Soon, word came Vivian had died from complications. Randall Osborne informed Sherelle she had inherited the position. Her big break, she thought. Then grumblings sparked over her zeal and high ambitions. As much as she hated it, Sherelle shared her concerns with Randall. Sherelle suggested she and David Schiffer share the managing editor’s responsibilities until he found a replacement. Randall praised her for the way she handled the promotion and promised he’d not forget it.
After Vivian’s funeral, Sherelle headed to the office and cleaned out the former managing editor’s desk. Boxing Vivian’s personal things made Sherelle feel cold and heartless. Was there a waiting period to do such things? Should Randall’s secretary be the one to do this? Or was Sherelle so career-driven that she’d lost all compassion? With a thread of defiance, Sherelle reached across Vivian’s desk and scooped all Vivian's belongings in the curl of her arm and let them fall into the cardboard box. To shut the lingering voices inside her head, Sherelle threw all that remained in the trash. The pressures of assignment and managing editor forced her to ignore her guilty feelings. She had to move on.
Soon fatigue became a constant irritant. A week ago she overslept two days in a row. That prompted her to get up at three forty-five a.m. On days when she would awake too early to take the train, she called a cab.
After several grueling weeks of this tortuous schedule, Sherelle decided to set the alarm on her cell phone five minutes before arriving at her stop. She would sleep on the train with her elbow anchored to the window and the phone pressed to her ear. On her way home, slouched in her seat in that precise position, she heard someone call her name.
“Ms. Lindsey? Sherelle?”
Sherelle grunted, bobbed her head, but didn’t open her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, but we need to get this article done or we won’t make our deadline. Randall will be furious.” Sherelle smacked her lips then leaned her head on the window.
“Ms. Lindsey.”
Sherelle opened her eyes then looked at the hand clasped to her shoulder. She wiped her mouth and sat straight. “Yes,” she whispered in a raspy voice, inching away.
“Remember me?”
She looked out the window to see if she had missed her stop. Then she read the train’s marquee and breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't missed her stop.
“You dropped your phone. May I?”
Sherelle took her phone then placed her hand in the vacant seat. “Who are you?”
“Major Williams. Remember? Cairo?”
Sherelle rubbed her eyes with her forearm then took another look at him. “Major Williams? What are you doing in Washington?”
“I work in the downtown area. And you?” After Sherelle moved her hand, Major Williams sat and slid his briefcase between his feet.
“I moved here six and a half months ago, on January 31st to be exact. I got a job as an editor for The Nation’s News.”
“You’ve been here six and a half months?” Major Williams’ narrowed his eyes. “You know, I thought I saw you in April. Here on the train. I waved it off. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. It was the first anniversary of our ordeal in Cairo. The papers had printed all kinds of stories on it. People were hounding me for another interview. I did my last one pretty much under the general’s orders so he’d stop feeling the heat. Now, I realize I hadn’t imagined it. It really was you.”
“Was I slumped in my seat sleeping?”
“You were fully awake. I do remember you looked a little scared.”
“I can’t imagine why.” Sherelle placed her phone in her purse then rubbed her eyes again before turning away to yawn.
“Maybe, like me, you were thinking about Cairo.”
“That could be,” she said patting her lips. “I remember it rained that day. Big, cold raindrops.”
“Are you sure? I thought it was cool and sunny.”
“It was that morning. That afternoon it poured. I stood in it until I was soaked.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I think that was my way of celebrating my escape from Egypt.”
“I see.”
“I’m grateful our newspaper was focused on another White House scandal. Of course, when they asked, I told them I couldn’t do an interview or write a column. It was too soon for me. As a result, we didn’t put much emphasis on the story. But our executive editor warned me that he wanted a story in the near future. I’m hoping that day never comes.”
“Which White House scandal diverted their attention?”
“The one about the press secretary cheating on his college exam.”
“Aaah, that one. There’s always a little truth to every story, isn’t there? It’s too bad small truths get buried and marred by the press.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“No! Of course not. ” Sherelle rolled her eyes. “We report the news. We don’t create it, slant it, or bend it the way we think it ought to go. We follow wherever the story leads. But I’m sure that’s too simplistic for you to understand.”
“Really? One day we’ll have to sit down and have a healthy debate. Tell me, how are you? You look like you’ve recovered from Egypt quite well.”
Annoyed by his assertions, she couldn’t hold on to hard feelings, not with those gorgeous eyes staring at her. “Yes, I have. For the first three months, nightmares kept me up half the night. I still have them, but less frequent. Now that I’m working long hours, whenever my head hits the floor, I’m out. Half the time I can’t remember if I dreamed or not.”
“What are your hours?”
“I get up at three forty-five and don’t get home until sixteen hours later.”
Lennie frowned. “Is this every day?”
“When I get overwhelmed, which happens once or twice a week, I’ll leave work at four or five and go home and sleep. But if we have a pressing story, I’ll wake at one o’clock to finish it, or I’ll send out e-mails.”
“It seems unreasonable to work so many hours. What do you do on Sundays?”
