Читать книгу The Way Back - Stephanie Doyle, Stephanie Doyle - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
“GABBY, I THINK you should do it. What do you say?” Melissa Smith, senior editor at McKay Publishing, sat at the head of the table wearing an expectant expression.
Gabby Haines looked at her boss. Oh, no. Melissa was talking to her. She expected her to say something in return. The proper response would have required listening. Probably not the best time to admit she’d been thinking about what she would have been doing at her old job at this time of day. Not when she was only two days into her new job.
“Well?”
Let’s see, Gabby thought. She was a junior editor in her first editors’ meeting and her boss was calling her out to do something. She was probably being asked to do a low and vaguely demeaning task such as fetch coffee. Best to simply go with it.
“Absolutely. I’m on board. Tell me what you need.”
Melissa clapped her hands. “Excellent. Go bring back Jamison Hunters’ tell-all biography with a nice pink bow on it.”
Gabby blinked. Okay, she had not imagined hearing Jamison Hunter’s name. No way would a conversation containing those two names, Jamison and Hunter, occur that her ears didn’t perk up and her brain immediately focus. Not to mention other parts of her body.
“I’m sorry? Who…?”
Melissa smiled. “That’s right. The elusive author we want you to track down is none other than Jamison Hunter.”
“Jamison Hunter? The astronaut. The legend. The…cheating pig bastard?”
“That’s the one.” Melissa nodded as the other editors surrounding the massive conference table chuckled.
Apparently everyone was in on the joke except Gabby.
“You’re the new kid on the block and we always send the new kid on the block.”
“I went three years ago,” Mary Jane, an editor who focused on cozy mysteries and self-help titles, chimed in. “Disaster. The man had me in tears in mach two seconds.”
“I don’t get it,” Gabby said, trying to catch up with what she’d missed. “You want me to bring back his story? The autobiography of Jamison Hunter? He’s one of the most reclusive people on the planet. He hasn’t been heard from in years. I’m talking J.D. Salinger level hermit. You’ve got better chance of getting President Clinton to give us a tell-all about his days with Monica Lewinski than you do of getting this guy to talk.”
“Yes, I know,” Melissa agreed. “But here’s the thing we have with Hunter, which we don’t have with President Clinton—a binding contract. Hunter—in a major deal, I might add—agreed to give us his story. Granted, that was a few weeks before the scandal hit. Afterward, he tried to return the advance, but we refused it. We thought he might change his mind, might want the world to know his side of the story. And when that time came, he’d already be committed to us. Given the sizeable advance we paid him, we’ve got a lot at stake. So every few years we send an eager new face to meet him and personally give him a nudge.”
Eager and new were not two words Gabby would necessarily associate with herself. Washed up and worn down were more accurate.
Get a grip, Gabby. You got fired, not murdered.
It was her inner therapist at work. Just because she lost the hottest job on morning television in Philadelphia to a younger, thinner, hipper version of herself did not mean her life as she knew it was over. Her ego had taken a punch was all. And her self-esteem. And her self-confidence.
And her wallet.
The truth was, she’d been lucky to land this job—even if it was an entry-level position. Even if at thirty-three she felt more like sixty-three working with so many young twentysomethings. Twentysomethings who were all ahead of her on the corporate ladder. Twentysomethings to whom she would have been teaching the ropes at her old job.
But after coming to the realization no other local morning programs were looking to hire a slightly overweight, aging host, she’d had to scramble for a new plan. Openings in her field of journalism were few and far between, so it seemed like a reasonable idea to try the other end of writing and look at openings in publishing.
Apparently publishing houses were often looking for junior editors. When they told Gabby what her starting salary would be, she understood why.
Still it was a job and a new start.
Plus there were advantages. Gabby loved to read. She could bury her head in books without anyone caring there were wrinkles around her eyes, or what clothing size she was currently wearing. She could earn enough money to keep her from having to move in with her mother—which, at her age, would be the most pathetic thing evah. Most importantly this job would give her time. Time she desperately needed to figure out what she wanted to do for the rest of her life.
