Hello people, and happy Saturday!

Thank you also for all your reviews and alerts. I treasure every single one of them, even if I can't reply to all of them.
Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner.
Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.

About 99.9% of ya'll seem to be okay with the slow burn here. I'm glad, a) because the entire story is already written so I wouldn't be changing it anyway ;-) and b) because two people who've had trauma in their lives, especially EditorWard, are not going to jump into InstaLove. It wouldn't make sense. Too many walls to tear down first.
It's also why our EditorWard is chronically oblivious to his growing affection for our PianistElla. He's so entrenched in his ways and in his solitary life that he's out of practice. Give him time, he'll figure his shit out at some point ;-)

The upcoming chapter has an interesting origin story. I had a plan for it. But Mac appeared and hijacked it. So, any issues, please take it up with my boy Mac here.
Ready? Here we go.


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 15

On Friday morning, Mac is lying in wait outside my office the minute I step out of the elevator. Tanya's at her desk, fielding calls and opening the mail, and pretending not to notice Mac in general.

"Morning, T. What's with the squatter?"

"No clue. He's been pacing in front of your door for the last ten minutes. He's starting to get on my nerves."

I'd ask for more details, but an incoming call interrupts our usual morning briefing. We'll have to catch up later. That is, if I can get rid of Mac and get some work done at some point. Fridays are not usually hellish days around here, unless we're in a time crunch for some reason. The next issue is well in hand, the homepage restyling is up to Cheney, and I already know what to write for my next editorial. Barring some catastrophe, it should be an ordinary Friday.

"Mac, if you keep this up any longer, you'll have to pitch in when we redo the office carpet," I tell him, angling past him to get to my desk.

I drop my messenger bag on a filing cabinet, take off my gloves, scarf, beanie, and coat, hang them on the hooks beside my office door, and sit behind my desk to revive my computer.

The entire operation has taken me what—two, three minutes on the clock? Mac is still pacing. Emmett Ulysses McCarty does not pace. Emmett Ulysses McCarty is the king of chill. He's even chiller than Jacob. Boisterous, energetic, enthusiastic? Yes. Nervous, fidgety? Nope. That's just not him.

"Mac, for fuck's sake! Quit wearing holes through our goddamn carpet, come over here, and tell me what the fuck's wrong with ya. Now."

He erupts into a growl, then stretches his muscled arms along his sides, his hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles are turning white. "Coming," he barks at nobody in particular.

He lands his powerful frame into one of my visitor chairs; it cracks momentarily under the pressure. Given his current state of mind, it might be a good idea to shut the door, which I do while surreptitiously asking Tanya to hold my calls until further notice. Mac's tantrum is worrying me.

"Are you going to use words, preferably in English, and tell me what the fuck is happening with you?"

With his head in his hands, he mutters gibberish for a long minute, then finally raises his gaze to face me. "I fucking went ballistic last night. I think I'm going crazy, Ed. Help me out here."

He's not been his usual happy-go-lucky self recently, that's true. But I need more details to assess the situation. "Define ballistic. I'm assuming you weren't arrested since you're not sitting in a holding cell, and you didn't call me to bail you out. What happened?"

He expels a deep, shuddering sigh. "Remember our conversation?"

"We have at least half dozen conversations a day, Mac. Care to narrow that down for me?"

"About Rosalie. When you told me it was time to choose. Time to change."

Ah, that one. "Okay. I had no idea it would send you into such a tailspin."

"Well, it did. I started thinking. We went through the same shit, you and I. Not exactly, but bear with me. We've known each other for a decade. We've worked together for a decade. I know you and love you like the brother I never had. That day—that fucking cursed day in Homs when the walls crumbled down on us, when I couldn't find you … something broke in me. I'd photographed some harsh shit before that, but the camera had always been my shield. I bore witness, but I wasn't the story. Somehow, I built myself a fortress of detachment and carried on with my life."

That's when he takes the first breath, the first pause from his venting. His face is a mosaic of anguish. I'm so used to seeing him behave as a carefree, overgrown kid that, sometimes, I fall into the trap of thinking he's an immature git. He's anything but. He's just very adept at keeping it under wraps—but whatever you keep suppressed, it will explode like a shaken bottle of soda at some point. When you least expect it. And the catalyst for Mac's explosion seems to be his collision with Ross.

