Chapter 30
Thirty
I arrive in Virginia exhausted and with little time to spare. Navigating to my apartment building in the sprawling city of Richmond, I find my designated parking spot in the underground lot, haul my belongings inside, and call my parents as promised.
My studio is tiny but adorable—a perfect size for one—and comes with a view since I’m on the tenth floor. The furnishings are sufficient, neither grand nor eyesores. Once I add my personal touches, the space will become homier.
After unpacking, I’m too zonked to do anything but track down some food. Fortunately, I live in a section of the city that’s walking distance to restaurants and shops, and I venture out to weigh my options.
The cool air refreshes me as I stroll the neighborhood, and it’s not long before a pizza joint lures me in with its aromatic promises.
The modest décor doesn’t worry me…especially when a pizza whizzes past and I get a glimpse.
Yes, please. I order a medium pie with extra cheese and a Coke, then sit at a table and whip out my worn copy of The Great Santini , falling into its pages to distract my growling stomach .
It arrives and I abandon my book and inhale four heavenly slices.
Despite my intention to explore the neighborhood further, exhaustion coaxes me home. The reality startles me.
I live in Virginia now.
The following morning, I hit up the grocery store.
It’s not a chain I recognize, but neither is anything else I’ve seen, aside from fast food and gas station brands.
Speaking of strange, there’s an absence of familiar cars.
Instead of American muscle, Volkswagens, Corvettes, Porsches, and Datsuns, there are boxy sedans, scads of pick-up trucks, and a rare sports car sighting.
And there’s no sourdough bread in sight.
“Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I murmur under my breath as I slowly fill my cart with items emblazoned with more unrecognizable brand names.
Later, I walk a broader section of my surrounding neighborhood, getting the lay of the land.
Businesses and most of the homes are red brick, with special details like bricked arches, herringbone walkways, and wrought iron fences and railings.
It reeks of history and the past, while being quaint and sophisticated.
Vastly different from the contemporary architecture in California, I soak it all in.
As I travel farther out, the shabbier abodes and patchy, unweeded lawns have me swiftly turning back, my internal warning lights flashing.
I’m alone in the world now, my safety resting solely on my own shoulders.
That harrowing night at the Self-Serve when I was robbed at gunpoint resurrected my sixth sense—the one propelling my feet faster now.
I breathe easier when storefronts come into view. I pop into a bookstore, instantly calmed by the familiar smell of books. Their diverse covers beckon to me from displays. Browsing the titles—the worn wood floor creaking in spots, soft jazz playing from unseen speakers—my mood calms.
A few doors down, I treat myself to a double scoop of ice cream, licking the chocolate when it drips down my sugar cone, reveling in all the places to shop and eat as I make my way home.
I can’t wait to explore the entire city and beyond.
I’m up ultra early Monday morning getting ready for my first day on the job. Professional outfit of black slacks and a white blouse? Check. Styled hair and light makeup? Check. Lunch made and breakfast scarfed? Check. Directions in hand? Check.
Mild jitters accompany me to work. I want to make a good impression, exceed expectations, make friends.
Writing for publication is a competitive, cutthroat profession.
Everyone’s trying to make a name for themselves, get the top stories, and secure the byline.
I don’t kid myself that Virginia Now will be any different.
My lips purse before widening into a smile, thinking about Jay’s parting advice: Fuck you for leaving, kick ass don’t kiss it, make it don’t fake it, be your ridiculously gorgeous and fabulous self, good luck finding a better coworker than me, and for god’s sake, get laid.
After navigating through traffic, I make it to the building and park in the garage.
An elevator whisks me to the nineteenth floor, and I push through the glass doors, greet the receptionist, and ask her where to go.
She makes a call, and a woman named Valerie emerges.
She seems close to my age but stands a head shorter with a thick mass of auburn curls reaching her shoulders.
She chats me up while leading me through a maze of cubicles, finally stopping at one that’s empty.
With a wave of her hand, she proclaims it mine .
“Set your bag down, and I’ll give you the nickel tour,” she says warmly.
She guides me through various departments, past an expansive conference room where I glimpse a meeting in progress, smaller conference rooms, the employee lounge, and finally, the senior offices.
Along the way, she makes quick introductions—most of the names forgotten by the time I’m back at my desk.
“Thank you, Valerie.”
“Sure thing. And don’t get comfortable…you’ve got an editorial meeting in ten minutes.”
The meeting consists of writing staff for the Travel & Culture section only, immediately following an all-sections assembly every Monday. As a guppy in this pond, I’m happy to have a seat at the table at all.
Tyler strides in shortly after me, dressed straight out of GQ again with indigo designer jeans, a rich brown button-down, and a bolo instead of a tie.
“Has everyone met Jacqui?” he asks, not waiting for an answer as he scrawls something on an easel flipboard with a marker. “She’s our newest staff writer. Be nice,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder.
The six people present chuckle quietly, appraising me. Do they require a warning?
“You only need to watch out for Tanya,” the male across from me says, his thick black glasses outlining a pronounced nose.
I scan for the woman in question, who promptly responds. “Greg’s just jealous because I bag all the choice stories. You know what they say…talent talks, bullshit walks.”
Well then. Greg’s scoff rings out loud and clear.
Tanya’s smirk morphs into a smile my direction, though it smacks of disingenuous.
She’s young and attractive, although everything about her seems harsh: formidable dark brows, straight hair cut at a severe angle, military shoulder pads in her blazer, that tongue.
Tyler starts the meeting, reviewing assignments and deadlines, asking for new material, and following up on previously discussed story ideas. I listen, take notes, and do my best to get a bead on each team member, hopeful that some will become allies.
I score my first assignment: an article about a record store that once housed a speakeasy.
I’ll research its history, interview the owner and scan through the current offerings, hunt for old imagery, and schedule a photo shoot with one of our staff photographers.
I’m also given assorted leads to dig into during my spare time, fleshing out any worth pursuing.
I’m even encouraged to pitch my own ideas.
There’s no missing Tanya’s huff. Did she want this story?
The pressure to perform strangles me like a scarf tied too tight. I can do this. It’s what I’ve worked for the past six years, damn it.
I spend hours going through archived newspapers on microfiche at the library, pleased with the treasure trove of data it yields. Bleary-eyed after viewing all that magnified text on screen, I close my eyes and massage away the ache.
Once back at my desk, I review my scribbled notes and organize my thoughts.
“Knock knock.”
I swivel in my chair, a hand flying to my chest.
An imposing, sandy-haired man in a navy suit stands before me, his arm thrown casually over my cubicle like he owns the joint.
He grins. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Don Jennings. Wanted to see how your first day was going.”
Holy shit. I leap to my feet and extend my hand. He’s the publisher. He may not technically own the place, but he’s still at the top of the heap with the biggest title.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jennings.”
“Don,” he corrects, a smile creasing his cheeks as hazel eyes pin me to the spot.
“Don,” I repeat.
“The pleasure is all mine, Jacqueline Hall.” He gives my hand a squeeze before releasing it. I’m surprised he knows my name. Isn’t he too busy and important to remember the names of minions?
“Settling in alright?” His attentive gaze sends a weird shiver down my spine.
“Yes. All good.”
“If you need anything, my door’s always open.” He winks.
“Um…thank you,” I manage.
He saunters away, and I’m left flustered. A creepy twinge settles under my skin. Was he…? Nah. The boss man was just being friendly. I’m impressed he took the time to stop by and introduce himself. More so that he knew my name. Surely, I’m reading too much into it.