“Wow.”
“Yeah, he invented some computer server that’s used in almost all government agencies, banks, and large corporations. It’s impossible to hack.”
“So you expect me to interview a tech mogul when I’ve been writing articles on lipstick and wine?”
“That’s the thing, Kate. In 1999, he sold his share of J-Com technologies and fell off the radar. No one knew where he went or what he was doing with his three billion dollars. Rumors surfaced that he took the money to Africa and was building schools all across the continent with his own hands, but that was never confirmed.”
“So how did you know where to find him . . . and what is he doing now?”
“I started hearing about him three years ago when it was leaked to a California newspaper that he had purchased a nine-hundred-acre ailing winery and outdated bed-and-breakfast in Napa Valley. He managed to keep things quiet until this year, when his wine started winning every award known to man.”
The pieces were coming together slowly. “R. J. Lawson,” I said. “Yes, that Pinot is fantastic!”
“Right? It’s like everything this guy touches turns to gold.”
“Why in the world would Beth want to interview a winemaker?”
“Because he’s refused to grant interviews and hasn’t been photographed in more than a decade. Imagine if Bill Gates or Steve Jobs had disappeared at the peak of their powers. It’s a huge story.”
“I still can’t believe you’re giving this to me.”
“Well, I’m not gonna lie, Kate. You’ve been producing crap lately. Did I hear that you submitted a proposal to write a feature article on the myth that fruit gum gives you fresh breath?”
“It’s true, though. Fruity gum does not give you fresh breath. It gives you disgusting breath, and people need to know. Come on, that’s what special interest is.”
“Key word being interest. Our readers don’t care about the worthlessness of fruity gum. They want interesting stories—stories that will make them feel. Even if you’re writing a story about wine, you need to touch readers’ hearts. There has to be an element of humanity in every piece you write.”
“No, I know what you’re saying. I just haven’t been motivated since . . . Rose died.”
He looked sympathetic for a millisecond. I got the feeling that excuse was wearing thin. “You’d have to leave for California tomorrow. He’s agreed to do the interview in two parts. Tuesday and Thursday are the only days he has available, so you’ll stay at the B&B there. It will be peaceful, and you can probably knock out half the article while you’re there. Go home and talk to your boyfriend about it and let me know.”
He won’t care. He couldn’t give a shit.
“I’m in, Jerry. I don’t need to talk to Stephen about it. How long will I be out there?”
He paused with that profound look in his eyes again, and then in a low voice he said, “You’ve lost your spark, Kate. Don’t come home until you find it. Bring back a great story.”
Page 2
* * *
Lonely but Not Alone
My boyfriend Stephen and I lived in the same apartment building. We met on a Monday two years ago in the basement laundry room and had done our laundry together every week since. I could barely call Stephen my boyfriend because, aside from our weekly laundry sessions and the occasional Friday night dinner, we rarely saw each other. He was a workaholic and moving his way up the ladder at a prestigious marketing firm. He called his firm a creative agency, but really¸ they were a moneymaking agency. He spent way too much time dreaming up ways to convince clients to sell out and change the look of their products so everyone could make more money. He was dedicated and had drive, but his work schedule left little time for a girlfriend. We had more sex in that basement laundry room bent over a washer than in an actual bed.
That day, I left the Chicago Crier early to begin packing for my trip. Stephen met me in the basement at six, our usual time. We would switch off picking up dinner for each other—that week he picked up Thai food.
“Hey, how was your day?” I said as I leaned in to kiss him. Stephen was only a few inches taller than me, around five foot eight, but he had a much larger presence because of his confidence, which some people perceived as arrogance.
“Hi sweetie. My day was busy, and everybody is slamming their heads against the wall over the Copley account. I actually have to take a conference call in a few minutes,” he said as he handed me a food container. “Yellow curry, right?”
“Uh-huh.” He never asked me how my day went. I opened the lid and then immediately closed it. “Is this chicken?”
“Yeah, that’s what you like.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m a vegetarian, Stephen. I have been for ten years.”
“Yeah, but I thought you ate chicken.”
“Normally people don’t call themselves vegetarians if they eat chicken.”
“God, I’m sorry. I could have sworn I’ve seen you eat yellow curry before.”
“With tofu.”
“Well, I would offer you mine, but it has chicken in it, too,” he said as he pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket.
“I’ll just eat the rice.”
He held his finger to his mouth to quiet me before answering his phone. “Stephen Brooks. Yeah, I’ll take it. Hey, what’s up, man? Oh, you’re kidding, right? Two million. That’s what I told her.”