RILEY
As it turns out, feature writing isn't so awful. It's actually pretty fun, and my editors love my work.
In the couple of months since I started the new job, I've written about lots of interesting people. And, surprise, surprise, they're all happy to see me and to read my stories.
"Quite a change from the crime beat," I deadpanned to Gabriel when I mentioned this observation one morning when we were both getting ready for work at his house.
"Either way, you're a great reporter and writer. That's all that matters, babe."
I let out a little growl. Gabriel comes up from behind and kisses my neck. "What?" he asks.
"It's just that I wanted to write about significant things. Articles that will change the world. And now I'm writing about musicians, painters, and arts initiatives. It seems so inconsequential, considering what's going on in our country right now."
He kisses me again. "Have you ever considered that you are making a difference by writing about fun, happy things? Why does only the bad news make an impact? Can't you be influential in writing about art? You said yourself that your article about the kids art program that was going to close was saved because of your article. The city would've never refunded it if you hadn't written about that."
"True."
"Don't be so in your head about everything, Riley. Sometimes you have to enjoy the here and now."
"In speaking of here and now," I turn around and wrap my arms around him, "what are we doing this weekend?"
Since it's Friday, Gabriel usually lets me know if we have any parties, fundraisers or obligations. I'm even enjoying attending those, especially since he recently gave me a credit card to buy new evening wear (a move on his part that I strongly protested, but then relented since I didn't want to look like a ragdoll in public with him). Going to these parties has also helped me network for more articles, something he encourages.
"Oh, uh. Tonight." He frowns. "I might have some work stuff. Gotta meeting later in the day that might go long."
Whenever he's evasive like this I flash back to that night I saw him stripping off the bloody shirt. "Okay," I say quickly. "No worries. Maybe I'll just hang out at my house, I have some things to catch up on."
"Yeah, um, we'll definitely do something tomorrow, okay? And Sunday. I'll think of something special. Maybe that farmer's market you wanted to check out?" He smiles and looks at me through those long lashes, and my heart skips a beat.
"So you don't..." I stop talking. Don't be so needy. You don't have to spend every Friday night with him. "Perfect!"
He cups my face in his hands. "You're amazing, you know that?"
"So are you," I whisper, and kiss him.
But as I go to work and sit in my office, I wonder what he'll be doing later tonight, and whether he's going to hurt someone.
***
At the newspaper, I settle into my desk with a coffee. Today I'm working on an article about a new gallery owner, and I'm scheduled to visit her later in the afternoon. Which means I have time to screw off for a few hours, another perk of my new job.
As it turns out, the editors aren't as demanding in the features department, which means I can read all of my favorite websites and newspapers, and catch up on the gossip on a particular reality TV show that Gabriel can't stand. He claims it dulls his intelligence, but I say it's entertainment.
A few hours later, Christopher, the snarky editorial assistant, walks up to my desk while holding a box topped with some envelopes.
"Hey," I say, trying to be friendly. He and a few others in the newsroom have been even frostier since I was promoted, but I don't give a fuck.
"A bunch of stuff came for you." He dumps everything on my desk and I grab the envelopes.
"Thanks."
He puts his hands on his hips. "The old features writer never got this much stuff."
"The old features writer used to do articles on needlepoint and felt crafts. I'd like to think I'm appealing to a new, younger audience."
Christopher snorts. "Or every PR firm and company in the area wants to get your attention because you're fucking the richest guy in town. Or whatever you want to call him. I'd personally call him a crim—"
"Go fuck yourself," I hiss, my heart rate suddenly spiking. "I didn't ask for your opinion on my work or my dating life."
He chuckles as he walks off, and I sit with the envelopes in my hand, steaming. Christopher's been annoying before, but never an asshole like he was just now.
His comment about Gabriel only reinforces my belief that everyone here is not only envious of our relationship, they're probably a little scared, too. Most people in the know have heard about Gabriel's family, and for a newspaper reporter to be dating him, well, that goes against some unspoken code of decency.
But I don't give a shit. Or do I?
When I first came to the paper, I'd hoped to make friends at work. Somehow I assumed that the people who worked here would become my instant besties, and we'd go out for drinks and do fun stuff together. But that was just a fantasy. The reality is, most of the people who work here are hustling to get ahead like I am, and see me as competition.
Thank God for Gabriel. If he wasn't in my life, I'd be incredibly lonely.
I open the box first. It's a swag pack from the local historic theater that includes candy, microwave popcorn, two oversized tickets for a local film fest, and a keychain. Sweet. I've been looking forward to this festival ever since it was announced.
There's a handwritten note from the theater's public relations rep inside.
"We'd love to have you and Gabriel attend opening night of our film festival," the note reads.
I reread the note with a sour taste in my mouth. Did I ever tell that PR person that I was dating Gabriel? Did we ever run into her at a party? I don't think we did.