Tanya, ever one to anticipate my needs, silently slides into the office to set two piping hot mugs of coffee on my desk. Mac thanks her with a subdued nod before she leaves.

"Until that day. Then the shield no longer worked because you would have been the story—and I couldn't do it. I got out of the rubble with cuts and bruises, and a knot on my big head. But you were unconscious for days. When we excavated you out of the damn hallway that had caved in, you were covered in dust and concrete. The left side of your body was a canvas of blood and gaping wounds. And you were passed out. I shouted your name. I shouted at you until I was hoarse, but you never answered. I thought I'd lost you. I'd been the eyes behind the camera for years, but you were the brains. You taught me where and what to look for. And you looked out for me, dammit. And that day, I failed you. I couldn't save you, and I didn't know if you'd make it out of that hell alive. That day changed me."

"I had no idea the whole fuck-up scarred you so much." That's my honest admission.

He's never been forthcoming about it, about what Homs meant to him. Not after the early accounts of what happened, while I lay in a hospital bed hooked up to all sorts of beeping machines. He's told me about it over the years, always brushing off what happened to him. He's always been too quick to dismiss his own pain, and instead focused on me, and on being grateful I'd been ultimately spared. I was banged up, but not defeated.

"Yeah, because it would have been such a smart idea to burden you with my overthinking ass while you spent weeks in the ICU, and then months going through physical rehab, learning to walk again. You almost died. I got out with scratches and dents. I had no cause for complaint. No room for whining. I sucked it up and got over it."

"But did you? Get over it?" Because I think that's where the rubber hits the road. He has coping mechanisms out the wazoo, but my therapist would bury him in shouts of "deflection," if she were here.

He shakes his head. "I thought I had. When we decamped to Boston, I thought we'd both gotten a new lease on life. Clean slate, fresh start—whatever the fuck you wanna call it. You'd finally ditched the manipulative bitch, and we both started working here. We got a pretty sweet deal. No more hobo existence, traveling all the time, but we could do what we loved. I made a decision when we moved here: that I'd enjoy life to the fullest because we weren't guaranteed fuck all. It's the one thing Syria taught me."

I'm starting to see where this line of reasoning might lead. But I'll let him vent because it's clear he needs it.

"And I got very serious about enjoying life to the fullest. I made no bones about it either. I had zero qualms about how I decided to live my life. And for the longest time, it worked. Or I thought it did. Every now and then, I looked at you—if I got very serious about fucking my way through Boston, you got serious, period. You still are a broody bastard."

"You've never hidden your beef for my monkish lifestyle either, Mac."

He's shaking his head—in disbelief or irritation, I can't tell. "Yeah, but all these years, I just thought I was razzing you. That you were simply being your broody bastard self. You did tell me why you did it—or why you didn't do anyone, rather—but I didn't listen. With my own gigantic self-centered ego, I didn't listen. I thought you were missing out. How fucking wrong I was. How fucking dismissive, superficial, idiotic I was."

Because sitting behind a desk while he's pouring out his heart to me—which is a once in a decade kind of rare—feels like we're discussing work or something equally mundane, I step around it and lean my butt against the front of my desk. Mac pushes his chair until it rolls a foot or so away from me so he doesn't have to crane his neck too much to look at me. This looks more like two friends talking to each other than a wayward kid getting scolded by the principal. Much better.

"Can I ask what prompted this deep dive of introspection? I'm not discounting anything you're saying; I'd just like to know what set you off."

He leans back into the chair, staring at me with a tortured expression. "When we talked about Rosalie, and you asked me what it was that I cared more about. If it was the thrill of the chase, the notch on my bedpost, or if it was her. For a minute, I reacted like the smartass you know and love," he replies with a wink. "But then it got me thinking. What did I really want? What do I want? And it made for a fucking interesting night, let me tell ya."

"You are aware I didn't say any of that to hurt you or chastise you, aren't you? I've never judged the way you live your life. I'm not you, and you're not me. We're wired differently—it's only logical that we'd function differently."

"Yes, I know. You're a broody bastard, but you don't have a cruel bone in your body, Ed. And I love you for it. But your comment gave me a swift kick in the 'nads, and now that I'm clear-headed enough to admit it, I needed it. Because I started thinking about why I've spent the last six years going through an endless string of Misses Right Now, as you called them. And that propelled me down an intriguing rabbit hole."

