Read Online All for a Story by Allison Pittman - Free Book Online
Authors: Allison Pittman
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Moore’s.
During the days between Edward’s funeral and this morning, the common area in the middle of the run-down third-floor office space had acquired an enormous wooden table, like something from a Victorian rummage sale, around which were squeezed an assortment of mismatched chairs. Max stood at the head of the table, tapping a pencil against his palm. He said nothing as the door clicked behind her but shot a meaningful glance at the large round clock on the wall.
Her colleagues —including a couple of reporters she only knew from their bylines —sat in awkward silence as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the rack by the door. The tam, of course, would stay.
“Sorry,” she said, remembering to pluck her article out of the inner pocket. “Couldn’t catch a cab.”
“Top o’ the mornin’, lassie,” Max said, running his eyes across her outfit and speaking in a deadpan brogue.
Her mind raced through Shakespeare’s Scottish play in search of the perfect smart retort. “‘Thy letters have transported mebeyond this ignorant present, and I feel now the future in the instant.’”
“ Romeo and Juliet ?”
“ Macbeth . I played Lady Macbeth in my junior year.” She tapped her temple. “Still have it all right here.”
“Well, why don’t you bring it and the rest of you over here and have a seat so we can continue?”
Max pointed to a chair that would have been inaccessible for most people, but her dainty stature made passage possible, if awkward. She felt his eyes on her, and she tried to show her figure off to its best, sprinkling apologies and greetings as she made her way. When she finally arrived at her designated spot, Max was there, having pulled the chair from the table in a most gentlemanly fashion. The moment she sat down, however, she understood why this place hadn’t been claimed by anybody else, as the seat was embarrassingly low. While no one could deny Monica’s short stature, this made her downright childlike, with her chin mere inches above the chipped, dry surface of the table. Moreover, she sat a full head shorter than the snickering Tony on her left.
“Can it, Manarola,” she hissed, not quite under her breath. “You’re probably sittin’ on a dictionary.”
“Kids,” Max implored, having reclaimed his place at the head of the table, “the better we focus, the quicker the Chatter gets up and running again.”
“I was only twenty minutes late, for crying out loud. When did we stop running?”
“He’s taking us in a new direction,” Tony said, and from the sound of his voice, the direction wasn’t good.
“I just thought we might want to sweeten some of our content with the milk of human kindness,” Max said over the disgruntled rumblings that erupted after Tony’s comment. To illustrate, heheld up an issue from the previous fall. “For example. Here we have a story about a woman whose husband tied her to the stove after he suspected her of adultery. We have an interview with the husband and the wife. Very dramatic, true. But why not the story of the heroic milkman who discovered and rescued her?”
“Because the milkman wasn’t talking on account of his own wife,” Tony said.
“Point taken,” Max said. “This story, however, highlights the violence without ever calling for reform. It could have been used as a platform to call for stiffer prosecution of crimes committed against women.”
“The guy spent the night in jail,” Tony said, “went home; two weeks later, wifey whacked him upside the head with a potato masher and ran off with the milkman. Excuse me —the hero .”
“Maybe that wasn’t the best example,” Max conceded, “but my position remains the same. As editor in chief, publisher, and owner , I’d like to see us do something with less vice and more virtue.”
At this, Monica snickered out loud. “Where does that leave me? Monkey Business goes to the ice cream parlor?”
“Why not? This is a city full of history and
During the days between Edward’s funeral and this morning, the common area in the middle of the run-down third-floor office space had acquired an enormous wooden table, like something from a Victorian rummage sale, around which were squeezed an assortment of mismatched chairs. Max stood at the head of the table, tapping a pencil against his palm. He said nothing as the door clicked behind her but shot a meaningful glance at the large round clock on the wall.
Her colleagues —including a couple of reporters she only knew from their bylines —sat in awkward silence as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the rack by the door. The tam, of course, would stay.
“Sorry,” she said, remembering to pluck her article out of the inner pocket. “Couldn’t catch a cab.”
“Top o’ the mornin’, lassie,” Max said, running his eyes across her outfit and speaking in a deadpan brogue.
Her mind raced through Shakespeare’s Scottish play in search of the perfect smart retort. “‘Thy letters have transported mebeyond this ignorant present, and I feel now the future in the instant.’”
“ Romeo and Juliet ?”
“ Macbeth . I played Lady Macbeth in my junior year.” She tapped her temple. “Still have it all right here.”
“Well, why don’t you bring it and the rest of you over here and have a seat so we can continue?”
Max pointed to a chair that would have been inaccessible for most people, but her dainty stature made passage possible, if awkward. She felt his eyes on her, and she tried to show her figure off to its best, sprinkling apologies and greetings as she made her way. When she finally arrived at her designated spot, Max was there, having pulled the chair from the table in a most gentlemanly fashion. The moment she sat down, however, she understood why this place hadn’t been claimed by anybody else, as the seat was embarrassingly low. While no one could deny Monica’s short stature, this made her downright childlike, with her chin mere inches above the chipped, dry surface of the table. Moreover, she sat a full head shorter than the snickering Tony on her left.
“Can it, Manarola,” she hissed, not quite under her breath. “You’re probably sittin’ on a dictionary.”
“Kids,” Max implored, having reclaimed his place at the head of the table, “the better we focus, the quicker the Chatter gets up and running again.”
“I was only twenty minutes late, for crying out loud. When did we stop running?”
“He’s taking us in a new direction,” Tony said, and from the sound of his voice, the direction wasn’t good.
“I just thought we might want to sweeten some of our content with the milk of human kindness,” Max said over the disgruntled rumblings that erupted after Tony’s comment. To illustrate, heheld up an issue from the previous fall. “For example. Here we have a story about a woman whose husband tied her to the stove after he suspected her of adultery. We have an interview with the husband and the wife. Very dramatic, true. But why not the story of the heroic milkman who discovered and rescued her?”
“Because the milkman wasn’t talking on account of his own wife,” Tony said.
“Point taken,” Max said. “This story, however, highlights the violence without ever calling for reform. It could have been used as a platform to call for stiffer prosecution of crimes committed against women.”
“The guy spent the night in jail,” Tony said, “went home; two weeks later, wifey whacked him upside the head with a potato masher and ran off with the milkman. Excuse me —the hero .”
“Maybe that wasn’t the best example,” Max conceded, “but my position remains the same. As editor in chief, publisher, and owner , I’d like to see us do something with less vice and more virtue.”
At this, Monica snickered out loud. “Where does that leave me? Monkey Business goes to the ice cream parlor?”
“Why not? This is a city full of history and
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