And now, a handful of hours into this new career, Melissa was offering her the chance to meet Jamison Hunter.
Jamison Hunter, the epitome of all good things men could be. Proof that not all men were asses. The crush of her life, the man she’d idolized above all others…until he smashed every one of those romantic dreams with a single horrible press conference. He’d broken not only the nation’s heart, but hers, too.
Jamison Hunter.
Huh.
Funny where life took you sometimes.
She was nodding before she let herself think maybe this wasn’t the best idea given her particular mental state right now. Facing the man who had set her expectations about what a man should be, only to then confirm the worst of what she knew a man could be, would definitely be treading some rocky emotional ground.
Her mouth opened. The words came out. “I’ll do my best.”
Before she could reconsider Mary Jane leaned toward her and whispered, “Trust me. Take a box of tissues with you.”
* * *
“WOOF!”
Jamie Hunter watched his ancient dog Shep slowly stretch and push himself into a standing position alerting him that company was coming. Shep sighed and creaked, but finally he was on all fours.
A second later the doorbell rang.
“Poor, Shep, you are definitely feeling your age, my man. There was a day you would have given me a five-minute heads-up.” Jamie patted the loyal German Sheppard’s head as he rose from his recliner—not as quickly as he once did, either.
Dropping his book on a table and removing the glasses he needed to read—as ridiculous as it was, he was slightly self-conscious about wearing them—the two aging warriors made their way down the hall to confront the intruder. After eight o’clock on a Tuesday night, it was a good bet almost every one of the eight hundred and twenty-two inhabitants of this island town were bunkered for the night.
Unless there was trouble. Jamie picked up his step.
“Yeah?” he said, opening the door half expecting it to be the sheriff asking for help with something.
The female face on the other side of the door was a complete surprise.
“Jamison Hunter?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. He took in the business suit, the low-heeled pumps, the hand thrust out in welcome. “Are you a reporter?”
It wasn’t possible. He was old news. Yesterday’s story. A forgotten has-been with a sad legacy no one wanted to remember because he depressed them. Unless someone had found out about— No. He wouldn’t even allow himself to think it.
He noticed she was huffing slightly from the forty steps it had taken her to reach his house from the road. If she was a reporter, she definitely wasn’t a beat reporter. Too soft.
“No, I’m Gabriella Haines. I’m from McKay Publishing.”
He ignored the hand completely. “Oh crap, not you people again. When are you going to figure it out? I’m not writing the damn book.”
She blinked twice. Okay, maybe he didn’t have to be quite so harsh. It wasn’t this woman’s fault the company was so persistent. Not her fault at all. But he knew if he maintained his hard attitude, she would leave faster. He knew this from experience.
“Come inside. I’ll write out the check. Again.” He opened the door wider.
She didn’t move immediately. Probably wondering if either he or Shep bit.
Shep had never bitten anyone in his life.
“Inside, lady. That suit you’re wearing isn’t warm enough for this weather. No doubt you’re freezing.”
She nodded and stepped inside. As soon as he closed the door behind her she began to rub her hands over her arms. “It was sixty-five degrees when I left New York.”
“And this is an island off the coast of Maine.” If she’d checked the local forecast, she would have figured out to dress more appropriately. He walked toward the rear of the house to his office where he kept his checkbook. When McKay had refused to accept the advance the first time he’d offered to return it, he had put the money in a separate account he never touched. That way he would always have it at the ready whenever they came asking for it. He’d figured after a year or two they would come politely begging for the cash. He definitely hadn’t anticipated their persistence.
“You should tell your boss I’m making a tidy sum off the interest,” he said over his shoulder. “And I’ve got no qualms about spending that interest, either. It paid for a new deck last year. I’m almost sorry to have all that extra cash come to an end.”
