Clem gave her a chiding look. “Now you’re just being silly. But just in case that happens, I’ll send a letter of introduction as well. Anything else?”
“No.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“Almost everything.” Clem tapped her chin in thought. “We still need a plan that will persuade Mr. Donnelly to approve your article. Reaching such a large readership is instrumental to the cause.”
“At this rate, I might have better luck with another newspaper altogether.”
“Hmm, that could be difficult.” Clem sat up straight. “Perhaps not a different newspaper, but a differenteditor. Is Mr. Donnelly the only person you can speak to?”
“Jumping juniper, you’re right. Horace McEntire said I was to go to either Mack DonnellyorMr. Emil Anderson.”
“And we both know why you’ve only approached Mr. Donnelly.”
“He’s the one that’s always in the office before my shift begins,” she insisted. But wasn’t Mack known more for his late nights at the office? Could he be arriving early…forher? Warmth spread throughout her chest, and she cleared her throat. “I’ll speak with Mr. Anderson at the first opportunity.”
“Did he give you the impression he would be more open?”
“He was quite supportive the first time we interacted. He’s my best chance.”
“But you’ll go to the retreat regardless of his answer, correct?”
Winnie took Clem’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “I’m fully on board, and I intend to make you proud. The article is just the icing on the cake, but I always intended to get my cake. Not”—she added with a warning look—“man cake.”
Clem smirked, but she didn’t tease. They chatted a while longer. Clem tried to hide it, but it soon became obvious her pain was worsening. Winnie gave her a hug and took her leave, her mind whirling with plans.
If she played her cards right, she would circumvent His Majesty and beat him at his own game.
CHAPTER8
Mack helped himself to a whiskey neat from the gold lacquer drink cart in his uncle’s drawing room. The weekly family dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour, yet he needed the fortification for what was to come.
“Would you care for a drink?” he called over his shoulder.
His mother, Alma Donnelly, glanced up from her perusal of thePost’s evening edition. “Where’s Hughes? He should make the drinks.”
“He stepped outside for a moment, but never fear. I can handle a few cocktails.”
She regarded him for a moment but didn’t respond to his attempt at humor. “Dry martini, two olives, no lemon. Make sure the glass is clean this time.”
Mack sighed and dutifully held the glass to the glow of the parlor’s electric lights. Once it had passed inspection, he mixed the drink and carefully carried it to where his mother sat on the mahogany settee in her fastidious evening dress. He sat gingerly on the matching chair beside her, his free hand tracing the scrolled arm absentmindedly.
“Anything of interest?” He nodded toward the paper.
“Not particularly,” she replied.
“Mother.”
“Yes?”
He took a deep breath and plunged forward. “Why did you amend the agreement with Uncle Horace, and when were you going to tell me?”
That got her attention. She carefully folded the paper, setting it on the cream fabric. She took a dainty sip and peered at him over her gleaming spectacles. “My son, it was for your own good.”
He held on to his patience. “How is threatening to give the paper to someone else good for me?”
“That isn’t going to happen,” she said confidently.
“Who’s to say for certain? Legally, Horace can now make that choice.”
