In Every Heartbeat (5 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

L
ibby dashed out of the dining hall and ran smack into a solid chest. The impact shocked the air out of her lungs and knocked the satchel from her hand. Little lights danced in front of her eyes. Strong hands grabbed her upper arms, holding her upright when she might have collapsed. And then a familiar, husky laugh rang.

“Good ol’ Lib, always in a rush and never looking where she’s going.”

Libby recognized Bennett’s voice, but she had to blink several times before her vision cleared enough to bring his square-jawed face into focus. Restored, she tugged loose from his grasp and scooped up her satchel. She clutched it with two hands like a shield. “Sometimes a person needs to hurry.”

Bennett laughed, a few of his freckles disappearing into eye crinkles. “Hoo boy, you’re all fired up. What’s got you in such a lather?”

A huff exploded from Libby’s lips. “Last night we discovered some of the men on this campus are complete barbarians. Today I’m finding some of the women to be unbearable!” She sent a withering look over her shoulder. “Calling me an Indian . . .” She whirled to face Bennett and snapped, “If someone offered me a train ticket right now, I’d go home!”

Bennett stuck his finger in his ear and rotated his hand, as if reaming out his ear. “Did I hear you right? Someone called you an Indian?” Libby huffed again. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just—” She slapped her leg with the satchel. “Girls! Why must they be so . . . girlish?”

Bennett threw back his head and guffawed. Irritation puckered Libby’s lips. She wished she could clop him over the head with her leather case. But his hard head would probably damage the satchel. “Stop that! It isn’t funny.”

He sobered, although his gray-blue eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. “Sorry, Lib. But sometimes I think you forget you
are
a girl.”

“How can I forget?” Being a girl had been a problem for years. Her uncle had turned her over to an orphanage after her parents’ deaths, unwilling to raise a girl on his own; prospective adoptive parents passed her by because they wanted sturdy boys to help with chores. Even Maelle, the one Libby loved most of all, had initially been uncertain about spending too much time with her because she feared her unconventional behavior would hinder Libby from becoming the kind of lady of which Mrs. Rowley approved.

She squeezed the satchel, the soft leather warm and pliable beneath her fingers. Being a girl might have robbed her of some opportunities in the past, but she wouldn’t allow a misfortune of birth to stand in the way of her working for a reputable newspaper.

She gave a little jolt. She needed to get to town! “I have to go, Bennett. Are you meeting Petey for lunch?” She inched backward as she spoke.

Bennett shrugged, the suit jacket’s buttons straining with the movement. “Not sure of Pete’s schedule today—he had a meeting or something this morning. Seems to be a lot of those before classes start tomorrow. But I’ll be in the dining hall at eleven-thirty. Wanna join me?”

Libby wrinkled her nose. That wouldn’t give her much time in town. “I’ll try, but no promises.” She lifted her hand in a wave. “See you later! Wish me luck!” She whirled and took off running for the walkway that led to the street.

“Luck? Luck for what?”

Bennett’s voice followed her, but she ignored him and continued on her pell-mell dash. Before coming to Chambers, she’d written to the town’s Association of Commerce and requested the names and addresses of every newspaper in town. She intended to inquire at all three for a position.

Certainly with everything heating up across the ocean, there would be a need for journalists to record the events as they unfolded. Libby had heard Aaron Rowley and Jackson Harders praise President Wilson’s calm demeanor in light of Germany’s aggression—the men seemed certain the president would work to keep America out of the conflict. Thankfully, Petey and Bennett were enrolled in college and were therefore safe from fighting in a war. But if she had her way, she’d be in the thick of it, pad of paper and pencil in hand, reporting every detail of the skirmish. To do that, she had to have a job with a newspaper.

She stopped first at the
Chambers Courier
. To her delight, she was ushered in to the editor’s office, but her elation quickly dimmed when the man openly laughed at her desire to write news stories.

“You’re too cute, honey,” the man said, giving a brazen wink. “Better suited for a drugstore clerk. Why don’t you check next door—they might be hiring.”

