Deadline. Metsy Hingle

Tess moved closer. “When you’ve got a few minutes, Ronnie, I’d like to speak with you.”

      If she was surprised by the request, Ronnie gave no indication. “Now’s good for me. Why don’t we go to my office.”

      Tess followed the other woman down the hall to the place where Ronnie spent the majority of her time. The room was a reflection of Ronnie—neat but lived in, and a testament to how busy she was. The mahogany desk was covered with stacks of papers, videotapes, folders and two phones. One wall was filled with framed awards and certificates interspersed with photographs—Ronnie with D.C.’s governor, Ronnie with a Hollywood celebrity, Ronnie receiving an award from the station’s president, Ronnie with the White House press secretary. Another wall was dominated by three television sets and another with an eclectic mix of watercolors that included a Monet copy and an abstract by a local artist. Still another wall featured a huge write-on calendar that was filled with information. Beside it was a graph charting the station’s ratings. A ficus tree added a splash of green in one corner and a potted marigold-colored mum brightened a corner table.

      Evidently Ronnie read something in Tess’s expression because she paused at her desk and buzzed through on the intercom. “Patsy, I’d like you to hold my calls for the next thirty minutes.”

      “Sure thing, Ronnie,” the assistant replied.

      “Why don’t we sit over there,” Ronnie suggested, indicating the sitting area where a small navy couch and two covered chairs had been positioned around a coffee table that sported a hardcover picture book of Washington monuments, an art book and issues of the New York Times, the Washington Post and USA Today.

      Tess chose one of the overstuffed chairs. Clasping her hands together, she wondered exactly where to begin. She opted to just be direct, “Ronnie, I—”

      “Wait,” Ronnie said, holding up her hand. “If you’re here to bitch at me for sticking you with Kip on that school-bus story next week, let me tell you right now that it wasn’t my idea. The word came down from Stefanovich himself. According to him, we’re not giving his nephew enough camera time. Of course, I couldn’t tell him the little prick is an idiot and doesn’t know one end of the microphone from the other.”

      Tess almost laughed at Ronnie’s frustration with the station manager’s nephew whom they had been asked to hire during the summer. An aspiring television reporter with a communications degree, Kip Edwards was pleasant enough and eager to be a part of the news team. Unfortunately, the man was a total klutz who could—and had—wiped out hours of work by just walking across a room. Whenever he was assigned to a story, the engineers safeguarded their equipment and the reporters their persons. Kip also came up short in the personality department—a fact that was apparent whenever he was on camera. As a result, no one was eager to work with him, and Ronnie was stuck with the unpleasant task of using him.

      “Anyway, Stefanovich asked for a copy of the assignments and decided Kip should do the piece with you. I’m sorry, kiddo. My hands are tied. I’m afraid you’re stuck with him on this one.”

      “I understand. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I need some time off. There’s something personal that I need to take care of.”

      Ronnie seemed to relax a bit. She sat back on the couch, some of the stiffness leaving her shoulders. “Well, I don’t see where that should be any problem. David seems to be working out fine, and now that Angela’s back from her baby break, I can probably clear you for a few days at the end of next week.”

      “I’m afraid I’m going to need more than a few days. Actually, a lot more.”

      Ronnie narrowed her eyes. “How much more?”

      “I’ve got a month of vacation time and sick leave due. I’d like to take it.”

      “A month!” Ronnie whipped off her tortoiseshell glasses, pitched them to the table. “You’ve got to be kidding! You can’t honestly expect me to approve a month’s vacation for you. Not even the anchors get that much time off all at once.”

      “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

      “No. Absolutely not.” Ronnie stood up and began pacing about the room. “It’s out of the question. You’re my best reporter. I can’t have you taking off for a month.”

      “It’s not impossible,” Tess argued. “You said yourself that David’s on board now and Angela’s back from maternity leave. So you’re fully staffed again.”

      “We won’t be fully staffed if you’re out.”

      “You’ve also got Kip,” Tess pointed out.

      Ronnie glared at her and sat down again. “You’re not helping your case here, kiddo.” She shook her head. “No. There’s no way I can spare you for a month. A week maybe, but not a month.”

      “Then I quit.”

      “You can’t quit. You have a contract.”

      “My contract’s up for renewal at the end of next month. I’ll ask the GM to release me early,” Tess told her, hating that it had come to this. She liked her job, liked Ronnie and the people she worked with, but she had to find out the truth. And to do that she was going to need time to go back to Mississippi. She stood. “I’m sorry, Ronnie.”

      “Oh, stop with the dramatics and sit down.” Once Tess had done so, Ronnie said, “Now tell me what in the hell is going on and why you’re threatening to quit on me.”

      “I don’t want to quit,” Tess told her. “But there’s something I have to do, something personal, and I need the time off to do it.”

      “That’s it? That’s all the explanation you’re going to give me?”

      “I told you. It’s personal.”

      Ronnie leveled a “give me a break” look at her.

      Tess sighed. “It has to do with my mother, about when she died. And about my father’s suicide,” Tess said finally.

      “So that’s what’s been bothering you,” Ronnie said, and Tess suspected the remark was more to Ronnie herself. “Which I suppose is understandable. I mean, it hasn’t been all that long since that stuff happened with your father. I’m sure that whole suicide thing brought up some bad memories for you.”

      “Yes.”

      “But, kiddo, instead of taking off you should be keeping busy, and trying to put all that stuff out of your mind.”

      “I can’t,” Tess told her.

      Ronnie narrowed her eyes. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Have those dirtbags from the tabloids been hounding you again? Because if they have—”

      “No. You know how this business is, everyone’s moved on to the next scandal and forgotten all about me and my family.”

      “I would hope so,” Ronnie told her. “You poor kid. All that mess, then breaking up with Johnny and me loading you down with work. No wonder you’ve been having trouble sleeping. It’s a miracle that you haven’t been having nightmares.”

      But there had been no nightmares. At least not in a very long time. That hadn’t always been the case. For months after her mother had been murdered, she did wake up screaming, unable to get the image of her father kneeling over her mother’s body, blood on his hands and shirt, the bloody bookend in his hand, out of her mind. But with time, the nightmares had grown fewer, the memories less sharp. Thanks in large measure to the psychologists her grandparents had insisted she see when she first came to live with them in D.C. Also, it had helped that she’d been so close to her grandmother, a bond that had only strengthened when she had feared she might lose the older woman to cancer. Thank heavens Grams had beaten the disease. But in those months and the years that followed they had clung to each other.

      “Do you want to talk about it?”

      Then they talked about it.