Gathering String Read Online Free PDF Page B

in the bay by itself, the biggest piece of furniture in the newsroom, it was clearly the editor’s space.
    Sam drummed his fingers across the smooth oak finish, then abruptly popped open a small drawer, full of pens, all black, medium-point roller-balls. He ran his finger along the dockets of the pigeonholes, each labeled in the same careful, black, block-letter printing, and recited, “School Board, City Council, Chamber of Commerce, Police.” In each slot rested several reporters’ notebooks on their sides and an audio card or two. “Works hard, doesn’t he?” Sam noted softly. “But way too neat for a newsman, don’t you think?” A little grin came to his face. “Not gay is he?” She shook her head. “What else we got in here?” He opened the drawer that went down the entire left side of the desk. Inside were hanging files, again carefully labeled.
    “Sam . . .” Finally she spoke in warning at his boldness.
    “Pretty boring stuff.” He shifted to the three drawers on the right, jerking open the bottom one. A bottle of Jameson’s rolled forward with a soft slosh. “Well, yee-haw! The big guy has a drinking problem?” He lifted the bottle with raised eyebrows.
    “A Christmas gift from the staff,” she answered dryly.
    Sam shook his head, running his thumb along the seal. “Sad. Christmas was almost a year ago, and this still hasn’t been opened. Very strait-laced. Whaddya say we set this prisoner free? Got some glasses?”
    “Oh, that’s not a good idea.”
    “I don’t see why.”
    She stood up, walking over to the light switch and killing the overheads. Only the green-shaded work light on the desk remained, casting a soft glow. “Because, it’s time you shoved off. I’m meeting some friends from the Record for dinner, and you’ve done enough snooping through my husband’s things.”
    “Husband,” the word sighed through his teeth like a hiss, the grin retreating into the sharp lines of his face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the bottle dangling. “Jesus, Tess, don’t I deserve a drink, just hearing you say that word?” In the shadows, he couldn’t see her expression. “And we haven’t really talked yet, now, have we? You owe me that.”
    Abruptly she moved to a stand with a cold, half-filled coffee pot and grabbed two Styrofoam cups. She tossed them at him. “One, and make it quick.”
    “You sound like Marshall Dillon. One drink, Pardner, then git out of town.” He broke the seal and poured two healthy shots as she moved back into the light and sat down. Handing her one, he touched it with the brim of his own and said, “Here’s to . . .”
    “Nothing,” she broke in, and her eyes met his over the top of the cup. “Let’s just call it nothing.”
    His eyes narrowed. “That kind of misery doesn’t come from nothing.”
    She took a sip, wincing. “I don’t remember you being the miserable one.”
    “Well you didn’t stick around to watch, did you?”
    “Oh, come on, Sam. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been around that block before. I was hardly the first.”
    “No.” The admission fell hard as a stone in the quiet room, and softly he added, “But you were the last.”
    “So I get the credit for making a faithful husband out of you?” Her voice bent under the memories and started to shake, “Well, at least I did that much for your wife.”
    He dropped his eyes and poured again into each of their cups. The warmth in his chest felt good, loosening the scar tissue of long-ignored feelings, and finally the question that deviled him in dark hours since she left, worked its way out. “What the hell happened? One day we were talking about me leaving her, and the next day you were the one who was gone. Without a word. That prick Baxter would only say you’d resigned.” Arnie Baxter was still the photo editor at the Tribune . “Your cell phone was disconnected. What was I supposed to do? Go crawling around the newsroom, begging people to tell me