January 2, 1995, 11:25 AM—Springfield Journal

The scene at the Journal when Holly hit the bullpen made her think of a beehive buzzing with worker bees. Everyone was busy, computer keys clicking, phones ringing, people talking on phones, rushing around with papers in their hands. She was halfway to her office when she spotted Fletcher Reade, and she knew he saw her when his expression changed to a frown. "Well, Madame Publisher, how nice of you to grace us with your presence," he said sarcastically as he followed her into her office.

"It's called a vacation, Fletcher. I know you're familiar with the concept," Holly replied as she hung up her coat and put her purse in her bottom desk drawer. "And the week between Christmas and New Year's is generally a down time, what with the holidays and all. Technically, I'm back one day early." She looked through the small stack of mail waiting on her desk; less than ten pieces, and certainly nothing that couldn't wait.

"News is a 24-hour-a-day, 7-day-a-week business, and this is the biggest story this town has seen since Roger was shot!" Fletcher exclaimed.

Not bothering to acknowledge the barb Fletcher had intended with his comment about Roger's shooting or to look up from her desk as she unearthed the list of interoffice phone numbers from beside her out basket, Holly said, "It's not like anyone knew in advance that Fifth Street was going to burn to the ground. It was a fire, not an election. And if you're expecting me to apologize for having a life outside this office, you're crazy." Finding the number she wanted, she picked up the phone and punched it in. When someone answered on the other end, she said, "Hello, Maintenance? This is Holly Lindsey. Could you send someone to my office right away, please?...Thank you."

She had been holding the receiver in her left hand, and when she hung up the phone, Fletcher saw her rings and gaped. "You married Roger?!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, I did," Holly replied, finally looking at him. "Is that really such a surprise? We've been back together for a year, we had been engaged to be engaged since June. Marriage is usually the result of an engagement."

"It's official: you've lost your marbles," Fletcher said. "You actually married Roger Thorpe!"

"I haven't lost anything," Holly countered. "And my personal life is none of yours or anybody else's business."

Nick Spaulding barged into Holly's office then. "Fletcher, there you are! Nowitzki got sick again in the men's room and now he's passed out. There's no way he'll make his interview with the mayor this afternoon." Then Nick noticed Holly sitting at her desk. "Oh, you're back," he said. "I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow."

"We heard about the fire on the radio and came back early," Holly told him. "What's the matter with Nowitzki? Flu?"

Nick snorted. "Hardly. He showed up for work this morning straight from his New Year's bender. When he wakes up, I'm calling him a cab to take him home. We're gonna need someone to handle his interview with the mayor at 1:00. I can't do it. I'm meeting with the fire chief then."

"Lovely," Holly replied, rolling her eyes.

There was a knock at Holly's office door then. "Maintenance," piped up the maintenance worker.

"Thank you for coming so promptly," Holly said as she rose and went to meet the maintenance worker at the door. She gestured to her name in block letters on the door's frosted glass. "I just got back from my honeymoon, so I need you to change my name on the door. Well, actually, I need you to add my new name to my old one, because I'm combining them. With a hyphen."

"Congratulations," the maintenance worker replied with a smile. "What is your married name?"

"Thorpe," Holly replied.

"That's where you've been?" Nick asked, surprised.

"I'll get on it right away," the maintenance worker replied, setting down his toolbox.

Holly addressed the maintenance worker. "Thank you."

"You actually legally married Roger Thorpe?" Nick asked, looking at her.

"Well, it certainly isn't an illegal marriage," Holly replied. They were trying to get a rise out of her. But it wasn't going to work. She was confident in her marriage and her personal life, and the rest of the world could go hang, as far as she was concerned. She crossed back to her desk. "I need a list of who's working on what so we can get somebody to cover Nowitzki with the mayor while he's sleeping it off," she said. "And has the AP picked up anything from us yet?"

"This is unbelievable," muttered Fletcher.

"What, that I'm working on the biggest story this town has seen since Roger was shot?" she asked, parroting his words back to him. "I need that list ASAP from one of you. We have a newspaper to put out."

"I'll get it," Nick said, eager to escape.

"I still think you're out of your mind," Fletcher grumbled.

"I don't care what you think," Holly replied blithely, "because I am happy, and it's my personal life. Personal, as opposed to business. Now, one last time: has the AP picked up anything from us yet?"

"Not yet," Fletcher said. He looked at the maintenance man putting the finishing touches on Holly's new name on the door and shook his head again, an expression of disgust on his face, as he left her office.

After Fletcher had returned to his own desk, the maintenance man stepped back from Holly's door. "All done," he said.

Holly went over to look at her door, which now read HOLLY LINDSEY-THORPE. "It looks great. Thank you," she said, smiling at the maintenance man again.

"Congratulations again, Mrs. Lindsey-Thorpe," he said as he packed up his tools and left.

She was still smiling when she returned to her desk to look more closely at the mail while she waited for the list from Nick of which reporters were covering which stories.

January 2, 1995, 11:37 AM—WSPR

The station was a madhouse, so Roger thought he might actually be able to make it to his office unnoticed. He thought that right up until Gilly Grant sent the intern she was talking to off with a pat on the shoulder, saying something about the tape vault, saw him, and pulled a face that made her look like she had just sucked on a lemon. "Roger," she acknowledged him.

He nodded. "Gilly," he said, heading into his office.

He wasn't particularly surprised when Gilly came in a moment later, but he was in too good a mood to argue with her or anyone else. She stopped in front of his desk, holding a manila folder in her hand, and Roger finally looked up from his mail to ask, "Did you want something?"

"Just confirming that what I heard from my source at the marriage license bureau the other day was true," Gilly said. She gestured to Roger's left hand. "Holly was actually dumb enough to marry you. I hope neither of you are expecting any congratulations."

"I'll thank you not to talk about my wife that way," Roger replied, the steely undercurrent in both his voice and his eyes making it abundantly clear to Gilly that he would not allow her to make that kind of remark about Holly within his hearing ever again. "Heard anything from New York about picking up any of our reports on the fire nationally?" he asked, deftly changing the subject to work.

"Yes, actually," Gilly said. "In fact, I did a live remote on the scene, and they're using some of my footage." She didn't add that the footage included Vanessa Chamberlain and Matt Reardon passionately making out in the middle of Fifth Street as it burned all around them. She wasn't particularly happy that that was why her piece had been chosen to go national, but business was business, and she would take any national exposure she could get to further her own chances of someday landing at the network herself, or at least at a larger affiliate than WSPR.

"I hope you don't expect congratulations," Roger parried evenly.

The intern Gilly had been talking to when Roger arrived returned then, arms full of videotape boxes. "I found those tapes you wanted, Ms. Grant," she said.

"Thank you, Marcie," Gilly replied. She spun on her heel and followed the intern out of Roger's office. Roger took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and sat down at his desk. He had a lot to do to launch his management consulting business, and he wanted to get started. He pulled the Yellow Pages from his desk to look at the listings for realtors and settled down to work after looking at Holly's ring on his hand with a smile.

Okay, I know Holly didn't have her name on her office door, at least not in 1994-95, but I couldn't resist.