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Authors: Sherri Wood Emmons
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harder-edged piece to balance all the saccharine in this issue.”
“It’s the Christmas issue, Corrie. People want saccharine.”
“Yeah, and we’ll have plenty of it. But let’s give them some meat, too.”
Kenetha sat back in the chair, resigned. She knew the look on Corrie’s face, and she knew it was pointless to argue. “Okay, what are we doing instead?” she asked.
“I want to profile a guy I know. He graduated the same year I did, and he runs a community center in California that’s about to lose its funding.”
“There’s a cheery Christmas story,” Kenetha grumbled.
“Well, it could be if our readers decide to do something to help.”
Kenetha simply stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then shook her head slowly. “If you’re going to ask for money, you’d better talk to the board first. You know how they feel about fundraising in the magazine.”
“Hell, Kenetha. We ask for money in every single issue for the alumni association. This is a worthy cause.”
“Honey, they’re all worthy causes. You know that. What’s so special about this one?”
Corrie didn’t answer. Kenetha looked at her closely, then smiled.
“Or is it the man that’s special?”
“He’s just an old friend, and it’s a good cause,” Corrie said firmly. “Besides, it’s a good story—especially for Christmas. You know, the Scrooges in Washington taking away the kids’ community center. Give our readers a chance to play Santa themselves instead of just reading about one.”
“And who is going to write this article on such short notice?” Kenetha asked, noting Corrie’s reddening cheeks and bright eyes.
“I’m going to do it,” Corrie said quietly. “I’ll fly to Los Angeles next week, spend a couple days, shoot some pictures, and be home before the weekend.”
Kenetha rose and walked to the door. “Have you told Mark yet?” she asked.
“No, but he won’t mind. Why should he? He’s in New York this week. He travels all the time.”
“But he’s not visiting old girlfriends,” Kenetha said tartly as she walked away. “Is he?”
Corrie shook her head as she picked up the phone and dialed the travel agency.
Kenetha has a vivid imagination, she thought. This is going to be a good article, that’s all, a chance to write about something important.
“Hey, you.” Bob stood in Bryn’s doorway looking slightly rumpled in chinos and a corduroy jacket. He always looked slightly rumpled. He smiled. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Bryn turned and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open for him to follow. She was wearing Paul’s blue terry bathrobe over nothing. She felt like death warmed over.
“Sorry, I haven’t gotten dressed yet,” she said, waving him toward the couch as she stumbled to the bedroom to change.
She reemerged a few minutes later wearing shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt. “You want coffee?” she asked, heading for the kitchen.
“Sure, okay,” he answered, following her.
She began making a pot of coffee. Bob sat at the table, watching her expectantly.
“So?” he finally asked. “Did you tell him?”
“No, and I’m not going to.”
Bryn turned to face him, her pale face staring bleakly beneath a fringe of dark bangs.
“This isn’t your problem, Bob, it’s mine. Okay? I appreciate your concern, but it’s my problem and I’ll deal with it.”
Bob rose and walked to the counter. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Hey, I’m just concerned about you. I want to help.”
“Well, you can’t,” she snapped, turning away. “I’ll handle it myself.”
As she poured the water into the coffeemaker, she felt her stomach lurch. “Damn! I’ll be glad to be done with the morning sickness,” she said, turning toward the bathroom.
Bob sat listening as she threw up in the toilet. He watched the coffeepot filling, noted the dishes piled in the sink, the ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, the mini-blinds coated with a
“It’s the Christmas issue, Corrie. People want saccharine.”
“Yeah, and we’ll have plenty of it. But let’s give them some meat, too.”
Kenetha sat back in the chair, resigned. She knew the look on Corrie’s face, and she knew it was pointless to argue. “Okay, what are we doing instead?” she asked.
“I want to profile a guy I know. He graduated the same year I did, and he runs a community center in California that’s about to lose its funding.”
“There’s a cheery Christmas story,” Kenetha grumbled.
“Well, it could be if our readers decide to do something to help.”
Kenetha simply stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then shook her head slowly. “If you’re going to ask for money, you’d better talk to the board first. You know how they feel about fundraising in the magazine.”
“Hell, Kenetha. We ask for money in every single issue for the alumni association. This is a worthy cause.”
“Honey, they’re all worthy causes. You know that. What’s so special about this one?”
Corrie didn’t answer. Kenetha looked at her closely, then smiled.
“Or is it the man that’s special?”
“He’s just an old friend, and it’s a good cause,” Corrie said firmly. “Besides, it’s a good story—especially for Christmas. You know, the Scrooges in Washington taking away the kids’ community center. Give our readers a chance to play Santa themselves instead of just reading about one.”
“And who is going to write this article on such short notice?” Kenetha asked, noting Corrie’s reddening cheeks and bright eyes.
“I’m going to do it,” Corrie said quietly. “I’ll fly to Los Angeles next week, spend a couple days, shoot some pictures, and be home before the weekend.”
Kenetha rose and walked to the door. “Have you told Mark yet?” she asked.
“No, but he won’t mind. Why should he? He’s in New York this week. He travels all the time.”
“But he’s not visiting old girlfriends,” Kenetha said tartly as she walked away. “Is he?”
Corrie shook her head as she picked up the phone and dialed the travel agency.
Kenetha has a vivid imagination, she thought. This is going to be a good article, that’s all, a chance to write about something important.
“Hey, you.” Bob stood in Bryn’s doorway looking slightly rumpled in chinos and a corduroy jacket. He always looked slightly rumpled. He smiled. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Bryn turned and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open for him to follow. She was wearing Paul’s blue terry bathrobe over nothing. She felt like death warmed over.
“Sorry, I haven’t gotten dressed yet,” she said, waving him toward the couch as she stumbled to the bedroom to change.
She reemerged a few minutes later wearing shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt. “You want coffee?” she asked, heading for the kitchen.
“Sure, okay,” he answered, following her.
She began making a pot of coffee. Bob sat at the table, watching her expectantly.
“So?” he finally asked. “Did you tell him?”
“No, and I’m not going to.”
Bryn turned to face him, her pale face staring bleakly beneath a fringe of dark bangs.
“This isn’t your problem, Bob, it’s mine. Okay? I appreciate your concern, but it’s my problem and I’ll deal with it.”
Bob rose and walked to the counter. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Hey, I’m just concerned about you. I want to help.”
“Well, you can’t,” she snapped, turning away. “I’ll handle it myself.”
As she poured the water into the coffeemaker, she felt her stomach lurch. “Damn! I’ll be glad to be done with the morning sickness,” she said, turning toward the bathroom.
Bob sat listening as she threw up in the toilet. He watched the coffeepot filling, noted the dishes piled in the sink, the ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, the mini-blinds coated with a
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