Yesterday's News

many other spots to hide the car.
    As I approached the dock, the tug was outlined starkly by the setting sun. I climbed the gangplank, Liz appearing at the galley door to buzz me through the gates.
    Her left hand held out a wineglass. “Thank you for coming, John. Dinner can wait till after we’ve talked. The living room?”
    I took the glass and followed her in.
    She was wearing a knit blouse and stretch pants that fit her like a second layer of skin. Sinking back casually in the sectional furniture in the living room, Rendall swashed the wine slowly around the bottom of her glass. She watched me take the rattan chair, my back to the stern and ignoring my drink.
    “You don’t like the wine?”
    “I’m sure it’s fine. Just had some bad clams in Gainesville , upset my stomach.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah. Probably you could have warned me off the place, you knew I was going down there.”
    “I tried to call you.”
    “I didn’t get any messages. Answering service on the office phone, tape machine at home. Nothing.”
    “You must have left right after the funeral. I tried to get you at the Crestview, but Jones the Cro-Magnon said you’d checked out and hung up on me. I tried your office and home, but it’s the sort of thing I couldn’t leave a message about.”
    “Exactly what kind of thing is it, Liz?”
    “You already know most of it. Or think you do, which is worse. How about you give me five minutes to tell it my way, okay?”
    Recalling the chair’s tippiness, I leaned back gingerly. “Go ahead.”
    Rendall put down her glass, positioning her body like a model for a photographer. “I was an intern on the Beacon the summer Dwight Meller died. Hagan and Schonsy let me get experience riding in the cruiser because they liked me, but they couldn’t tell the brass about it. Well, I had a crush on Neil that was so heavy, it hurt. They were getting ready to drop me off when we all saw Meller breaking in some door. Otherwise, it was just like they said and just like I wrote. I got out of Nasharbor to go back to Simmons, and when I graduated, I raised hell in every town that would have me for almost ten years. Pot, coke, men, so many I lost count. I was searching for something, but I didn’t realize I’d already found it.”
    Her sincerity was hip-deep. I wondered how long she could maintain it.
    “True love?”
    The face hardened for just an instant, then “Yes, that’s what it was. Not just a crush. Neil Hagan was the only man I ever cared for. It took me years to realize that, but I finally came to my senses. An editor in Florida named Cabbiness canned me. He tried to blackball Janey, too, just for associating with me. That’s the kind of boss he was. Well, I busted out of there and out of papers for a while into a bad marriage. A real disaster, like I told you. But at least the bastard was a rich bastard, and I was set. Financially.”
    “But not emotionally. Spiritually.”
    Rendall threw her wineglass at me. It boloed crazily before shattering against the wall behind me. “I won’t have you cheapen us! It was a good thing, and still is, between Neil and me.”
    “But just a bit outside the bonds of matrimony. His marriage, that is.”
    “His wife... his wife’s been a good partner to him and mother to his kids. He can’t just walk out on her. I understand that, and I’m willing to live with it. What I can’t live with is never quite having Neil and losing my career here. I meant what I told you once, that I think I can be managing editor when they finally push Arbuckle out the door. And I’ll be a damn good one, too. But none of that will ever happen if Arbuckle or anyone else on the paper can match up C. E. Griffin, intern and hellion, with Liz Rendall, professional journalist.”
    I said softly, “How did you ever pull it off this long?”
    She seemed to dwindle a little. “The name business or the affair?”
    “Both. Start with the names.”
    “Oh, back in seventy-one, this was a real hick paper. Lots of older reporters, been here all their lives but verging on retirement. The new ones were just coming in, baby boomers, and most of them weren’t planning on the Nasharbor Beacon being their final rung on the ladder of success. So, by the time I came back, there really wasn’t anybody I’d come in close contact with who was still on the paper. Besides, I was older. I looked different. I probably even carried myself and talked different, thanks to New York , Florida