Authors: Barbara Delinsky
“The Honorable Jonathan Trent, Justice of the Supreme Court of Errors of the State of Connecticut; Thomas Reiss, native Vermont author; Paul Kiley, President and Chairman of the Board of the Landover Foundation; Arthur Wallis-Wright, Concertmaster of the Boston Symphony Orchestra; and, finally, Daniel Strahan, Head Coach of the New England Breakers.”
The silence that prevailed as Nia stared at the names now glaring from her paper gave proof of her role as the outspoken one of the crew. It was as though the others were holding their breath, cautiously awaiting her reaction. Even Bill had to admit that her outbursts were usually well founded, though she was impulsive enough to speak up when it might be wiser to remain silently accepting. In many ways Bill found her a challenge. It was his job to temper her vehemence and help channel its underlying spirit into her writing. She was widely considered to be a superb journalist, but it was largely her ardor that made her work unique.
“Well… ?” he prodded at last. “How do they strike you?”
She continued to study the list, dark head downcast, violet eyes hidden from general view. To all appearances, she was immersed in thought. In reality, she grappled with a world of inner demons playing havoc with her past. Uncomfortable, she shifted in her chair. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, more pensive.
“Interesting.”
“Interesting.” Bill nodded, mocking her passivity. “Is that all?”
“What more can I say?”
“Well, for openers, do you think you can write a good feature story around these five?”
She looked down at the list again, idly fingering the gold locket at her throat. “It’s a varied group, just as the women are. They come from different areas. Different occupations. All of them relatively unfeatured—except Strahan. Why was he included?” Her attempts to keep her voice even were only marginally successful; even she heard its slight waver.
“What’s wrong with Strahan?” Chris asked. “He’s brilliant! The Breakers haven’t done so well since the franchise was formed!”
It was Priscilla who stage-whispered, in a rare display of playfulness, “In case you hadn’t heard, Chris is into basketball this year. Everybody loves a winner.”
“Uh-uh.” Chris held up his hand and eyed the two women in good-natured rebuke. “I’ve always been a basketball fan. It’s just that
this
season I’m not afraid to admit it.”
“Do you go to the games?” Nia asked.
“Occasionally. When I can get tickets. And, let me tell you, that’s not so easy lately. It’s been one sell-out crowd after the other.”
“Do you follow the televised games?” There was method to Nia’s questioning, but Chris hadn’t caught on yet.
“You bet!” He fell right into her trap. “And that’s how I know that Strahan is a wizard. He’s put together a team that
works
like a team; he’s the one who holds it together. His pregame interviews and postgame comments are amazing—precise, to the point, always accurate.”
Nia smiled. “Thank you, Chris. You’ve made my point.” She turned her sharpened gaze on Bill. “
That’s
why I question Strahan’s inclusion here. He’s probably been interviewed ten times as often as the other four combined.”
As though Bill had anticipated her argument, he nodded. “You’re right about that. But what do you know about
him?
I mean the
person
Daniel Strahan. Forget basketball.”
Nia’s lips curved up mischievously. “Forget it? I don’t know anything
about
it to forget! I’ve never been a fan of basketball!” If her declamation was a bit too intense, none of her colleagues noticed.
“That’s good.” Bill caught her eye and held it with a force that took his words a step further. “If you’re divorced from the game you’ll be able to put together an insightful, very different story about the man. You won’t have to go near the court, if you choose not to.”
The understanding between Nia and Bill was immediate and gratifying. He knew of her vulnerability, had glimpsed that flicker of pain that she usually covered so well. Of the group gathered here, only Bill seemed to realize that David Phillips had been a die-hard Breaker fan, that he had written up their games for years. Rarely had he missed a home game, or even one on the road. That was what he had especially loved—the road trips. While the players found them exhausting, David Phillips thrived on them. Nia knew she had no right to blame the Breakers for what had come between David and herself. But she couldn’t deny the bad taste in her mouth that came with the mention of the New England Breakers.
