Not that it rattled him a whit. His gaze still on the door, he tilted his head. “Looks like old Schiller’s packing up his ink,” he mused.
“Retirement?” Thrown off, Lily turned toward the office. She strained her neck to see the exchange for herself. But the back of Mr. Schiller’s shiny scalp, visible through his thin white hair, blocked the chief’s face, revealing nothing. “Why do you think that?”
“Have you read his column lately?” Clayton faced her with an amused look. “All about travel, seeing the world. Safaris and deep-sea fishing. Schiller’s definitely got the itch. I’d put money on it.”
The range of topics alone wasn’t unusual, as Mr. Schiller essentially ruled his own column, having worked at the Examiner since the paper began. In fact, with such seniority, he was rarely subjected to discussions with the chief, and certainly not in person.
Like now.
“Anyhow…here.” Clayton set a paper on Lily’s desk. “The sources the chief asked for.” If he said anything more before walking away, Lily missed it. She was too consumed by the revelation, the possibilities congealing in her mind.
She slid open her bottom drawer. From beneath her supplies of pencils, stamps, and staples, she retrieved her forest-green folder. Its corners were bent, its edges tattered from years of storing the essays and columns she had crafted in school. She hadn’t saved them all, only her level best.
When first arriving in the city, she had brought such foolish aspirations, all neatly tucked between those pages. A slew of interviews soon revealed her low odds, like the majority of other women, of becoming the next Nellie Bly. The daring adventures of the late columnist—from her record-breaking race around the world to her deliberate arrest for a report on jail conditions—were begrudgingly admired by even the staunchest of newsmen, but as a rare exception. By the time Lily had wandered into the Examiner, she wasn’t ignorant enough to turn down a secretarial position. The reality of a regular wage had outweighed her pride.
If Clayton was right, however, a fresh opportunity loomed. And what better timing? She had just helped propel Ellis Reed’s career. Perhaps, at last, she could make real headway with her own future plans. And in doing so, she could fulfill a long-held promise to more than just herself.
Chapter 7
The girl beamed with delight when Ellis approached her farmhouse. It was similar to the other, with a porch and screen door, but with white paint under its dingy sheen. “You wanna buy more, mister?”
“Actually, I was hoping your father might be home.” If around, the man of the house would want some say in any financial arrangement.
“He’s gone,” she said. The towheaded boy, barefoot and dressed in matching overalls, stood at her side.
“Off at work?”
“Nah. In heaven.”
Her matter-of-fact tone told him it wasn’t a recent occurrence, but still Ellis offered, “I’m real sorry to hear that.”
The boy tugged on the girl’s arm, as if skeptical about confiding in a stranger.
“Ah, don’t fuss. This here’s the fella who gave me the pennies.” She exaggerated an eye roll, a message to say the kid was just too young to understand.
Ellis smiled. “I assume this is your little brother?”
“Little is right. Calvin here’s only five.”
“I ain’t little.” His round face drew into a pout, a plum becoming a prune.
“And I’m Ruby. Ruby Dillard. I’m eight and a half. Nearly nine.”
Ellis’s guess on her age had been fairly close, though a decade short if measuring on a precocious scale.
“Well, Ruby, you wouldn’t have another brother around, would you?”
“Another?” She put her fists on her hips. “Heck no. I might not even keep this one.” She fought a smile as Calvin’s eyes, framed by thick lashes, sparked with defiance.
“Mamaaa!” He scampered into the house, their mother evidently inside. This provided a timely answer to Ellis’s next question.
“Hey, mister, listen here.” Ruby leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper. “There’s a lady at church—sounds like a dying cat when she sings—she calls Mama ‘Geri,’ like short for Geraldine, but Mama hates that.”
“So…don’t call her Geri.”
Ruby nodded, an eyebrow raised, saying, Trust me on this.
Just then, her mother stepped out of the house. She was wiping her hands on the faded striped apron over her cotton housedress, Calvin peeking from behind. The sun highlighted her sandy-blond hair, loosely gathered in a bun.
“Can I help you?” Her tone was as even as her gaze.
“Mrs. Dillard, good afternoon. I’m with the Philadelphia Examiner. I apologize for troubling you in the middle of the day.”