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practicing different smiles.
    At least I’m not that bad off , Miranda thought.
    Lucas Fletcher’s car was supposed to arrive at six p.m. , and by 5:50, the lobby was packed with the curious from the Newsroom, the Pressroom, Composing, Photography, Security, Maintenance, and every other department. The entire Herald-Star population gathered to witness Miranda’s grand meeting with the superhero rock god. Outside the Herald-Star , corralled behind sawhorses manned by Boston Police officers, Karmic Echo fans seduced by Psst! ’s teasers noisily waited for Lucas to arrive.
    Miranda fought the urge to wipe her damp palms on her slacks.
    “That Donna Karan sarong looked fantastic on you,” Bernie said.
    “I look fine,” Miranda insisted. “It’s a dinner, not a presidential inauguration.” Two fans jumped the sawhorses and bolted toward Miranda, snapping pictures even as they were caught and dragged away by policemen. She grabbed Bernie’s arm. “I want to go home.”
    “No, you don’t.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You want to have dinner with Lucas Fletcher. So do they.” He tipped his head toward the fans. “You’re living the fantasy most of us can only dream of, even if you do have to share it with one of Satan’s baby sisters. So which gossip queen won the coin toss?”
    Miranda found a reason to smile. “You.”
    Joy flooded his face. “Oh, sweetie, I take back everything I’ve said and thought about your dowdy church lady ensemble!”
    Miranda didn’t want to slug him in front of the entire Herald-Star and hundreds of Karmic Echo fans, but just as she drew back her fist, the fans started screaming. A black stretch limousine slunk down the street and came to an easy stop before the Herald-Star . “This is really happening,” she anxiously whispered.
    Bernie took her hand. “Stay calm, sweetie.”
    Meg and Dee swung open the doors and stepped forward, a tide of Herald-Star employees following in their wake. A stocky chauffeur in a dove-gray uniform rounded the vehicle. With a neat tip of his hat, he opened the rear door and the screams of the fans increased in volume. Miranda moved closer to Bernie. The screaming was so like the night of the concert, her chest tightened in remembrance.
    “Miss Penney and guest?” the chauffeur said, a smile in his eyes.
    Dee took a step forward. Meg loudly cleared her throat and pushed ahead of her. The two women moved forward as though they were playing a game of Mother May I. When they each dived for the interior of the limo, the chauffeur blocked their way.
    “Miss Penney and guest,” he repeated slowly, his smile a few degrees cooler.
    “Well?” Meg demanded of Miranda, her fists on her hips.
    Dee, half-hidden by Meg’s width, waved at Miranda and pointed at herself.
    “Miss Penney?” The chauffeur spurred Miranda into motion.
    She forced her feet to move. Flashbulbs illuminated the dusky sky and the screaming grew louder as she neared the car, holding tightly to Bernie.
    Meg grabbed Miranda’s shoulder and spun her around. As if on cue, the fans quieted a bit. “What the hell is going on here, Miranda? Rex assigned me to this story.”
    Miranda shook free of Meg’s grasp, earning a cheer from the crowds inside and outside the Herald-Star . “Rex and I agreed that I would pick my own reporter. I’ve chosen Bernard.”
    “The celebrity beat is my territory, Miranda.” Meg delivered her declaration with an icy smile that did little to cloak her anger.
    “Lucas Fletcher is a musician,” Miranda countered. “Music is Bernie’s beat.”
    The chauffeur waved Bernie forward. He leaped into the limo and began playing with every knob, dial and button within his reach. Windows opened and closed, lights flickered, the television and sound system blared and the minibar doors popped open.
    “Rex is going to hear about this!” Meg promised through a grimace of fury.
    As the chauffeur ushered her into the limo, Miranda looked up at the