"I'm listening." Sometimes, that's the best thing you can do for your friends. Just sit there and listen. And Mac clearly needs to unload a truckload of emotional shit this morning. Work be damned. I'm the boss, for fuck's sake.

"I kept telling myself for years that my revolving door—as you lot scathingly called it—was part of my 'living life to the fullest' strategy. But I was just fooling myself. It was easy. All of it was disgustingly easy. Enjoyable, yes. Sexually gratifying, yes. But when I hit on Rosalie and she told me where to shove it, then showed me how much of a chauvinistic, objectifying asshole I was, it got me thinking." He pauses to take a sip of coffee, then looks at me. "I know, I know. I'm doing so much thinking that I'm reaching my quota for the year. And it's only fucking February."

"Hey, I'm the resident broody bastard. There ain't no such thing as a quota on thinking." I'm hoping my cheeky remark will defuse the tension a bit.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not taking your tiara, if that's what you're worried about."

"I don't have a tiara, you doofus."

"See, it concerns me that you even had to refute it. But I'm digressing. Back to my thinking. All the nameless blondes, redheads, brunettes … I started going through my phone contacts last night. A ton of women's names in there I couldn't place or remember. I didn't even know who half of them were. Make that two-thirds. So I started deleting. Every entry where I couldn't pinpoint who the fuck that person—woman—was, I deleted. I'm not even gonna tell you how many I deleted—I'd still like you to respect me when I'm done spilling my emotional guts to you."

"Come on, Mac. Don't be so hard on yourself. It was all consensual, right? All no strings attached? All parties involved knew and were okay with it? Then you weren't hurting anyone … unless …"

"What if I was, in fact, hurting someone? What if that someone was me?"

So this is where all his thinking has landed him—at the crossroads of introspection and epiphany.

"Then tell me why you reached this conclusion, brother. I'm listening, and I'm not judging. Just tell me."

"It was all easy, but it was all damn empty, Ed. It was only physical gratification with zero depth to it. What does it say about me that I can't even remember half the names of those women? What if I could have had something worthwhile with any of them?"

I run a hand through my hair. I've kind of had the reverse of that problem for years. "Mac, you can't think along those lines. I get why you do, truly. But maybe you haven't been ready for something worthwhile? Until now?"

"Yeah, maybe you're right. You're the smart one, after all."

"It's not a matter of being smart, Mac. I can perfectly see where you're coming from. Monk, remember?" I point to myself for emphasis. "Alice and J kept introducing me to their friends for years; heck, even my mother tried until I told her to stop. I always blew them off after first dates that ended in uncomfortable silences or group dates where I studiously ignored the lady du jour. Alice did ask me the same question once. What if my stubborn refusal to have any kind of relationship with anyone was depriving me of something worthwhile with someone?"

"Don't you see, Ed? We solved the same problem in opposite ways, you and I. But neither way fucking works. We're both running from the damn problem. That was part of my lightbulb moment. I've been fucking my way out of the problem without realizing it wasn't doing me a lick of good. You've refused to fuck anyone, thinking it would save you from the problem, but life doesn't work that way, man."

Oh, fuck. Why did I keep going to therapy for years when the best epiphanies of my life have been thanks to my mother and my partner in crime? Why?

"Fuck's sake, Mac. I think you cracked the code, even if I fucking hate to admit it."

"But you are admitting it, right?" His expression is turning smug. At least, he's no longer looking depressed. Small mercies and all that. "I don't know exactly why you acted the way you did—well, I do—but I don't want to presume. I'd rather you told me. But I know why I did it. I do now."

"And?" I'm not stalling him. I'm genuinely interested in his come-to-Jesus moment. I also need to process this whole clusterfuck myself before I verbalize any of it to a living, breathing soul.

"I lied to myself for six years. At first, it was as easy as breathing, then it became a habit. I started believing my own hype. I cranked up my charm to eleven, and every single one of them fell for it. They were happy to kill away a few hours or a night with me. I told myself I wasn't ready for commitment. I told myself I wasn't hurting anyone. The naked truth of it is I was protecting myself. I built a wall around myself and cemented it one fuck at a time. We'd have to ask Triple A for an expert opinion because I'm going full-on armchair quarterback here, so don't mind me. I'm new at this feelings shit. But unconsciously, I witnessed what the manipulative bitch did to you and how it broke your heart, and … I just didn't want to run the risk of ending up in an emotional blender like that. So, distance it was. Make sense?"

