Linda Lael - Mixed Messages

Mark sat back in his chair, not drinking coffee or eating doughnuts or smoking like the others, his eyes fixed on Carly. She was relieved when the meeting finally ended.

“So,” boomed Mr. Clark, the managing editor, just as Carly was pushing back her chair to leave, “how do you like writing the advice column?”

Carly glanced uncomfortably at Mark, who had lingered to open a nearby window. Now’s a nice time to think of that, she reflected to herself, and Mark looked back at her as though she’d spoken aloud.

She remembered Mr. Clark and his affable question. “I haven’t actually written anything yet,” she answered diplomatically. “I’m still wading through the letters.”

Mark was standing beside the table again, his hands resting on the back of a chair. “You’re aware, of course,” he put in, “that Ms. Barnett doesn’t have any real qualifications for that job?”

Carly looked at him in stunned disbelief, and he favored her with a placid grin.

Mr. Clark was watching Carly, but he spoke as though she wasn’t there. “Allison seems to think Ms. Barnett can handle the work,” he said thoughtfully, and there was just enough uncertainty in his voice to worry the newest member of his staff.

Carly ignored Mark completely. “You won’t be sorry for giving me a chance, Mr. Clark,” she said.

The older man nodded distractedly and left the conference room. Carly was right behind him, but a sudden grip on her upper arm stopped her.

“Give me a chance to explain,” Mark said in a low voice.

The man had done his best to get her fired, and after she’d uprooted herself and spent most of her life savings to move to Oregon, too.

“There’s no need for explanations,” she told him, wrenching her arm free of his hand. “You’ve made your opinion of my abilities perfectly clear.”

He started to say something in response, then stopped himself and, with an exasperated look on his face, stepped past Carly and disappeared into his office.

She went back to her office and continued working. By noon she’d read all the letters and selected three to answer in her column. The problems were clear-cut, in Carly’s opinion, and there was no need to contact any of the experts in Madeline’s Rolodex. All a person needed, she thought to herself, was a little common sense.

She was just finishing the initial draft of her first column when there was a light rap at the door and Allison stepped in. She hadn’t been at the staff meeting, and she looked harried.

“Is the column done by any chance?” she asked anxiously. “We could really use some help over in Food and Fashion.”

Carly pushed the print button on the keyboard and within seconds handed Allison the hard copy of her column.

Allison scanned it, making hmm sounds that told Carly exactly nothing, then nodded. “This will do, I guess. I’ll take you to F&F and you can help Anthony for the rest of the day. He’s at his wit’s end.”

Carly was excited. She wouldn’t be accompanying the police on a crack-house raid like Mark, but she might at least get to cover a fashion show or a bake-off. Either one would get her out of the building.

Anthony Cornelius turned out to be a slim, good-looking young man with blond hair and blue eyes. Allison introduced Carly, then disappeared.

“I’ve been perishing to meet you,” Anthony said with a straight face. “I would have said hello at the staff meeting, but the smoke was absolutely blinding me. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

Carly smiled. “I know what you mean,” she said as Anthony gestured toward a chair facing his immaculate desk.

“I’ve got a tape of your pageant, you know. You were splendid.”

“Thank you,” Carly demurred. She was getting a little embarrassed at the reminders of past glories.

Anthony gave a showy sigh. “Well, enough chitchat. I’m just buried in work, and I’m desperate for your help. There’s a cooking contest at the St. Regis Hotel today, while the mall is putting on the biggest fashion show ever. Needless to say, I can’t be in two places at once.”

Carly hid her delight by crossing her legs and smoothing her light woolen skirt. “What would you like me to do?”

“You may have your choice,” Anthony answered, frowning as he flipped through a notebook on his desk. “Fashion or food.”

Carly had already thought the choice through. “I’ll take the cooking contest,” she said.

“Fabulous,” Anthony responded without looking up from his notes. “St. Regis Hotel, two-fifteen. I’ve already sent a photographer over. I’ll see you back here afterward.”

Eagerly Carly rose from her chair and headed for the door. “Anthony?”

He raised his eyes inquiringly.

“Thanks,” Carly said, and then she hurried out.

After collecting her purse, notebook and coat, Carly set off for the St. Regis Hotel, which turned out to be within walking distance of the newspaper office. She spent several happy hours interviewing amateur chefs and tasting their special dishes, and she even managed to get them to divulge a few secret recipes.

Returning to her office late that afternoon, having forgotten lunch entirely, Carly absorbed the fact that a new batch of letters had been delivered and sat down at her computer to write up the piece on the cooking contest.

Anthony turned out to be a taskmaster, despite his gentle ways, and Carly willing did three rewrites before he was satisfied. She was about to switch off her computer and go home for the day, taking a briefcase full of letters with her, when a message appeared unbidden on the screen.

“Hello, Carly,” it read.

Frowning, Carly pushed her big reading glasses up the bridge of her nose and typed the response without thinking. “Hello.”

“How about having dinner with me again tonight? I’ll cook.”

It was Mark. She wondered whether the message was appearing on every computer screen in the office, or just hers. In the end it didn’t matter, since it was late and most everyone else had already gone home. “No, thanks,” she typed resolutely. “I never dine with traitors.”

“I’ll explain if you’ll just give me the chance.”

“How are you doing this?”

“Trade secret. Do we have a date or not?”

“No.”

“Will begging help?”

Carly shut off her computer, filled her briefcase with letters and left the office. She walked to the department store where Janet was employed and found that her friend was still working.

After consulting a schedule, Carly caught a bus back to the apartment building and was overjoyed when the manager, Mrs. Pickering, greeted her with the news that her car and furniture had been delivered.

“I made sure they set up the bed for you,” the plump, middle-aged woman said as Carly turned the key in the lock.

The living room was filled with boxes, but the familiar couch and chair were there, as was the small television set. The dining table was in its place next to the kitchenette.

Carly set her briefcase and purse down on the small desk in the living room, then lifted the receiver on her telephone. She heard a dial tone and smiled. Her service was connected.

Feeling unaccountably domestic, Carly thanked Mrs. Pickering for her trouble and set out immediately for the parking lot. Her blue Mustang, one of the prizes she’d won as Miss United States, was in its proper slot.

Taking the keys from her purse, Carly unlocked the car, got behind the wheel and started the engine. She drove to the nearest all-night supermarket and bought a cartful of food and cleaning supplies, then came home and made herself a light supper of soup and salad in her own kitchen.

She dialed Janet’s number and left a message on her friend’s answering machine, then called her father, knowing he’d be up watching the news.