Distant Shores

"I thought itd be good for you to hang out with the producers a little. Its a tough business to break into. "

She took a step closer. "Id like to return the favor. "

"Okay. "

"Drew Grayland. "

He didnt know what hed been expecting, but that sure as hell wasnt it. "The Panther center?"

"My little sister was at a party with him on Saturday night. She said he was drinking straight shots and doing all kinds of drugs, and that he took a girl into his room. When the girl came out, she was crying and her clothes were all ripped up. Later that night, a drunk driver hit a dog up on Cascade Street. The rumor is that Drew was driving and the campus police are covering it up. Thursday is the big UCLA game, you know. "

Jack hadnt had a tip like this in . . . ever. "This could be big. " He allowed himself to imagine it for just a second--a national story, big-time exposure, his face on every television in America. And Henry, the lead sportscaster, was out of town. A vacation in the Australian outback, no less.

"Can I be your assistant on it?" Sally asked.

"Of course. Well need to see if that woman filed any charges against him. We cant run with campus gossip. "

Sally flipped open a small notepad and started taking notes.

"Ill talk to the news director. You get to work on questions and leads. Well start with the campus police. Lets meet in the lobby in . . . " He looked at his watch. It was twelve-forty-five. "Thirty minutes, okay?"

"Perfect. "

"And, Sally, thanks. "

"What goes around comes around, Jack. "

When she grinned up at him, he felt a flash of the old confidence.

By the time Elizabeth got home, she was dog tired. The library meeting had run overtime, her book group had taken almost an hour to get started, and the carpenter shed interviewed was too damned expensive to do her any good.

Exhausted, she tossed her purse on the kitchen table and went back outside. On the porch, she settled into the rocking chair. The even, creaking motion of the chair--back and forth, back and forth--soothed her ragged nerves.

The endless bronze ocean stretched out before her. The thick green lawn, still damp from an afternoon downpour, glittered in the fading sunlight. A pair of ancient Douglas firs, their boughs sagging tiredly downward, bracketed the view perfectly.

A fleeting if only passed through her mind; she immediately discarded it. Her painting days were long behind her. But if they hadnt been, if she hadnt let that once-hot passion grow cold, this was what she would paint.

Close by, a bird cawed loudly. A plump crow, berating her, no doubt, for daring to invade its space.

But this was her place, her solace. From each of the three hundred bulbs shed planted in the garden, to the picket fence shed built and painted white, to every stick of furniture inside the house. Each square inch of this property reflected her dreams. No matter how unhappy or stressed-out she felt, she could come out to this quiet porch and stare at the ocean and feel at peace.

She watched the golden sun sink slowly into the darkening sea, then got to her feet and went back inside.

It was time to start dinner.

She had just walked through the front door when the phone rang. She answered it. "Hello?"

"Hey, kiddo, are you done saving the Oregon coast for the day?"

Elizabeth smiled in spite of her exhaustion. "Hey, Meg. Its good to hear from you. " She collapsed into a Wedgwood-blue-and-yellow-striped chair and put her feet up on the matching ottoman. "Whats going on?"

"Todays Thursday. I wanted to remind you about that meeting. "

The passionless women.

Elizabeths smile faded. "Yeah," she said, "I remembered," although of course she hadnt.

"Youre going?"