Talk of the Town Read Free Page A

Miguellia said, eyes downcast.
    “Don’t try to win the game in one swing. Just try to make good contact. That’s all we need, and you can do it.”
    When he saw a grin spread over Miguellia’s tiny face, David stood and gave her a gentle pat on top of her helmet. “Go get it.”
    Among the sprinkling of parents watching from around the field, David saw Miguellia’s dad give him a thumbs-up. Beyond the spectators, kids and adults were playing in the Boundless Playground, accessible to all regardless of their special challenges.
    He knew Ellen would have loved this park that he’d funded and named in her honor. He could almost hear her voice cheering on little Miguellia . . . just like sometimes he could still hear and feel her cheering him on.
    Chaos!
    Stepping inside the newsroom doors, Rebecca was hit by a tidal wave of ringing phones, scraping chairs, rustling papers, shouted curses, and murmuring voices. She swayed to a halt and stared down the room, lined on both sides by dozens of cluttered desks.
    It all blurred together, except for the central aisle, which appeared to be narrowing dangerously into a black hole right before her eyes.
    I can’t go back here!
    She gave herself a mental kick in the butt.
    Stop whining, you coward. Remember who you are.
    She took two deep yoga breaths, silently chanting the mantra she’d lived by since her tenth birthday, when she looked up the word
narcissistic,
after she heard her granny shouting it at her parents.
    It wasn’t my fault my parents were so self-absorbed I lived more at Granny’s than with them.
    Another breath and the mantra she’d added later.
    It wasn’t my fault Peter turned out to be such a jerk.
    One last deep yoga breath for her new mantra.
    I will not be defeated by an ambitious girl or a new boss who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.
    She vowed to save herself like she’d always done and show a brave face to the world, in the hopes that the facade would fool both them and herself into believing it.
    Rose Murphy, a young writer from Tempo, glanced up over the pile of papers on her desk, which was crowned by a sign that read “Creative Minds Are Seldom Tidy,” and saw Rebecca. Rose’s shy smile but frankly curious stare left Rebecca no choice. If she wished to maintain her dignity, she would glide gracefully forward, like heroines always did.
    Head held high, stomach sucked in, she smiled gently at all who gazed up at her and kept walking. The corner that led to the small alcove housing the Home section loomed only a few feet ahead.
    Just as she turned it, Joe Richards, the ancient, irreverent sports columnist, raised his Cubs-baseball-cap-clad head from his chest, where he habitually napped the day away, and bellowed after her, “Give ’em hell, Becca!”
    Rebecca could have wept over Joe’s show of support, but she caught sight of Pauline and Kate, her new boss, waiting beside an empty desk. The last thing she wanted was for Pauline to start hyperventilating again. Her face was still the same shade as her natural brilliant red hair.
    A rush of protective love for Pauline, like older sisters surely must feel for younger siblings, strengthened Rebecca’s resolve. She turned on her brightest, aren’t-we-having-a-fabulous-time smile.
    “Rebecca . . . I’ve . . . put your messages on your . . . new desk,” Pauline gulped and blew her nose into pink Kleenex.
    “Sweetheart, everything will be fine. I’m looking forward to working with Kate for a while.”
    Blinking wet, spiky lashes, Pauline looked back and forth between Kate and Rebecca until obviously satisfied enough to nod. “Okay, if you say so. Oh, and Dr. Harry Grant wants you to call him at home as soon as possible. He’s worried about you. And Cathy Post from Three Thousand Communications called five times. She wants the scoop.”
    Rebecca thumped the box onto the desk, perched beside it, and laughed as convincingly as possible through the tight dread constricting her chest.