Just One of the Guys(83)

“It’s always been my feeling that it wasn’t my place to—” I attempt.

“No, Chastity! You’ve always hated me! Because I was engaged! And you never were, okay? And I know everything about this paper! And you’re, like, some hulking Amazon from Columbia who thought you knew everything, and you made me look like a f**king idiot!”

“Okay, shut up, Lucia!” I snap back. “I’m sorry this happened to you, but if you didn’t know Teddy Bear was g*y, that’s because you didn’t want to. Every single person at this paper knew. You wanted to be blind and you were. This has nothing to do with me.”

Her face goes white. “What do you mean, everyone knew?” she whispers, horrified. Then, without waiting for an answer, she yanks open Penelope’s door. “Did everyone here know that Teddy Bear was g*y?” she shrieks.

There’s a dreadful silence. Angela, Penelope, Carl, Alan, Pete, Danielle in layout, Suki the reporter…They all stand there, guilt and knowledge and sympathy written clearly on their faces.

Blotches of red appear on Lucia’s pasty face. “I quit.”

And with that, Lucia storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

We slink back to our desks. “Staff meeting is rescheduled,” Penelope calls before closing herself in her office. As I click numbly through my e-mails, Angela slips over to me. “How are you doing, Chastity?”

“Yick,” I reply.

“I know.” She smiles sympathetically. “So why was she mad at you, in particular?”

“I saw Teddy Bear with a man, and I didn’t tell her,” I confess.

“I wouldn’t have, either.” She smiles kindly.

“Hey, Angela,” I say abruptly. “Trevor told me you guys broke up.”

She flushes. “Yeah. Well, we never exactly got together. He’s so sweet and all that, but I don’t think he was ever interested in me, to be honest. Nothing really there, if you know what I mean.”

The rest of the day passes slowly. Everyone is thinking about Lucia, yet no one wants to talk about it. Just before it’s time to go, Penelope calls me into her office again.

“What do you know about peripheral vascular disease?” she asks, stretching out her hands in front of her.

“Very little,” I say.

“Do my hands look weird to you?”

“Maybe a little moisturizer, Pen. Otherwise, they look fine.”

“Okay, okay, I’m a hypochondriac. Listen, a little good news. Remember that piece you did on James Fennimore Cooper?”

Of course I remember. It was the one I slapped together the night I kneed Ryan at self-defense class. I pull a face. “Yes, I do. Sorry again.”

Pen laughs. “Listen to this.” She pulls out a piece of paper. “Dear Ms. Constanopolous, we are pleased to inform you that Chastity O’Neill’s article ‘The Cooper Effect—The Influence of America’s First Novelist on Today’s Fiction’ has won first prize, blah blah blah, yadda yadda.” Penelope grins. “Ceremony. Dinner. Five thousand dollars. For you, Chastity.”

My mouth drops open. “Five grand?”

“Yes. Congratulations!”

“Five grand? Holy crap! This means a new furnace!” I take the proffered letter and read it myself, feeling a warm flush of pleasure travel up my neck. “Did you enter this, Penelope?” I ask.

“Nope. Apparently, this foundation scans for articles written on great Americans, and they loved what you wrote. I had no idea.” She beams like a proud parent. “Now don’t get any ideas about going to work for the Times, young lady,” she warns.

“I won’t,” I say, smiling.

“Seriously, Chastity. Are you happy here?”

I look up from the letter. “Yes! Absolutely.”

“If you need room to stretch, we’ll give you a column, shift responsibilities around, whatever you want. Just say the word, okay?”

“Thank you, Penelope,” I say. “Wow. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Can I buy you a celebratory drink?”

My smile drops. “Maybe another time. With Lucia and all, I just don’t feel right about it.”

She nods. “Sure. Good form. Okay, I’m leaving. See you tomorrow. Congratulations again.”

I’m tempted to call my brothers and parents and tell them my news, but that doesn’t feel right, either. I call Ryan’s cell, but it clicks immediately over to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message. Feeling a little deflated, I leave the paper and head for home.

“Guess what, Buttercup?” I tell my dog as she pins me against the wall. “Mommy won an award.” She slobbers in admiration, and I kiss her head. “Thank you.”

I heat up a Stouffer’s pizza, reading the nutrition panel on the side. Yikes. Angela recently offered to teach me to cook—she’s doing an adult-ed class on easy French classics. Ryan mentioned last week that he wanted to have some people over for dinner, and did I think I could cook for eight or ten? When I was done laughing, he grudgingly said he’d call a caterer. I’m sure he’d approve of me learning to whip up a little coq au vin and crème brûlée.

I check the Eaton Falls Gazette Web site for naughty pictures and, finding none, heave a sigh of relief. Then I Google an address, clip the leash on Buttercup and head for the south end of town.