can do.”
“Thank you.” She hung up.
The rain had begun to pick back up.
Wiping droplets from her glasses, she suddenly realized where she was, recognizing the historic building in front of her.
Obviously, her heart hadn’t caught up with her mind—her subconscious had led her steps to an address she knew by heart. Deep down, she’d known where she was headed all along, she’d just refused to consciously question it, not even when she’d strapped on her red satchel before leaving the house. Inside that satchel was her résumé and portfolio.
No. There’s no way I’m doing it now. I’ll stay home, write local stories. It was better than nothing and her dad was old news there.
The tall glass building sat on a foundation of old and stately brick and, according to a wall plaque, housed the offices of the City Gazette. One of the longest-running newspapers in the U.S., it had employed many famous journalists who had fought the good fight in Boston for its readers. She traced the engraved plaque, entranced, until the sky doubled down and let loose with some real rain.
Despite the deluge, she hesitated, trying to decide if she wanted to escape the weather in a place that symbolized her lost future … but then realized she sounded like an abused housewife on a made-for-TV special. Get over yourself, Hara. Despite the soul-scraping internal shift away from sportswriting as a career choice, she was still in awe of a place that had been one of the first to lead the charge for freedom of the press and upholding democracy. She was curious to see the guts of such a famous institution. And she wanted to get out of the rain.
The lobby boasted a massive, curving staircase that reminded her of the one from the movie Titanic. The first-floor bathrooms were more modern and, more importantly, warm, as she attempted to blot herself dry with paper towels and then the air blower. Her tennis shoes squelched when she walked and her jeans were unpleasantly damp against her legs.
As she emerged from the restroom, she heard her name.
“Hara?” It was Eddie, the redheaded beat reporter she’d met at the game.
“Oh, hi. Nice to see you.”
“Yah, you, too.” His smile faded and his eyes scrunched into suspicious slits. “You know, if you’re here for an interview, don’t bother gunning for my job. They love me here.”
“I’m sure they do.” So much to say to that. But how in the hell could he know she was thinking of applying? “My flight was canceled. Thought I’d check out the newsroom before I went home.”
“Stahtin’ with the hoppah, I see.”
“Huh?”
“The hopper. The toilet.”
“Well, my next stop is a little more exciting.” She pointed at a large piece of equipment on display. “The old Linotype machine.”
“I think we’ve got some stuffed carrier pigeons upstairs.”
She laughed. “Any telegraph poles?”
“Oh, a whole string of them. Wanna see?”
Eddie led Hara to the elevators; they got off on the third floor. Over one of the entryways, she thrilled to see her favorite Walter Cronkite quote: Freedom of the press is not just important to democracy, it is democracy.
“This is sooo not like the newsroom back home.” Despite herself, she was inspired.
“I know, right? It’s pretty damn nice, compared to our old offices.” They walked into a well-lit, open space, with wide aisles and enormous windows, surrounded by glassed-in offices and conference rooms. Dozens of large, ceiling-mounted TVs peppered the huge room, so the staff could watch for breaking news and website analytics. One of the big news stories was, of course, the weather and the delayed flights.
“Goin’ to the game tonight?” Eddie asked.
“I’m hoping I can still get on a flight out. Besides, I wasn’t invited.”
“Invited? You’re press. Don’t you have your press pass?”
“Yes…” She tried to remember where she’d last seen it. “I guess. But like I said, I hope to be crammed into a tight space at thirty thousand feet.”
He shrugged. “Fine. You think you can get Butler to give me five minutes tonight?”
“Ha! You think I have power over Charles?”
“You call him Charles. I’ve been on this beat for five years but he’s never hung out with me at Tunnel. I’m not on his radar.”
“You know about the club?”
“The Boston Gossip Bitches—they were at Tunnel. They took pictures and posted them on their blog.”
Hara was surprised. “I can’t imagine I created much of a stir.”
“You didn’t. I mean, you’re hot and all, but those gals were going for pics of Tina and Charles fighting. They weren’t