“You are?”
“There is something I have to tell you.” She paused, then gave a loud sniff.
I waited, distractedly fanning my toes with a free hand to dry the polish.
“So,” Tracy said.
“So,” I answered.
“So …,” Tracy repeated, stretching out the lone syllable.
“Do you want to call me back once you decide what you’re actually going to tell me?”
“No, I want to get this over with,” Tracy said. “Um …”
“How about I guess, and you can tell me hot or cold?”
“No, man, that’s even worse for me. Okay, fine, I’ll tell you.”
I stretched my legs out to prop them on the coffee table. “Hallelujah.”
“The Alistair Issue came out yesterday,” she said in a rush.
“Oh. Yeah, I knew that.” A new issue of the
Journal
came out at the beginning of every month, and Gordon had said he was running the article in June. “The Alistair Issue,” as we had begun calling it.
“Alright, well, Alistair is on the cover. They had a photo shoot for him a couple weeks back.”
“While I’m grateful for the warning, this is all news because …?” I had been through the publication cycle at the
Journal
for years; this wasn’t out of the blue. Once Gordon had told me he was using the article and expediting the publication, I had already prepped for this.
“Today I heard that Alistair was on the morning news. He did an interview with the finance reporter.”
Okay, this was news to me. “You have got to be joking me.”
“Nope.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Well, the
Journal
sale has been pretty traumatic for some people in the newsroom. He needed to say something about it. I know he’s been having meetings with Gordon, so it was about time for him to say something public.”
“Did you watch it yet?”
“Yeah, there’s a stream on their website. Do you want me to send you a link?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“I mean, we all have choices.”
“Email it to me.”
“So you’re going to watch it?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t know. Exhaustion was etched in every wrinkle of my brain. It was tiring to run from and it was horrifying to confront. Staying in the middle didn’t feel that much better either.
I groaned. “I just wanted to do my nails today,” I said.
“Bigger fish, my friend,” Tracy replied.
* * *
What was that saying? If you ever needed to eat a frog, eat it first thing in the morning? On the fact of the frog, I didn’t dawdle much when it came to watching the video. Avoiding it just seemed to be perfunctory on every level, at least at this point. I pulled my laptop closer to me on the coffee table and booted it up.
I curled my leg up against my chest so I rested my chin against my knees. I clicked on my mail icon and waited as it loaded.
Several new e-mails called for attention at the top of my inbox, but Tracy’s subject line screamed for the most attention with its string of frowny-face emojis.
I opened it and clicked the link. The webpage loaded, and the video screen filled with the news channel’s logo and a swirling loading circle.
An ad played for an investment firm, and for once, it was too short.
The news segment started.
The host was a beautiful Gertrude lookalike, but with a warm, dazzling smile and a tight powder-blue suit. I squinted at the screen. She was familiar. I’d seen her on TV before.
The host stood in front of a background screen, cycling through various shots of Blair Properties buildings.
“… and our next guest is an infamous Manhattan developer. His company, Blair Properties, has risen through the ranks of New York City real estate to become a new legend in its own right. This week, the
New York Journal
will publish a comprehensive profile, the article focusing on his business’s inner workings as well as the day-to-day life of this mysterious business juggernaut, who up until now has largely shirked media appearances. Please welcome Mr. Alistair Blair.”
The camera cut to stage right and Alistair strode into the frame. He was back to New York Alistair, in a well-cut navy suit and striped tie. If I hadn’t just run into him and seen the contrast for myself, I wouldn’t have been able to guess he could even revert back to St. Haven Alistair, in his faded jeans and baseball cap.
Alistair shook the host’s hand and they sat on side-by-side couches.
“Mr. Blair, welcome to the show.”
Alistair nodded mildly. “Thank you for having me.”
I scratched my chin, wondering if it was Gertrude or Thomas who’d pressured him to appear on this.
Alistair and the host bantered back and forth, doing background on his company and his rise to his position in the present. All stuff I had written in the piece, I thought in mild smugness.
