small amount of cash. The whole lot, Lily had overheard, would be personally delivered by Ellis, citing the family’s desire for privacy.
Such a preference wasn’t a surprise, given the final photograph that went to press. A mishap with the original had apparently required him to provide images from a second roll of film. The chief had been dictating a memo to Lily that day, when Mr. Baylor interrupted with a folder of alternatives. Through the window of the chief’s door, she had glimpsed Ellis watching the exchange from afar, looking too fidgety to sit. Once more, just as in the park, she’d had the urge to offer assurance. But who knew what her fickle boss would decide?
After a quick sift through the photos, the chief had latched on to the last in the stack: one with the mother on the porch, her hand splayed and face half turned away, with her children clinging to each other in the wake of that unsettling sign.
A display of hardships had gained a potent layer of shame.
Despite the photo’s similar effect on Lily, she had managed to send Ellis a nod, relaying the chief’s approval. He had brightened with a smile so wide and genuine that she found herself smiling back. Then the sound of her name in the chief’s gruff voice had tugged her gaze from Ellis’s, her mind back to her shorthand, and she was glad for it. She didn’t need any more distractions in her life.
Never was that truer than today. In light of her imminent proposal, her show of diligence would be key. At the coffee station in the gradually filling city room, she was preparing the chief’s cup in plenty of time for his morning arrival. But as she mentally rehearsed her speech, her hand jolted. A hot splash. She had overfilled the ceramic mug, the chief’s favorite, almost dropping it onto the hard linoleum.
Focus, Lily.
She hurried to the lavatory to snatch a hand towel and went to work mopping up the puddle. She was still kneeling when greetings arose, young male reporters sounding anxious to impress.
The chief was here.
Twelve minutes early.
Lily groaned. She hadn’t yet finished her routine of ensuring his mess of a desk was tidied, his coffee set out to cool—he preferred it black and tepid—and his ashtray emptied and placed at the ready.
“Miss Palmer!” he bellowed while entering his office, per his norm.
“Yes, sir. Be there in a jiff!” She scrambled across the room to reach her desk. This time, in lieu of a pencil and steno pad, she pulled out her precious green folder.
Once she’d confirmed Clayton’s suspicions—Mr. Schiller was indeed retiring, though he had yet to make a formal announcement—she had spent every evening since, including bus rides to and from Delaware over the weekend, preparing. She had reviewed, retyped, and edited several of her past articles and had even composed new samples. While surely and regrettably not perfect, they were as ready as they would ever be.
“Miss Palmer!” The chief’s impatience was climbing.
With a fortifying breath, she proceeded into his office. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, warming the room, but still she closed the door.
The chief’s hat was balanced atop his suit jacket, which he had tossed over the visitor’s chair. It was her duty to transfer the items to the coat stand in the corner. Instead, she stood and waited before his desk. The one she had neglected to tidy.
“Good morning, Chief.”
Planted in his chair, he peered over the rims of his spectacles, looking more confused than perturbed. “Where’s my coffee?”
The coffee. Oh murder. She had forgotten.
Yet she pressed on.
“Yes, before I get to that”—as if this had been her strategy all along, as if his cup of joe would be produced only after her demands were heard—“I was hoping we could speak privately. Before the business of the day picks up.”
He began a search through documents on his desk but mumbled his agreement.
This was her moment.
“Sir, in light of Mr. Schiller’s decision to retire, I’d like to submit an idea. After all, I presume you’re going to need a new columnist by the end of next month.”
“If you got someone in mind, jot his name down. Worry about the coffee for now.” He wagged a hand toward the door as though she required directional assistance—to a destination she could find backward in the pitch-black of night.
Behind her, a rise of muffled voices indicated the city room was coming to life. Soon, the daily whirlwind would ensue and any chance