Jamie glanced up and saw she hadn’t followed him. No doubt she’d stopped by the fireplace to warm up. He wrote out the check then tore it from the book and headed to the living room. As expected, he found her in front of the fireplace, her eyes raised to the skylights in the high, wood-beam ceiling.
Skylights so he could see the stars on a clear night.
With her jaw open and her arms crossed over herself, she looked more like a lost little girl than the grown woman she obviously was. Despite whatever protective instincts her appearance might spark within him, Jamie had no intention of being swayed. He didn’t rescue lost little girls anymore and he certainly didn’t rescue grown women.
“You know there’s no ferry service back to the mainland tonight?”
She looked at him. “I know. I started driving early today, but there was an accident on the Tappan Zee Bridge and then I hit rush hour out of Boston. I saw it was the last ferry run, but I didn’t want to stop. I felt if I stopped, I would…”
Jamie found himself wanting to hear the rest, wanting to know what she feared would happen if she stopped. She was dressed professionally with long dark hair loose around her shoulders. She appeared to have it all together, but somehow with the way her hair seemed to swirl around her—as though the brutal wind on the island had done a number on it—you knew there was nothing but chaos inside.
“They usually send the newbies to hassle me,” he said. This woman was no newbie—in her thirties, if he had to guess.
Her lips curled. “Believe it or not, I am the newbie. At least at this job.”
It made a little more sense. No wonder she wanted to keep going even though it was late. She had something to prove, lost ground to make up. He was sure of it.
Not that he cared, he quickly told himself. He was not about to get caught up in whatever her story was.
“Well, there is a B and B on the island. They’ll have plenty of space this time of year. Follow the road into town, it’s the biggest house. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. Yeah, I have a room waiting for me.”
He held out the check. “Go on, take it.”
She glanced at the check with a similar expression to the one he imagined he’d given her hand when she offered it at the door. Like he’d rather touch a dead fish.
“I’m not taking the check.”
“Lady—”
“Gabby. My name is Gabby Haines.”
“Ms. Haines, I don’t have the patience for this. I really don’t. Here is how this situation will go. You’ll make your pitch and try to persuade me to write the damn book. I’ll refuse—just like I’ve done since the first time I tried to cancel the contract and return the advance. You’ll be stubborn, thinking that might sway me. It won’t. We’ll keep the stand-off going until eventually you’ll break down, maybe even start crying, reminding me you’re new and really need this job, and if you don’t get at least a commitment from me to write the book, you’ll be fired. There will be begging and pleading, maybe even some threats of legal action. None of that will change my mind. So let’s save ourselves the aggravation, shall we?”
“Gee, no wonder Mary Jane cried.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. See, here’s the thing, Mr. Hunter. As you so accurately pointed out I’m not some fresh girl with her first real job. I’ve wrestled with a tough subject or two. I’ve been to the top. I’ve been on TV. Until they ripped it all away from me.”
He noticed her voice was gaining in volume and shrillness. Any second Shep would start whining.
“Now I’m starting over and you and your story might be the thing that will change my whole life. During that ridiculously long drive, I thought about all the reasons why you might be resistant to doing this book. And one of the things that occurred to me was that you had discovered you can’t write—or at least, not well enough to write an entire book.
“Well, I can solve that problem for you. I’m a writer. I majored in journalism. I wrote magazine columns and I blogged long before I started hosting a television show. Maybe what you need is someone who can bring a certain skill set to the table.”
“I’m not telling my story.”
“Don’t say that. At least not yet. Think about it over night. I’ll come back in the morning and we’ll talk about this like reasonable people. You can be reasonable, can’t you?”
“You clearly don’t know much about me, if you can ask that.”
This made her laugh. In fact, his comment made her nearly double over with laughter. He was obviously dealing with a slightly hysterical editor-slash-writer. Terrific.
“Oh, I know about you,” she said, pulling herself together. “I know of you very well.”