Libby marched right past the drugstore and made her way to the second paper on her list, the
Weekly Dispatch
. The editor took the time to glance at a few of her writing samples before telling her he didn’t need any other reporters—but was she any good at mopping? He could use a reliable cleaning woman.

Libby reined in her frustration and replied in an even voice. “Sir, I have no desire to clean for your newspaper. I wish to write.”

“Sorry.” He pushed her stack of sample stories across the desk. “I don’t think I’ll ever hire a female to do reporting. As a whole, females are too moody.”

Libby almost proved him right by flying into a temper, but she bit down on the end of her tongue. She gathered her stories, tucked them neatly into her satchel, and charged outside before the angry thoughts filling her head found their way out of her mouth.

On the sidewalk, she looked at the final name on the list and muttered, “My last hope . . .” Sucking in a breath of fortification, she turned on her heel and headed for the red brick building on the corner of Second and Ash. When she reached the glass doors, she raised her chin and marched in, her satchel held in the crook of her arm. She moved directly to the receptionist’s desk and spoke with as much confidence as she could muster. “I’d like a few minutes with the editor-in-chief, please.”

The woman peered at her from behind thick round spectacles. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Houghton?”

Libby didn’t bat an eye. “No, ma’am, but I promise not to take a great deal of his time. Would you please tell him Miss Elisabet Conley from the University of Southern Missouri is here to see him?”

The eyes behind the spectacles narrowed. “You aren’t here to sell him an ad for the yearbook, are you? He already purchased all his ads for this year.”

“Oh no, ma’am.” Libby released a soft laugh, giving the woman a smile. “I assure you, I’m not here to sell him anything.”
Except myself . . .

“Well . . .” The woman tapped her pencil against a pad of paper on her desk, scowling. “I suppose it won’t hurt to ask. You stay here.” She screeched her chair legs against the wooden floor, unfolded herself from the seat, and waddled around a corner. Libby waited, battling the urge to tap her toe in impatience. Moments later, the woman returned, followed by a tall, gray-haired man with his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows. Black ink stained the tips of the fingers on his left hand.

“Miss Conley, I’m Fenton Houghton. How may I help you?”

Libby flashed her brightest smile. “Actually, sir, I’m here to help you. Could we possibly retire to your office for a few minutes?”

His lips quirked briefly. “As long as it is just a few minutes.”

Although he maintained a friendly expression, Libby caught the subtle warning in his words. She tipped her head. “Five at most?”

“That I can spare.” He gestured toward the hallway, and Libby clipped behind him. The clack of typewriter keys rang over the mumble of voices, making Libby’s pulse race in curiosity. What stories were being created by the fingers tapping those keys right now? She breathed in the enticing scents of ink and paper, the combination more heady than perfume.
This is where I belong!

Mr. Houghton ushered her in to a large cluttered office and pointed to a ladder-back chair. “Have a seat.” He sank into the leather chair behind the desk and leaned back, linking his hands over his stomach. “Don’t tell me—you want to be a reporter.”

Libby’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “I get at least a dozen prospective reporters a year through here. Most of them are . . .” He cleared his throat. “Of the male persuasion, however.”

Of course
. “Well, I have no intention of letting my gender interfere with my becoming a top-notch reporter.” Libby flopped her satchel open and withdrew a few neatly written pages. “As you can see from my work, I—”

Again, Mr. Houghton put a hand in the air. “Hold it right there, young lady.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk. “How old are you?”

Too stunned to do otherwise, Libby answered automatically.

“Eighteen, sir.”

“Have any training?”

“No, but I am enrolled in the university.”

“First-year student?”

“Yes.”

“In the journalism program?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mm-hmm.” He stroked his upper lip with his finger. “Enrolling more females all the time . . .” He lowered his hand and gazed seriously across the desk. “Miss Conley, let me give you some advice. I can see you’re a determined young woman. I even admire your desire to become—as you put it—a top-notch reporter. But it takes more than drive and determination. It takes experience. And that’s something you don’t have.”

Libby, remembering the morning’s many rejections, blew out an aggravated breath. This man couldn’t reject her, too! “And how am I to get experience if no one gives me a chance?”

