“What did you think?” I ask.
“I thought I was doing important work and doing it well. I thought she’d be proud of that.”
“She wasn’t?”
He shakes his head without looking away from the road. “That was the year I won the Pulitzer. She didn’t come to the ceremony. She was at a cake tasting. I guess that was proof we had different priorities.”
“That’s about the best example of different priorities I can imagine.”
He smiles at that.
“It’s complicated, isn’t it? That’s why I don’t date. I ruin relationships with my work obsession. It’s better this way, though. I need to focus on doing good reporting and not get distracted. The job we do is important,” he says.
“I hear that. Except I’m the opposite. I’ve ruined work opportunities with kissing.”
“Kissing?”
“And other stuff.” I wave my hand around as though to indicate what some of that other stuff might be, swirling around us in the car, which makes no sense. I settle my hands back in my lap. “Anyway, that’s why I don’t date.” He looks at me for a second and I see a brief smile of understanding cross his face.
With that one area of common ground, I start to think maybe I’ll be able to get along with Jack for an entire weekend. The alternative is too painful to consider.
After an hour on the road, we shift to basic get-to-know you questions because even though I’ve forced my tongue into his mouth, we don’t know each other that well.
“Favorite movie?” he asks.
“Tie between Dead Poet’s Society and Moonstruck.”
“Ah, you’re a romantic.”
“I just like old movies. You?” I ask. I’m betting dead to rights he’s going to say The Pentagon Papers or something with journalistic heroes.
“Rainman.”
“Seriously. That’s depressing.”
“No, it’s such an uplifting story. Watch it again. Trust me,” he says.
“Okay, deal. How about favorite snack?”
“Grain bowl from the place downstairs.”
“Ew, the one that smells like rotting garbage?”
“I hadn’t been aware of that. But I guess, yeah. And now I’m too self-conscious to ever eat it again. So thank you.” He looks at the road but every so often he glances in my direction. “How about your favorite?”
“Nutella and celery.”
“Is that a thing?”
“It’s like peanut butter and celery, but better. It’s like Rainman. You need to try it and contemplate it before you disparage it.”
“Fair enough.”
I wind my hair into a bun to keep it out of my face and catch what looks like a grimace pass over Jack’s face.
“Everything okay?”
He raises his eyebrows and stretches his neck, as though trying for a reset. “Yeah. Fine.” I decide not to pursue it, lest he find some fault with something I didn’t know I was doing wrong. As I’m wrapping the band around my bun, I hear his voice, barely above a whisper, “You should leave it down.” He’s still looking at the road and I’m not sure I heard him right.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
I pause for a second, then I let my hair fall, still not entirely sure what he said. When I cast a side-eye in his direction, I see one side of his mouth tick up into a smile.
We drive in silence for a while, not because we’ve run out of things to talk about but because we’re both aware of how much is riding on our reporting this weekend. He’s already filled me in on Worldvision dos and don’ts of the weekend. “Engage people in casual conversation. Try to get the Bachelor Bay host talking about himself, his hobbies, whatever he does outside of the show. If he’s a drinker, let him drink. Don’t ask him anything important until after he’s had a few…”
I’ve taken notes on my phone and I’m committing them to memory. I’m more than a little nervous. This is a potentially big story and it’s not my beat. There’s a chance I’ll come away with a great story but there’s probably a bigger chance I’ll screw something up. Jack has made it clear that’s not an option.
“So, what’s the point of this whole weekend thing? Is it just something Ken Nichols likes to do for fun?” I ask.
“Pretty much. He hosts people in his orbit, his wife gets to busy herself during the week putting the whole thing together, which she apparently loves, and he invites just enough work-related people that he can write the whole thing off.”
“And he’s really fine with you writing about his house and his non-work life?”
“Yes. He seems suddenly really excited about it, which is a little odd because he’s very protective of his personal life.” Even though he’s looking straight ahead at the road, I can his eyes narrow. He doesn’t look as certain as he sounds.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s the first time he’s invited me up here. The stars aligned.”
“So, anything you find out this weekend is fair game for the profile?”
“Unless it’s explicitly off the record. I guarantee Ken’s not expecting me to ask him anything about your reality show other than numbers.”
“Will he be annoyed?”
He shrugs. “I can handle him. And if there is something to your story, I’ll take great pleasure in holding Ken’s feet to the fire.” He can’t hide his smile. I get the feeling that nothing thrills him more than printing something no one else has. And pissing off powerful people. He probably likes it more than sex.
“Ah. I see. Well, I’ll take this opportunity to learn from the master,” I say.
He steals a sideways glance at me, his smile still wide. “Oh, I might be able to teach you a thing or two. But I’d expect you to return the favor.” At that point, I’m no longer sure he’s talking about reporting.
No, of course he is.
He doesn’t date. I don’t either. We’re on the same page. It’s such a relief.
I’m such a liar.
19
Jack
This place is massive.
It’s quite a testament to how much money can be made running a giant media company. Even knowing how much Ken Nichols earned last year in sheer dollars, it didn’t fully translate until now. The property is bigger than most hotels.
I won’t begin to debate CEO salaries and whether they’re justified. Worldvision itself is valued in the hundreds of billions of dollars, and it has the power to influence the entire industry. It’s why I work so hard to stay on top of everything Worldvision does. This weekend is important, and I need to make sure Linden doesn’t go rogue and stir up trouble.
“Oh, Jack, ever a bright light. So good to see you,” Judy Nichols says, smiling with toothpaste commercial teeth, as a white-gloved staff member opens my car door. She winks at me.
Linden has been welcomed on her side by another staff member who helps her out of the bucket seat and leads her out of the car to where I’m standing with Judy, who wears a dress with flowing pale-yellow layers that match her hair. She stands next to a small high-top table covered with a white cloth and a silver tray of champagne flutes. She holds one out to me and a second one to Linden, extending a hand to her.