“Anyway,” Chris quipped, lounging back in his seat, “
I
can help you when it comes to the technical information.” He held a hand out and studied his fingers. “I used to play myself. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of a need for a five-foot-four forward.”
The laughter that filtered through the room lightened the air a bit. “And how tall is this Strahan?” Nia asked, curious as to what form of giant she would be facing.
James reeled off the statistics. “Six four. Short by present standards. When
he
played— that was roughly ten years ago—they didn’t come so tall. In his heyday, he weighed in at 190. From the looks of him today, he hasn’t gained a pound.”
Bill patted his rounding belly. “That’s nice,” he murmured, half to himself. “Exercise. That’s the key. But what can
I
do? I’m stuck behind a desk all day.”
“You could always run with me during the lunch hour,” Chris offered. “Less time to eat.”
“Why not have Gail pack you a salad?” Priscilla grinned. “You know, a little cottage cheese, a few fruit slices, some melba toast…”
Nia joined the attack, welcoming the respite. “I think he gets
too
much exercise,” she spoke.
“
Too
much?” James challenged.
“Too much
arm
exercise,” she specified with a grin.
Chris eyed her askance. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” She smiled broadly as she moved her hand in a repeated lap-to-mouth motion. “Too much arm exercise. After all, it takes some effort to shovel it in.” She turned mirthfully to Bill. “What do you think, Bill?” She mimed his own recent request.
“I think,” Bill cleared his throat and frowned, “that we’ve gotten off the track. If there’s no further discussion right now on the eligible easterners feature, we’ll move on—”
“Hold it!” Nia exclaimed. “
I
still have discussion on that piece. Is there
no one else
who can do it?” Bill shook his head emphatically, feeling little remorse in the wake of the stinging, if humorous, assault on his waistline. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. What’s the matter, Nia? You’re
really
not up to it?”
“Oh, I can
do
it,” she replied, using the inflection of her voice to make the point. “It’s more a question of whether I can do it
well
, considering the prejudice I feel before I’ve even begun.”
“You’ll do it well,” Bill informed her, glancing over the rim of his glasses, then taking them off and tossing them onto the desk. “I’ll see to that!”
His words returned to haunt her later that day as she sat in her office pondering the assignment. Bill had “seen to it” in the past, particularly at the start of her career, when he’d guided her through several tough assignments. That she had the writing skill was never at issue. What disturbed her most was effecting the most comfortable balance between intellect and emotion so that her writing remained a feature story rather than a personal editorial.
Her first big assignment had been to write a feature on the Plymouth II Nuclear Power Plant, presenting the controversy as it had unfolded. The personalities involved, both for and against, had been explosive. Nia had her own very firm opinion on the subject, and it had been a constant struggle to hold that opinion in check. Bill had helped then, pointing out phrasing that betrayed her inner emotion so subtly that even she hadn’t been aware of it. With minor wording changes and a closer rein held on the whole, the final feature became a source of pride to her.
That had been three and a half years ago. Since then, there had been features on such vital and varied topics as police work, venture capitalism and genetic research. On each issue she had started from scratch, reading, researching, learning from the ground floor up. By nature, she had taken positions as her writing progressed. It was Bill who helped minimize the overspill, forming an end product that was thoroughly professional and liberal in its allowance for differing opinions. Such was the reputation of
Eastern Edge
as a publication; of that, too, Nia was proud.
Now, she sifted through the papers on her desk, gathering the rough draft of the story she’d written that afternoon. It was an analysis of live theater in Boston, its history and promise, as well as its reality. Many hours’ work had been spent reading up on the history of the various theaters that had, over the years, been the pre-Broadway drill grounds. Additional hours had gone into interviews with the people involved, both in the past and the present. Just this morning she had spent two hours with Samuel Humphrey, the owner of the new, startlingly elaborate theater-opera house-philharmonic hall complex downtown. It was this interview that had made her late for the editorial meeting.
A frown creased her brow as her gaze drifted idly around the office. It was a comfortable-sized room, bright and well-kept, modern, as was the entire building, one of the more recent additions to Boston’s clustered skyline. No, she couldn’t find fault with Bruce McHale, the magazine’s owner, on
that
score. He believed that his people worked best in pleasant surroundings. Hence, this office.