And there it was. That look he’d seen before in the eyes of women. Women who had idolized him or fantasized about him. Women who thought they loved him even though they had never even met him and knew jack about him. Women who felt as if he’d cheated on them, too.
Yes, Gabby’s look of betrayal wasn’t the first one he’d witnessed. But hell, he didn’t have to see it in his own house.
“Get out. Take the check and don’t come back.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she took the slip of paper and flicked it into the fireplace. They both watched a flame lick up and obliterate it.
“I’ve got more checks.”
“I’ve got nothing to lose.”
He met her eyes again and saw it. A determination he wasn’t easily going to squash. But squash it he would. Because he wasn’t telling his story. To anyone.
“You can show yourself out.” With that he dismissed her and went back to his leather recliner and his book. He held off putting on the reading glasses until she walked past him. A few seconds later he heard the door close behind her.
Gone. For now.
Gabby Haines. With the long dark hair that swirled around her shoulders. A sudden image of his fingers digging into her thick hair stirred something inside him and had him shifting in his chair.
Man, it had definitely been too long if he was getting turned on by some half-crazed New York editor who would probably make his life hell for the next few days until she ultimately gave up.
At least the next few days weren’t going to be boring.
* * *
JAMISON. HUNTER.
She felt as though she’d met Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and George Clooney all rolled into one perfect fantasy. She took a deep breath. She was supposed to be cool about this. She was a professional. She wasn’t supposed to regress to teenage behavior, but…wow. Jamison Hunter.
And they had talked. Okay, mostly he’d dictated and postured. Then she’d gone crazy lady on his ass.
What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t. That was the problem. She’d taken one look at the check and thought about returning to New York and her tiny cubicle, mission not accomplished. She imagined standing in Melissa’s office admitting she’d failed. The awareness of how far she had fallen had hit her again and…she sort of snapped. She couldn’t go down without a fight.
That idea she’d had on the long drive—offering to ghost write Jamison’s story—was a good one. Maybe fate had sent him into her life for this very reason. Maybe she was supposed to do more than get a promise from him. Maybe what she really needed to do was tell his story. Write about his life and his downfall and finally give answers to all the questions everyone had about him. She didn’t have to be the enemy. She didn’t have to be some two-bit employee of a publishing company who wanted to use his story to make money.
Instead she could help him bring his side of the story to life. They could empathize with each other. Bond over tragedy. After all, she knew what it was like to be on top and have everything taken away. Not on his scale certainly, but on her own.
Unfortunately he didn’t see things as clearly as she did. She would have to work on that. But she wasn’t backing down.
Standing on the other side of the door separated from the fireplace’s warmth, she quickly took a chill. He was right. Business suits and heels weren’t the best for a Maine island spring. Luckily she had thrown some jeans into her bag. Melissa had given her a few days to work her magic and Gabby planned to do it wearing comfortable clothes.
The question was how long would Melissa give Gabby if Hunter did agree to allow her to help him write his story. Would Melissa even go for the idea? No point worrying about it now. First Gabby needed his consent, then she would work on her boss.
For now it was best to head into town and to her room for the night.
She thought about the mountain of stairs she’d climbed and cringed at how heavily she’d been breathing when he opened the door and she’d gotten her first look at him up close. But that was fine because it was all part of the master plan.
Step one: start new career.
Step two: get in shape.
Step three…
Well, the first two steps were fairly significant. Step three could wait.
Turning, she considered the long and winding wooden stairs which zigged right and zagged left over the jagged landscape. The light above the door gave her some guidance, but there was no railing to hang on to—nothing to stop her fall, should she stumble on the uneven surfaces. Coming up, she’d been fueled with fear, adrenaline, excitement and determination.
Going down was going to be a little harder.
Cursing even the low heels, she took her first cautious step. Only thirty-nine more to go.
What had taken her minutes to climb felt like forever to descend. Shaking with tension and cold and still reeling from the major life event of meeting an idol, Gabby finally reached the road again. She wanted to weep.
