“I notice you’ve been distracted, not acting yourself. And I’m well aware of your bigger ambitions. So, I’m asking you now, Miss Palmer.” At last, here it came. “Are you actively seeking employment elsewhere as a writer?”
Employment elsewhere?
As a writer?
Baffled, she had to backtrack through the links of his rationale. “Sir…no. I wasn’t…no.”
“You certain about that?”
She replied more fervently. “I’m positive. I was helping out a friend, and it was a simple misunderstanding. Nothing more.”
As she held the chief’s gaze, the skepticism seeped from his face. He sat back in his chair. His relief reflected hers, the causes decidedly different.
“Well, all right,” he said with a hint of embarrassment. No one in the news business liked to be wrong. “Back to work, then.” He flicked his hand toward the door and promptly returned to his articles. The issue was settled, and that was that.
Except it wasn’t.
Lily found she couldn’t move. She was tired—physically too, yes—but mostly she was weary from guarding her past, from being afraid. Above all, she was done with feeling ashamed of the proudest accomplishment of her life.
The chief looked up. “There something else?”
“Yes. There is.”
His evident value of her secretarial skills, while reassuring, didn’t allow her blanket impunity, but she charged on, a confession long overdue.
“The reason I was gone yesterday, sir, is because Samuel was sick. Samuel,” she said, “is my four-year-old son.”
The chief remained expressionless. Only his eyes betrayed his surprise.
“I should have spoken of him from the start,” she admitted, “but I needed this job…and a place to live, which Miss Westin surely wouldn’t allow if she knew. You see, that’s why he lives with my parents in Maryville, where I visit every weekend. But I’m saving up so when Samuel’s of school age, we can live in the city, the two of us together.”
She almost continued but held off. The fact she didn’t proclaim herself a widow established the nature of her situation, divorce being nearly as scandalous as a mother never wedded. Yet somehow, through the awkward tension, the potential consequences bearing down, Lily found herself sitting up straighter, even as the chief came back with a level reply.
“Will he be running around here while you work?”
The query was so unexpected she had to think. “No, Chief.”
“Around the boardinghouse?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
And with that, the chief’s focus dropped from Lily to his work pile.
The utter simplicity of the exchange left her almost confused, a smidge dizzy, and feeling altogether foolish.
Could it have always been that easy? Or was it the product of her job dedication over time? Perhaps it was her show of strength while volunteering the truth on her own accord.
She settled on a combination of them all as she made her way toward the door. Each step became lighter than the last, until she reached for the knob.
The safest choice was to take her leave, but an idea was emerging. Not in pieces. Rather like a photograph being developed, an image coming forth, already complete. And it entailed far more than her bigger ambitions.
Empowered by a fresh injection of moxie, she pivoted to face him. “Chief, one thing more,” she said, and he begrudgingly glanced up. “It’s regarding a potential new column for the paper…”
“Ah, Jesus,” he murmured, though not in a way that told her to stop.
“A column,” she said, “about single parenting. The realities of it, the struggles, the highlights. Not just for women. For men too.” Her enthusiasm grew as she spoke. Like her previous vision for a column, this would still be an adventurous endeavor, but with deeper meaning for people like Geraldine.
“There are likely just as many mothers widowed from the Great War as fathers whose wives were lost to childbirth, or other terrible tragedies. I can tell you firsthand, they don’t need advice about how to prepare the perfect dinner by five, or about the latest fashion trends. What they need is understanding. To know they’re not alone. They need to hear—”
“I got it, I got it.” The chief heaved a sigh that sent gray specks drifting from his ashtray. Again his beard twitched, but he didn’t say no. Yet.
He thrummed his fingers on his desk. She knew the concept was progressive, but just maybe it was the type of risk Nellie Bly would have applauded.
At last the chief answered. “I suppose I…might be able to squeeze something in.”