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“I gather the review wasn’t favorable.” He couldn’t remember the details of what he had written. The editor of his grandfather’s magazine liked Rick’s reviews because he wasn’t afraid to go against the grain and pronounce a currently popular literary novel prose without purpose.
Obviously he had done just that with Becky’s book.
“‘Wasn’t favorable’?” she repeated, fixing him with a steady gaze. “Try unnecessarily cutting. Or sarcastic.” She looked like she was about to say something more, but she pressed her lips together.
Rick let her words wash over him as he had done with other authors and authors’ fans. He refused to take her seriously, his opinion was his own opinion, and as he tried to explain again and again, it was one opinion. If writers couldn’t take criticism, they had better try something else.
“So it’s not because I’m some Eastern interloper that you tend to be slightly ticked off at me.”
Becky angled her head to one side, as if studying him. “That, too.”
Rick leaned forward and cocked her a wry grin. “Get used to it, sweetie. I’m around for a while.”
She held his gaze, her eyes steady. “Don’t call me ‘sweetie,’” she said quietly. “It’s insincere.”
Was it?
Maybe she wasn’t a “sweetie,” per se—her tawny eyes and crooked grin negated that image—but there was definitely something about her that appealed. In spite of her off-putting attitude. “Maybe I’m teasing,” he said.
“Maybe you should be nice.”
“You could teach me.” The comment sounded lame, but he couldn’t think of anything snappier to say.
“Well, you know the saying, if you can’t say something nice, become a reporter.”
He couldn’t stop his burst of laughter. “You are in the right job.”
The waitress came just then with his order. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy.” She gave him a broad smile, lingered just long enough to show her interest but not long enough to create an embarrassing situation, and was gone. But she didn’t hold his interest.
The woman who did was packing up, and to his surprise, Rick felt a twinge of disappointment. It had been a while since he’d spent any time with a pretty woman. An even longer time with one who didn’t seem to be afraid to challenge him.
“The muse desert you?” he asked, unwrapping his utensils.
“She’s been a bit flighty lately.” Becky slipped her laptop into a knapsack.
“You’re so fond of mottoes, surely you know that for writers, when the going gets tough…” Rick let the sentence trail off.
“The tough writers huddle under their desk chewing the cuffs of their sleeves,” Becky finished off for him.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed again.
She slipped her knapsack over her shoulder and pulled her hair loose from the straps, shooting him an oblique smile as she did so. With a muttered “See you tomorrow,” she left.
As she wended her way through the tables, someone called out her name and she responded, her smile genuine now. She stopped at one table to chat someone up, waved at another person across the café and joked with Katherine Dubowsky, the owner of Coffee’s On, while she paid her bill.
Then with a laugh and the tinkle of the door’s bell, she was gone.
Rick turned back to his food, feeling curiously deflated, as if the day had lost even more light. He finished his supper quickly, then left for his apartment and his own brand of domestic bliss.
“I don’t know if I like the emphasis in this article.” Rick pushed the paper across his desk toward Becky and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. He wore a black cotton shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His usual blue jeans. The subdued morning light highlighted the blond of his hair, shadowed the faint dimple in his cheek. He looked more like the cowboy she had written about in the article, than a publisher of a magazine.
Becky glanced down at the article, wishing for a moment that Rick Ethier weren’t so physically appealing. Not because she was attracted to him, mind you, but because the women in the office were starting to annoy her. And it was starting to interfere with her own objectives. She needed people on her side if she was going to maintain a toehold of control over this magazine.
Just this morning she had to listen to Trixie wax eloquent about those eyes, that careless hair. The way he, “well, you know, Becky, kind of strolls. Like he’s in charge of his world.” Which he was, of course.
Trouble was, it was also her world.
“It’s a fairly basic profile. What’s the problem?”
Rick rocked a couple of times in his chair, then leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. You’ve got an article about working cowboys who make lousy wages, yet you write it like these guys are the happiest men alive.”
“It’s what they told me.”
“That they were the happiest men alive?”
“That they loved their work. That it wasn’t a job as much as a vocation.”
Rick acknowledged this with a quick nod. “That may be, but you don’t bring up any of the negatives. And don’t tell me they didn’t talk about any.”
“Of course they did. They work long hours. Get hurt a lot. Have to work with rank horses and ornery bosses. As many more of us have to.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Nice. Nice. Be nice.
“I’m going to take that last comment as a generality.” Rick got up from his desk and stood by the window, his hands shoved in the back pockets of his pants. “But none of what you just told me made it into the article.”
“That wasn’t the point of the article.”
Rick turned to her, a dour smile on his face. “And that’s my point. You took your own preconceptions to the story and only used facts that worked with what you wanted to show.”
Becky didn’t have time for this and wondered that he did. She was behind on her own work and phone calls. She knew he was busy consulting with his marketing and focus group on the redesign.
“So what do you want me to do? Rewrite it?” She bit back the anger that was starting up again.
“No. I’d just like to see a bit more balance in what you’re doing.”
“In keeping with the vision of the magazine,” she finished with a light sigh. She wasn’t going to concede immediately.
“The vision is more business oriented. As well, I’m also trying to shape this magazine into a more honest view of life in this part of the country.”
“Oh, you made that very clear.” Becky stopped. Took a breath. “But business isn’t all grimness and focus. There are people who enjoy what they do. I wanted to show that in this article.”
“The glass is half-full.”
Becky frowned, then caught his inference. “Okay. So I’m an optimist. You say it’s half-empty. Neither of us is wrong. It just depends on what you want to focus on.” She felt, more than heard, the hardness creeping into her voice and tried to inject a note of humor. “And if you were our art director, you would say we would need a different glass.”
