"The files were a mess. So was the in-box. And I organized and shelved all those tapes that were in the corner."
He laughed. It transformed his face, made him so handsome she drew in a sharp breath. "We've been trying to get Tully to do all that for months."
"I didn't mean—"
"Don't worry. You didn't get your friend in trouble. Believe me, I know what to expect from Tully."
"What's that?"
"Passion," he said simply, packing the empty sandwich wrapper into the Styrofoam soup cup.
Kate almost flinched at the way he said it, and she knew suddenly that she was in trouble. No matter how often she reminded herself that he was her boss, it didn't matter. In the end, what mattered was how she felt when she was near him.
Falling. There was no other word to describe it.
And yet, for the rest of the day, as she answered the phones and filed papers, she replayed in her head that last moment with him and the easy, straightforward way he'd answered her question about Tully:passion.
Mostly she remembered the way he'd smiled in admiration when he'd said it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The summer after graduation came as close to Heaven as Tully could imagine. She and Kate found a cheap 1960s-style apartment in a great location—above the Pike Place Market. They brought in furniture from Gran's house and filled the kitchen with forty-year-old Revereware pots and Spode china. On the walls, they tacked up favorite posters and put pictures of themselves on all the end tables. Mrs. Mularkey had surprised them one day with bags of groceries and several silk plants, to give the place a homey feel, she said.
The neighborhood created their lifestyle. They were within walking distance of several bars—their favorites were the Athenian inside the Market, and the smoky old Virginia Inn on the corner. At six o'clock in the morning, amid the beeping of delivery trucks and the honking of horns, they walked across the street for lattes from Starbucks and bought croissants from La Panier, a French bakery.
As working single girls, they fell into an easy routine. Each morning they went out for breakfast, sat at ironwork tables on the sidewalk, and read the various papers that they collected.The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal,and theSeattle TimesandPost-Intelligencerbecame their bibles. When they were done, they drove to the office, where every day they learned something new about the business of TV news, and after work, they changed into glittery big shoulder-padded tunics and peg-legged pants and went to one of the many downtown clubs. On any given night they could listen to punk rock, new wave, rock 'n' roll, or pop—whatever they felt like.
And since Tully didn't have to hide Chad's existence anymore, he often took both Katie and her out, and they had a blast.
It was everything she and Kate had dreamed of, all those years ago on the dark banks of the Pilchuck River, and Tully loved every minute of it.
Now they were pulling up to the office. All the way out of the car and into the building, they talked.
But the minute Tully opened the door, she knew something was up. Mutt was near the window, hurriedly packing up his camera gear. Johnny was in his office, yelling at someone on the phone.
"What's going on?" Tully asked, tossing her purse on Kate's neat-as-a-pin desk.
Mutt looked up. "There's a protest going on. It's our story."
"Where's Carol?"
"In the hospital. Labor."
This was Tully's chance. She went straight into Johnny's office, without even bothering to knock. "Let me go on air. I know you think I'm not ready, but I am. And who else is there?"
He hung up the phone and looked at her. "I already told the station you'd do the report. That's what all the yelling was about." He came around the desk and moved toward her. "Don't let me down, Tully."
Tully knew it was unprofessional, but she couldn't help herself: she hugged him. "You're the best. I'll make you proud. You'll see."
She was halfway to the door when he cleared his throat and said her name. She stopped, turned.
"Don't you want to read the background stuff? Or do you want to go in blind?"
Tully felt her cheeks heat up. "Whoops. I'll read it."
He handed her a sheath of slippery fax paper. "It's about some housewife in Yelm who channels ghosts. J. Z. Knight."
Tully frowned.
