The Big Scoop

“Oh, right,” Percy said as Jack wondered what “secrets” a town like Grand Forks could harbor. “Well anyway, son, we’re closed for a week.”

Weary to the soles of his feet, thirsty, hungry, sweaty and only mildly curious as to what a peach-off might be, Jack asked if there wasn’t some way he could impose for just one night. The prospect of negotiating the valley’s dusty roads in search of a bed and bath was unbearable. He’d sooner crawl into the Mustang and die.

“Well…” Martha squinted at her husband. “There is the honeymoon suite. Bed’s made, at least.”

As Jack grew resigned to his impending suicide, the Pittles launched into a lengthy discussion of just whether or not they should be taking on a guest, what with all that was going on and…

“Squawwwwwwwwk.”

The screech coming from the far corner of the room gave Jack a jolt. He’d spotted the parrot in the gilded cage soon after entering the room, but had taken it for a stuffed ornament.

“Squawwwwwwwwk. Polly wants a martini.”

In a stern voice, Percy told the bird it was “too early” for cocktails, then turned to Jack. “Tell you what, Goldy. Martha and I have to run into town and pick up a few things for the party. If you’ll keep an eye on this place, we’ll give you that suite for the night.”

Jack said he couldn’t thank them enough, then followed Martha down a long hall and into a bed-sitting room fresh off a Norman Rockwell canvas. Big and bright, it had a quilted sleigh bed, a tea table, a hand-hewn rocking chair and a mess of needlepoint cushions only his mother could love. Actually the room was beautiful—if you liked little pink and green hearts.

Martha told him to help himself to whatever he wanted from the kitchen, then looked him over sadly. “Goldy, did you pack a bag? You’re lookin’ a little mangy ’round the edges.”

The Satellite occasionally sent him on overnight assignments, so Jack kept a shaving kit in the trunk of the Mustang, but he hadn’t brought a change of clothes along on this trip. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Tell you what. There’s a robe in your bathroom there. You leave your grubbies outside the door and I’ll put ’em in the washer. You’ll have to put ’em in the dryer, though. Can you manage that?”

Jack said he could. A cool shower, clean clothes, a snack, dinner with a pretty milkmaid and a comfortable bed. Things were looking up. As soon as Martha left the room, he gave up his clothes and went into the bathroom, only to discover that the “robe” in question was a woman’s pink paisley housecoat with a lace collar and satin piping. Nice. His beer buddies would howl.

After the Pittles left, he took a long, cool shower, donned the ridiculous robe and ambled into the kitchen. An apple and a hunk of cheese later, he called Marty McNab at the Satellite. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey, Jack. How’s it going? Did you get the big scoop?” There was the sound of a hand covering a receiver, some muffled chat and a chorus of howls. Obviously Marty had a room full of reporters covering the weekend beat.

“No, I didn’t, Marty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I haven’t done the interview yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, it’s sort of complicated.”

Polly let out another squawk. “Polly wants a gin and tonic!”

“Who was that?” Marty asked. “Are you at a party?”

“No. Just so you know, I’m staying here tonight.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“Because I’m going to need more time than I thought, that’s why.”

From the tsk, tsk sound he made, you’d think Marty was trying to reason with an idiot. “Jack, Jack, Jack. There’s no story there, and you know it.”

“Really, boss? Then why did you send me here?”

Marty chuckled low in his throat.

“Anyway, there is a story here. At least I think there is.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the angle?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Jack said honestly. “Woman saves a dying town with ice cream—something like that.” He recalled the flush in Sally’s cheeks, the fire in her eyes, the passion in her pitch.

“For crying out loud, Jack. It was a joke. You’ve served your time. You can come home now.” There was more chortling behind Marty. Someone laughed loud enough to induce a coughing fit.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “I know it was a joke, Marty. I may be arrogant, but I’m not stupid.”

“Then bang off three paragraphs and e-mail them to me tonight. We’ll run them tomorrow and that’ll be the end of it.”

No, Jack thought, surprised by the depth of his own renewed passion. Sally expected—and deserved—more. “That won’t be possible. I’m dining with my source tonight.”

“Dining? Where are you? Club Med?”