Holy fuck. "A ton of sense. You sure you weren't a therapist in another life?"

"Nah. Sitting for hours on end listening to people spill the tea about their lives? No way, Ed. I'm a man of action. But look where all my action got me?" he quips, wagging his eyebrows. At least, he hasn't ditched all of his third-grade humor.

"So, Rosalie drop-kicked you into an earth-shattering realization. Some lady, that one."

"You can say that again. Now, I have zero idea how to go about changing her mind about me, but I have an answer to your question from last week."

"And the answer would be?"

"I want more. I want her."

Who would've thunk it? Wait—the next step in the corollary dictates that …

"Mac, back up the wagon a second. You said you and I did the same thing but with opposite methods. Care to elaborate on that?"

He nods, steepling his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. Mac's pensive posture. "Okay, but don't shoot the messenger. Feel me? I'm just passing on the wisdom. Do with it what you will or fuck all. Up to you."

"I promise I won't shoot the messenger."

"I can't be sure why you did it—only you can answer that. But I'm pretty sure your studied avoidance of relationships has the same origin as my six-year streak of fucking my way through the Boston metro area. Self-preservation. You'd had the heartache already. Avoiding any and all contact with women was as safe way as any to prevent any repeats," he explains with a shrug.

He's not being dismissive. He's theorizing. Mac's not one to beat about the bush, but he won't presume to know what's in my head unless I tell him.

When the weight of the realization hits me, my arms drop along my sides, as if I couldn't bear that burden anymore now that I've put a name to it. And suddenly, I need to sit down.

I walk back around my desk and fall onto my chair in a graceless heap, trying to make sense of Mac's words.

Self-preservation.

He's right. Damn, he's right.

I've been on an avoidance spree for six years, and I didn't even know it.

"Dammit, Mac. If you ever need to consider an alternative career, you may wanna try poaching Triple A's job, too. You could muddle through, I reckon."

The sly smile returns with Mac's dimples fully showing. Fucker knows he's got me pegged now. "Nah. Triple A has her niche, and I have mine—and never the twain shall meet. But, am I making any sense?"

"Hell, yes."

His smile grows wider, and he starts rubbing his hands, satisfied that he's hit the bullseye.

"Cool your jets. I'm not walking down any aisle any time soon. Let me process this shit. I don't even know where to begin. But yeah, you've hit the nail on the head. Although, something else factored majorly when I think about it."

He motions for me to continue with his usual flourish. Now that we've cleared the air, he's back to being Mac. A lovable smartass.

"Kate's betrayal was an NHL-worthy hat trick. She took my job, blew up our professional relationship, and chucked our personal relationship into the toilet. Zero qualms. And also zero balls in telling me to my face. For the longest time, I thought I was the problem. I wasn't good enough; I wasn't flashy enough; I wasn't posh enough. Therapy taught me she was wrong. My brain knew. Getting my battered heart to catch up has been a different kettle of fish."

"But once you do, why don't you, I don't know, look for someone else? Don't you miss it? Having someone, I mean?"

"The easy answer would be that I'm a fucking chickenshit. I was—am—scared of meeting another Kate, you know? And don't forget, most of the time I've just been too busy feeling like a damn failure for being unable to return to field work."

"Bullshit. You're an amazing editor. Not that you were ever a shit reporter, but in case you were doubting …"

"Again, Mac. Brain, heart—they didn't agree on anything. They still don't most of the time. But yeah, ultimately my good old curmudgeon persona is a coping mechanism. I'm well aware of it. Kicking the habit? That's gonna take some effort. And motivation."

"And you don't have it? Motivation, I mean?" He prods.

Deep, cleansing breath. "What would it take for me to go and take that leap of faith? I don't know. I'd like to think I could recognize it, if it happened. Like with you and Ross. You saw; you felt there was something there. Something worth fighting for. I don't see that for myself."

"It doesn't mean it'll never happen. If you wall yourself off from the sheer possibility of it, aren't you sabotaging yourself?"

With a shrug, I ponder his question before replying. We don't often have these enlightening talks, Mac and I, but when we do, we go all out. "I believed I could build a life with Kate. I wanted what my parents have. I still do."

