She couldn't help noticing that he'd saidgoing to. "But you love gonzo journalism. Battlefields and mortar rounds and people shooting at you. We both know you can't give it up forever."
"You only think you know me, Tully. It isn't like we traded secrets."
She remembered suddenly, sharply, what she was supposed to forget. "You tried."
"I tried," he agreed.
"Katie would want you to be happy. You'd kick ass at CNN."
"In Atlanta?" He laughed. "Someday you'll understand."
"You mean when I'm married, with kids?"
"I mean when you fall in love. It changes you."
"Like it's changed you? Someday I'll have a kid and want to write for theQueen Anne Beeagain, is that it?"
"You'd have to fall in love first, wouldn't you?" The look Johnny gave her then was so understanding, so knowing, she felt skewered by it. She wasn't the only one who was remembering the past.
She got to her feet. "I gotta get back to Manhattan. You know the news. It never sleeps."
Johnny put down his beer and got to his feet, moving toward her. "You do it for me, Tully. Cover the world."
It sounded sad, the way he said it; she didn't know if what she heard was regret for himself or sadness for her.
She forced herself to smile. "I will."
Two weeks after Tully got home from Seattle, a storm dumped snow on Manhattan, stopping the vibrant city in its tracks. For a few hours, at least. The ever-present traffic vanished almost immediately; pristine white snow blanketed the streets and sidewalks, turned Central Park into a winter wonderland.
Still Tully made it to work at fourA.M. In her freezing walk-up apartment, with the radiator rattling and ice collecting on her paper-thin antique windows, she dressed in tights, black velour stirrup pants, snow boots, and two sweaters. Covering it all with a navy-blue wool coat and gray mittens, she braved the elements, angling her body against the wind as she made her way up the street. Snow obscured her vision and stung her cheeks. She didn't care; she loved her job so much she'd do anything to get there early.
Inside the lobby, she stamped the snow off her boots, signed in, and went upstairs. Almost instantly she could tell that much of the staff had called in sick. Only a skeleton crew remained.
At her desk, she immediately went to work on the story she'd been assigned yesterday. She was doing research on the spotted owl controversy in the Northwest. Determined to put a local's "spin" on the story, she was busily reading everything she could find—Senate subcommittee reports, environmental findings, economic statistics on logging, the fecundity of old growth forests.
"You're working hard."
Tully looked up sharply. She'd been so lost in her reading that she hadn't heard anyone approach her desk.
And this wasn't just anyone.
Edna Guber, dressed in her signature black gabardine pantsuit, stood there, one hip pushed slightly out, smoking a cigarette. Sharp gray eyes stared out from beneath an Anna Wintour razor cut of blue-black bangs. Edna was famous in the news business, one of those women who'd clawed her way to the top in a time when others of her sex hadn't been able to come in the front door unless they had secretarial skills. Edna—only the single name was ever used or needed—reportedly had a Rolodex filled with the home numbers of everyone from Fidel Castro to Clint Eastwood. There was no interview she couldn't get and nowhere on earth she wouldn't go to find what she wanted.
"Cat got your tongue?" she said, exhaling smoke.
Tully jumped to her feet. "I'm sorry, Edna. Ms. Guber. Ma'am."
"I hate it when people call me ma'am. It makes me feel old. Do you think I'm old?"
"No, m—"
"Good. How did you get here? The cabs and buses are for shit today."
"I walked."
"Name?"
"Tully Hart. Tallulah."
