“You’ve got to be kidding,” murmured Rose.
Jason shook his head. “I don’t do snappy.”
Rose raised her hand. Tyler looked annoyed. “Yes?”
“Does that mean we’re no longer doing in-depth pieces? I thought that was supposed to be WordMerge’s brand.”
He sighed. “The financials are difficult right now. We need to take a detour, get the page views and get the advertising.”
Another editor raised his hand. “What about the stories we’re currently working on?”
“Keep on working.”
He answered several more questions in a manner that was more vague than comforting, and closed the meeting. As Rose and Jason headed back to her desk, Tyler called them both into his office.
“Sit, sit.” He motioned to the chairs opposite his desk. “I’m killing the Barbizon story.”
Rose took a deep breath. “Why?”
“Too complex. So many story lines. It’s not for us.”
Jason spoke up. “I wish you’d let me walk you through it. There’s a narrative arc you might have missed, a compelling one.”
“The key source is returning to town in a few days,” added Rose. “And I have reams of notes. There’s a lot of gold in there.”
“Reams?” Tyler made a face. “So old school. And that’s the problem. If we’re going to survive, we have to shift gears.”
Frustration welled up. After all their work, all her digging. She imagined the looks on the women’s faces when she told them their histories hadn’t measured up. “Let me at least put together a rough outline for you. We’ve found out some shocking twists, heroin rings, identity switches. This is a killer story.”
“For The New Yorker, maybe. Not for us.”
She dug in. “When you hired me, you told me you were creating a multimedia version of The New Yorker.”
“That was then.” He turned to Jason. “I have a new assignment for you. You’ll work with Cheryl on a list of top ten narcoleptic dog videos.”
Jason spoke up. “I have to say I agree with Rose. The Barbizon story is good. It deserves a platform.”
“Sorry. I am, really. Check in with Cheryl, please.”
Rose nodded at Jason. Maybe if she could speak with Tyler alone, he’d be less defensive.
After Jason left, she tried again.
“Tyler—”
He cut her off right away. “Look, Rose, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you signed up for, I get that. But I have to ask you to go along with this. The kids out there look up to you. If you’re walking around pissed off because your story got killed, it’s not going to help morale.”
She sat back, stunned. “First of all, I don’t walk around pissed off. I’ve had stories killed before and sucked it up with no complaints. I’m more worried about the shift in focus of the site. You’ll be like everyone else. Don’t you want to stand out? Isn’t that why you formed the company in the first place?”
He bit the side of his thumb. “If you don’t like it, you should just leave.”
The realization of what he was doing hit her hard. Her salary, though paltry, was bigger than any other journalist’s at the company. He wasn’t killing anyone else’s story, only hers. Because he wanted her out.
“Tyler, would you prefer it if I left WordMerge?”
“Of course not.” The expression on his face remained unchanged. “Unless, of course, you don’t feel you’d be happy here. You might find the work slightly tedious.”
“Then you should let me go.” How much severance could she get? Four months, maybe?
“Oh, no. Of course I’d never fire you.” He’d probably figured out the cost of her severance as well. And didn’t want to pay it. “When you first came here, I was glad. But things have changed.”
Her jaw clenched. She refused to spend the few remaining days of her father’s life putting up with Tyler’s nonsense. “If I go, I’m taking everything to do with the Barbizon story with me.”
“You can’t do that, it’s the property of WordMerge.”
She lowered her voice, better to threaten him. “You don’t want that story. I do. I get everything and I don’t go to Gawker and tell them you’re floundering. You know they’d like nothing better than dirt from a notorious journalist.”
He went white. “Okay, fine, take your story with you. You can have it.”
“Thank you.” She stood, grabbed the ball that hung above his desk and yanked it so hard it came loose from its tether, then threw it into the trash can. “In that case, I quit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
New York City, 1952
Darby entered the grand lobby doors of Carnegie Hall and looked about her, confused, until a man in an usher’s uniform redirected her to the back entrance. She took the elevator up to the floor where the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was located, and stepped into a hallway filled with young people her age. Some were talking loudly or laughing, others singing scales. The noise level was astounding.
She stepped over two khaki-clad men sprawled on the linoleum floor, smoking cigarettes and reciting their lines out loud. Hopefully, Darby would get a chance to pull Esme aside before the next class began. She scanned the crowd for her friend’s dark mane, with no luck, eager to surprise her with the news that her mother had come and gone, that the deed had been done.
Darby opened a door marked OFFICE at the end of the hallway, where a secretary talked with a distinguished-looking gentleman who perched on the side of her desk. The secretary looked annoyed at the interruption.
“I’m looking for Esme Castillo.” Darby was nervous, but all the phone lessons at Katharine Gibbs had paid off, for her voice remained perfectly modulated.
“Who?” The receptionist looked down at a list on her desk. “Is she a student?”
“Yes, she began studying here this fall.”
“How do you spell that?”
Darby spelled it out and waited.
“No, I’m not familiar with that name. Hank, you heard of her?”
The man was handsome in a Hollywood way, with thick, wavy hair. He seemed to enjoy being looked at and took his time answering. “No, can’t say that I have. Are you sure you have the right school?”
“AADA. I know I do. She tried out last month. She’s been taking classes each week.”
The receptionist giggled and the man named Hank smiled. “We call them auditions, not tryouts.”
“Right. Auditions.”
“Wait a minute.” The man froze, one hand lifted, mouth parted, as if he was teasing her or playing some kind of acting game, but then his concentration broke. “Esme Castillo?”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, with so many students, it would be hard to keep track. Particularly if you were as self-aggrandizing as this guy. “Yes. That’s her.”
“Does she have an accent?”
“Yes. She’s from Puerto Rico.”
The secretary bit her lip and looked confused. “Huh.”
Hank cut in. “I do remember her. I can’t believe I ever forgot this.” He held his hand in front of him, palm facing outward, setting the scene. “I wasn’t scheduled to be on the panel that day, but Mr. Peterson was ill. This woman came in, lipstick the color of blood, shiny brown hair.”
“That’s Esme, yes.”
“She was arresting, I’ll give you that. She stood in the center of the room, wearing a dress that was quite revealing, and launched into a monologue from Romeo and Juliet. I tell you, I could barely understand a word the girl said. We sat there with our mouths agape.”
“We don’t take people with accents,” said the secretary, by way of explanation.
Romeo and Juliet. Esme had left a copy of the book in her room soon after they’d met, saying she didn’t need it anymore now that she’d been accepted. “She’s not enrolled, then?”
Hank laughed. “No, of course not. But she certainly perked us all up after a long day. I remember her well.”