She got in her car and jacked up the heat waiting for the engine to respond to her desire to be warm. Rubbing her hands together she laughed to herself. She’d done it. She had a plan now. She wasn’t going to sit back and passively take orders doing a job she didn’t really want. She was going to remake herself. A writer. It was perfect.
All she had to do now was wear him down. Win him over with her charm and personality until he trusted her. Trust would lead to comfort and comfort would lead to his story.
Charm and personality. Two things she used to have plenty of. Surely she could drudge them up again.
One thing was for sure, she needed to get over this crazy starstruck feeling. Seeing him in person had been like fire bolt to her system. It had taken her ten seconds to remember her name and why she’d come. He might be halfway between forty and fifty, but, damn, he still looked good.
She’d met semi-famous people when she’d been the host of Wake Up Philadelphia. There had been the mayor of the city, the governor of the state, sports figures, local actors and performers who had made good. She’d interviewed Kevin Bacon for Pete’s sake. Once you knew him, you were basically connected to everyone else in Hollywood. It was a known fact.
Jamison Hunter wasn’t any of those people, though. He was more. At least to her. Growing up without her father during her teenage years, it wasn’t hard to understand how she had formed such an attachment to a media figure—especially one who had seemed so perfect. A girl had to look for heroes where she could find them.
Of course, she hadn’t been some silly twelve-year-old when Colonel Jamison Hunter first captured the world’s attention. No, she’d been twenty-three, engaged and starting her career. She’d had the world in her hands and had believed her father’s abandonment hadn’t made a single dent in her perspective or her life choices. Maybe she wasn’t the most romantic person, and wasn’t overly sentimental. However, she had committed herself to a relationship. That was an achievement. Something to be proud of.
She really hadn’t had a reason to fall into a crush with an image on the TV screen. Something about him had captivated her.
Air Force Colonel. Astronaut. American hero.
It was a story everyone knew. As embedded into the American psyche as Apollo 13, the Challenger tragedy and Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. Colonel Hunter had commanded a space-shuttle mission to help with repairs on the international space station. Once there, the crew of the station informed him the situation was more critical than first realized. In fact, they feared an imminent explosion would not only take out the station but the shuttle docked to it, as well.
In an unprecedented move originally not sanctioned by NASA, Hunter did the unthinkable with an unplanned, untethered, space walk. He set out to make the repairs, knowing if he didn’t find and fix the problem, the lives of his crew and those on the station would be lost.
Gabby never understood all the specifics of what he’d done. Reporters explained the science, the possible complications and ultimately the risk he took, but none of it mattered to her. All she cared about was after he’d taken that brave action and was safely on American soil and she watched him being interviewed time and time again, she felt safe.
The world was a safer place because Jamison Hunter was in it.
Gabby wasn’t alone in her hero worship of him. It seemed everyone had all come together to place him on a pedestal. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen so hard and so far when the scandal broke.
A sunny day in Florida. A motel not too far from Cape Canaveral. A picture of Jamison Hunter standing in the doorway of the room with a woman wearing only a sheet. Next to them stood his wife with a look of sheer horror on her face. His deception had crushed the world. It had devastated Gabby. How could a man capable of such honorable and heroic actions cheat on his wife? And if he could cheat on his beautiful, accomplished wife, what chance did an average woman have of preventing much less heroic men from doing the same? Gabby couldn’t stop asking herself that question and becoming deeply suspicious of her own fiancé as a result. In retrospect that suspicion was a good thing…and warranted.
Finding her fiancé in bed with her half-sister might not have happened if she hadn’t started looking for signs.
Gabby owed Jamison Hunter for saving her from a marriage with a cheating scumbag—something for which she was eternally grateful. But she also blamed Jamison for her inability to make any other relationship in the past ten years since Brad work.
“Stop it, Gabby.”
