” Wendell clasped his hands in front of him, lacing his fingers. “There has to be something remarkable about him. He beat out some pretty stiff competition to get this contract.”

“I agree.” She knew that such an unprecedented contract could only have gone to someone like Mr. Yamada because he had something that amazed and impressed the city officials overseeing the project. “I’m on it.”

Huff let a broad grin spread over his face. “Excellent. You’ll start bright and early Monday morning on this. There’s a big unveiling of the new theater design in three weeks, and we want to debut the feature a few days before that.”

Her jaw dropped. “A feature? As in front page of the entertainment section?”

He rose from his chair. “No. As in, front page of the paper, above the fold.”

Holy crap. “I’m writing a headline feature?”

By now he was standing in her office doorway. “Yes, if you can handle it. Can you get me a great story in two and a half weeks?”

Parts of her were a tiny bit uncertain, but this was the opportunity of a lifetime. It could make or break her journalism career, and she decided she’d rather give it a shot and risk screwing up than let the opportunity pass by. “You got it, Huff. I’ll get the story.”

“That’s what I like to hear, ace. Have a good weekend.” With a tip of his imaginary hat, Wendell disappeared into the crowd of newspaper staffers headed home for the evening.

A glance at the clock showed Nona that it was already six thirty. She usually liked to be long gone from the office by this time, especially on a Friday. But as she sat at her desk turning Wendell’s words over in her mind, she found it hard to focus on anything else. She sat there for several more minutes, jotting notes on a pad. Finally, as the janitor wheeled his cart into the main area of the newspaper office, Nona shut down her computer, gathered her belongings and left.

* * *

With a large cup of his favorite coffee in hand, Ken Yamada sat at the drafting table in his office. It was a beautiful summer morning in early June, and the weather was so nice it made Monday more tolerable. Spread out before him on the slanted surface of the table were the original floor plans for the Grand Pearl Theater, along with some historic photos of the structure. It had taken quite a bit of digging on the part of his assistant, Lynn, but they’d managed to obtain the floor plans along with images of the interior and exterior of the building. Seeing the theater in all its former glory brought a smile to Ken’s face. He couldn’t wait to get into the project and restore the Grand Pearl to greatness again.

Lynn entered then. A petite brunette in her late twenties, she wore dark slacks and a bright red cap-sleeve blouse. “So, do you think I’ve dug up enough information on the theater?” she asked before bringing her mug filled with the herbal tea she preferred to her lips.

Without looking back up from the bounty of images spread out before him, Ken nodded. “Yes, this should be sufficient. Thank you, Lynn.”

“You’re welcome.” A twinkle of humor lit her blue eyes. “And I’m glad you said that, because I don’t think I could’ve gotten you much more.” She pulled up a stool next to Ken’s and sat down.

As she came into his space, Ken could smell the aromatic scents of mint, citrus and bergamot rising from Lynn’s steaming cup. He inhaled, enjoying the scents. He’d tried the tea once, after much prodding from Lynn. But he preferred to be caffeinated in the morning and wasn’t a fan of the taste.

“Now that the city’s on board and has accepted our proposal, we’ll have to move quickly on this project.” Ken jotted notes on a blank sticky paper with the charcoal pencil he kept tucked behind his ear most days. Affixing the small piece of paper to a corner of the drafting table, he added, “They’ve given us a tight turnaround on this. They expect to break ground the first week of July.”

Lynn pursed her lips. “Wow. That is tight. So how closely are they expecting us to stick to the preliminary design plan you included with your proposal?”

He shrugged. “The committee says they like my vision, but they didn’t really say I’d have to leave the plans unchanged.”

She let her eyes roll up toward the ceiling. “You know me. I’m an ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ kind of girl. It was your preliminary design that won the contract, so I think you should stick pretty close to it.”

“That’s true.”

“However, I also like my job. So since you’re the boss, I’m going to defer to you no matter what you decide.” She winked, taking another sip from her mug of tea.

He chuckled. “Wise decision. Anyway, I’m thinking I will stick pretty closely to the preliminary design. My goal with the Grand Pearl Theater is twofold—I want to modernize the structure and pay homage to its rich history.”

Lynn nodded. “I agree totally. I mean, look at these photos.” She picked up one of the black-and-white images, which depicted three well-dressed African American couples standing in the theater’s foyer. The caption read, A Show at the Grand Pearl, 1956. “I mean, it really was a grand place. The history surrounding it isn’t the most pleasant, but it deserves to be honored.”

“You’re right. And upholding and honoring that history will play a large role in this project.” Ken looked at the image of the smiling men and women, knowing the image was taken during a lighthearted moment. Still, as a man of color, he knew that life in America was much more complex for minorities. His own ancestors had been interned in a camp during the World War II era, and every day he encountered those who wished to define him only by tired old stereotypes of what an Asian man should be. He knew the specific issues were different for African Americans, but he couldn’t help seeing the similarities in the way prejudice could affect the lives of people of color.

“So, what’s first on the agenda, Ken?” Draining the last of her tea, Lynn set her mug aside on the edge of Ken’s desk and waited for instructions.

Ken scratched his chin, his eyes sweeping over the image in front of him. “I want to start with the exterior building material and framework. Get in contact with a few stonemasonry companies and take their bids. I want to keep the exterior look very close to the original. After you’ve taken their bids, compile the data for me and we’ll decide who to use for the project.”

“I’m on it.” Lynn slid from her stool and gathered her mug.

The ringing of Ken’s desk phone broke the quiet in the room. Lynn leaned over the desk and picked up the handset. “Yamada Creative. This is Lynn. How may I assist you?”

Ken continued to make notes at the drafting table as his assistant listened to whoever was on the other end.

“Okay. Hold, please.” Lynn cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s a reporter from the Charlotte Observer. She wants to speak with you about the Grand Pearl project.”

And so it begins. Ken knew that news of his contract would spread quickly, due to the dollar amount he’d been paid. While he wasn’t a fan of reporters, he understood the interest. Reaching out for the handset, he said, “I’ll take it.” No use putting off the inevitable.

Lynn passed Ken the phone.

“Hello? This is Ken Yamada.”

“Mr. Yamada, good morning.”

“Good morning.” He cradled the phone between his head and his shoulder and listened to the female reporter list her name and credentials. A few seconds passed before he noticed that Lynn was still standing by his desk, watching him, as if her feet were glued to the spot.

He frowned, waving his hand and mouthing, “Get out.”

Lynn snickered, but did as she was told. After she’d left the room, he turned his attention back to the woman on the phone, who was still going on about the feature she planned to write.

“Miss, that sounds great. However I’m on a tight deadline, so could we please get to the purpose of your call?”

She stopped chattering, and her tone held a bit of censure as she asked, “When and where could you meet me for an initial interview, Mr. Yamada?”

He felt his brow crease into a frown. “Initial? How many interviews do you think this is going to take?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll take up as little of your time as I possibly can.”

His frown deepened. He was a private man, and he didn’t enjoy having his time or his personal space infringed upon, least of all by a stranger. “We can meet tomorrow morning, 9:00 a.m., at the Starbucks in Charlotte Plaza. Are you familiar with it?”

“Very. I’ll see you there. And thank you, Mr. Yamada.”

He rose from the stool to replace the phone in the cradle. And as he stood in the quiet of his office, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

He’d have to be careful with this reporter. She seemed like the eager type who’d ask him probing questions and try to uncover his entire life story for her own purposes.

But no matter what she had planned, he couldn’t let her do that.

Because there were parts of his life that no one could ever know about.