Share the Moon. Sharon Struth

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СКАЧАТЬ Thanks for the info.”

      Another black mark against the Jamieson name, a jab that pleased her reporter side. The single woman side, however, tried to ignore the disappointment welling inside her chest.

      Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. She’d give anything to travel back in time and take a do-over on the parking lot interview. The level of her rudeness broke boundaries, exactly the opposite of how she should treat someone whose cooperation she needed to perform her job.

      She recalled her flirting accusation and died a little inside. His amused grin proved seducing her hadn’t even crossed his mind. It would take a glacier to reduce the swollen bruise to her ego.

      None of it mattered anyway. Gabby, who should’ve reported on this to begin with, hoped to get a helping hand from her brother with her dad’s health issues. Sophie would be thrilled to pass the baton of the story. It wouldn’t prevent her from following up on the bribery, though, merely allow her to do so without compromising her duties at the paper.

      She looked up to the ceiling as a low thunderous sound came from Cliff’s second floor office, most likely the rolling of his chair. Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d walked off with a fresh cup of coffee to read her article on last night’s hearing. The story wouldn’t win any awards. A crumpled five dollar bill was stuffed in the pocket of her khakis, the bet she’d made with him a sure loss. The proposed headline, “Goliath RGI Defends Project” had merit, yet her tough editor sniffed through details the way a bloodhound tracked a scent.

      She propped an elbow on the cluttered desktop and read another e-mail. Cliff’s footsteps tapped the wooden staircase of the turn of the century colonial and seconds later, he entered the main office area. He stopped alongside her desk.

      She looked up. Beyond his bulbous nose, he watched her, his full gray brows squished together and her story clasped in his hand.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing’s wrong.” Cliff handed her the paper.

      Several red-inked question marks spotted the margins. “You’re missing quotes from a key player.” The worry lines across his forehead were more pronounced than usual.

      Ever since the takeover of the newspaper two years earlier by CNMedia—aka Community News Media—Cliff had metamorphosed from relaxed man approaching retirement to stressed guy trying to please his new boss.

      Sophie twirled in her chair to face him and spotted a stain at the bottom of her long-sleeved pull over. Now she knew where the coffee she’d dripped earlier went. “Whose quotes are missing?”

      “Jamieson. RGI’s president.”

      The sales manager, who sat at his desk, peeked over the top of the paper in his hands, probably since Cliff rarely criticized Sophie’s work.

      “So, the piece is no good?”

      “It’s good but…” He slipped his hand behind his neck, inside the collar of his blue flannel shirt, and rubbed. “Was Jamieson unresponsive?”

      The idea of blaming this on Duncan held great appeal. Deceit however, according to Bernadette, registered on Sophie’s face like the “cha-ching” of a cash register drawer popping open. “No. It wasn’t him. Guess I rushed our interview. Do you want me to contact his office for more details?”

      “Only if you’re interested in doing a thorough piece.” Quite matter-of-fact, he turned to walk away, but she couldn’t miss the corner of his lip wrestling a grin. “Last chance before you owe me five bucks.”

      The dig settled under Sophie’s perfectionist-laden skin. She hunted down the phone number to RGI’s Hartford headquarters. Duncan’s secretary transferred her to company spokesperson, Carl Hansen. Mr. Hansen addressed Sophie with formality, as if reading from a well-crafted press release. After he answered her questions, she thanked him.

      “Any time, Ms. Shaw. In the future, though, Mr. Jamieson suggests you direct all your questions to me.”

      Ouch. Seemed her flippant remarks in the parking lot caused a roadblock on the bridge leading to Duncan Jamieson, not her smartest professional move.

      Sophie updated her piece with Carl Hansen’s comments and printed off a final draft for Cliff’s review. While waiting, she Googled “Duncan Jamieson.” Under the results, the middle initial “C” appeared in several sites. One displayed his full name, Duncan Carter Jamieson. An uncomfortable weight settled in her stomach, the kind that comes the second you admit you might have been wrong.

      She clicked on the images button. Photos popped up on her monitor of the well-off company president dressed in casual attire, as well as suits. One photo, taken at a New York City hospital fund-raiser, showed him in a tuxedo. Very GQ. Centered among a group of administrators, Duncan stood out from the others. His handsome face, rich blue eyes, and faded bronze curls made her breath stall.

      She replayed the events at the kayak cleanup. At the part where she’d pointed at the Tates’ land then begged him to save her from the nasty developer, she froze the frame. Bingo. A confession at that moment would’ve saved her from a great deal of humiliation.

      Nope. Duncan Jamieson would get no apology from her.

      * * * *

      Sophie trotted up the lit walkway leading to Meg McNeil’s raised ranch. The once-a-month Friday girls’ night would provide the needed respite after the public hearing two nights earlier. The deep bark of a dog at the house next door broke the silence of the quiet cul-de-sac, shared by five houses of the same design.

      She couldn’t wait to talk to Meg, who worked for the only real estate agent in Northbridge. If Duncan Jamieson planned to move here, Meg would have all the details.

      Sophie balanced a ceramic platter on one hand and tapped on the door. Nobody replied so she went in. Laughter rose above the aroma of Meg’s famous homemade focaccia, the number one reason they’d decided on “Italian Night” for their gathering theme. The number two reason—they’d all agreed—was an excuse to watch “Under the Tuscan Sun” again. Heading down a hallway lined with soft pink and mint striped wallpaper, she went straight to the combined dining and kitchen area.

      Sophie once called Meg’s décor “A Hallmark store gone wild.” Bric-a-brac covered every free space: fragranced candles, teeny picture frames with cute sayings, little statues of angels and figurines for any occasion, lace doilies, frilly curtains. If she added a card rack and cash register, the chain might let her operate as one of their retail outlets.

      “Sorry I’m late.” Sophie pushed aside a plate of mini pizzas and a tortellini salad to make room for her platter on the oak table.

      Bernadette and Veronica sat around the table, which was decorated with pastel pink placemats and matching floral napkins. They were dressed in the only allowable attire for this event—jeans or sweatpants and a comfortable top. Anybody who gussied up would be sent home to change. Sophie had sufficiently under-dressed in black yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt reading CAPE COD in bold letters across her chest.

      Bernadette cased the food like a starving dog. “We’ve been waiting for this.” She tugged up the cuffs of a long-sleeved Red Sox T-shirt and removed the plastic wrap from the platter. “Your antipasto is the best.”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