“Sleep. I get up to eat, go to the bathroom, and that’s it. Do you ever think about Cairo?” she asked, trying to break her concentration from the soft woodsy smell creeping through her nostrils.
“All the time. You?”
“My nightmares are consumed with Cairo. But since I took this job, I don't dream as much.”
“Tell me about your dreams.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’d sit here and cry.”
“You’re safe now. What’s there to cry about?”
“I have many regrets. It was foolish to stay in Cairo. I know that now. I’d do anything to take it all back.”
“Ms. Lindsey, do you know the—”
“Please, call me Sherelle.”
“Sherelle, do you know the definition of a gift?”
“Of course I do.”
He raised one eyebrow that expressed doubt. “Let me explain. A gift is something you receive that you may or may not deserve. It’s especially precious when you can’t pay it back. Would you agree?”
“Yes, I do. But—”
“There you have it. Since you and I can’t go back in time and change the events we experienced in Cairo, what do you say we both be happy with the outcome?”
“That’s a good speech, Major Williams, but it’s a hard thing to do. All I can tell you is that I’ll try.”
“Good enough. Now, I want to know what you do for fun.”
“Did you not hear anything I said? I work twenty-four seven. I haven’t seen any sights or even taken time to visit the White House. My life is kind of pathetic right now.”
“You’re a journalist and you haven’t been to the White House? That is pathetic. I warn you, if you get too caught up in the business of Washington, you’ll look up one day and be eighty years old.”
“Too late,” she quipped. “I’m twenty-five and I feel like I’m sixty.”
Lennie tilted his head and laughed. “What neighborhood you live in?”
“I have a studio apartment on 4th and K Street.”
“That makes us neighbors. I live at 6th and M. We get off at the same stop.” His excitement escalated.
Sherelle surveyed his dreamy eyes, his rich, creamy chestnut face, and pearly white teeth. He wore a deep blue suit, white shirt, and a silk navy and yellow tie. She’d like nothing more than to feel the fabric between her fingers. It had the characteristics of raw silk—tiny gnarled threads in various places with a light sheen. Sherelle loved the way he pushed his head back and laughed. He had a Lamman Rucker kind of smile, evenly filed fingernails, and a razor sharp hairline.
“What type of editing do you do at The Nation’s News?”
“I was copy editor for a short time then promoted to assignment editor. My co-worker and I share the managing editor's position now.”
“Sherelle, an assignment editor shouldn’t work twelve- to sixteen-hour days.”
“Did I fail to mention I’m working two positions, not just one? I’m working as assignment editor and managing editor.”
Lennie’s brow pleated with concern. “That’s crazy. Why?”
“After our managing editor died, I was promoted. Co-workers grumbled about my advancement so I requested that my co-worker and I continue to share the managing editor's position, that is, until they hire a replacement. Hiring a managing editor has dragged on for months. I think if there’s a way to bleed a dime out of a dollar, Randall Osborne will find it.”
“That’s too much responsibility. Why don’t you speak up?”
“I’ve got my eye on the managing editor's position. It’s my dream job.”
“Well, if my theory is correct, you won’t get it any time soon so you might as well take time to sit back and relax.”
Sherelle felt disheartened. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s the nature of things. You’ve got to pay your dues like everybody else. Didn’t you say you were twenty-five? Didn’t you also say there was grumbling about your promotion?”
Sherelle lowered her shoulders, but not her high expectations. “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably right. I really thought Randall promoted me because I was good at my job. I realize now no one wanted that huge responsibility. It’s a lot of work.”
“And your co-workers don’t want you to have the position either. That’s one of the main reasons most employers hire from the outside. Managing people is the hardest part of office work. You also have to deal with the fact people have other things to do beside work all day. Believe me, you won’t find many who will put in the hours you do.”
“For now my life is my job. But I’m glad I roped my co-worker, David, into this with me. I think it worked out for everyone.” Sherelle looked up when the train stopped. “I get off here.”
As Lennie stepped off the train, he motioned to his left. “I’m headed this way.”
“It was nice seeing you, Major Williams.”
“Why don’t we do dinner?” he asked, hating to see her leave.
“Oh, I’m not sure Major—Laurence.”
“Lennie. It’s Lennie.”
“Sorry. Lennie, most evenings I don’t get home until late.”
“And you don’t eat? Look, why don’t we meet this Saturday? I’d like to hear what you think of Washington. Maybe get into a debate about the press. Six o’clock?”
Sherelle hesitated. “O-Okay. Sure. Six o’clock is fine. Where?”
“I can pick you up if you’ll tell me where.”
“Mount Vernon Apartments. Fourth floor.”
Chapter 7
Since General Carter’s lecture on marriage, Lennie found it difficult to forget about Sherelle Lindsey. He’d not gone a day without thinking of her. As much as he resisted temptations to hold her responsible for ending his career, he still fought with it as he’d sit on a park bench and watch military helicopters fly over the Capitol. In wee hours of the night, he heard rotors throb through layers of darkness. His dreams hurled him into an imaginary world where he would rush to save others. But he always woke confused. Someone had rescued him.