"Momma C and the counsellor. Now, those are some gigantic relationship shoes to fill."

"See what my quandary is? Anything pales in comparison."

He scrunches up his face. It's Mac's perplexed, skeptical look. "Maybe. But then again, we're not cookie cutters. We're people. Their ideal and yours might be different. They might be chocolate chip. You might be, dunno, snickerdoodle. Different but equally delicious."

"Dammit, Mac. Now you made me hungry."

Mac's roaring laughter signals the heart-to-heart's over. After a rare, but engulfing, brotherly hug, we both walk away from our conversation lighter. Happier.

With light at the end of the tunnel.

"So, Ross?" I prod him as he stands by my office door, ready to leave.

"Don't tempt me with that nickname. We're barely on speaking terms. Baby steps, Ed. Baby steps. Full day ahead?"

"Well, since someone saw fit to hijack my morning, who knows. How about you go do some work, earn your keep?

"Ehh … maybe. Annoying you is more fun. Whatcha doing for lunch?"

"No clue. Bella should be dropping by later," I announce without thinking.

"Is she now?" he asks with a knowing look.

Letting that detail slip—bad idea. "Baby steps, Mac. Baby steps."

"Now you're stealing my lines. And you fancy yourself a writer," he quips. Then, for good measure, he flips me off. He relents at my withering look.

The heart-to-heart is definitely over. We've hit our quota of introspection for the year.

"Get out of my office, Mac," I retort. "I'll see you later, if I can't avoid you."

"Cruel. You're dismissing me."

He walks away with a laugh—the order of things in our little corner of the world finally restored.

&&&IVORIES&&&

"Boss, I didn't interrupt while Mac was pestering you, but you've got quite the list of calls piling up," Tanya announces.

I've stopped by her desk on the way back from the copy machine. I refuse to ask her to do my copying—she has enough crap to deal with already. I rub my temple with the pads of my fingers and let out a disjointed yawn for dramatic effect.

But then remember my manners. "Sorry about that, T. What do we have?"

"What don't we have, rather," she replies.

After spending half of my morning playing armchair shrink to my best friend, I'm not in the best mood for cryptic statements. And I'm feeling a headache bubbling. My frontal lobe is not happy.

"Put me out my misery and just tell me, T."

"A few internal calls I picked up for you. Jess has an idea to pitch—I told her to keep it warm for the staff meeting on Monday. Cheney has updated mock-ups to show you—he's dropping in at some point after lunch. Alice has the latest subscription numbers and financials for you—she said she'd email them to you. The big ticket item is Mr. Brandon."

That is, Mr. Curtis Brandon. Alice's real estate mogul father and the owner of our merry little operation. He's not a suit with a stick up his ass, but he's a busy man and normally not overly fond of being kept waiting. "What did Curtis want?"

"He sounded fine. He just needs a call back, and preferably, before lunch."

I nod. This call has suddenly become my first priority of the day. "Any other news from the outside world?"

"Calls from your mother, Jacob Black, Garrett Dwyer, and Bella Swan."

"Did Mom have any specific messages for me?"

She shakes her head. "Just call her back. Mr. Black said it isn't urgent, Mr. Dwyer will be on a plane after lunch, and Miss Swan was confirming her tentative appointment for later this morning. I almost fell off my chair because there was no appointment with Miss Swan today, as far as I could see." She doesn't even hide her raised eyebrow. Reynolds is onto me.

"Informal appointment. That's why it's not on the calendar. She said she had a meeting in the neighborhood. She should drop by when she's done," I tell her. I tap my fingers to my stack of copies, thinking what I should tackle next. "Okay, let's get to it. Call Curtis first. Garrett Dwyer right after. Block a slot for Cheney in the early afternoon. The rest I'll deal with myself. Thank you, T."

"Do you need lunch reservations anywhere?"

If Bella does stop by, there's no telling when that will be or if she'll have time for lunch. "Nah. Worst case scenario, we'll end up at The Bull & Crown. Ogilvy will find us a spot."

"If you say so," she singsongs by way of reply.

"What is it with everyone in this joint, making assumptions about me lately?" I huff. Cullen the Curmudgeon is making an appearance. So much for a peaceful Friday.

My tone seems to stop Tanya in her tracks. Her expression falls. "I'm sorry, Ed. I didn't mean anything by it. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's all right. My nerves are a tad frayed, that's all. Curtis?"

