Chapter Two #3
Which wasn’t exactly true. Of all the places she’d lived, and at twenty-three she’d easily cleared a dozen, San Diego had been one of her favorites.
Her mother had been engaged to a nice man there—Charlie, maybe.
Or Dickie. Something with an “e” on the end, because even though there were blocks in her memory, things she simply could not recall no matter how hard she tried, Vivian remembered the way she had said his name in her childish voice and the joy that syllable had evoked.
He’d had a kid, too—a boy. A few years older than her.
And the son had been as nice as his dad, albeit slightly less enthusiastic about having a little girl joining his all-male household.
They’d been kind, though, which was more than she could say about every other man her mother had dated and married, and that little house just seven blocks from the beach had felt very much like paradise.
While it lasted, at least.
“How did you end up here?” Joe asked her.
Vivian’s answer was cut off by a flurry of commotion near the entrance. In another town, she’d have guessed a celebrity had walked into the room based on the fanfare. Here, in this city that thrived on power, a politician seemed more likely.
And then the crowd parted.
A man in a charcoal gray suit, white dress shirt, and black tie walked into the bar. He was tall and lean, his dark hair interspersed with steel gray at the temples.
He joined a group standing near the front and was instantly greeted with smiles, a good-natured slap on the back, like he belonged there, and everyone was excited to see him, as though he was a regular in this bar, a fact Vivian filed away for future reference.
Graham Carlson.
For a moment, Vivian could do no more than gape at her hero in the flesh.
He’d been in journalism for nearly two decades, since he was reportedly fresh out of college at some Ivy League school whose name she forgot.
Harvard, maybe. Or Yale. He’d made the jump to television ten years ago and had since become the preeminent on-air talent at the television station where she worked.
In an industry that could often be filled with ego and avarice, she’d never heard anyone speak of Graham Carlson with anything other than respect and appreciation.
He wrote much of his own copy, covering the political beat and items of major national interest, and he had a reputation for being tenacious when it came to a story. He could work a source like no one in the business, a fact that had earned him a Pulitzer for his reporting years ago.
In the six months that she had worked at the television station, Vivian had passed him in the hallway twice, and despite his impeccable manners, she’d been so nervous that both times she’d barely been able to manage a “hello” in response.
“Are you alright?” Joe asked her.
Vivian jerked her gaze away from Graham Carlson, belatedly realizing Joe stood there staring at her, waiting for an answer to—
What question had he asked her?
Something about living with Polly? How she liked it, perhaps?
“I like it very much,” she replied, glancing over his shoulder to where Graham was now ensconced in a group that included a sitting U.S. senator.
“Like what very much?” Joe asked.
Damn.
It wasn’t a question about how she felt about living with Polly.
Vivian hesitated, no longer able to pretend that she’d been paying the slightest bit of attention to him.
How many times had she mentally discarded a man she went on a date with because someone else had caught his eye?
How many times had she grown frustrated when his gaze glazed over ever so slightly as she spoke of something she was passionate about?
How many times had her comments in the newsroom been completely ignored as though she hadn’t spoken at all?
The irony was not lost on her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just got distracted. It’s not you. I’m sure you’re fascinating company. And a lovely date.” She flushed. “Not that this is a date, of course. I mean it is for you and Polly, which is wonderful, because Polly is wonderful—smart, and funny, and kind…”
Except maybe it wasn’t a date anymore considering how closely Polly was sitting with his friend. Vivian glanced around the room, searching for the redhead to see if she was still here or if she had moved on herself.
“I’m sure there are lots of wonderful women here tonight…
” Vivian trailed off awkwardly, wondering how much longer they were due to make polite conversation considering her fix-up had never been with him in the first place.
It wasn’t like she had any interest in playing dating musical chairs.
Besides, she’d have given anything to move a bit closer to Graham Carlson’s party, to hear what they were talking about.
There was an open spot at the bar near where they stood—
Joe spared her the rest of her embarrassing speech and pivoted, looking over his shoulder at the crowd near the front door before glancing back at her.
