Дебби Макомбер - Starry Night

——

Back inside her condo, Carrie gingerly removed her shoes and sighed with relief.

This was it. She was done. First thing in the morning she would hand in her two-week notice, sublet her condo, and take her chances in the job market in Seattle. If the managing editor, Nash Jorgen, refused to give her the opportunity to prove she had what it took, then why stay? She refused to be pigeonholed.

That decided, Carrie limped into her bedroom and fell into bed, tired, frustrated, and determined to make a change.

“You can’t be serious,” argued Sophie Peterson, her closest friend at the newspaper, when Carrie told her of her decision.

“I’m totally serious,” she said as she hobbled to her desk.

“What’s wrong with your foot?” Sophie asked, tagging behind her.

“Stupidity. This gorgeous pair of shoes was only available in a half-size smaller than what I normally wear. They were so perfect, and they were buy one pair, get the second half off. I couldn’t resist, but now I’m paying for it.”

“Carrie, don’t do it.”

“Don’t worry, I have no intention of wearing those heels again. I tossed them in a bag for charity.”

“Not that,” Sophie argued. “Don’t hand in your notice! You’re needed here.”

“Not as a reporter,” Carrie assured her, dumping her purse in her bottom drawer and shucking off her thick winter coat. “Sorry, my mind is made up. You and I both know Nash will never give me a decent assignment.”

“You’re your own worst enemy.” Sophie leaned against the wall that separated their two cubicles and crossed her arms and ankles.

“How’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re the perfect fit for the society page. You’re drop-dead gorgeous, tall, and thin. It doesn’t hurt that you look fabulous in a slinky black dress and a pair of spike heels. Even if I could get my hair to grow that thick, long, and curly without perming the living daylights out of it, Nash would never consider someone like me. It isn’t any wonder he wants you on the job. Give the guy a little credit, will you? He knows what he’s doing.”

“If looks are the only criterion—”

“There’s more,” Sophie said, cutting her off. “You’re great with people. All you need to do is bat those baby blues at them and strangers open up to you. It’s a gift, I tell you, a real gift.”

“Okay, I’m friendly, but this isn’t the kind of writing I want to do. I’ve got my heart set on being a reporter, a real reporter, writing about real news and interesting people.” In the beginning, Carrie had been flattered by the way people went out of their way to introduce themselves at the events she covered. It didn’t take long for her to recognize that they were looking for her to mention their names in print. What shocked her was the extent people were willing to go in order to be noticed. She was quickly becoming jaded, and this bothered her even more than Nash’s lack of faith in her abilities.

The holidays were the worst, and while it was only early November, the frenzy had already started. The list of parties Nash assigned her to attend was already mammoth. Halloween decorations were still arranged around her desk, and already there was a Christmas tree in the display window of the department store across the street.

Determined to stick with her plan, Carrie went directly into Nash Jorgen’s office.

A veteran newsman, Nash glanced up from his computer screen and glared in her direction. He seemed to sense this wasn’t a social visit. His shoulders rose with a weary sigh. “What now?” he growled.

“I’m handing in my two-week notice.” If she’d been looking for a response, she would have been disappointed.

He blinked a couple of times, ran his hand down the side of his day-old beard, and asked, “Any particular reason?”

“I hoped to prove I can be a darn good reporter, but I’ll never get the chance writing anything more than copy for society weddings. You said when you hired me that you’d give me a shot at reporting real news.”

“I don’t remember what I said. What’s wrong with what you’re writing now? You’re good.”

“It isn’t what I want to write.”

“So? You make the best of it, pay your dues, and in time you’ll get the break you’re looking for.”

Carrie was tired of waiting. She straightened her shoulders, her resolve tightening. “I know I’m fortunate to work for the Herald . It was a real coup to get this position, but this isn’t the career I wanted. You give me no choice.” She set her letter of resignation on his desk.

That got Nash’s attention. He swiveled his chair around to look at her once more. His frown darkened, and he ran his hand through his thinning hair. “You really are serious, aren’t you?”

A chill went down her spine. Nash was actually listening. “Yes, I’m serious.”

“Fine, then.” He reached across his desk and picked up a hardcover book and handed it to her. “Find Finn Dalton, get an interview, and write me a story I can print.”

She grabbed hold of the book, not recognizing the author’s name. “And if I do?”

“Well, first, there’s a snowball’s chance of you even locating him. Every reporter in the universe is dying to interview him. But if you get lucky and he’s willing to talk and we print the piece, then I’ll take you off the society page.”

Carrie wavered. He seemed to be offering her a chance, as impossible as it might seem. Now it was up to her to prove herself. She dared not show him how excited she was. “I’ll find him.”

He snickered as though he found her confidence amusing, and then sobered. He regarded her with the same dark frown he had earlier before a slow, easy smile slid over his harsh features. “I bet you will. Now, listen up—if you get an interview with Finn Dalton, you can have any assignment you want.”

Taking small steps, Carrie backed out of the office. She pointed at Nash. “I’m holding you to your word.”

The managing editor was already back to reading his computer screen and didn’t appear to have heard her. It didn’t matter; she’d heard him, and he’d come across loud and clear.

Once she was out of his office, she examined the book to see the author photo, but couldn’t find one, not even on the inside back flap.

Walking back to her cubicle, she paused at Sophie’s instead. “You ever heard of Finn Dalton?”

Sophie’s eyebrows lifted on her round face. “You mean you haven’t?”

“No.” The book title wasn’t much help. Alone . That told her next to nothing. The jacket revealed a snow-covered landscape with a scattering of stubby trees.

Sophie shook her head. “Have you been living under a rock?”

“No. Who is this guy?”

“He’s a survivalist who lives alone someplace in the Alaskan wilderness.”

“Oh.” That was a bit daunting, but Carrie considered herself up to the challenge. She’d been born and raised in Washington State. She’d hoped to join her family for Thanksgiving, but if she needed to use her vacation time to find Finn Dalton, then she was willing to.

“His book has been on the bestseller lists for nearly seven months, mostly at the number-one position.”

Carrie was impressed. “What does he write about?”

“He’s the kind of guy you can set loose in the wild with a pack of chewing gum, a pocketknife, and a handkerchief, and by the time you find him he’s built a shelter and a canoe. From what I’ve read, his stories about Alaskan life and survival in the tundra would kink your hair. Well, not that yours needs curling.”

This was Sophie’s idea of a joke. Carrie’s wild dark brown curls were the bane of her existence. She tamed them as best she could, but she often found herself the brunt of jokes over her out-of-control hair.