Jack grinned. “Gee, boss, I thought you told me to treat this assignment as a vacation.”

Marty grumbled and groused as Jack promised to do the interview during dinner and write the piece tomorrow. “You can run it on Monday.”

“Sunday, Monday, whatever. Just remember, Jack, Northern Consolidated and Blain Enterprises are holding a press conference on Monday morning to announce that merger. It’s a big story. I need you there.”

Jack was well aware of the conference. No sweat. He’d be home long before then. “Don’t fret, boss.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Listen, Jack. Since you’re there anyway, do me a favor, would you? Drop in and give my best to Charlie Sacks at the Post. We were college roommates back in the day.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, Marty. The Post will be closed.”

“Then look him up at home. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Jack said he would if, and only if, he found the time. Ending the call, he tallied the damage to date: Dine with Sally, do the interview, tour the dairy barn, look at Sally’s photos, get some sleep, visit the dairy bar, visit with Charlie Sacks, drive home, write the article, get some sleep….

“How ’bout we have that drink later,” he said to Polly, but the bird had nodded off. Seemed like a good idea. Maybe he should grab a nap, too. His watch read four-fifteen.

“AND SO I THOUGHT, well hey, why not? I mean, we’ve always produced milk and cheese and butter and cream, but never ice cream, and all the other big dairies do, so why not us? We have the talent and the equipment. We’re perfectly capable. Soooooo, to make a long story short, we experimented with different recipes, Tilly and I, for months on end. You, know, various ratios of fruit to cream and so on, and then it just became a matter of…”

Seeing Jack’s eyes glaze over, Sally trailed off and gave him a rueful look. After his appalling behavior this afternoon, he deserved an earful. But she’d been babbling away at him practically nonstop for three hours now—right through cocktails, appetizers, dinner with wine, coffee, liqueurs and double helpings of Peach Paradise. They were seated together on her sofa now, trying not to touch.

“I suppose you don’t need all of this information,” she said with a nervous laugh. What was it about this guy that made her schizoid?

Jack shook his head. “Not true. It’s an old rule of thumb in feature-writing that more is better. I may not use everything you’ve given me, but it’s good to have it.”

Okay, that was sweet. As promised, he was taking her seriously. Frankly, it was a little hard to take him seriously in that ridiculous getup—Percy Pittle’s baggy denim coveralls and Pretty Peach Party Hardy T-shirt. She’d avoided mentioning it up until now, but couldn’t resist any longer.

“Jack Gold, I can’t believe you’ve been in town less than one day and have already sunk to the level of farm fashion. Did Martha dress you, or did you manage this yourself?”

“I’m afraid it’s my own doing. If I hadn’t overslept, I would have had time to dry my own things. And, actually, these jeans are pretty comfortable. I might just change my look.”

“Oh no, don’t do that!” Sally blushed furiously. What a dumb thing to say. It was important to keep things professional here. What with the lobster bisque, the ten-year-old chardonnay, her barely-there white minidress and the ravish-me scent she surely must be giving off, Jack would think she was trying to seduce him. Worse, he’d think she was trying to influence him. Oh, yes. Sally Darville, couch-friendly starlet of the dairy set. Willing to exchange favors for favorable copy.

What had she been thinking, sitting this close to him? Everything she didn’t want to notice about the guy was right in her face. His silky tawny hair, curling slightly at the edges. His long lashes, blond at the rim, darker at the ends, framing those stunningly intelligent eyes. Oh, and his hands. The man had beautiful hands. She could just imagine them….

Enough already!

“So,” her motormouth drove on, “I think we should talk about the story. I’m thinking a full—no, that’s excessive—a half-page feature, maybe, as the main article, plus photos, of course, and possibly a sidebar story. A history of Darville Dairy. Or, perhaps, a profile of Peachtown. What do you think?”

Jack stared at her as if she were deranged. Then—what nerve, honestly—he threw back his head and roared. “Tell me something, Sally Darville. Do you always get your own way?”

“Of course not,” she lied. “But, this is my story.” Why did she have to keep reminding people of that?

“Maybe so, but it’s my story assignment, and I’ll decide how to handle it.”