“Someone you know?” he asked, gesturing to the group. His tone sounded more amused than annoyed by how thoroughly she was ignoring him.
“No. Not exactly. I mean I know of him, of course. Who doesn’t? We work at the same television studio.”
“You’re in television? Are you on the air?”
“Good heavens, no.” The idea alone made Vivian queasy.
She couldn’t imagine anything more intimidating than speaking in front of that large of an audience each day, praying that you didn’t make a mistake on camera.
Some journalists like Graham seemed to accept the fame that came with being on-air talent with a grace she envied, but she wouldn’t enjoy juggling the notoriety and attention that they faced alongside the daily grind of the job.
She loved what she did, so long as she was behind the camera, writing the stories.
“I work in the newsroom. Working on copy and the like.”
“So, you’re a reporter?”
Vivian nodded. “Well, to be fair, ‘reporter’ might be exaggerating things. At the moment, I’m more likely to be running errands.
I’m a great procurer of coffee. My boss says I make the best pot,” she added, struggling to keep her voice light lest he see how embarrassed and frustrated she was by the entire business.
“Polly didn’t tell me that you’re a reporter.”
“I wouldn’t imagine she thought it was relevant.” Or that he would care what she did all that much. Vivian shrugged. “Polly asked me to come because she mentioned you were bringing a friend, and she didn’t want the numbers to be uneven. And the shrimp is very good…”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever come in second to shellfish,” he joked.
She grinned. “Perhaps you have, and you just didn’t realize it. Besides, if anything, Frank is the one who came in second to shellfish. I’ll admit I haven’t been on many double dates, but I’m certain I was meant to be here for him.”
“Were you?”
Vivian nodded, but then their gazes collided and there was something in the way Joe looked at her, something that settled into the pit of her stomach and filled her with a sensation she couldn’t name and wasn’t sure she had ever experienced before.
Joe broke eye contact between them, glancing over her shoulder. “I have a feeling Frank is no longer available.”
Vivian turned around. On the other side of the room, Polly and Frank sat beside each other, their heads so close together they were almost touching.
“I think you might be right. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll get over it. Somehow,” he replied, the smile on his face belying the seriousness in his words.
“I’m sure you will,” Vivian murmured, searching for the redhead in the crowd once more.
A movement caught her attention near where Graham stood.
Was that a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee that Graham was speaking with?
She craned her neck, trying to get a better sense of what they were discussing.
They were huddled together, their conversation clearly somewhat serious by the intense expressions on their faces.
“Are you working on a story right now?” Joe asked her, calling her attention back to him.
It took her a moment to respond, distracted by the conversation going on near them. “I am. Well, preparing to pitch it to the news director.”
She didn’t add that so far he’d shot down every story she’d proposed, to the point where she was now wondering if she’d made a mistake moving here at all.
During her undergraduate degree at Mount Holyoke, she’d worked at the college’s radio station, and it had sparked her interest in becoming a journalist. Radio hadn’t quite felt like the perfect medium for her, but working at one of the oldest college radio stations in the country had been an incredible experience.
She’d left with high hopes of finding a career that would give her the same sense of fulfillment, but she’d quickly learned that there was a difference coming from an environment where she was surrounded by other women who were supportive and enthusiastic about their work, and the television station, where nearly all of the women were relegated to support roles, their only purpose to bolster the men’s successes.
“What’s the story?” Joe asked her.
“It’s a piece on the Space Race.”
He grinned. “Everyone’s gone a bit space mad, haven’t they?”
In the last few years, it seemed like the entire country—and much of the world—had turned their eyes to space as the final frontier to explore and conquer.
When the Soviet Union launched Sputnik into space in 1957, the idea of a Soviet satellite orbiting the Earth, while at first an incredible sight to behold, eventually sparked terror in the hearts of many.
NASA’s subsequent announcement in late 1958 of Project Mercury, a rebuttal to growing Soviet dominance in space, had galvanized Americans to support the U.S.
space program. The goal: sending seven Project Mercury astronauts to space.
The sheer scope, cost, and aim of the project were staggering.
Some would say too much so.