The sound of her voice startled her. She needed the reminder though. She wasn’t here to contemplate her life and dwell on her failures. She was moving on with her life. Fresh start, et cetera.
The drive into what the residents of Hawk Island considered town was short. The car had finally heated up, but still Gabby shuddered against the chill. It was late, she hadn’t eaten since lunch and her stomach was grumbling so loudly she didn’t think she could wait until the B and B’s breakfast.
Of course she should. She had more than enough stores of fat on her body to hold her through the night. But the rational side of her brain reminded her starving wasn’t a healthy method of weight loss. She needed to fuel her body at regular intervals to keep her metabolism up.
There weren’t many options, though. The town consisted of four or five mom-and-pop shops—currently closed for the night—ranging from a small grocery, liquor and hardware stores to an antique toy place and an exclusive clothing boutique. Obviously those last two were targeted to the tourists who were starting to discover the charm of an island situated off the coast of Maine.
No fast food. No twenty-four-hour grocery stores. Everything was locked up and dark.
She spied one place that still had the lights on. Pulling up, Gabby peered through the window, which was painted with the name Adel’s. She could see booths lined up along the window and a counter with stools suggesting this was a diner. Food. According to the sign that dangled from the doorknob she had seven minutes to get some.
Hopping out of her car and sprinting as fast as she could, Gabby reached for the door and heard the satisfying ring of a bell overhead.
“Oy, you’ve got to be kidding.” The tall girl behind the counter stopped wiping the surface in front of her and scowled.
“The sign says you’re still open.”
“For only seven more minutes.”
At first the Gabby didn’t understand the woman, then she realized what had sounded like meenoots, was actually the word minutes. “I’ll be quick.”
“You’ll make a mess.”
“No, I swear I’ll order only a salad.”
The girl huffed and rolled her eyes. “Sit.”
Gabby didn’t have to be told twice. She plopped her butt on a round stool and tried to appear super hungry so the server would understand that she wouldn’t have come in here unless she was really desperate.
“Adel, there is someone here who wants food.”
An older woman pushed her way through a swinging door, carrying a tub of what appeared to be clean coffee cups.
“Oh, crap.”
Gabby shifted. “I’m sure you all don’t mean it but I’m starting to feel a little unwelcome.”
Adel plunked down the tub with a rattle. “No, sign says we’re open until nine, so I guess we’re going to have to feed you. Coffee?”
“Please.” She saw the young girl pour what was no doubt multiple-hours-old coffee dregs into a cup, but Gabby didn’t mind. It was piping hot.
She shivered as the heat transferred from the cream-colored ceramic to her hands. It had been spring in New York when she left this morning. She was sure of it. She took a tentative sip. It was as foul as she expected but it warmed her throat all the way down.
“What do you want?”
This was easy. She’d already committed herself to a salad so there would be no reason to look at the menu and tempt herself with any of the other offerings. Willpower, Gabby. Willpower.
“House salad, oil and vinegar dressing is fine.” Then she caught herself. “On the side. I need the dressing on the side.”
“Oy.” The girl rolled her eyes. “One of those. On the side this, on the side that. If you want it all on the side to put together yourself, go buy groceries and do it at home.”
Said the girl with the long legs, tiny torso and high cheekbones. She was gorgeous—model thin with long, straight brown hair that looked as though it might actually touch her bottom.
Gabby naturally hated her on sight.
“Zhanna, give it a break.” Adel finished stacking the cups under the counter and stared at Gabby for a moment. “You look hungry. You sure a salad is going to be enough to hold you?”
“Absolutely.” Not. But this is what happened when you let yourself get careless. When you enjoyed food instead of counting calories. When you didn’t accept you were thirty-three and not twenty-three and couldn’t shed five pounds in a weekend. When your metabolism worked against you, but no one let on there was a problem until it ended up costing you your job.
A woman had to pay the price.