Maybe Christopher is correct. Maybe I'm getting great stories and access because I'm dating him. The thought makes my stomach sink, and I set the box aside.
Turning my attention to the envelopes, I open three invites to parties, and then smile at the fourth letter. It's from a longtime reader, an old man who lives in a nursing home. John Booker, a lifelong Tampa resident, loves to read my articles. He'd started sending me nice letters about my crime stories when I first arrived, then mailed me a few history tidbits about the city.
His letters always brighten my day.
Today he's sent a card. On the front is a cartoon with an old man on the phone.
"Urology department, can you hold," it reads.
The guy says into the receiver, "What do YOU think?"
I laugh out loud. One of these days I'm going to have to go to the nursing home to meet John in person, because he seems hilarious.
When I open the card, a small newspaper clipping flutters out and lands on my computer keyboard. Before I pick it up, I read the card.
Riley-
Remember that city councilor who was found dead in the Everglades? I'm not sure you're aware of this, but another man was found dead in the same place last week. I saw this in the Naples newspaper (I subscribe to several papers) and thought you'd be interested. The second dead guy is from Tampa — isn't that strange?
Yours,
John
I hold my breath while looking at the clipping. It's brief, and sure enough, the man found in the Everglades is from Tampa. His name is Bruno DiMarco.
Before I go down a rabbit hole of worry and anxiety, I shove the clipping into the card and stuff it, along with the envelope, into a folder. Then lock it into my desk.
It's time for me to do my interview at the gallery.
Fun, happy stories only.
# # #
"This is an incredible place," I say, nearly breathless from looking at the soaring ceiling with exposed beams, down to the cement floor.
"It's an old cigar factory. Isn't it perfect as a gallery?"
I stand in the middle of the room, taking it all in. Then I look at the owner, a woman named Cate Manfredi. She's a tiny thing, a little older than I am. Her style is impeccable, kind of like a Goth Stevie Nicks. She's wearing all black, with a long duster cardigan over a brocade black bustier. Her pants are black velvet, and her boots are clunky and black.
Definitely not typical for Tampa, which leans more toward stripper style.
"It's wild. I love it. And you say your first exhibition will be your art?"
"Yes, let me show you some plans in my office. Come."
She waves at me with black-tipped fingernails and I follow her behind a makeshift wall that separates the main part of the gallery from some offices.
Inside one of the rooms, which is decked out to look like a vampire's lair — at least that's my take, maybe it's something more significant — I sit on a red sofa.
Cath takes out a book and sits next to me. "These are my plans."
We flip through blueprints and sketches. "You did these yourself?" I ask. "You're really talented."
"I had a little help from an architect. And of course, it's nowhere near finished. I've only hung two of my paintings."
"Amazing. I can't wait to write about this. What inspires you, anyway?"
She grins. "That's a long story, and my main muse is a person from my past."
Her enthusiasm is so infectious that I smile. This is what gets me jazzed, writing about people with passion and purpose.
"I have lots of time." I get out my notebook and am about to take notes when the sound of the door opening lets in all the noise from the busy street. We both look toward the open office door, in the direction of the gallery's main room.
Cate frowns. "Crap. I wasn't expecting anyone right now. I'm so sorry, I need to see who this is. Feel free to take a look around the space."
"No worries. I don't have any other appointments today. Please don't rush because of me. I'm sure that opening a new business is super overwhelming."
"You don't even know." She makes a face and rolls her eyes. "When I'm done, I'll make coffee for us. You like Baileys? Is it too early for a drink?" she calls out with a giggle as she walks out of the little office.
"Absolutely, I love Bailey's and you know, it's Florida so it's five o'clock somewhere."
Today, I'm loving this job. Meeting cool women instead of skeevy lawyers and cops on the crime beat. It's like a new world is opening for me. The possibility of female friendship is on the horizon, and it's what I've needed since I arrived in Tampa.
Maybe I'll bring Cate some of my Irish Butter Cookies as a gallery opening gift. Oh, God, I'm so pathetic. Trying to bribe this woman into being my friend like I'm six and on the playground.
I shut my notebook and rise from the sofa, walking out of the office. When I'm about to turn the corner into the gallery, I pause when I hear Cate greet the person who walked in.
"Gabriel! What a surprise!"
Flattening my back against the wall, I freeze. No. It can't be. Plenty of people are named Gabriel, right?
"Hey, Cath. I thought I'd come by to see how the place is looking. Wow, you've done a lot since I was last here." The deep voice is familiar and achingly sensual, and the tone strikes something primal deep in my core.
It is. It's him.
Cate Moretti is Catherine Trafficante. He called her Cath. He's been here before. This is probably why he was so evasive earlier today. A wave of nausea claws its way from my stomach to my mouth.
My main muse is a person from my past.
Gabriel is planning on seeing her tonight. A meeting that might go long, he'd said.
Catherine's back in Tampa.
Back in Gabriel's life.
And he hasn't told me anything, probably because he doesn't want me to know.