ée Carlino - Nowhere but Here

“Well gee, thank you,” I said sarcastically.

“You don’t want it?” He reached for the stack.

“No. I want it. I just can’t believe . . .”

“It was a compliment, Kate.”

“Okay, fine.” He didn’t mean any harm by it. Like I said, no filter. He was the most loyal man in the world, and he wasn’t trying to objectify me. I think he thought that with R.J.’s history of turning down interviews—the only thing I did know about him, based on what Beth had told me—Beth’s aggressive approach to getting a story wouldn’t be a good fit.

“Fine?”

“I would love this opportunity, Jerry, thank you. Honestly though, I’m curious. Why in the world did he agree to give us an interview—and an exclusive one, at that? We’re not exactly a nationally recognized newspaper.”

“I just bugged the hell out of him,” he said triumphantly. “I kept on sending requests until he finally replied. He said he was impressed by my persistence, and he felt our paper had more integrity than others. He most likely checked us out. He seems eager to spread the word about the winery’s sustainability and their environmentally friendly practices, which sound pretty cutting-edge. The only thing is that his e-mail stressed how extremely private he is and how he would prefer the article to focus on the wine, not his personal life. But, Kate, a story like this could really launch the Crier into a whole new league, especially if you can get the dirt our readers want. That means finding out everything there is to know about R. J. Lawson.”

I swiveled my chair out from my desk, crossed my legs, and leaned back. I was intrigued. “Tell me what you know about him.”

“Hold on to your seat, this guy is truly a conundrum. In 1998, Ryan Lawson was a young MIT graduate, computer engineering prodigy, and cofounder of the largest technology company in Silicon Valley. He had the potential to be Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak rolled into one—a savvy business mind and a technological genius.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, he invented some computer server that’s used in almost all government agencies, banks, and large corporations. It’s impossible to hack.”

“So you expect me to interview a tech mogul when I’ve been writing articles on lipstick and wine?”

“That’s the thing, Kate. In 1999, he sold his share of J-Com technologies and fell off the radar. No one knew where he went or what he was doing with his three billion dollars. Rumors surfaced that he took the money to Africa and was building schools all across the continent with his own hands, but that was never confirmed.”

“So how did you know where to find him . . . and what is he doing now?”

“I started hearing about him three years ago when it was leaked to a California newspaper that he had purchased a nine-hundred-acre ailing winery and outdated bed-and-breakfast in Napa Valley. He managed to keep things quiet until this year, when his wine started winning every award known to man.”

The pieces were coming together slowly. “R. J. Lawson,” I said. “Yes, that Pinot is fantastic!”

“Right? It’s like everything this guy touches turns to gold.”

“Why in the world would Beth want to interview a winemaker?”

“Because he’s refused to grant interviews and hasn’t been photographed in more than a decade. Imagine if Bill Gates or Steve Jobs had disappeared at the peak of their powers. It’s a huge story.”

“I still can’t believe you’re giving this to me.”

“Well, I’m not gonna lie, Kate. You’ve been producing crap lately. Did I hear that you submitted a proposal to write a feature article on the myth that fruit gum gives you fresh breath?”

“It’s true, though. Fruity gum does not give you fresh breath. It gives you disgusting breath, and people need to know. Come on, that’s what special interest is.”

“Key word being interest. Our readers don’t care about the worthlessness of fruity gum. They want interesting stories—stories that will make them feel. Even if you’re writing a story about wine, you need to touch readers’ hearts. There has to be an element of humanity in every piece you write.”

“No, I know what you’re saying. I just haven’t been motivated since . . . Rose died.”

He looked sympathetic for a millisecond. I got the feeling that excuse was wearing thin. “You’d have to leave for California tomorrow. He’s agreed to do the interview in two parts. Tuesday and Thursday are the only days he has available, so you’ll stay at the B&B there. It will be peaceful, and you can probably knock out half the article while you’re there. Go home and talk to your boyfriend about it and let me know.”

He won’t care. He couldn’t give a shit.

“I’m in, Jerry. I don’t need to talk to Stephen about it. How long will I be out there?”