"I'll get him on the line STAT," she replies. She's already dialing Curtis Brandon's phone.

I turn my back to her and walk back into my office, but my phone only rings a good ten minutes later.

"Did they give you the runaround, T?"

"Nope. But his assistant had to get him out of a conference call or something, hence the wait. He's all yours now, Ed."

"Lucky me," I quip. The line clicks over to the other call.

"Curtis Brandon." It's his standard greeting.

"Curtis, hi. Edward Cullen returning your call," I announce myself. Even if he already knows it's me. "How are you doing, Curtis?"

We're both busy people, but Brandon senior likes exchanging pleasantries before he gets down to business. After all, his rise from realtor to real estate mogul has turned him into a professional schmoozer. And a smooth one, at that.

"Fine, fine, son. Don't worry about us old farts. How's life in your corner of town?"

"Same old, same old. Alice and I are getting ready to review financials later in the week."

He doesn't need to know I haven't printed those out yet. But, hey, at least I'm eyeing the email as I talk to him.

"Never mind that; numbers will be all right. I'm not worried about that. Between you and my Alice, you run that place like a tight ship. I'm very proud of what you've achieved these past few years, son."

He's never been shy with compliments. He's called me "son" twice in less than five minutes. It's all in keeping with his avuncular persona. After all, the Alice apple didn't fall far from the tree. I'm normally the one who has a difficult time accepting any kind of recognition. Deep down a part of me still feels I'm in the wrong place, in the wrong job. Deep down, a part of me still feels like a failure. Again—the brain/heart conflict. My brain knows I'm a damn good editor while my heart—or a part of it—still wishes I could be in the field somewhere.

"Thank you. But you know it's a team effort."

"Yes, yes. Your usual excuse. Just take the damn praise when it's offered, Edward. Listen, I didn't call for your weekly dose of positive affirmation," he starts.

The phrase elicits a mutual chuckle. "Now that's what Alice would say, wouldn't she?"

"I may have picked up a thing or two over the years, I'll admit gladly." His tone turns serious, and before continuing, he clears his throat. "Listen, you would tell me if you weren't happy at the Tatler anymore, right?"

The question lands like a curve ball. A wicked curve ball.

"Wh—what would lead you to say that, Curtis?"

"But you are happy here, right? You wouldn't leave without talking to me first?"

This is highly puzzling. Scratch the curve ball—straight out of left field, more like.

"Look, Curtis, I'm going to be one hundred percent honest because you've believed in me all these years. I will always be dealing with my personal shit. PTSD doesn't evaporate overnight. It will never leave me. But I've learned to manage it over time. I'm happy in this job. I've found a niche I never expected. And to your question, I have no damn intention of leaving. I'd like to know what the heck prompted this interrogation, though."

I'm being a tad curter and less courteous than I should be probably. But the question is both ominous and infuriating.

"Son of a bitch, I knew they were snowing me. Dammit. I'm sorry, Edward. I shouldn't even have asked. I know you're loyal. Will you accept my apologies?"

Curtis Brandon does swear on occasion, but it's rare and usually indicative of extreme irritation.

But more pressing questions are plaguing me. Who's "they"? And why were they "snowing" Curtis? Where? When? In short, I need to approach this like a journalist. Establish facts.

"I'll accept your apology, and we won't speak of this again if you tell me who 'they' are. This is my life, my job, Curtis. If someone's trying to sabotage me, I have the damn right to know."

"Fair's fair. I owe it to you. I was at a function over the weekend," he starts, then pauses.

The Brandons are as close to Boston Brahmins as you'd find in modern times. Both Darlene and Curtis come from families that go back generations—on Darlene's side since the Revolutionary War. They have the pedigree and financial standing to prove it. They attend tons of functions, which is why I'm not tempted to ask what particular event was on their social calendar this past weekend. Heaven only knows how they keep their schedule straight.

"As I said, the function," he resumes after being interrupted by some noise in the background. Assistant, maybe? But he's back now. "It was one of those things Darlene drags me to, and I go because she comes to the ones I drag her to," he adds with a chuckle.

"Par for the course, I expect."

"If you ever get married, you'll see, son, how true that is. But anyway, I'm veering off course. I ran into Senator Caulfield, his wife, and his daughter. I was mingling, and I couldn't avoid them. It would have looked awkward."