According to his friends, post-traumatic syndrome had leeched onto him and wreaked havoc on his peaceful nights. “One of those missions was bound to get to you, man,” one Army buddy blurted out. Others said his misguided emotions stemmed from his attraction to the woman he’d pulled out of Cairo. Every man had his limit, Lennie thought. He just hadn’t expected a woman to draw his line in the sand.
Last April he thought he saw Sherelle Lindsey on the train. He had dismissed it and declared he needed something else to do. As a consequence, he spent too much time in theaters, sometimes mindlessly watching the same movie twice, barely remembering movie titles or actors’ names.
Blind dates didn’t take the edge off either. He sometimes drifted into another world while ignoring a lithe blonde’s babbling about the latest fashion; an over-tanned young brunette’s constant rambling over a new tattoo; or a curvy drama queen’s rant concerning her dead-end job. His indifference granted him early dismissals from those overwrought females’ turgid sermons. Many times he didn’t have to walk his dates to the door. They washed their hands of him and said as much after slamming the car door. Most had childish tantrums out of frustration. Some slapped him. Others arranged another date before leaving the car.
As expected he got an earful from Harold and Victoria. He didn’t care. Lennie refused to pour all his time and energy into someone who valued a relationship by dollars and cents. Last time he violated his first intuition, he ended up engaged to Angela. A poor choice he vowed never to repeat.
He thought taking the supervisory position in counterintelligence would fill holes in his life. To some degree, it had. He stayed busy, oftentimes too busy, but his soul yearned for more. On several occasions, Lennie thought he’d quit his job and head for New York to build a house and raise horses. But each time he sat on the brink of following through with the move, he would change his mind, blaming his indecisiveness on the hassles of moving. In reality, he didn’t like change.
His broken engagement bothered him. It involuntarily thrust him into a solitary world where he had no purpose. He envied his friends. They had homes and families waiting for them. His family lived in various places, leaving him at a young age to conquer life all by himself. When his oldest brother left, it didn't feel so bad. However, when the last two departed, loneliness became an unwelcomed companion. Being the youngest child of seven became an emotional hardship.
From time to time, he thought about getting a dog, but changed his mind. He didn’t know what he would do with the poor thing when he traveled. However, being alone made for longer nights. He knew that’s why he held on to Angela. Thought he might hold on even longer had she not called off the engagement.
Lennie’s visual acuity helped dispel any serious notion of Angela being anything but self-centered. He had come to accept her pompous ways. She set her eyes firmly on the rich and famous. No denying that. If Lennie’s conversations didn’t involve someone of importance, Angela either changed the subject or found excuses to leave the room, or the house, whichever was more convenient.
When Lennie needed to talk, he’d share heartfelt matters as Angela drifted off to sleep. Morning came and so did reality. Angela never heard a thing Lennie had said, and he knew her ability to listen had nothing to do with the hour of the day.
She made it easy for Lennie to become celibate. Heartbroken for nearly six months, Lennie soon found his days tolerable. Within a year, he felt free, though not entirely. The way Angela phoned him and spit out dry, callous, rehearsed words of incompatibility stung him and kept him trapped in time. She never returned for her clothes, never phoned again, never gave him room for rebuttal. The breakup left a bad taste in his mouth. Though Special Forc
es gave him time to heal, he would never feel free until he understood the underline reason for the breakup.
But tonight he pushed all that aside. He felt lucky. To his relief, he hadn’t imagined seeing Sherelle on the train last April. She actually lived in Washington, D.C., and within a three-mile radius of his apartment. After seeing her tonight, Lennie went inside his apartment and tried to keep his mind on dinner and watch television. However, her beautiful image interrupted everything. Before he stopped to think it through, he searched the Internet for her phone number. No home listing for Sherelle Lindsey, but he found an office number listed under The Nation’s News. He would call her first thing tomorrow morning. Then he had a thought. He’d do something she would least expect. He would send flowers.
Chapter 8
“Ms. Lindsey, these are for you,” the receptionist said as she sat the roses on Sherelle’s desk.
“Are you joking?” Sherelle asked.
“Someone has a secret admirer,” one co-worker sang.
“I doubt that,” Sherelle countered.
“Is there a card?” someone asked.
Sherelle weaved through the long-stemmed roses and pulled out a typewritten note.
Just wanted to say good morning and not lose touch again. I can’t tell you how nice it was to see you last night. Looking forward to Saturday. –Lennie
Sherelle almost missed her chair.
“Well, who are they from?” someone asked.
“Laurence,” Sherelle responded, her eyes fixed on the roses; her emotions suspended light years away.
“You’ve never mentioned Laurence before,” one co-worker stated.
“So, who is he?” someone else asked.
“A guy I met a short time ago,” Sherelle replied with a wide smile.
“Well, that’s informative,” another co-worker smarted off.
“You can’t get anywhere with her when it comes to her private life,” someone said.
Sherelle beamed. After she placed the card in her drawer, she smiled through conflicting deadlines, errors that slipped into the paper, at a subordinate coming in late from lunch. Each glance at the beautiful bouquet heightened her plans to leave the same time she did last evening in hopes of seeing Major Williams—Lennie—again.