my desk. “Patti doesn’t qualify. Real women aren’t so hare-brained.” She stopped fuming, then cocked her head to one side. “You’re right, Emma. What
is
wrong with Patti? Oh, she and Dani were always at sixes and sevens, but that doesn’t make for such bitterness. Patti’s the type who’d hitch her wagon to a star, especially if the star’s her daughter. Five years have gone by, and it sounds as if Dani has grown up considerably. I can’t help but think they ought to have worked through their differences by now.”
Not knowing either mother or daughter, I was in no position to speculate. Admitting as much, I let Vida continue her mulling out in the newsroom while I answered another rash of post-publication calls. By ten o’clock, I was mired in conversation with Alpine’s oldest rational citizen, Elmer Kemp, 101 years old, who had come to town as a teenager to work in the sawmill. Elmer had a laundry list of omissions from the historical coverage, and paid no heed to my attempts to remind him that we were limited in terms of space. He didn’t much like the implication that clear-cutting was bad; he objected to a reference to the Lumber Trust of the post-World War I era, claiming there never was such athing; he asserted that the big price hike back in 1919 was due solely to an unprecedented demand for lumber in the mysterious East—i.e., New York, Boston, and Philadelphia.
I was taking desultory notes for a possible feature when Ginny Burmeister signaled from the outer office, mouthing something I couldn’t understand. At last, she whipped out a piece of paper and scrawled her message in red pen:
“Reid Hampton on line two.”
Getting rid of Elmer was no mean feat, and I was finally forced to resort to the promise of an interview, perhaps in early September. “I should live so long,” huffed Elmer. He finally hung up, giving me no opportunity to point out that having already reached 101, his chances of being around in another month might be better than mine.
The telephone only served to amplify Reid Hampton’s booming voice. “You’re a busy woman,” he remarked in what I took to be a chiding tone. It was likely that Reid Hampton was rarely put on hold.
“The paper came out yesterday,” I explained, holding the phone a half-inch from my ear. “We always get a lot of feedback. Like a movie premiere.”
His hearty laugh rumbled along the line. “But unlike the picture business, it’s too late for you to make any changes.”
“Yes. Journalism is real life.” I felt my voice tense.
“And movies are
reel
life,” Reid Hampton noted with a deep chuckle.
At least he hadn’t condescended to spell
reel
. We were making small talk, and I couldn’t see the point.
Reid Hampton went straight to it: “Are you free for dinner tonight?” The question was posed on a softer note.
“Why—yes.” Taken by surprise, I blurted out the truth.
“Where can we get a decent meal within a fifty-mile radius?” He sounded pleased with himself.
I was nervously shuffling papers on my desk. I didn’t particularly want to have dinner with Reid Hampton. But how often would Emma Lord, small-town newspaper publisher, have a chance to go out with a famous Hollywooddirector? How often would old Emma have a chance to go out at all? Alpine wasn’t exactly a hotbed of eligible middle-aged men who were sufficiently sophisticated to know they were supposed to sniff, not chew, the wine cork.
“There’s a good French restaurant just a few miles down the highway,” I said, gathering courage. “It’s run by a Californian and a Provençois,” I added, hoping to give the place credibility.
“French food via Rodeo Drive? That sounds fine to me.”
We settled on seven o’clock, and I gave him directions to my home. Then Reid Hampton was off, presumably to tell Dani Marsh how to shiver in eighty-six-degree weather. I had regained my poise and was smiling, a bit wryly. Take that, Milo Dodge, I said to myself.
is
wrong with Patti? Oh, she and Dani were always at sixes and sevens, but that doesn’t make for such bitterness. Patti’s the type who’d hitch her wagon to a star, especially if the star’s her daughter. Five years have gone by, and it sounds as if Dani has grown up considerably. I can’t help but think they ought to have worked through their differences by now.”
Not knowing either mother or daughter, I was in no position to speculate. Admitting as much, I let Vida continue her mulling out in the newsroom while I answered another rash of post-publication calls. By ten o’clock, I was mired in conversation with Alpine’s oldest rational citizen, Elmer Kemp, 101 years old, who had come to town as a teenager to work in the sawmill. Elmer had a laundry list of omissions from the historical coverage, and paid no heed to my attempts to remind him that we were limited in terms of space. He didn’t much like the implication that clear-cutting was bad; he objected to a reference to the Lumber Trust of the post-World War I era, claiming there never was such athing; he asserted that the big price hike back in 1919 was due solely to an unprecedented demand for lumber in the mysterious East—i.e., New York, Boston, and Philadelphia.
I was taking desultory notes for a possible feature when Ginny Burmeister signaled from the outer office, mouthing something I couldn’t understand. At last, she whipped out a piece of paper and scrawled her message in red pen:
“Reid Hampton on line two.”
Getting rid of Elmer was no mean feat, and I was finally forced to resort to the promise of an interview, perhaps in early September. “I should live so long,” huffed Elmer. He finally hung up, giving me no opportunity to point out that having already reached 101, his chances of being around in another month might be better than mine.
The telephone only served to amplify Reid Hampton’s booming voice. “You’re a busy woman,” he remarked in what I took to be a chiding tone. It was likely that Reid Hampton was rarely put on hold.
“The paper came out yesterday,” I explained, holding the phone a half-inch from my ear. “We always get a lot of feedback. Like a movie premiere.”
His hearty laugh rumbled along the line. “But unlike the picture business, it’s too late for you to make any changes.”
“Yes. Journalism is real life.” I felt my voice tense.
“And movies are
reel
life,” Reid Hampton noted with a deep chuckle.
At least he hadn’t condescended to spell
reel
. We were making small talk, and I couldn’t see the point.
Reid Hampton went straight to it: “Are you free for dinner tonight?” The question was posed on a softer note.
“Why—yes.” Taken by surprise, I blurted out the truth.
“Where can we get a decent meal within a fifty-mile radius?” He sounded pleased with himself.
I was nervously shuffling papers on my desk. I didn’t particularly want to have dinner with Reid Hampton. But how often would Emma Lord, small-town newspaper publisher, have a chance to go out with a famous Hollywooddirector? How often would old Emma have a chance to go out at all? Alpine wasn’t exactly a hotbed of eligible middle-aged men who were sufficiently sophisticated to know they were supposed to sniff, not chew, the wine cork.
“There’s a good French restaurant just a few miles down the highway,” I said, gathering courage. “It’s run by a Californian and a Provençois,” I added, hoping to give the place credibility.
“French food via Rodeo Drive? That sounds fine to me.”
We settled on seven o’clock, and I gave him directions to my home. Then Reid Hampton was off, presumably to tell Dani Marsh how to shiver in eighty-six-degree weather. I had regained my poise and was smiling, a bit wryly. Take that, Milo Dodge, I said to myself.
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