Read Online Hattie Ever After by Kirby Larson - Free Book Online Page B

that desk job was that my boss was an old newspaper man. Drilled the ‘who, what, where, when, why, and how’ into me, that’s for sure. Ah, here we are.”
    New Delmonico’s was the swankiest restaurant I’d ever been in. It would take more than a chic dress and new hat to make me look like I belonged. Ned took it all in stride, greeting the maître d’ by name and shaking his hand.
    After we were seated, I did my best to nudge my shopping bags under the table while Ned ordered each of us an iceberg lettuce salad with shrimp and Russian dressing to start. He went for the roast beef main course; I chose the chicken. A waiter swooped by, balancing a tray laden with glistening wedges of chocolate cream pie. I made a note to leave room for dessert.
    “So. When do I get to read some of your writing?” Ned asked.
    I concentrated on sweetening my iced tea. “Oh, it’s not very good.”
    “Quantity grows quality,” he pronounced. “And Maude says you’re always scribbling away in every spare moment at the theater. That’s the first sign that you have the disease.”
    “Disease?” I didn’t realize Maude had seen me writing backstage. I thought I’d been so discreet.
    He nodded solemnly. “Yes. It strikes the least suspecting. It begins with rewriting letters to friends before mailing them off.”
    How did he know I did that?
    “And then it moves on to challenging oneself to find twelve ways to describe a”—he glanced around the café—“a tomato aspic.” He sighed heavily and dramatically. “And finally, the patient succumbs.”
    Ned had a knack for tickling my funny bone. I laughed. “To what, pray tell?”
    “To a life of writing.”
    “I wish.” I picked up my fork and set it back down. “Tell me about your job. What’s it like to be a real reporter?”
    His eyes lit up. “No two days are ever the same! And you never know when something’s going to blow. You have to think on your feet. And you have to trust that, no matter how dry your brain is, once you press your fingers to those typewriter keys, some kind of story is going to emerge.” He tapped the white tablecloth with his fingertips as if typing. “Besides, even if it’s darned good, the copy readers will rip it to pieces.” He rolled his eyes.
    The waiter arrived with our salads and we dealt with napkins and salt and pepper and tasting and such for severalminutes. I savored the cool flavors in my mouth—lettuce, shrimp, and tangy dressing—as I savored the thought of being a reporter, like Ned. The thought was equally as delicious as the salad.
    “So is Miss D’Lacorte the only woman reporter at the paper?”
    He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “General reporter, yes. There are two gals on the fashion and society desk.” He crooked his pinky. “Silk dresses, silver spoons, and all that.”
    We munched in silence for a few moments.
    “Well, does she have to be the only woman reporter?” I reached for my glass of water. “Is there room for another?”
    “Like a certain Miss Brooks?” he asked.
    I felt my cheeks go hot again. But I stood my ground. “Why not?”
    “Indeed.” He leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands, and looked straight at me. “Why not?”
    “So what would it take, do you think?”
    His expression grew thoughtful. I was grateful to him for taking me seriously. “You’d need a story. It doesn’t have to be page one–worthy, but it must be the kind of story that makes you stand out. Something only you could write.”
    I traced the fork tines through the dribs of salad dressing on my plate. “I don’t suppose anyone here wants to read about my homestead exploits.”
    “Not that they wouldn’t want to, of course,” he said gallantly. “But it’s been done. You need something new. Something different. Something with a San Francisco connection. A hook to
this
city.”
    An idea began bubbling like soup stock on low heat. “It could be about anything?” I asked. Or