Sandra Kelly - The Big Scoop

Jack flashed her a bemused smile and Sally wondered if she’d assumed too much. Maybe he didn’t give a damn about those poor people. Maybe he wasn’t even capable of feeling that way. Maybe—oh, God—maybe he was just a slick, heartless, egotistical, big-city reporter building his career on the backs of helpless victims.

“I didn’t care about them,” Jack admitted. “Not at first. But by the time I got around to writing their story, I was angry, too. I guess that came through in my copy.”

“Oh, it did!” Mindful of her tendency to gush around the guy, Sally buttoned it and concentrated on the pavement unfolding before them. It was odd, she thought, how comfortable their silences were. They were perfect strangers and they’d gotten off to a bad start. Shouldn’t there be some tension between them? Some awkwardness? Instead they both seemed to use their quiet moments to refuel for the next round. It was refreshing, exciting, wondrous even.

“So, how do you know what a sidebar is?” Jack asked. “Yesterday you said you envisioned a sidebar story along with the main article.”

Sally sighed. Okay, it was wondrous until hotshot opened his mouth to change feet. “This may come as a shock to you, Jack Gold, but some of us hicks in this here hick town actually went to college.”

Grinning, he patted the top of his head.

Sally frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking my height. I think I just came down another notch.”

She laughed heartily. So, he could feel another’s pain, and he could laugh at himself. Those were good signs. Two, anyway.

Jack geared down for a steep hill. “Where did you go to college?”

“The University of British Columbia, just like you. I didn’t get a master’s degree, but I did do undergraduate work in journalism along with my regular courses.”

“You’re kidding. When did you graduate?”

“Four years ago,” Sally said. Long after Jack had come and gone from UBC. She didn’t mention that he’d been a minor legend on campus, the one and only former editor of the student newspaper whose editorials were used as the standard by which all such writing should be judged. Jack being Jack, he probably knew that.

“Why didn’t you major in journalism?” he asked. “You’d have made an awesome reporter.”

Oh wow, what a nice thing to say. Sally knew that, of course, but coming from Cracker Jack Gold it was a true compliment. She almost replied that a degree in journalism would have led to a less than glamorous career at the Peachtown Post, but some instinct told her to keep that thought under wraps. Besides, her life had been mapped out long ago.

“I always knew I’d end up doing the job I’m doing. My family has been in this valley for over a hundred years. I have roots here. I can’t imagine living or working anywhere else.”

It was Jack’s turn to clam up now. Sally could just hear him thinking: I could never live in a backwater like this. But he surprised her. “I don’t have roots anywhere. I was an army brat. Lived in base housing all over Canada, went to a new school every year. Never made any real friends.”

“Why did you pick UBC?”

“It had the programs I wanted.”

“Okay, why did you decide to stay in Vancouver?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Hey, who’s doing the interviewing here?”

“Just curious.”

“The Satellite made me the best job offer.”

“So, you aren’t especially—” Sally searched for a word “—loyal to Vancouver then? I mean, do you plan to live there for the rest of your life?”

He shook his head. “I love the West Coast, but I could never be loyal to any one place. Or to any one employer for that matter. It’s a good thing, too. Now that I’ve won the Gobey, I’ll be recruited by major newspapers across the country. Probably in the States, too.”

Wow, what confidence, Sally thought. Not, I’ll probably be recruited, but I will be. It was true, of course. All Gobey winners had their pick of the best jobs available. Soon Jack would be making a name for himself in Montreal or Toronto or New York. There was no sense in getting excited by the possibility of…of what, exactly? What was she thinking? That he might stick around here? Fat chance!

“Where am I going?” he asked as they approached the junction of the county road and Main Street. As planned, Sally instructed him to turn south, away from town. Charlie lived a few blocks north of the town centre, but there was something she needed to show Jack before he hightailed it out of here, as he so clearly wanted to do.

Anyway, enough personal talk. What business of hers was it where he chose to live? “So, I guess you could never live in a place like this, huh?”

Jack glanced over at her just long enough to show surprise. Dumb question, his expression said. “No, I couldn’t. No offense, Sally, but I really don’t want to be here one minute longer than I have to.”

Ouch. Did he have to be so blunt?

“I’ll bet I can guess how you live in Vancouver,” she ventured. Why not have a little fun?

He seemed amused. “Oh yeah? Go for it.”

“Okay. I’ll bet you live in an architecturally correct condo in West Van, with leather chairs and stainless steel appliances and a pleasing, if not exactly spectacular, view of the coastal mountains.”

“Wrong.” He let a moment pass before casting her a smile. “I live in an architecturally correct town house in West Van with leather chairs and stainless steel appliances and a pleasing, if not exactly spectacular, view of the coastal mountains.”

“A minor distinction at best. Score—Sally one, Jack nothing. Let me see now. I’ll bet your town house is surrounded by all sorts of trendy little shops and cafés, all of which you cite as your reason—make that your justification—for living in crowded, overpriced West Van, but none of which you’ve ever set foot in.” Was she clever, or what? She could have been an FBI profiler.

“Wrong again. I eat out almost every night, at a trendy little bistro four doors down from my architecturally correct town house. I shop in the local stores, and I’m a Friday night fixture at the corner pub. I’ve got my own stool there.”

“Okay. You score one point, even though I suspect you’re exaggerating.”

He laughed. “Maybe a little.”

Actually, Sally could just picture him sitting on that stool, sipping some pricey foreign ale while he read and admired his own copy in that day’s Satellite. Probably he wasn’t alone. Probably he was reading it aloud to someone.

Someone special.

“One last guess. I’ll bet you’ve got a very tall, very thin girlfriend who dresses in black and smokes French cigarettes.” That sounded like fishing, but how else was she going to learn anything about the guy? He wasn’t exactly gushy about his personal life.

Jack let the question hang there for a moment, and Sally braced herself for the inevitable. Of course there was a girlfriend. Maybe more than one. A guy like him? Educated, gorgeous, soon to be famous. He probably had the world’s biggest speed dial.

“Wrong yet again,” Jack finally said. “One more strike and you’re out.”

Sally waited for details, but, clearly, none were forthcoming. Talk about smooth. He hadn’t really answered the question at all. His girlfriend might be short with red hair. Or medium with no hair. He didn’t ask if she had a boyfriend, either. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked her a single question that didn’t relate to the story. Obviously he didn’t care.

Oh well, it was time to switch her hormones off, anyway—stop fantasizing about the impossible and get her mind back on the story.

Their turn was just ahead. Following her directions, Jack swung left onto the smooth two-lane blacktop, its centre line a ribbon of bright, untarnished yellow. They passed through a dark tunnel formed by the bowed, sweeping branches of overgrown poplars, then abruptly burst into a sun-dappled meadow.