“And before that?”
“BU, then a year at the Herald.”
“You like Boston?”
I thought about the question. Most people asked it rhetorically, expecting the obvious answer. Jim asked it like he actually wanted to know.
“It’s home,” I said. “But I’m not married to it.”
“Good answer.” Another pause, longer this time. “I’m going to be direct with you. We’re looking for investigative reporters. People who can dig, who don’t mind spending six months on a story that might not pan out. Your clips suggest you might be that kind of reporter.”
My heart was beating faster than I wanted it to. I kept my voice steady. “I appreciate that.”
“I’d like you to come to New York. Meet some people, see the newsroom, talk about what we’re looking for. No promises on either side, just a conversation.”
“When were you thinking?”
“Sunday, if you can manage it. Stay through Wednesday. We’ll put you up at a hotel, cover your expenses.”
I thought about Maggie. About the plans we’d made for the weekend. About the way her voice had sounded on the phone yesterday, warm and present in a way it hadn’t been for months.
“Sunday works,” I heard myself say.
“Excellent. I’ll have my assistant send the details. Looking forward to meeting you.”
“Likewise.”
I hung up the phone and sat very still at my desk, the newsroom chaos swirling around me like I was the eye of some improbable storm. The Times. They wanted me to come to New York. They were interested in hiring me.
This was everything I’d worked for. Everything I’d wanted since I was old enough to want things professionally.
So why did it feel like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to jump?
Ed materialized again, as he always did, right when you thought you were having a private moment. He leaned against the partition of my cubicle, arms crossed, reading my face with the same ruthless efficiency he applied to first drafts.
“Good call?”
“They want me to come in. Sunday through Wednesday.”
“And?”
“And I said yes.”
“So why do you look like someone canceled Christmas?”
I rubbed my face with both hands. “It’s complicated.”
Ed snorted. “It’s a woman. It’s always a woman when a reporter makes that face.”
He took a sip of his coffee, studying me over the rim. “This the one who had you moping around here like a kicked dog all winter?”
“I wasn’t moping.”
“You rewrote your lede fourteen times on the permit story. Fourteen. Your average is three.” He set his coffee down on my desk, which was how I knew he was being serious. Ed never put his coffee down. “What’s the situation?”
I shouldn’t have told him. Ed was my editor, not my therapist. But something about the way he asked—direct, no judgment, just the facts—made me answer.
“She’s different, but I don’t know if I trust it.”