Finally, they got to the topic of the article.
“So I take it you’ve read the
New York Journal
article just published recently?”
Alistair leaned back slightly against the cushions, elbows resting upon the armrests to his sides. “Yes, it’s a well-written piece. I’m satisfied with it.”
“As you’re aware, there are many rumors flying around concerning the purchase of the
New York Journal
and your involvement with Ms. Florence Reynolds, a member of their writing staff. Would you care to comment on that?”
Alistair’s expression hardened slightly. I bet it was Thomas who’d made him do this.
“I have been wanting to clear up the misconceptions about the
Journal
sale. The purchase of the
New York Journal
came in conjunction with the building its offices are housed in. As I’m sure many people can understand, the state of traditionally published media, especially print media, is in dire straits. With a new owner with secure capital, the
Journal
has an opportunity to restructure and boost its digital presence without debt or financial pressure. My team and I are working out the details of how to maximize usability in the
Journal
building, something that can be both beneficial to the paper’s bottom line and its long-term livelihood.”
Nice dodge on the Florence question
, I thought.
The host pressed. “Can you give us some examples of what these plans may look like? Many people are upset at the possibility of this iconic news magazine being changed in any way.”
“Of course no plans have been decided on, and whatever we do settle on will be with the full cooperation and support of the newsroom and our editor, Mr. Gordon Jones. We have discussed moving the offices upstairs and opening the street-level floors to retail outlets. Blair Properties has experience in this realm, and with the building’s location, I have no doubt we can secure quite a few lucrative tenants and contracts. And all funds will be cycled into support for the paper.”
“Now, you mentioned Gordon Jones, the current
Journal
editor. However, there are many reports coming out that Ms. Florence Reynolds is in talks to become editor.”
I scoffed loudly to myself in the empty room. I was in crusty sweatpants and my hair was two days from a wash and in a sloppy bun. I was in the middle of Michigan farmland at my father’s house, communicating via a landline and without even basic cable television. My desk was a coffee table with a laptop and five bottles of drugstore nail polish.
Editor position, here I come.
“Pure hearsay, blatant libel. I have been discussing taking legal action against the publication with my lawyers,” Alistair said.
But the host smiled broadly in response, a sign she was wading into dangerous territory. “Please excuse me for pressing, but these allegations were brought up purely based on evidence pointing to some sort of romantic involvement with Ms. Reynolds. What is your relationship to this reporter?”
There was a short pause. Alistair’s eyes shot daggers at the woman, who, to her credit, didn’t flinch in the slightest. She maintained a soft, easy smile upon her lips, expression open and friendly.
I couldn’t imagine Alistair being surprised by these questions. He just hated answering them. Finally, he slowly answered, “She’s an old childhood friend. We were neighbors growing up.”
The host nodded encouragingly, leaned in slightly, her hands clasped together in a fist to rest upon her knees. A glimmer of excitement sparkled in her heavily made-up eyes. She was loving this—the good stuff. “Did you assign her to complete your article?”
Alistair tapped his fingers against the couch’s arm, neck tight. “There was no benefit to her, professionally or personally. She’s an accomplished and respected journalist in her own right, and money and status are the last items that define her. She never asked for favors. She was not involved with the
Journal
purchase, and my association with her is a nonstarter.”
Ms. Powder Blue appeared as if she wanted to go further, but Alistair’s granite eyes deflected any notion.
The interview continued, albeit curtly and with tension, tapping into the drama of Solomon’s building and Blair Properties’ California expansion. At the end, Alistair shook the host’s hand and the cameras cut away to commercial.
Long after the video died, I remained there on the couch, staring at the now-blank screen. While I appreciated Alistair’s attempts to clear the air regarding our relationship, it still bothered me that the host was so insistent on digging. The story was interesting enough to call attention.
I collapsed onto the couch, completely hopeless and dejected.
* * *
“Florence, I’m home!” Dad called out as the front door slammed.
“Over here,” I said, a muffled sound. I popped an arm up and waved it around.
