LITMIR.BIZ

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you’re not a chick, so you should be flattered,” Christina said, giving him a saucy look from under her lashes.

      “You take him, Christina,” Jillian said, getting into position at the end of the line of bridesmaids. “I’ll make it on my own.”

      Just as she always had.

      Gil Reynolds typed furiously, his fingers clattering swift and sure on the keyboard, and then leaned back to read what he’d written.

      Snow & Taylor Construction, contractors for the billion-dollar downtown Portland streetcar line slated to begin construction this fall, may have won the project without a proper bid process, according to recent documents unearthed by the Gazette.

      His favorite kind of story, blowing the lid off corruption in city government. He had his facts up front, a couple of source quotes. Just the way he liked it. Of course, it was still missing that certain something.

      A comment from the guest of honor.

      With a smile, Gil pushed his dark hair back off his forehead and reached out to dial the phone.

      “Yeah?” a man’s voice answered brusquely.

      “Nash? Gil Reynolds from the Gazette. We’re running a story on possible fraud in the contracting of the streetcar project. According to the transcripts I saw, Snow & Taylor managed to get the project without competitive bidding.”

      Charlie Nash, city councillor. Better than a few, worse than most. There was a pause while Nash took it in. “Reynolds? What the hell are you doing calling me? I thought you were an editor now. You get busted back down?”

      “Filling in for one of my reporters who’s on compassionate leave.”

      “You don’t have a compassionate bone in your body,” the city councillor growled.

      Gil’s teeth gleamed. “Now, come on, Charlie, aren’t we friends? I figured this story was a good chance for us to catch up. Snow & Taylor dumped a lot of money into your campaign, didn’t they?”

      “You’re a menace.”

      Gil leaned back in his chair. “Maybe you should get that put on a plaque. I could hang it on the wall next to my Pulitzer.”

      “You run that story, I’ll sue.”

      “I’m just running the facts. What makes you think there’ll be anything to sue about? That sounds like a guilty conscience talking. Come on, you’ll feel better if you confess to Uncle Gil.”

      “In a pig’s eye. Why don’t you go after O’Donnell?”

      “O’Donnell wasn’t heading the appropriations committee when the contract got let. You were, and your buddies got the job without even trying. Seems to me like the public ought to know. I wanted to be fair and give you a chance to air your side, though. You could set the record straight. Or should I just call for an audit? You got some state and federal bucks for the project, didn’t you?”

      “You piranha.”

      Gil grinned. “Can I quote you on that, Nash?”

      “You can quote me on this.” When the line clicked, Gil chuckled. Merrily, he tapped away, listening to the hubbub of the newsroom outside his office door. In these, the waning hours before deadline, the room was gripped with a feverish purpose, everyone working as quickly as they could to get the paper together and out the door. Not the least of which was him, given that he’d been trying to fill in for two people ever since Mark’s father had had his fatal heart attack.

      “I need that streetcar story.” Ron Bates, his copy editor, stood at the door impatiently. “And the Willamette pollution story and the Logan piece.”

      “The streetcar story should be in your in-box.”

      “What about the other two?”

      “Soon,” Gil promised.

      “How soon?”

      “Gee, let me get my magic wand out and see. Look, I’m going to need at least fifteen minutes to go through them.”

      Ron glowered. “You make me miss deadline and the press manager will be coming after me. Which means I’ll be coming after you.”

      “Anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re angry, Ron?”

      “Kiss my ass,” his copy editor said, and turned away.

      Grinning, Gil picked up the ringing phone. “Reynolds.”

      “Gil, this is Alan. Alan Barrett? You know, your college buddy who’s getting married tomorrow? The guy whose rehearsal started half an hour ago? That guy?”

      Gil snapped his head around to stare at the clock, which had somehow vaulted forward an hour and a half since he’d last checked it. He uttered a heartfelt curse.

      “That’s one way of putting it.”

      “Hell, Alan, I’m sorry. One of my reporters just lost his dad and I’m filling in while he’s gone. I lost track of time. Deadlines are biting my ass today.” Gil sent off the first of the articles.

      “Yeah, well, I’ve got a deadline here, too. And a fiancée who’s working on an ulcer. You thinking about gracing us with your presence any time this year?”

      “I’ll be there in—” he calculated quickly “—twenty minutes. Twenty five.”

      Now it was Alan’s turn to curse. “Forget about the church. We’d be leaving by the time you got here.”

      “I’m really sorry, Alan.”

      “I know. Look, come to the dinner, at least, so you get a chance to meet everyone. It’s at the Odeon. You know, the new McMillan’s place?”

      “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

      Chapter Two

      One thing Jillian could say for Alan, he knew how to throw a rehearsal dinner. Forget about a discreet restaurant back room. Instead, he’d taken the upper balcony of the Odeon Tango Theater, the newest in the McMillan brothers’ chain of brewpub hotels. The old Thirties movie palace had been completely renovated, from the trompe l’oeil and molded-plaster ceiling to the gold-leafed moldings to the deep burgundy curtains that covered the stage.

      The tables on the balcony were arranged to accommodate the wedding party and the various out-of-town relatives and friends of Alan’s who’d been invited. At the gleaming walnut bar against the wall, the bartender pulled pints of the McMillan’s award-winning beers. On the tables, bottles of champagne chilled in ice buckets, readily at hand for the rash of toasts that were already taking place.

      That was fine with Jillian. In her current mood, it was easy to substitute sipping champagne for conversation. Not that it was necessarily a smart move, especially since drinking wasn’t normally her thing. Champagne, even with its effervescent bubbles, wouldn’t banish the loneliness. Champagne wouldn’t banish the memory of the pang she’d felt when she’d walked back up the aisle all alone, toward the laughing crowd of paired-up bridesmaids and ushers. Sure, it was just the wedding rehearsal, but in a way it was a reflection of her life. She wasn’t a part of the laughing crowd, she wasn’t a part of a pair.

      She never had been.

      When, she wondered with a thread of desperation, would it change?

      When you make it change.

      She knew the textbook explanation for why she kept people at arm’s length—raised in squalor, abandoned at four with her twin brother, David, by their mother, neglected by their stroke-ridden grandmother, raised to feel unimportant, unloved, unwanted.

      Unworthy.

      She knew it was irrational. And as a therapist, she knew how difficult it was to root out feelings grown from the seeds of childhood trauma,

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