Mr. Houghton laughed. “Miss Conley, you’ll have your chance at the university. The journalism program publishes two newspapers right there on campus. You’ll be involved in the production of those publications. There’s your opportunity to build experience.”

But Libby didn’t want her name in a college newspaper; she aspired to greater things. She scooted to the edge of the seat and rested her fingertips on the editor’s desk. “But what if I want something more? Won’t you just look at my writings? My teacher from Shay’s Ford assured me I had a gift.”

“Writers with a gift are a dime a dozen,” the man said with a wave of his hand. “What counts is can—you—do—the—job.” He punched out each word with as much force as a boxer. He pointed at her. “And that assurance comes from building a résumé of writings with an established, recognized publication, such as the newspapers on campus.” He started to rise. “So—”

Libby grabbed the seat of the chair with both hands, holding herself in place. “Mr. Houghton?”

He paused, his lips twitching. “Yes, Miss Conley?”

“I would very much like to build a résumé, but not with a college newspaper. I prefer a more well-read publication. If you aren’t willing to hire me as a part of your staff, do you have any recommendations?”

The man plopped back into his chair. He rocked for a few seconds, scowling across the desk at Libby. Then he sighed. “Try magazines. From the looks of you, I would imagine you have the makings of a fine romance novelist. Maybe you could write some serials—build a résumé that way.”

Romance novels? Libby wanted to do serious reporting! Stung by his cavalier attitude toward her dream, Libby ducked her head. “I . . . I see.”

“Best I can do for you, I’m afraid.” His chair squeaked as he pushed to his feet. “But in a couple of years, when you’ve built that résumé, come back and see me again.”

Slowly, Libby raised her head to meet his gaze. “Really?”

“Sure. If I like your samples, and if you’ve proved you can handle meeting deadlines, I might be willing to give you a chance.” He smiled. “The newspaper can always use a good homemaking or gossip column.”

Libby nearly leapt out of the chair. She grabbed up her satchel and whirled toward the door. She would most definitely
not
return to this office. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to remember the manners Isabelle Rowley had taught her. Turning back, she said stiffly, “I thank you for your time, Mr. Houghton. Have a good day.”

She fled, not even glancing at the receptionist on her way out. She charged down the sidewalk, her feet clip-clipping in angry little stomps. Homemaking? Gossip column? Romances? Mr. Houghton would never have made those suggestions to a man seeking employment.

How unfair to be seen as less than able just because she wore a dress rather than trousers. Little wonder Maelle had worn trousers for so many years. Perhaps Libby would throw convention aside and purchase a few pairs of britches for herself! She kicked viciously at an empty can lying in the gutter. It clattered and bounced ahead several feet, coming to rest next to a small, dingy, flat disk. Curious, Libby bent over and pinched the disk between her thumb and finger. Her heart leapt in delight. A nickel! She looked around at the other people traveling the sidewalk; no one seemed to be seeking a lost coin.

The unexpected windfall lifted her spirits. She could use this nickel a dozen different ways. The drugstore waited just ahead. With a little skip, she darted forward and entered the store. A long, high counter ran along the right-hand side of the store, but all of the black iron stools were filled with customers enjoying a soda or a sandwich.

Libby’s mouth watered as the smell of grilled onions reached her nose, bringing a memory to the surface. Her parents had taken her to St. Louis to the World’s Fair two years before their death. They’d eaten a delicious sandwich—a hamburger, they’d called it—of cooked beef on toast with pickles and grilled onions. After her sad breakfast and unsuccessful job search, she deserved a special treat. Might she be able to buy a hamburger with her nickel?

She inched forward, peeking between shoulders to read the sandwich list and prices listed on a cardboard placard behind the counter. To her disappointment, the only offerings listed were egg salad on white, ham and cheese on rye, or a frankfurter on a roll. Fingering the nickel, she looked for something else. A milk shake, a bowl of ice cream, a large dill pickle . . . After having her taste buds set for a hamburger, nothing else appealed. With a sigh, she turned toward the doors to leave, but a display in the corner caught her attention.