Chapter 17 #2
“Yeah. Could you shoot me a nice daytime photo of River Street for my article? Preferably from a high elevation. One in color and one in black and white?
“You mean, for the Christmas article that supports the mayor whom you’re trying to prove is a skimmer of city funds, a land defrauder, and a murderer?”
“Yeah,” she grinned. “Now you’re gettin’ it. I’m multitaskin’.”
About ten minutes later, Goldie went into the offices of The Sparkledove Wing.
It consisted of a twenty-by-twenty-five-foot storefront divided into different sections by waist-high bookcases and worktables.
One of these sections was Peter’s office.
The place smelled of paper, ink, and old wood.
But it had a sense of purpose and efficiency.
As Goldie came into the office, Peter was typing at his desk in his frameless glasses and a suit with no tie.
There was also another, older man with white hair and glasses getting letters out of the printer’s drawer for an old printing press.
He wore slacks, a dress shirt with arm bands just below the elbows, and a buttoned vest.
Upon seeing her, Peter smiled, slipped off his glasses, and rose.
“Hey, good morning. How are you?”
“Great.”
She looked around as she walked over to his desk. “So, this is where the magic happens, eh?”
“Yes. Welcome to the world headquarters of The Wing, with a circulation of fifteen hundred to the entire community and surrounding hamlets and villages. Over there is Jack, he’s the chief spokesman for the staff. Jack, meet Goldie.”
“Ay, Jack. How’s it goin’?” she greeted.
“Fine, ma’am,” the older man smiled.
“How big’s your staff?” she asked Peter.
“Jack,” he grinned.
“I see,” she nodded.
“Would you like a tour?”
“Oh, you give tours? Like the New York Times?”
“Absolutely. We’re standing in the executive offices.
” He pointed to another desk. “Over there is our circulation and advertising department.” He pointed to the printing press.
“Our printing operation features equipment dating back to 1898.” He pointed to some shelves with an encyclopedia, a dictionary, and a few phone books, “The research department is over there.” He turned and pointed to the table in the corner with a hot plate, a tea kettle, and coffee mugs. “Staff lounge.”
She looked around. “I must say, it’s a first-class operation,” she kidded. She looked at Jack, then at Peter. “I’m surprised you boys are here. I would’ve thought one or both of you would be trying to interview Horace and Alice Mason.”
Peter casually slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Yeah. I heard about that. There’s really no story there.”
“Alice has been sneaking around behind Horace’s back for some time,” Jack explained. “Benny Hudson was just the latest in a long line.”
“Pretty much everyone in town knows about Alice except Horace,” Peter continued. “So, the only thing a story would do is make Horace even angrier or feel more ashamed. Wouldn’t do Alice any good, either.”
“So, she really did cheat?” Goldie asked, needing verification.
“Let’s just say, they’re a couple with problems, and writing about them doesn’t help anyone solve anything,” Peter concluded.
Goldie thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “Well, you should’ve at least seen how the sheriff handled Horace. It was pretty impressive.”
“Yeah. Heard about that, too.” Peter replied. “When my father first hired Eli, I wasn’t for it. I mean, the guy had zero experience in law enforcement and a bum leg. But, as time has gone on, I think I was wrong about him.”
She smiled, liking that he could admit to a mistake. She also liked that he chose not to profit from Horace and Alice Mason’s problems. She and Peter looked at one another, their smiles and sparkling eyes practically lighting up the room.
“I’ve got to run down to Miller’s,” Jack abruptly announced. “Collect the payments for this week’s ad.”
“Good idea,” Peter agreed. “Clancy’s hasn’t paid us for their ad, either.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jack said, buttoning up his coat and slipping a fedora on his head. “Nice to meet you, Goldie.”
“Good meetin’ you, too, Jack,” she reciprocated.
She and Peter watched as Jack left the office, then they turned back to one another.
“Hey,” he noticed, taking and examining her left palm. “Your wrapping is off. How’s the hand doing?”
“Except for a little scabbing, good as new,” she informed.
He brought the injured palm to his lips and kissed it.
Then, still holding her hand, pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth.
Like the first time he kissed her in his car, she enjoyed it.
