Chapter 3 #2
“I definitely would have noticed you,” the voice said, and I finally looked up to see who it belonged to.
He didn’t tower over the desk, standing at probably five foot eight or nine, though he would dwarf my five feet even if I stood up extra straight.
No one would confuse him for Rock Hudson, but he was undeniably handsome, with a straight nose, defined jawline, and warm hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners as he smiled.
“But you didn’t,” I said, returning to the typed sheet with editing notes in the margins that I needed to transcribe. There were a whole lot of baseball players listed whom I had never heard of, and I needed to get their names right.
The man at my desk wasn’t fazed. “Then where did you sit before Louise left?”
Oh no. He thought I was flirting. I peered around anxiously to make sure Miss Kelly was nowhere to be seen. Based on the plumes of smoke and peals of laughter in the room, I was likely safe for now, but this man needed to be on his way before she came back.
“In class. At the University of Maryland,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
He grinned broadly, showing even, white teeth. “Class of fifty-eight,” he said, a thumb pointed at his chest. “If you were a year older, we’d have overlapped.”
“But I’m not, so we didn’t. And I do need to finish this before Miss Kelly returns.”
“Nah,” he said. “Louise usually typed my stories—she never had a mistake. Unless you count”—he moved a hand in a rounded gesture over his stomach—“you know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said primly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mister—?”
“Jack Fields,” he said, holding out a hand. My fingers remained hovered over the home row of typewriter keys. When I didn’t show instant recognition, he continued. “Junior White House correspondent.” I raised an eyebrow at the junior part, but he ignored it. “And you are?”
“Judy Greenberg,” I said, giving up. “Now, really, Mr. Fields, I do need to finish this article.” I resumed typing, hoping he would take the . . . Well, it wasn’t exactly a hint. But he remained at my desk.
“What’d you major in?” he asked. “You type awfully well for someone who didn’t go to secretarial school.”
“Journalism,” I said with a sigh.
“Huh. You any good?”
I looked back up at him and not for the first time marveled at how much easier it must be to be born a man.
Get hired for any job you want just because you can pee standing up.
Have the audacity to interrupt a woman at work with no consequences for you, and no worry of what consequences it would have for her.
Even his little pregnancy gesture for Louise Clark—that was her mistake, not whoever knocked the poor girl up.
He didn’t get asked if he was any good—he just got to cover the White House of all places!
By virtue of a chromosome, he got to stand where I wanted to be, next to Helen Thomas, while she thanked the president.
“Are you any good?” I asked tartly.
He inclined his head with a grin. “I like to think so.”
“Of course you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fields, I really do need to finish this.”
“Throw it back on the board,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“The president is addressing the Yale graduation today, and I snagged a copy of his speech. If we can get this in tonight’s edition, we’ll have scooped everyone. I need it typed up immediately.” The Digest still printed a morning edition and a smaller evening edition with updates from the day.
“How did you get his speech?”
Mr. Fields winked at me. “A good reporter never reveals his sources. Now come on. Let’s see what you can do.”
Curious, I took the sheets of paper he handed me. “There’s no markup on these.”
He leaned down close enough that I could smell his Canoe cologne and a hint of Wint-O-Green Lifesavers.
“That, Miss Greenberg, is the secret of why Louise was so popular upstairs. Well . . . apparently one of the reasons. But as a journalism major, you should make short work of correcting mistakes—if there are any, that is.”
“Hah,” I said drily, but I put a fresh sheet in the typewriter again.
“Attagirl,” he said, taking the sports story from me to return to the board. “I had a feeling you would be up for a challenge.”
“Fields, leave her alone,” Patricia’s voice said from above my head. “It’s her first day. She doesn’t need you sniffing around.”
“Who’s sniffing?” he asked. “I’ve got our front-page story that needs typing.”
“And you take that to the pretty new girl instead of someone who you know can type? Sounds fishy to me.” She turned to me. “Come on, Judy. Let’s go to lunch. I’ll introduce you to the girls.”
“I really need this upstairs as soon as possible,” Fields said. “No one knows we have it yet.”
“Then why don’t you run on up there and tell them that they’ll have it after lunch.”
“How many words is it?” I asked Mr. Fields.
“Eight-fifty.”
“Ten minutes?” I asked Patricia.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. But if you’re a minute past that, I’m leaving without you.” She went back to her desk, where she lit another cigarette.
“Ten minutes? With edits?”
“Well, not if you stand here talking to me.”
Fields grinned again. “Don’t worry. If you miss that deadline, I’ll take you to lunch.”
I looked back at the pages he had given me. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Fields, but that won’t be necessary. I have plans with Patricia, and I’ll be ready for them.”
He stood there watching me as I made my way through the first page, changing awkward phrasing and inconsistent punctuation as I went. Then I made a shooing gesture with my right hand, and he finally stopped hovering, chuckling as he threaded his way through the typing pool.