Read Online Yesterday's Stardust by Becky Melby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Becky Melby
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you, and I did.”
“So you don’t think I was wrong to be there?”
“I think you were gutsy. I like that about you, Danielle. You’ll do what it takes to get a story. Just keep it legal, Miss Gallagher, and you’ll never hear me complain.” He picked up a pink phone message slip, crumpled it, and pitched it at the wastebasket. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Dani stood. “How can I find out the name of the caller?’
“It was an anonymous call.”
She nodded and walked toward the door.
“Danielle?”
“Yes?”
“Let it go. You might be wrong about who called, and if you’re right you’ll only make things worse.”
“Right.” Sure. You bet.
Not.
By midmorning, fatigue hit like the flu. She took the rest of the day off. Mitch didn’t bat an eye when she said she needed a personal day.
Inside her apartment, she dropped her purse, kicked her shoes toward the kitchen, and slogged to the bathroom. In the shower, she shut out everything but the
thrum
of water on tile. Steam rose, shrouding the room.
She dressed in worn-thin cotton shorts and an oversized shirt imprinted with
Snow White’s
Sleepy. Walking into her kitchen, she said an automatic prayer. The rent she paid for her above-garage apartment was nothing short of a miracle. Less than a week’s wages for tile floors, marble counter tops, and a breathtaking view. Her landlord was a deacon in her church. As her mother had taught her young, it’s who you know that matters.
She took a chicken potpie out of the freezer. While it baked, she tore lettuce into a salad, added vinegar and oil and a sprinkling of oregano. Settling into a faux suede chair, she stared through rain spatters at the green lawn of the Kemper Center and the lake beyond it. In the 1860s, the original building was home to Wisconsin’s first US Senator. Later it became an Episcopal school for girls. The chapel, with beams the color of dark honey and an intricately carved altar, was a popular wedding venue.
Someday, maybe.
She took a bite of salad. The smell of oregano brought a face to mind. Dark eyes narrowing at her while the mournful notes of “Angel” bled into the room. Her fingers tightened reflexively around her fork. She’d stomped out of Mitch’s office this morning and straight to her computer to look up the phone number for Bracciano. Every word she’d use to put Dominick Fiorini in his place strained at the tip of her tongue as the website popped up.
Italian restaurants close on Mondays.
With no place to go, her irritation had brewed in her head, building pressure until it sent her home early.
She flicked through song titles on her iPod. Nora Jones matched her mood. Soothing, mellow. Guitar chords led into “Come Away with Me.” Her head and shoulders swayed with the notes. Dark eyes came back into focus. Strong hands cradling her foot as if they held a fragile kitten.
Stop!
The timer buzzed. She ate at her little round table to the sound of rain and piano music. After cleaning up the kitchen, she slid into bed. She set her alarm for five. That would wake her, if she fell asleep, with enough time to dress for dinner at Vito’s. She propped brown and blue pillows behind her. As she folded the geometric pattern of her bed spread over her belly, the diary slid to the floor. She winced and crawled to the edge of the bed. The book lay open. Her gaze landed on an entry at the bottom of the page.
June 24, 1928
Busy but fun night at Bracciano again.
September 30, 1924
“We have no choice.” Daddy folded his hands on the kitchen table and looked at Francie with sad, tired eyes. Mama sat in her rocker, head bent over her Bible. Her lips moved but made no sound.
Daddy stared into the coffee Mama had poured half an hour ago. He hadn’t yet touched it. “I know you’ve been saving the money from the Husebys for Christmas, but this is an emergency. We owe Doc Volden too much. He won’t come out again unless we can pay, and Applejack won’t make it without
“So you don’t think I was wrong to be there?”
“I think you were gutsy. I like that about you, Danielle. You’ll do what it takes to get a story. Just keep it legal, Miss Gallagher, and you’ll never hear me complain.” He picked up a pink phone message slip, crumpled it, and pitched it at the wastebasket. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Dani stood. “How can I find out the name of the caller?’
“It was an anonymous call.”
She nodded and walked toward the door.
“Danielle?”
“Yes?”
“Let it go. You might be wrong about who called, and if you’re right you’ll only make things worse.”
“Right.” Sure. You bet.
Not.
By midmorning, fatigue hit like the flu. She took the rest of the day off. Mitch didn’t bat an eye when she said she needed a personal day.
Inside her apartment, she dropped her purse, kicked her shoes toward the kitchen, and slogged to the bathroom. In the shower, she shut out everything but the
thrum
of water on tile. Steam rose, shrouding the room.
She dressed in worn-thin cotton shorts and an oversized shirt imprinted with
Snow White’s
Sleepy. Walking into her kitchen, she said an automatic prayer. The rent she paid for her above-garage apartment was nothing short of a miracle. Less than a week’s wages for tile floors, marble counter tops, and a breathtaking view. Her landlord was a deacon in her church. As her mother had taught her young, it’s who you know that matters.
She took a chicken potpie out of the freezer. While it baked, she tore lettuce into a salad, added vinegar and oil and a sprinkling of oregano. Settling into a faux suede chair, she stared through rain spatters at the green lawn of the Kemper Center and the lake beyond it. In the 1860s, the original building was home to Wisconsin’s first US Senator. Later it became an Episcopal school for girls. The chapel, with beams the color of dark honey and an intricately carved altar, was a popular wedding venue.
Someday, maybe.
She took a bite of salad. The smell of oregano brought a face to mind. Dark eyes narrowing at her while the mournful notes of “Angel” bled into the room. Her fingers tightened reflexively around her fork. She’d stomped out of Mitch’s office this morning and straight to her computer to look up the phone number for Bracciano. Every word she’d use to put Dominick Fiorini in his place strained at the tip of her tongue as the website popped up.
Italian restaurants close on Mondays.
With no place to go, her irritation had brewed in her head, building pressure until it sent her home early.
She flicked through song titles on her iPod. Nora Jones matched her mood. Soothing, mellow. Guitar chords led into “Come Away with Me.” Her head and shoulders swayed with the notes. Dark eyes came back into focus. Strong hands cradling her foot as if they held a fragile kitten.
Stop!
The timer buzzed. She ate at her little round table to the sound of rain and piano music. After cleaning up the kitchen, she slid into bed. She set her alarm for five. That would wake her, if she fell asleep, with enough time to dress for dinner at Vito’s. She propped brown and blue pillows behind her. As she folded the geometric pattern of her bed spread over her belly, the diary slid to the floor. She winced and crawled to the edge of the bed. The book lay open. Her gaze landed on an entry at the bottom of the page.
June 24, 1928
Busy but fun night at Bracciano again.
September 30, 1924
“We have no choice.” Daddy folded his hands on the kitchen table and looked at Francie with sad, tired eyes. Mama sat in her rocker, head bent over her Bible. Her lips moved but made no sound.
Daddy stared into the coffee Mama had poured half an hour ago. He hadn’t yet touched it. “I know you’ve been saving the money from the Husebys for Christmas, but this is an emergency. We owe Doc Volden too much. He won’t come out again unless we can pay, and Applejack won’t make it without
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