But she also noticed that both times he didn’t use his tongue.
She wondered if French kissing even existed in the 1940s.
After the embrace, Peter smiled boyishly and ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair.
“I don’t know if I should apologize for kissing you or take you in my arms and kiss you again.”
“Well, when you make up your mind, let me know,” she smiled teasingly, then slipped out of his arms and stepped over to his typewriter to see what he was working on.
“Wow,” she said, reading. “‘Anna Paskins has a new ingredient in her eggnog that has her bridge club delighted but stymied.’”
“People read every day about crime, or someone’s son or brother dying far away overseas,” he explained. “What I write about is close to home, slice-of-life. After all, isn’t preserving that way of life what we’re fighting for?”
She turned and stepped over to the bookcase behind his desk. She tilted her head to the side and read some of the author’s names on the spines. “Pearl S. Buck, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway… man, you really do want to be a novelist, don’t ya?”
“I’ve got a ways to go,” he said. “So, are you here to see where I work, or are you really here to ask me to the dance this weekend?”
“Dance?”
“The Christmas dance at the community center Friday night. It’s another big area draw. There’s also a gingerbread house competition I believe you’re judging.”
She thought for a moment. “Yeah, your dad mentioned something about a gingerbread house competition during Thanksgiving dinner.”
He smiled and picked up a Calendar of Events flier off his desk.
“Here. I guess you didn’t get one of these at the tree lighting.”
“No, I didn’t,” she admitted, embarrassed. “But thanks.”
She stuffed the flier into her overcoat pocket, then changed subjects. “Actually, I’m here because I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I wanna explore some of the surroundin’ area on my own and was hopin’ I could borrow your car tomorrow.”
“Sure. But I’d also be happy to be your chauffeur.”
“Thanks. But in every article I write, there’s got to be a certain element of self-discovery. Oh, I don’t mind bein’ spoon-fed stuff with a calendar of events, but there also has to be some self-exploration. Otherwise, the piece won’t read as authentic. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense. Okay. Just let me know what time you want it, and I’ll have it all gassed up for you. Damn the rationing,” he grinned.
“Great. Thanks, Peter.”
“So, what’re you up to for the rest of today?”
“Father Fitz is doing some photography for me, I have notes to type up from a visit to the historical society, I’ve got to call my publisher—lots of things.”
These last two items weren’t really in Goldie’s plans, but she wanted to create the illusion that she was a busy journalist with an agenda.
She also wanted to slow things down with Peter and was afraid that if she said she was free for the rest of the day, he’d invite her to do something.
She liked Peter. She really did. But she didn’t see the wisdom in turning up the heat on having a relationship. For now, a low simmer was fine.
Within a half hour of Goldie leaving Peter’s office, Charles called his son to meet him at Sparkledove Realty and had sent his secretary out on an errand so they could have some privacy.
“She saw everything between Horace and Alice Mason!” the senior Banyan complained, seated behind his desk. “It’s a public relations nightmare!”
“No, it’s not,” Peter assured. “She knows all towns have drama. Especially small towns. Believe me, she’s staying focused on a nice, positive article.”
“Harriette did say they had a good chat before all hell broke loose, but I don’t know.”
“I spoke to Goldie, and I really think you’re getting worked up over nothing.”
“What do you mean, you spoke to her?” Charles said with renewed anxiousness. “When was this?”
“Not long after Horace went to jail,” the son replied. “She stopped by my office and both Jack and I told her the Masons weren’t really news.”
“And she bought it?”
“She bought it because it’s true,” Peter reminded.
“Why was she at your office?”
“She’s a fellow journalist and was probably curious about the paper,” he shrugged. “She’s also borrowing my car tomorrow.”
“What?” Charles bellowed. “To go where? To do what?”
“Her job!” Peter answered impatiently. “Jesus Christ, relax, will you? Stop trying to manage everything.”
Peter spoke with his father for a few more minutes, trying to alleviate his concerns, but failed. After he left the realty office and returned to his own, Charles made a call from his desk. When a voice answered on the other end of the line, the mayor began with:
“Got a job I need you to do tomorrow.”