goal oriented as she seemed now.
“Hey, kid.” Her boss’s harsh voice broke Eryn’s concentration. “How much more do you need to print the school board scandal story?”
“Hello, Harold.” Eryn sighed, irritated by his favorite nickname for her. “ Kid. ” Presumptuous asshole. “It won’t take me long. I just have to interview a few more people to verify where the money actually went. So far, all we know is that it didn’t end up where it was supposed to and that it may cost some teachers their jobs.”
“Write the story ASAP. I’ve got some other assignments after that, kid. There’s the horse show, and the Maxim Circus is coming to town.”
“I need more time.” Eryn frowned and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “We can’t print what we have now or jump to conclusions about who’s culpable. Everyone respects these people. Besides wanting to get at the truth, I don’t want to have someone suing us for slander. Someone’s got their hand in the till, but for now—”
“As I said, get it done ASAP. Horses and clowns await your review.”
Eryn bit back an acerbic comment. Oh, joy. Just the reason I became a reporter. I’m sure the hot stories in East Quay will get me the freakin’ Pulitzer Prize. “I’ll get the story for you, Harold. Don’t worry.”
She clenched her teeth. She’d worked at the New Quay Chronicle since graduation. The excellent articles she’d produced on subjects ranging from high school reunions to a series of local bank robberies had prompted several larger newspapers and news stations to offer her a job. But she declined them all because she wanted to stay in East Quay. Frank, her mentor and the previous editor-in-chief, had lived and worked here. Unfortunately, Frank had retired early due to health problems and Harold, who lacked both skill and tact, took over.
On days like today, when she wanted to choke her overbearing boss, she regretted her decision. The general consensus at the news desk was that Harold Mills was a twenty-four-karat bastard.
“I’ll hold you to it, kid.” Harold stalked toward his office and glared at his assistant, who cowered behind her computer.
Eryn checked her watch. Time for the photo shoot uptown. She looked forward to meeting Manon in a more relaxed environment. As she leaned down to grab her purse, she was startled when three pencils dislodged from her hair and fell to the floor.
*
The resonant voice of the woman standing center stage surpassed even the powerful sound of the orchestra. Her hair glowed in the light as the sound reverberated, weaving its magic.
As Vivian reached new heights and incredibly rich tones, Manon stood at the back, listening intently to a new, special quality. Not only had Manon attended a multitude of Vivian’s performances, but she also owned most of her recordings. She had listened to this particular aria many times, and when the music reached its crescendo, Vivian’s voice rose with it, both chasing and leading it. When the aria “Printemps qui commence”from Samson et Delilah ended with only a whisper, Manon held her breath and furtively wiped away tears from her eyelashes. If she sings like that at the charity concert, she’ll go out with a bang. Oh, God, Vivian…
She watched a stagehand approach Vivian and frowned when the singer backed away from him as he gestured toward where Manon stood in the aisle. Vivian then nodded briefly and edged toward the steps leading down from the stage, descending them slowly.
Now she walked toward Manon with longer, more confident strides and let her hands slide along the backrests of the chairs closest to the aisle. “Manon,” she exclaimed and extended a hand. She wore a flowing blue caftan over black slacks, black pearls glimmering around her neck and dangling from her earlobes. An ebony comb secured her hair in an intricate twist.
“I thought I’d stop by and enjoy some of your performance, Vivian.” Pretty sure the prima-donna act was
“Hey, kid.” Her boss’s harsh voice broke Eryn’s concentration. “How much more do you need to print the school board scandal story?”
“Hello, Harold.” Eryn sighed, irritated by his favorite nickname for her. “ Kid. ” Presumptuous asshole. “It won’t take me long. I just have to interview a few more people to verify where the money actually went. So far, all we know is that it didn’t end up where it was supposed to and that it may cost some teachers their jobs.”
“Write the story ASAP. I’ve got some other assignments after that, kid. There’s the horse show, and the Maxim Circus is coming to town.”
“I need more time.” Eryn frowned and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “We can’t print what we have now or jump to conclusions about who’s culpable. Everyone respects these people. Besides wanting to get at the truth, I don’t want to have someone suing us for slander. Someone’s got their hand in the till, but for now—”
“As I said, get it done ASAP. Horses and clowns await your review.”
Eryn bit back an acerbic comment. Oh, joy. Just the reason I became a reporter. I’m sure the hot stories in East Quay will get me the freakin’ Pulitzer Prize. “I’ll get the story for you, Harold. Don’t worry.”
She clenched her teeth. She’d worked at the New Quay Chronicle since graduation. The excellent articles she’d produced on subjects ranging from high school reunions to a series of local bank robberies had prompted several larger newspapers and news stations to offer her a job. But she declined them all because she wanted to stay in East Quay. Frank, her mentor and the previous editor-in-chief, had lived and worked here. Unfortunately, Frank had retired early due to health problems and Harold, who lacked both skill and tact, took over.
On days like today, when she wanted to choke her overbearing boss, she regretted her decision. The general consensus at the news desk was that Harold Mills was a twenty-four-karat bastard.
“I’ll hold you to it, kid.” Harold stalked toward his office and glared at his assistant, who cowered behind her computer.
Eryn checked her watch. Time for the photo shoot uptown. She looked forward to meeting Manon in a more relaxed environment. As she leaned down to grab her purse, she was startled when three pencils dislodged from her hair and fell to the floor.
*
The resonant voice of the woman standing center stage surpassed even the powerful sound of the orchestra. Her hair glowed in the light as the sound reverberated, weaving its magic.
As Vivian reached new heights and incredibly rich tones, Manon stood at the back, listening intently to a new, special quality. Not only had Manon attended a multitude of Vivian’s performances, but she also owned most of her recordings. She had listened to this particular aria many times, and when the music reached its crescendo, Vivian’s voice rose with it, both chasing and leading it. When the aria “Printemps qui commence”from Samson et Delilah ended with only a whisper, Manon held her breath and furtively wiped away tears from her eyelashes. If she sings like that at the charity concert, she’ll go out with a bang. Oh, God, Vivian…
She watched a stagehand approach Vivian and frowned when the singer backed away from him as he gestured toward where Manon stood in the aisle. Vivian then nodded briefly and edged toward the steps leading down from the stage, descending them slowly.
Now she walked toward Manon with longer, more confident strides and let her hands slide along the backrests of the chairs closest to the aisle. “Manon,” she exclaimed and extended a hand. She wore a flowing blue caftan over black slacks, black pearls glimmering around her neck and dangling from her earlobes. An ebony comb secured her hair in an intricate twist.
“I thought I’d stop by and enjoy some of your performance, Vivian.” Pretty sure the prima-donna act was
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