Sally couldn’t think of a single good response to that. It was his assignment, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

They lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence and gazed at one another. Sally tried hard to read Jack’s eyes, but they were inscrutable. Darn it, he had to feel the attraction, too. All those lust motes in the air couldn’t be hers alone.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “More coffee? More Peach Paradise?” Could I drag you into my bedroom and never let you leave it?

Jack’s hands flew up as if to ward off an attack. “No thanks, Sally. If I eat more of that fabulous ice cream tonight, I’ll explode. But if you can spare a pint, I’d love to take it back to the inn with me.”

“No problem.” Sally went into the kitchen and pulled a carton from the freezer. Setting it on the counter, she grabbed a moment. Whew. Never in her life had she been so physically attracted to a man. And why did it have to be this man? First of all, he was a conceited jerk. He might be making nice tonight, but his true colors had been on full display this afternoon. Secondly, he probably had a steady girlfriend in Vancouver—some slick corporate babe with a million teeth and a closetful of stilettos. Thirdly, he was a reporter and she was a source. There was a clear conflict of interest.

Of course, once the story was written, that would no longer apply….

No. It was no good. He’d be writing the article in Vancouver, not here. And once it was written, he’d be out of her orbit forever. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Forget it, Sally. Not going to happen.”

When she got back to the living room, Jack was on his feet by the front door, looking at something. “This hinge is about to give. If you remind me in the morning, I’ll tighten it up for you.”

Oh wow, Sally thought, handsome and handy. “Great. I’d appreciate that.”

He thanked her for a terrific interview and a lovely evening.

Handing him the ice cream, she said, “I’ll expect you around nine tomorrow, Jack. I trust that’s not too early for you?”

“No problem. I plan to be on the road by noon at the latest.”

She feigned ignorance. “You mean I won’t get to read the article before you go?”

“No. I’ll write it at home tomorrow night. And even if I did have time to write it here, it’s strictly against Satellite policy to clear copy with sources.”

“I wouldn’t change a word of it,” Sally lied.

“Oh yeah? How many times have I heard that? Anyway, I promise to do the story justice, Sally. You don’t have to worry about that.” He seemed to recall something then. “Speaking of promises, I told my editor I’d look up Charlie Sacks tomorrow. I expect you know him?”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Everybody knows Charlie.”

“Could I impose on you to make the introduction? I only know the man by reputation, and I generally don’t like to bother people at home on Sunday.”

“I’d love to! Um, I mean, sure, no problem.”

Sally walked Jack to the Mustang, then stood there feeling foolish and girlish and awkward while he fumbled for his keys. Was it just her or did he seem a little nervous, too? What possible reason could he have to…?

Their eyes met. Overhead a million stars twinkled like diamonds on a bed of black velvet. Somewhere in the distance a night owl screeched. Then Jack Gold did something so inappropriate, and so utterly unexpected, it left Sally reeling for hours. Instead of shaking hands, he bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek, then jumped into his car and sped off. Just like that.

She let out a yell. Yes! It wasn’t just her! He did feel the attraction, too. Mind whirling, she raced inside and called Charlie. It was late, but so what? He owed her.

“Charlie, sweetie, remember that time I baby-sat your five grandkids?”

“Ah, you’re not gonna bring that up again, are you?”

“Remember how they ran me ragged for three hours?”

“Oh now, Sally, ragged is a strong word….”

“Listen up, Charlie. I need a favor.”

4

“SO, WHY ME?”

Sally glanced sideways at Jack. They were cruising along county road nineteen, the Mustang holding tight to the road as the morning sun warmed their skin.

What did he mean by “why me?” Why do you find me to be the most attractive man who ever lived? Why do you want me to pull over right now and kiss you again, like I did last night, only properly this time? Why…

“I mean, why me specifically?” he pressed. “My editor said you requested me personally. Was it because I won the Gobey?”

Oh! Oh! He was talking about the story.

“Actually, no,” Sally said truthfully. “I don’t mean to diminish your achievement. It’s really something, winning that award. But…it was more the way you won it. Those people in your story, who lost all their pension money to those horrible crooks? You wrote about them as if you really cared about them, as if you really felt their pain and anger.”

