“Yeah, I do.” The melody of Melissa’s laugh fueled Corina’s courage.
After all, she was a Del Rey, a daughter of great fortune, a steel magnolia, a former Miss Georgia, a summa cum laude college graduate, a writer . . . and twin sister.
She pressed her hand to her heart, slowing her steps and breathing deeply, remembering her brother. Carlos’s death in Afghanistan had cost more than she’d have ever imagined.
Arriving at Gigi’s door, Corina gathered her scattering thoughts—forget the past—and formulated her pitch.Gigi, I’ve been doing the job of editorial director. . .formally give me the position. . .value to the team.
Peering through the glass, Corina knocked, smiling when Gigi waved her in. The media mogul was still on her phone, pacing, speaking with voluminous animation.
“Fantastic, darling. Cannotwait. You’re going to love it here. Splendid family environment. Yes, we’re right on the Atlantic. And the Indian River. On the famous U.S. 1.” Gigi motioned for Corina to have a seat on the chocolate-colored suede sofa. “Sure he can learn to surf . . . Well, of course. We have our very own East Coast surfer’s hall of fame to boot . . . Exactly. Listen, I’ve someone in my office. See you next week.” Gigi ended the call, cradling her phone in her lap, and flashed her snow-white smile while cracking her ever-present Wrigley’s Spearmint between her teeth. “Gorgeous Corina Del Rey, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Gigi’s gleaming blond hair curled and floated about her face.
“I wanted to talk to you about—”
“I’ve been thinking.” Gigi jumped to her feet, tucking her phone into her skirt pocket, circling the room, snapping her fingers. The riverscape behind her, beyond the windows and through the trees, was lit with the sun, threading diamonds of light into the water’s calm surface. “We need a spectacular celebrity piece. You know, something to juice up our front pages.” ThePoststarted as a series of blogs Gigi chained together, written by Washington insiders, Hollywood experts, gossip columnists, and the occasional royal watcher. She had boots on the ground in New York, L.A., Dallas, Miami, Atlanta, Toronto, London, Madrid, Cathedral City . . . to the ends of the earth.
“We have the Hollywood violence piece Chip Allen wrote.”
“Snore bore, Corina. No one cares about the violence in movies, and if they do, they already agree with Allen. I told him I’m not sure we’re going to run that piece.” For an “international” newspaper, Gigi was hands-on, involved. She considered the world her backyard and believed sharing news was as simple as talking to her neighbors over the backyard fence. Even if that neighbor was thousands of miles away. “We need somethingwow.” Gigi swirled her hands through the air with animation.
“Why do we need somethingwow?”
Gigi stopped treading between the windows and the sitting area, her gaze steady on Corina. “You know why I hired you?”
“Because I’m a good writer. Professional, organized. I’m a hard worker.” But in truth? She had no idea why Gigi hired her. Because the last five years of Corina’s resume contained a big fat blank. What had she done? Become a professional griever, a professional liaison between her parents. Traveling with Daddy when he asked. Otherwise, living at home, in the shadows of what the family used to be.
Butyes, she was a good writer and hard worker. Which Gigi knew.
Being an heiress meant nothing to Corina’s wealthy but hardworking father who made sure she and Carlos never counted on the family name and fortune to make their way in life. Her high school friends curled their lips in disgust when Corina had to tend to household chores and work a summer job to earn money for her own car.“But your dad’s a millionaire a hundred times over.”
Tell that to Donald Del Rey.
“Good at what you do?” Gigi’s furrowed expression as she sat back down on the sofa inspired doubt in Corina. “Well, of course you are. And by the way, splendid of you to step up after Carly left. The bull pen loves you. Who knew you were so good with details?”
“Me.”
“But of course.”
“That’s why I think you should just give me—”
“Corina, I hired you to spice things up.”
“Excuse me?”
“Girl, you used to pal around with Paris Hilton, and I bet if I snagged your iPhone, you’d have a Kardashian or two in your contacts.”
“Hello, do you not remember my life for the past five years?”
“Yes, I realize . . . all the grief.” Gigi pressed her hand on Corina’s knee. “I am so sorry about Carlos. He was an amazing young man. Too handsome for his own good and twice as kind.” The fiftysomething drew air between her teeth. “He reminds me of my third . . . no fourth . . . yes, fourth husband. Desi.” She closed her eyes and drifted away. “Should’ve never divorced him.”
“We can putthaton the front page,” Corina said.
Gigi snapped from her daydream. “Very funny, you clever girl. No, what we need is an exclusive.”
“What sort of exclusive?”
“Something no one else is reporting. Contact your celebrity friends, get some sort of inside scoop. Be inventive. Maybe you could sit down with Bill Clinton’s daughter. Or one of the Bush twins.”
“Gigi,” Corina said, standing. “If you want to run a salacious story on a former president’s daughter, you’re going to have to find someone else to do it. I came in here to ask you for the editorial director job. When you want to talk serious, let me know.” She started for the door. Celebrity chums, presidents’ daughters, high school friends? She’d spoken to practically none of them since Carlos’s funeral.