Curtis and Darlene are also friends of my parents, and by extended loyalty, they don't take too kindly to Senator Caulfield and their ilk. I expect Curtis would be civil if they crossed paths but not chummy. We're far from chummy territory here. However, that wouldn't deter the senator from trying to curry favor with one of the city's most prominent businessmen. Those funds won't raise themselves, especially in an election year.

"Did he solicit campaign donations?"

"Heavens, no," Curtis answers with a chuckle. "But both he and the harpy he calls a daughter seemed to imply they wouldn't mind reconnecting with you. And that's when I smelled a rat."

"Only one?" Their insistence in mentioning me, and in seeking out mutual acquaintances, is getting on my nerves. Especially because it can't just be for the sake of appearance. It's been years; what do they get out of trying to seem friendlier to me than cold, hard facts would warrant? In short, why in the ever-loving fuck are they doing this? What the fuck is the senator's daughter up to?

"Well, you catch my drift. They asked if I was happy with your performance at the Tatler, and if I thought you saw your future there long-term. They hinted at you 'moving on to bigger and better,' and at opportunities they'd like to throw your way, and whether I'd mind that. They made it sound like you'd be amenable to it, too."

"Son of a bitch." My curse echoes Curtis's earlier pronouncement. "Of all the uncouth, underhanded, inappropriate things to say and do! Jesus. I'm sorry you were subjected to that, Curtis."

His huff ends in a growl that evolves into a laugh. "Caulfield may have bought himself a senate seat, but he damn well can't buy class. And the same goes for that obnoxious daughter of his. And save your apology, Ed. It is absolutely not your fault."

"Yeah, but the fact remains. What the fuck are they up to, if you'll excuse my French?"

"Rattle our cage, your cage, for some reason?"

My turn to huff. It doesn't add up. "I ran into Kate at the new Sharps & Flats, too. It wasn't a cordial meeting either. But why would they do that?"

"Look, I know that journalists, true professionals like you"—the implication as to who wouldn't be a true professional is pretty clear—"want things to make sense and questions to have answers. And in a perfect world, that would be the case. But this ain't a perfect world, Ed. I've dealt with people like the senator my whole life. I know how they operate. Don't run yourself ragged seeking motives because that's as far from an episode of Murder, She Wrote as you can be. People like them sometime pull stunts like this just because they can. And they knew it'd get back to you."

"Yeah, it makes sense. Only, I'm seeing a pattern of behavior that isn't making a lick of sense, and my logical mind rebels against it. But if it's as inane as them being capricious, I'll disregard. Needless to say, everything they said is bullcrap."

"That goes without saying. Almost, because I told you. But please, Edward—I didn't tell you because I doubt you. I wanted to make sure you're happy with us, and I believe you do have a right to know if people are spreading rumors about you. It might be just a stunt, but watch your back. Oh, and just because now I want to get back at them, I have a surprise for you."

"Which would be?"

"Early renewal of your contract, with a pay raise."

He really wants to make sure I'm not leaving. "Curtis, are you sure we can …?"

Curtis is no Rupert Murdoch. His core business is not in publishing, and the magazine is not his crown jewel—far from it. It's a vanity project he uses as a way to diversify investments. He took it over from almost sure financial ruin almost a decade ago because he couldn't bear to see a Boston institution go down the drain, so he figured he'd dump a few million into it to save it. And save The Back Bay Tatler he did. Truth be told, Alice used to work here well before her father bought the business, so she didn't earn her byline by dint of nepotism. That "only" brought her the CFO moniker, which she gladly took because she has a fine head for numbers.

"Yes, we can afford it, dammit. And before you ask, Alice already knows and signed off on it. I'll have a draft messengered over to your office, so your lawyer," he adds with a laugh because my lawyer is my dad, "can take a look at it."

"Thank you, Curtis. I'm touched."

"Nonsense, son. You're worth every penny. Keep up the great work."

After a few more pleasantries, we say goodbye.

Now that was a phone call I didn't expect. At all.


So, our EditorWard had a full and enlightening day, and it's not even lunchtime yet. Funny how time in stories can dilate at will.
The Friday night show at Sharps & Flats deserved its own space. We'll be back at the club next week.

Meanwhile, let me know what you think :)