Rick frowned. He didn’t get it, obviously. “Water management aside, I’d also like to see the article shorter if possible.”
“Design will have problems with that.”
“We need the space for ads.”
“It’s a magazine, not a shopping network.”
“But ads pay the bills and our salaries.”
Becky bit back a comment. In the few days Rick had been here, she realized one thing. Money talked to this man. Loud and clear.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Anything else you want to discuss?”
“I’m calling a meeting tomorrow to go over the results of our market survey.”
Becky pulled out her Day-Timer and flipped it open to the date. “Sorry. I’ve got a practice with the children’s choir.”
“How about after?”
“After, I’m supposed to be meeting with the banner committee to discuss the new designs for the Thanksgiving service in the fall.”
Rick drummed his fingers against his thigh. “How about the next night?”
Becky flipped the page and shook her head as she glanced up at Rick.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, holding his hand up, palm out. “Whatever it is, cancel it. This is important.”
Becky stifled a flare of resentment. “So is my meeting.”
“Find someone else. This is your job.” Rick picked up a folder and flipped it open. “While we’re talking about your job, I also want to comment on the lack of letters to the editor.”
“People here are generally low-key. If they like something, they don’t say anything. If you want a reaction, you have to stir up the nest.”
“Not something you’re prone to doing.” He tilted her a half smile that, in spite of their momentary antagonism, slipped past her defenses and kindled a faint warmth.
“I think I’ve done a good job.”
“But I don’t want good,” Rick said, holding her gaze. “What I want from you is your best.”
Becky frowned, uncomfortable with this new tack. Did he think she was doing a mediocre job? “And that’s what you’ll get,” she said softly. She gathered up her papers and left without another look back, a self-doubt niggling at her confidence.
As she walked down the hall, she reread the article. Had she been overly positive? Had she done a mediocre job?
She thought of the wry grins of the cowboys as they talked about their work. She recognized the griping. Her brothers talked the same way when they had a particularly unpleasant chore. Yet underneath the words, she knew there was a love of a challenge. A pride in their work.
“Hey, Becky, eyes on the road.” Cliff caught her by the shoulders and set her aside. He angled his chin toward Rick’s office. “Had your bi-hourly meeting with the boss?”
Becky resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cliff didn’t need to see her own frustration. Rick was ruffling all kinds of feathers, but in public she needed to stand behind him. “We had to discuss an article he wants me to look over.” Among other things.
Cliff drew her aside and lowered his voice. “Becky, you got to help me. This Rick guy is driving us nuts. He wants us to redo the layout for the next issue. Unless we work 24/7, it’s not going to get to the printer on time. Can you make him see sense?”
Becky took a deep breath and drew on the devotions she had read this morning.
“…in humility consider others better than yourselves.”
She had seldom stumbled over that passage. Until now.
“You know what’s at stake here, Cliff. We’re in transition.” She’d had to face the reality herself. As well, for the sake of unity in the office, she had to at least publicly toe the same line as Rick, though she disagreed with him in private. “It’s sort of like sharks. We don’t move, we die. And if moving means putting in more hours until we know where this magazine is going, I guess you should return those videos you rented for the weekend.” She flashed him a smile, hoping to soften her comment.
Cliff glared at her. Scowled at the door of Rick’s office. For a moment Becky thought he was going to charge in and give Rick a blast of his infamous temper.
“It’s just for now, Cliff,” Becky said, laying her hand on his arm to restrain him. “In a few months it will all settle down.”
Cliff’s glare shot to her. She smiled back. Held his gaze.
“He wants me to use more stock photos instead of photo shoots for the next issue. How’s that supposed to make us stand out from the other magazines?”
Becky gave him a light shake. “It’s just for now. Once we get the magazine turning a better profit, you can unleash your creativity once again.” She hoped.
Thankfully, his shoulders slumped. He fingered his goatee and Becky knew the moment had passed.
“I’m doing this for you, Becky. Okay? Just so you know.”
“Thanks, Cliff.”
The door to Rick’s office opened and Cliff glanced back over his shoulder at Rick, looking guilty. He flashed Becky a quick grin and ambled back down the hallway.
“Problems?” Rick asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Not anymore.” Becky held up the papers. “Got to get back to work here.” She scurried down the hallway and ducked into her office. Retreated into her sanctuary to regroup and hoped she didn’t have to deal with anyone else’s complaints about what was happening at the magazine.
Ever since Rick started, she spent as much of her day calming irate people and putting out fires, trying to be optimistic about what he was doing.
Which she wasn’t.
And what kind of reaction were people going to have when Gavin Stoddard started spewing his opinionated coffee-shop talk all over the magazine each month?
Alanna may have been emotional. Gladys may have been anachronistic. But neither generated the kind of mail she was sure Gavin would.
Becky pressed her fingers against her eyelids, pushing back the stress lurching in her midsection. She had head space for only one disaster at a time. And for now, this article took priority.
As she spread the papers in front of her, she felt a twist of frustration. The whole time she was working on the article, she had tried to make sure it was a balanced depiction of what these men did for a living. Yet at the same time she wanted to show their obvious pleasure in their work. Had she been “overly sentimental” again as Rick had once accused her of?
Misgivings slithered through her mind as she read the article through once more. She should listen to the interview tapes again. She had the number of the tape written in her Day-Timer.
Day-Timer. She groaned as she realized where she’d last seen it.
Becky swallowed her pride, got up and walked back to Rick’s office. He was on the phone but gestured for her to come in. She pointed to the burgundy folder on the desk and he nodded, not missing a beat in the conversation.
She picked it up and left. But as she closed the door, she caught him looking at her.
And frowning.
