A Kiss Too Late. Ellen James
accurate nor insightful. Adam glanced up.
“Okay, Russ,” he said quietly. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Russ Billington sat on the other side of Adam’s desk, looking harried. Russ had been with the Boston Standard ever since graduating from college. He’d started out as a reporter, and he’d remained a reporter. He’d never wanted to move up, never wanted even to be an associate editor when the opportunity arose. As far as Adam could tell, Russ had liked his job, was good at it and hadn’t asked for much more from life. He’d seemed one of those rare people content with what he was doing. But now, well, the quality of Russ’s work had been steadily slipping for the past few months, and this was the worst so far.
Russ leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees as if he suddenly felt tired. “I know it’s bad,” he said. “It shouldn’t have happened, I realize that–”
“It didn’t just happen. You wrote the thing. Lord, if Sandra hadn’t caught this, you could’ve caused us one hell of a mess. Think about it.”
“That’s all I’ve been doing–thinking about it,” Russ said with an edge of anger to his voice. Maybe he was mad at Adam, maybe at himself. Adam pulled the copy in front of him again. Russ had put together what should have been an in-depth story regarding recent problems with parole violators.
“Hell, Russ. This just isn’t like you. Usually you’re so thorough. But this reads like you just tossed it off. Obviously you didn’t try to interview one person who actually had any facts in the case.”
Russ stood up abruptly. To all appearances, he seemed the same as usual–a bit flabby around the middle because he kept making plans to get to the gym but somehow never managed it, his thinning hair cut just a little too short in back because he never made the effort to find a good barber. Yes, Russ looked just the same–but something had to be way out of kilter for him to write like this.
“Trouble with your personal life?” Adam hazarded. Not that Russ had much of a personal life. He was a long-term bachelor.
“Everything’s fine,” Russ muttered. “Just fine.”
“Health? Finances? Just spit it out, whatever it is,” Adam said.
“It’s nothing. Let it go. This won’t happen again, I’m telling you–”
“It’s already happened too many times. That’s why Sandra’s been checking your work so carefully. Russ, take some time off–two weeks to straighten things out. Because if you can’t straighten things out, I’ll have to let you go–permanently.” Adam spoke gruffly. He’d always been able to fire an employee when necessary, but Russ Billington was someone special. He didn’t want to fire the guy, but Russ needed to help him out with this.
Russ just stood there, face gone stony. “I don’t want any time off. All you have to do is give me one more chance. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You don’t have a choice in the matter, Russ. Two weeks–that’s what I’m giving you. Make the best of it.”
Russ turned and strode out of Adam’s office, banging the door behind him. Adam leaned back in his chair, feeling more than discontented. It seemed to him that Russ might very well represent the problems with the Boston Standard right now. Russ was an excellent reporter who for some reason or other seemed to be burning out. And the Standard was an excellent paper also in danger of burning out.
Adam glanced around his office. It was large, messy and comfortable. The shelves along the walls were wide and deep, able to hold any number of books, magazines and newspapers. Adam’s desk was the bulky, green-metal type, big and solid, with enough space for all the pieces of computer equipment that sprouted from it like so many electronic mushrooms. The desk even had a few corners free for piles of research reports, as well as scatterings of layout designs, print tests and ad broadsheets. It was a capacious office, the sort of place where you could settle down to work and not be overwhelmed by your clutter. Adam liked it, liked spending hours surrounded by his own friendly chaos. At least, he’d liked spending hours in here before that odd restlessness had taken him over of late.
Adam stood and moved toward the blinds at the glassed-in portion of his office. They were the old-fashioned wooden kind that made a rattling noise and were always getting snarled in their own cords. Adam supposed he should replace them, but they’d been installed way back when his grandfather was editor in chief of the Standard.
Adam had lowered them earlier so he’d have some privacy for his talk with Russ. Now he raised them and stared out at the newsroom. It was late, and the day’s commotion had died down. Some of the reporters still worked at their desks, but tomorrow’s early-morning edition was already humming on the presses downstairs and most of Adam’s staff had gone home to eat a meal with their families. It occurred to Adam that he’d been eating dinner alone more often than not the past few weeks. It was usually a mediocre dinner, too. Either he’d grab some potato chips and a stale sandwich at the vending machines down the hall, or he’d go across the street to the café that overgrilled its burgers. His appetite for good food seemed dampened.
A knock came at his door and Sandra Koster, the managing editor, poked her head inside. “Got a minute, Adam?”
“Sure. But I thought you’d left already.”
Sandra plunked herself down in the chair across from his desk and gave a heartfelt sigh. “I was just on my way out, but I had to come in first and tell you how sorry I am I interrupted your vacation in Newport. It was just that we were in such an uproar, and I felt you should know what was going on. Then again, maybe I ought to have handled everything myself…” Sandra was a fine manager, but occasionally she had the unfortunate habit of second-guessing her own decisions. Adam wasn’t concerned, though. He’d promoted Sandra only recently to this position, and he figured all she needed was a little more experience at taking charge.
“You had to call me,” he said. “This damn system is still too touchy. We don’t have all the glitches worked out yet. Wonder if we ever will.” The newspaper’s mainframe computer had crashed today, setting off a chain reaction that had shut down the entire photocomposition system. It made Adam long for the old days, the less sophisticated days of typewriters and Linotype machines. But finally they’d gotten things up and running again.
“Then on top of everything, to have Russ botch a story the way he did…” Sandra muttered. “It’s been the most awful day. The worst.” Suddenly, unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears, and she looked like she was going to start sobbing any minute. Adam felt his gut tighten. A woman’s tears–he’d known far too many of those while growing up. Even now seeing a female cry always produced the same reaction in him–impatience, distrust, but almost a weariness at the same time. Jen, though, she’d never been much for weeping. Adam had always been grateful for that.
Sandra’s tears had begun trickling down her cheeks. What was happening? Was his entire staff going to fall apart at the seams while he watched? First Russ, and now Sandra.
She didn’t actually begin sobbing, though. She just let the tears run down her face while she searched through her pockets. “Damn,” she said. “Damn! I’m sorry, Adam. I feel really stupid. You can’t imagine how stupid I feel right now.”
Adam figured it was time to lower the blinds again. They stuck a little, but he finally managed to bring them rattling down. Then he sat behind his desk and waited.
He was good at waiting out another person when the occasion demanded. Jen had often accused him of trying to unnerve people with his silence, but he knew when words weren’t necessary.
Sandra was silent for a long moment, too, and she avoided looking at him. She’d found a crumpled tissue in one of her pockets and used it to blot the tears trickling down her cheeks. It didn’t seem to do much good; more tears just came leaking out. Adam continued to wait. He’d never had this much uninterrupted time to observe his managing editor. Of course, she’d never sat and cried in his office before. Sandra was undeniably attractive, with clear blue eyes–when