Jack flashed her a bemused smile and Sally wondered if she’d assumed too much. Maybe he didn’t give a damn about those poor people. Maybe he wasn’t even capable of feeling that way. Maybe—oh, God—maybe he was just a slick, heartless, egotistical, big-city reporter building his career on the backs of helpless victims.

“I didn’t care about them,” Jack admitted. “Not at first. But by the time I got around to writing their story, I was angry, too. I guess that came through in my copy.”

“Oh, it did!” Mindful of her tendency to gush around the guy, Sally buttoned it and concentrated on the pavement unfolding before them. It was odd, she thought, how comfortable their silences were. They were perfect strangers and they’d gotten off to a bad start. Shouldn’t there be some tension between them? Some awkwardness? Instead they both seemed to use their quiet moments to refuel for the next round. It was refreshing, exciting, wondrous even.

“So, how do you know what a sidebar is?” Jack asked. “Yesterday you said you envisioned a sidebar story along with the main article.”

Sally sighed. Okay, it was wondrous until hotshot opened his mouth to change feet. “This may come as a shock to you, Jack Gold, but some of us hicks in this here hick town actually went to college.”

Grinning, he patted the top of his head.

Sally frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking my height. I think I just came down another notch.”

She laughed heartily. So, he could feel another’s pain, and he could laugh at himself. Those were good signs. Two, anyway.

Jack geared down for a steep hill. “Where did you go to college?”

“The University of British Columbia, just like you. I didn’t get a master’s degree, but I did do undergraduate work in journalism along with my regular courses.”

“You’re kidding. When did you graduate?”

“Four years ago,” Sally said. Long after Jack had come and gone from UBC. She didn’t mention that he’d been a minor legend on campus, the one and only former editor of the student newspaper whose editorials were used as the standard by which all such writing should be judged. Jack being Jack, he probably knew that.

“Why didn’t you major in journalism?” he asked. “You’d have made an awesome reporter.”

Oh wow, what a nice thing to say. Sally knew that, of course, but coming from Cracker Jack Gold it was a true compliment. She almost replied that a degree in journalism would have led to a less than glamorous career at the Peachtown Post, but some instinct told her to keep that thought under wraps. Besides, her life had been mapped out long ago.

“I always knew I’d end up doing the job I’m doing. My family has been in this valley for over a hundred years. I have roots here. I can’t imagine living or working anywhere else.”

It was Jack’s turn to clam up now. Sally could just hear him thinking: I could never live in a backwater like this. But he surprised her. “I don’t have roots anywhere. I was an army brat. Lived in base housing all over Canada, went to a new school every year. Never made any real friends.”

“Why did you pick UBC?”

“It had the programs I wanted.”

“Okay, why did you decide to stay in Vancouver?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Hey, who’s doing the interviewing here?”

“Just curious.”

“The Satellite made me the best job offer.”

“So, you aren’t especially—” Sally searched for a word “—loyal to Vancouver then? I mean, do you plan to live there for the rest of your life?”

He shook his head. “I love the West Coast, but I could never be loyal to any one place. Or to any one employer for that matter. It’s a good thing, too. Now that I’ve won the Gobey, I’ll be recruited by major newspapers across the country. Probably in the States, too.”

Wow, what confidence, Sally thought. Not, I’ll probably be recruited, but I will be. It was true, of course. All Gobey winners had their pick of the best jobs available. Soon Jack would be making a name for himself in Montreal or Toronto or New York. There was no sense in getting excited by the possibility of…of what, exactly? What was she thinking? That he might stick around here? Fat chance!

“Where am I going?” he asked as they approached the junction of the county road and Main Street. As planned, Sally instructed him to turn south, away from town. Charlie lived a few blocks north of the town centre, but there was something she needed to show Jack before he hightailed it out of here, as he so clearly wanted to do.

Anyway, enough personal talk. What business of hers was it where he chose to live? “So, I guess you could never live in a place like this, huh?”

Jack glanced over at her just long enough to show surprise. Dumb question, his expression said. “No, I couldn’t. No offense, Sally, but I really don’t want to be here one minute longer than I have to.”

Ouch. Did he have to be so blunt?