The lights flicked on. The sky had grown dark long ago, but I hadn’t bothered getting off the couch to turn them on. In fact, I hadn’t bothered to do much since I’d watched the video. I hoped Dad didn’t call me out on it.
“Still on the couch? Did you do anything today?”
Damn.
“Hey, I went to Chicago the other day, I’m allowed a rest day.” I stuck my foot up in the air. “And I painted my toenails.”
Sounds came from the entryway—coins dropping in a small porcelain dish, his keys clattering upon wood, boots being shed onto the floor. “More like a moping day. This isn’t like you. You can’t let this Alistair thing keep you down.”
“I know, I know,” I answered. I didn’t really want to get into it. Dad had been more than accommodating, but sooner or later I had to pick my ass back up and get back to reality.
But hiding was just so satisfying. Why couldn’t he understand that?
“I saw Bill this afternoon,” Dad said, leaning against the back of the couch and peering down at me.
“That’s great,” I answered flatly.
“He said Alistair was flying back today from New York.”
“Super-duper. Why are you telling me this?”
Dad arched an eyebrow at me and I groaned.
“You too, Daddy?” I rolled off the couch and padded to the kitchen. “You can’t seriously be helping Alistair’s cause.”
Dad followed me and sat at the counter as I began pulling bread and chicken from the refrigerator. “Maybe you should meet with him, get a conversation going, come up with a compromise. He is technically your boss now.”
I shook the bread indignantly, crumbs flying out of the bag to make my point. “And that is not okay! I’m not going to indulge this insane situation he cooked up between the two of us.”
“But you’re in it—you need to figure a way out.”
“I am. I’m starting to looking for other newspapers to work at. Maybe I’ll just do freelancing from St. Haven, or look for a job in Chicago. I have options, you know!” I yanked two plates from the cabinets with enough force to rattle the entire shelf.
“You worked so hard at the
Journal
. Surely there’s a compromise you can make. And besides, I don’t think you really want to get away from Alistair anyway. This is your pride talking.”
“When did Alistair’s approval rating begin spiking in his household? I thought I dug it down into the ditches by now. You never liked him.” I threw slices of bread onto a plate, where they skipped and skid off. I nudged them back angrily.
Dad stroked his beard, scratching a cheek lightly. “No, I never did approve. He was a hellion who was always up to no good. Quiet kid, but never did trust him. You deserved better, especially after the ‘incident.’”
The “incident.” Our delicate Midwestern way of saying Alistair had taken my virginity and knocked me up.
“Exactly. I finally figured out I deserve better and I’m sick of being unhappy. He’s messing everything up.”
“Did he make you unhappy?”
I fought the juvenile urge to roll my eyes and make an expression. I quashed my immaturity and retorted, “What do you think?” I popped open the Tupperware and began arranging the chicken onto the bread slices. Dad pulled the glass container towards him and began picking around in it.
“Actually, I think he made you very happy. I think he still does. In fact, I know it.”
I pointed at him with a sliver of meat. “Dad, excuse me for saying this, but if your senility gets worse, we’re going to start looking into old people farms for you.”
“It’s not that’s simple, and it’s never neat.”
“What isn’t? Assisted living homes? I beg to differ, they can very simple and neat.”
“Very cute, Florence. Love. I’m talking about love. People.” Dad took a scrap of chicken and popped it absentmindedly in his mouth. “That stuff is tough.”
“No kidding,” I muttered, grabbing a bag of lettuce from the fridge.
“Love is tough and it’s hard. You never stop struggling. Alistair made mistakes, but I never doubted his love for you, his dedication. The man would stop the world for you, and I know that deep down you would do the same for him. You two are fated. Even if he’s hurt you, I believe he had the best of intentions.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter if I love him or if he makes me happy. All that stuff is irrelevant. Sometimes people hurt you to the point where you just have to recognize the need to walk away.” I swirled a knife in the mayonnaise jar. “Besides, this is Bill talking, not you. He’s putting ideas in your head.”