Deadline

“Yet I sense a marked lack of enthusiasm on your part.”

“It’s not my kind of story.”

“You’re not up to it?”

An invisible gauntlet landed on her desk alongside the untouched file. “I come up with my own stories, Harriet. You know that.”

“So come up with one.” She folded her arms over her wide bosom. “Let me see that reputed genius of yours at work. I want to witness in action the writer everyone knows and loves, who’s hailed as always taking a fresh approach, who writes with rare insight, who lays bare for his readers the soul of the story.” She gave it a count of five. “Well?”

With as much equanimity as possible, he unclenched his teeth and said, “I still have vacation days. At least a week’s worth.”

“You’ve had two weeks off already.”

“Not long enough.”

“Why’s that?”

“I just returned from a war zone.”

“No one forced you to stay over there. You could have come home at any time.”

“There were too many good stories to tell.”

“Whom do you think you’re kidding?” she scoffed. “You wanted to dress up and play soldier, and you did. For three quarters of a year. On the magazine’s nickel. If you hadn’t come home on your own when you did, I, as incoming editor-in-chief, was going to haul your ass back.”

“Careful, Harriet. Along with your dark roots, your envy is showing.”

“Envy?”

“Nothing you wrote was ever short-listed for a Pulitzer.”

“But you’ve yet to be nominated for one, ergo you’ve never been awarded one, so big fucking deal about those rumors, which you probably started yourself. Now, I’ve got other things to do that are much more important.” She arched a penciled eyebrow. “That is, unless you want to turn in your key to the men’s restroom here and now, in which case I’m more than happy to call Bookkeeping and request your severance check.”

She paused for several seconds, and when he didn’t move, she continued. “No? Then your butt is in seat eighteen-A on a flight to Boise tomorrow morning.” She slapped an airline ticket on top of the research folder. “Regional jet.”

* * *

Dawson pulled to the curb in front of the neat Georgetown townhouse and cut his car’s engine. Raising his hips, he fished a small bottle of pills from the pocket of his jeans, shook out a tablet, and swallowed it with a gulp from the bottle of water in the console cup holder. After recapping the pill bottle and returning it to his pocket, he flipped down the sun visor and checked his reflection in the mirror.

He did look like something a cat threw up. A very sick cat.

But there was nothing to be done about it. He’d been sorting through all the mail that had piled up on his desk, when he got Headly’s text: Get over here. Now. Headly wasn’t that imperative unless something was up.

Dawson had left the remainder of his mail unopened, and here he was.

He got out and made his way up the flower-lined brick walk. Eva Headly answered the doorbell. “Hello, gorgeous.” He reached across the threshold and pulled her into a hug.

A former Miss North Carolina, Eva Headly had aged admirably well. Now in her early sixties, she retained not only her beauty and shapeliness but also her dry wit and natural charm. She hugged him back, hard, then squirmed out of the embrace and slapped him none too gently on the shoulder.

“Don’t ‘gorgeous’ me,” she said, rounding off the r to sound soft. “I’m mad at you. It’s been two weeks since you got back. Why are you just now getting around to seeing us?” Her expression was laced with concern as she took him in from head to toe. “You’re as thin as a rail. Didn’t they feed you over there?”

“Nothing like your Brunswick stew. And they’ve never heard of banana pudding.”

She motioned him into the foyer, saying, “That’s what I missed most while you were gone.”

“What?” he asked.

“Your b.s.”