“I’ll bet I can guess how you live in Vancouver,” she ventured. Why not have a little fun?

He seemed amused. “Oh yeah? Go for it.”

“Okay. I’ll bet you live in an architecturally correct condo in West Van, with leather chairs and stainless steel appliances and a pleasing, if not exactly spectacular, view of the coastal mountains.”

“Wrong.” He let a moment pass before casting her a smile. “I live in an architecturally correct town house in West Van with leather chairs and stainless steel appliances and a pleasing, if not exactly spectacular, view of the coastal mountains.”

“A minor distinction at best. Score—Sally one, Jack nothing. Let me see now. I’ll bet your town house is surrounded by all sorts of trendy little shops and cafés, all of which you cite as your reason—make that your justification—for living in crowded, overpriced West Van, but none of which you’ve ever set foot in.” Was she clever, or what? She could have been an FBI profiler.

“Wrong again. I eat out almost every night, at a trendy little bistro four doors down from my architecturally correct town house. I shop in the local stores, and I’m a Friday night fixture at the corner pub. I’ve got my own stool there.”

“Okay. You score one point, even though I suspect you’re exaggerating.”

He laughed. “Maybe a little.”

Actually, Sally could just picture him sitting on that stool, sipping some pricey foreign ale while he read and admired his own copy in that day’s Satellite. Probably he wasn’t alone. Probably he was reading it aloud to someone.

Someone special.

“One last guess. I’ll bet you’ve got a very tall, very thin girlfriend who dresses in black and smokes French cigarettes.” That sounded like fishing, but how else was she going to learn anything about the guy? He wasn’t exactly gushy about his personal life.

Jack let the question hang there for a moment, and Sally braced herself for the inevitable. Of course there was a girlfriend. Maybe more than one. A guy like him? Educated, gorgeous, soon to be famous. He probably had the world’s biggest speed dial.

“Wrong yet again,” Jack finally said. “One more strike and you’re out.”

Sally waited for details, but, clearly, none were forthcoming. Talk about smooth. He hadn’t really answered the question at all. His girlfriend might be short with red hair. Or medium with no hair. He didn’t ask if she had a boyfriend, either. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked her a single question that didn’t relate to the story. Obviously he didn’t care.

Oh well, it was time to switch her hormones off, anyway—stop fantasizing about the impossible and get her mind back on the story.

Their turn was just ahead. Following her directions, Jack swung left onto the smooth two-lane blacktop, its centre line a ribbon of bright, untarnished yellow. They passed through a dark tunnel formed by the bowed, sweeping branches of overgrown poplars, then abruptly burst into a sun-dappled meadow.

Sally watched Jack for his reaction to the spectacle ahead.

Obviously stunned, he slowed the Mustang to a crawl, his gaze riveted on the ghostly remains of half-built structures—shops, restaurants and, beyond, a network of empty streets where new homes should have been.

He brought the car to a full stop in the middle of the deserted road and sat there, gawking. Sally gave him a moment to take it all in.

“What do you see, Jack?” She held her breath.

He took a long time to frame his answer. “I see…a vision…wasted.”

Yes! She had been so right. Jack Gold was the one and only reporter who could tell her story.

“What happened here, Sally?”

As he eased off the brake and proceeded slowly along the access road, she explained how several years ago the town had sold the land to a developer with an inspired vision: Build a series of small, independent communities extending south of town—pods, sort of—that would attract young families looking for affordable homes, with schools and shops nearby. The plan had been to recruit a few national store chains and at the same time to presell the homes. Then the drought came and the local economy tanked. The buyers didn’t come. “The chains backed out. The developer lost his shirt and, well, this is the outcome.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Jack marveled as he cruised through the eerie district, looking all around him. “I’ve never seen anything so…unfinished.”

“That’s just it, Jack! There’s a standing proposal before town council to recruit another developer, but no one in the valley is interested. And there’s no way we can finish the project ourselves, not without raising property taxes through the roof.” Sally was ranting again and she knew it, but she just had to get Jack on board. “Do you know what this would have meant for Peachtown?”

He parked at a curb and turned toward her. “This isn’t really about ice cream, is it, Sally?”