Page 22 of Under the Weatherman
“Whatever it takes. Seriously, though.” She paused in the maelstrom of the whirring coffee machines to beam at me, always making sure to give me her full attention when it mattered. “That’s excellent, E. I’m rooting for you.”
Todd, her manager, squeezed in behind her. “Chelsea, I need you to work the cash register.” He cast a glance at me with a sour expression. “Hi, Elizabeth. Maybe you two could chat later?”
The place had gotten pretty crowded. “Let me let you let me go,” I said, repeating a Pee Wee Herman line that never got old.
“Call me.” She ducked around Todd and called back. “We can get takeout from the Afghan place.”
“If I’m free.” I waved, carrying my freebie latte out the door.
I wove through the crowded pedestrian mall toward a side street where I caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired man climbing into a silver sedan. I did a double-take, but when he looked up, it wasn’t Evan. I was seeing ghosts.
My stomach twisted in knots at the unlikelihood of running into him. For the millionth time, I chided myself for being so short-sighted in the moment.
I blamed Chelsea’s list.
* * *
When I announced myself at the front desk, the secretary led me to an office with an open door. “Ms. Madison? Your ten o’clock.”
A voice called, “Come in!”
I glued on a smile and walked in, holding my hand out for a shake when the woman behind the desk stood. “Hello, Ms. Madison. Elizabeth Wright. I’m here for the interview.” Channeling some character from a televised crime drama, I put on a no-nonsense-I-mean-business tone with her. It sounded like a frog high on helium to my ears.
She studied me for a moment, mouth twisted in indecision, like she could see past the crisply ironed shirt to my wrinkled interior. I withered under her scrutiny until, finally, she reached her hand out to shake mine. “Please, call me Shelby. Thank you for coming in so quickly.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Shelby waved at a chair, and we both sat. “I know you applied for the news writer position, but I’m actually looking to fill a number of roles and hoped you might be amenable to something a little more challenging. The writer job is low responsibility, and in this town, I have no doubt I can fill it. After all, writers are a dime a dozen.”
I squelched a litany of curse words at the dismissive insult, then recalled how many writers’ works I’d edited in the past few months and forced myself to smile. “Yes. That’s true.”
“But according to your résumé, you’ve been juggling several jobs.” In order to bulk up my experience, I’d added everything I’d ever done. My copy editing gig all by itself seemed so pathetic. “Apart from editing, you run an inn.” Okay so I’d fudged that a little. “And work at one of my favorite restaurants. That place is always hopping.” She peered at me over folded hands. “You know how to prioritize tasks, get things done.”
“Yes.” If she wanted to keep talking about my nonexistent strengths, I wouldn’t interrupt.
She licked her red, glossy lips, nodding, convincing herself I was the fiction I’d created out of thin air. “That’s why I’m considering you for the role of associate news producer.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Producer?”
Had I fucked myself by impersonating someone more employable? Even I couldn’t pretend to do a job like that.
“Yes, someone else might have more experience. But you can learn fast, can’t you? And you’d work hard.”
I swallowed back my urge to self-deprecate, channeling her go-getter spunk and misguided belief in me. Sitting up taller, I said, “I would,” without stuttering. Chelsea would be so proud.
“The job does require a strong writer, but mainly you’ll help the head producer coordinate the rundown. You’ll work with the on-air personalities and write their script for the broadcast. It’s a full-time job.”
I was suddenly all ears. “By full time—”
“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. It’s long hours, Monday through Thursday. You’ll need to be here by two o’clock for the daily meeting and stay through the broadcast at eleven, with a break for dinner. You’ll have Friday and weekends off and accrue paid time off as well, of course.”
Paid time off sounded like heaven. I’d never had that perk. But working so many hours, could I manage my editing deadlines? Or would I have to finally let that pipe dream go?
I must’ve looked like a deer caught in the headlights because Shelby snapped her fingers then lifted an envelope. “These are forms we’d need to have back before you start. You can read through the employee handbook, and of course we’ll make sure you get all the training manuals.”
“Wait. Are you offering me the job?” She hadn’t asked me a single substantive question. That felt like a huge red flag. Did the last associate producer die? Was the news station haunted? Was I being pranked? This didn’t add up.
“We ran a background check already, and we want to fill this position quickly.” A small smile played at her mouth as if I needed to be coaxed into accepting. “There are plenty of opportunities to grow here. You could be doing the lead producer’s job in a year.” She laughed. “Hell, you could be doing mine in five.” She slid the envelope over. “The salary offer is in the paperwork. Go ahead and see.”