The walls and desks were white, the carpeting and obligatory bulletin boards burgundy. All else was done in crisp navy blue, from padded desk chairs to lamp shades to ashtrays and file cabinets. Wood was markedly absent. Rather, the furnishings and accessories were of the highest quality vinyl, formica, steel or fabric—all blended to preclude harshness while allowing for clear lines of utility. The room held two desks, each in its own work area, delineated by a freestanding, open bookshelf. It was through the fronds of a spindly asparagus fern on one of these shelves that Nia’s eyes met Priscilla’s.
“Something wrong, Nia? You’ve been daydreaming longer than usual.”
Nia’s gaze moved about the room once more. “I was just reminding myself how lucky we are that McHale believes in the finer things in life. We could be set up in an ancient flea-trap.”
Priscilla chuckled. “There aren’t many of those left now. Urban renewal has done wonders. Believe it or not, this very area used to be one of the seediest parts of town. You would never have dared pass through here alone, and if you happened to
work
here, chances are you were a …a…”
“I get the drift,” Nia indulgently rescued her friend. “But you native Bostonians take your age for granted. I grew up on the West Coast where, historically, at least, things are younger. There is a remarkable beauty in some of the landmarks here—the Custom House, the Old City Hall, Paul Revere’s house. Then, once you get out to Lexington and Concord, another whole world opens up.”
“You do like it here, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’m glad I stayed.” Her implication was clear and triggered a new train of thought.
“Say,” Priscilla burst out, “have you heard anything about the
Western Edge
assignment? Wasn’t Bill going to let you know this week?”
Nia thrust her fingers through her thick mane of mahogany layers and sighed. “No word yet. But there’s no rush; my family isn’t going anywhere. I’d like to see them, and it would be super to combine a visit with work.” She grinned conspiratorially. “One of the advantages of working for a magazine that has a sister publication on the opposite coast!”
“Further kudos for Bruce McHale,” Priscilla joked, lifting an imaginary goblet in toast. “For interior decorating
and
a generous travel allowance.”
“Hmmm.” Nia glanced at the calendar on the bulletin board by her desk. “I do seem to have plenty of travel coming up, what with research to be done on the Amish in Pennsylvania and the lowdown on life on Washington’s Ambassador’s Row. Those are all immediate; then there’s that assignment Bill gave me this morning….”
That was the true source of the nagging doubts in the back of her mind. For some reason, this particular assignment had struck her the wrong way.
“It’s still bothering you, isn’t it?” Priscilla homed in on the problem.
“I suppose so. I wish he could have found someone else.”
“But, why, Nia? He was right. You’re perfect for this feature. If anyone can handle men, you can.” There were both admiration and a hint of envy in Priscilla’s voice, but Nia was too immersed in her own dilemma to appreciate that.
“That’s just it! I don’t
want
to have to handle anyone. I picture these five men as enamored of their own ‘availability.’ If they’ve agreed to the feature, they’re bound to be cocky, to say the least.”
“But…they haven’t. Have they?”
Nia frowned. “Haven’t what?”
“Agreed. I got the impression that
you’ll
be making the initial contacts.”
“Oh, Lord,” Nia groaned. “I’d assumed that someone got their OK.”
“Someone
will
. You.” At her friend’s distress, Priscilla offered encouragement. “Look, Nia, you’ll do a great job. You write beautifully and you’re much more sophisticated and socially poised than so many others. Besides, you’ve taken on other assignments where you’ve had doubts.”
“Doubts?” Nia’s eyes widened to bright violet saucers. “This verges on sheer embarrassment! What am I supposed to do—call each of these men and say ‘Congratulations! You’ve been chosen …’ and so on?”
“Well, if they’re as egotistical a bunch as you’d like to believe, they’ll eat up anything you serve to them. You may feel embarrassed now, but I can assure you, based on what you’ve done in the past, that the finished product will be outstanding.”