Gabby felt her price might have been slightly steeper than any another woman’s, but those were the breaks. Especially in television.
“A salad is fine,” she said.
“Right.” Adel exited through the swinging door and Gabby was left with the decidedly unfriendly Zhanna. If she was staying on the island for a while, it would probably help to make an effort to get to know the locals.
“Zhanna, that’s a beautiful name. Where are you from?”
Zhanna stared at Gabby as though trying to discover her true intention in asking. She must have concluded it was no more than mild curiosity because she answered, “Russia.”
The way the R rolled off her tongue was dramatic and Gabby couldn’t help but be a little impressed. She was just chubby Gabby from Philadelphia. While this girl was the exotic Zhanna from Russia. That comparison made Gabby wish she had more of an accent. “How did you find yourself here?”
“How did you?”
Not exactly a conversationalist, this Zhanna. “I took the ferry.”
“Me, too.”
Small talk over. Okay. Clearly, this local wasn’t someone Gabby was going to win over. After a few minutes of silence, the kitchen door swung open again. Adel set the large plate of green stuff in front of her.
Gabby wished she could be more excited about it, but veggies had never really done it for her. Still, she needed to fill her stomach, so she started eating. Halfway through she was actually starting to feel better. Then Adel came out of the kitchen carrying a slice of pie.
Hot apple pie if the smell and tendrils of steam emerging from it were any indicators. To compound the evil temptation she scooped up some vanilla bean ice cream—the easy-to-detect brown bean flecks suggested it might be homemade—and plopped it on top.
“Figured you ate the salad, you might as well have a little pie.”
Don’t do it, Gabby told herself. Do not eat that pie. Being forced to eat the pastries, the gourmet cupcakes and all those delightful things the local chefs who were featured on the show’s kitchen segments had ended up killing her career.
Gabby didn’t think she wanted to ever return to television to expose herself to that scrutiny again, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she had been responsible for destroying her life and not the show’s executives.
“It’s not going to kill you,” Adel said as she simultaneously slid the pie in front of Gabby while she cleared the salad plate. “It’s pie. Not poison.”
“You don’t understand,” Gabby said wearily. “I’m trying to change my life.”
“Really?” Zhanna asked, leaning on the counter. “Your life? Why do you need the changing of it?”
Oh, sure, Zhanna couldn’t talk about making her way from Russia to Maine, but Gabby was supposed to come clean with all of her secrets. The odd thing was, late at night, alone in a café with a girl who rolled her R’s and a woman who looked as though she knew what a lifetime of hard work meant, Gabby found herself wanting to confess.
“I got fired from a morning talk show because I put on too much weight and I’m getting too old.”
“Bastards,” Adel hissed. “A woman’s always got to be young, thin and beautiful. Is that it?”
“For men,” Zhanna said. “Yes. Go on.”
“I realized I had nothing in my life but the job. Which meant without it I had nothing. I was nothing.”
“Tragic.” Zhanna’s face was a study of sympathy. “Russians, we understand tragedy.”
“I needed a job, so I took this entry-level position at a publishing company, but I know it’s not where I want to be. I feel like an old lady among kids.”
“You must find a new path for yourself.”
“Yes,” Gabby declared. “That’s what I want to do. I thought this job would help me buy time, but now I think it’s given me something even better to do. I think I want to write.”
Adel leaned on the counter next to Zhanna. “Writing. Interesting. What are you going to write—murder mysteries, thrillers, romance?”
“I love the romance books,” Zhanna said. “Especially the American ones where nobody dies at the end.”
“No, I’m not a fiction writer,” Gabby said. “I was sent here to get Jamison Hunter’s story and damn it, I’m not only going to get his story, I’m going to tell it.”
At the mention of his name both women straightened. Zhanna scowled and Adel frowned. Gabby was trying to figure out what she said to garner this reaction when Zhanna grabbed the plate of pie and dumped it under the counter.
“On second thought, you don’t need the pie.”