He paused with that profound look in his eyes again, and then in a low voice he said, “You’ve lost your spark, Kate. Don’t come home until you find it. Bring back a great story.”

My boyfriend Stephen and I lived in the same apartment building. We met on a Monday two years ago in the basement laundry room and had done our laundry together every week since. I could barely call Stephen my boyfriend because, aside from our weekly laundry sessions and the occasional Friday night dinner, we rarely saw each other. He was a workaholic and moving his way up the ladder at a prestigious marketing firm. He called his firm a creative agency, but really¸ they were a moneymaking agency. He spent way too much time dreaming up ways to convince clients to sell out and change the look of their products so everyone could make more money. He was dedicated and had drive, but his work schedule left little time for a girlfriend. We had more sex in that basement laundry room bent over a washer than in an actual bed.

That day, I left the Chicago Crier early to begin packing for my trip. Stephen met me in the basement at six, our usual time. We would switch off picking up dinner for each other—that week he picked up Thai food.

“Hey, how was your day?” I said as I leaned in to kiss him. Stephen was only a few inches taller than me, around five foot eight, but he had a much larger presence because of his confidence, which some people perceived as arrogance.

“Hi sweetie. My day was busy, and everybody is slamming their heads against the wall over the Copley account. I actually have to take a conference call in a few minutes,” he said as he handed me a food container. “Yellow curry, right?”

“Uh-huh.” He never asked me how my day went. I opened the lid and then immediately closed it. “Is this chicken?”

“Yeah, that’s what you like.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m a vegetarian, Stephen. I have been for ten years.”

“Yeah, but I thought you ate chicken.”

“Normally people don’t call themselves vegetarians if they eat chicken.”

“God, I’m sorry. I could have sworn I’ve seen you eat yellow curry before.”

“With tofu.”

“Well, I would offer you mine, but it has chicken in it, too,” he said as he pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket.

“I’ll just eat the rice.”

He held his finger to his mouth to quiet me before answering his phone. “Stephen Brooks. Yeah, I’ll take it. Hey, what’s up, man? Oh, you’re kidding, right? Two million. That’s what I told her.”

As Stephen continued his conversation, I wiped out the rice and began sorting the laundry. When I bent over, he moved behind me and pushed himself against me. I turned around to find him smirking.

I mouthed, You’re so dirty.

You’re so hot, he mouthed back.

Stephen was attractive in a clean-cut businessman kind of way. He was always clean-shaven. He had a dark receding hairline and dark brown eyes that looked almost black, and he wore only a suit or his gym clothes. He never dressed casually. I had on ripped jeans and a University of Illinois sweatshirt. We were mismatched in many ways, and although there was physical chemistry, I never felt like our relationship could grow beyond what it was. He had never introduced me to his family. On holidays he would go to his parents in the suburbs and I would go to Rose’s. We rarely spent time in each other’s apartments. After Rose died, I isolated myself even more, believing that I had to learn to be alone, so I never pushed things with Stephen. He never pushed for more, either. I stayed with Stephen because it was comfortable. I stayed with Stephen because he was nice and I thought he was all I had, but after two years, he was still bringing me yellow curry with chicken.

I jumped up to sit on the washer. When Stephen ended his call, he walked toward me but didn’t put his phone away; his head was down, staring at the screen. I parted my legs so he could stand closer. Without looking up, he raised a finger and said, “Hold on, I just have to shoot this text off.” It was amazing how lonely I could feel when I wasn’t alone. Sometimes when I was with Stephen, I felt even worse about my situation. I really had resigned myself to the fact that our relationship was mainly physical. It was just a release for both of us. Stephen had never read a single article I’d written. His excuse was that he liked to read business journals and sports articles. He wouldn’t even humor me.

“I’m going to California tomorrow for a story. It’s a huge one that Jerry has been trying to land for months.” He nodded, still staring at his phone. “Did you hear me? I’m going out of town tomorrow.”

He looked up and then leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on my lips. “Have a safe trip. I gotta take this call, Kate. I’m sorry. Will you bring my stuff up when it’s done? This is a really important call, a million-dollar account.” He kissed me again. I nodded then forced a smile. “Thanks, sweetie,” he said as he turned and headed for the basement door, taking his food with him.