The Way Back. Stephanie Doyle

Philadelphia wasn’t the Today Show. And she’d gone up two dress sizes. When her boss suggested a Botox treatment Gabby had flipped. She was smart, she was personable. People opened up to her. She was a damn good interviewer. And they wanted her to inject poison into her skin to help the ratings?

      After she refused she’d been fired.

      “Fired,” she sighed. The word still sat like lead on her heart.

      Woman and dog made their way down the beach, which framed the north end of the island. Moving around one bend, the vista opened up for a piece. She could see a few docks stretching out into the water with skiffs and bigger sail boats tied to them bobbing with the ocean’s movement.

      Way up ahead she could see Jamison. Still running. Completely uncatchable.

      No doubt when the dog tired, he would simply lay down and wait for his master to return. After about a mile or so the dog plopped down in the sand letting the sun warm his belly before resting his head on his paws.

      “Yeah, I’m beat, too. You tell him, though, this isn’t done. Not by a long shot.”

      At least she hoped it wasn’t done.

      * * *

      “SO HOW IS IT GOING?”

      “Good,” Gabby lied, glad Melissa couldn’t see her wince. She knew cell phone technology was advancing so people could face time instead of just talk. Gabby had no plans to purchase one of those phones anytime soon. She’d been walking to her car when she got the call and picked up immediately the way any good employee would do.

      Opening the door she sat on the driver’s seat glad to no longer be walking. “We’re talking,” she added confidently. At least that much was true.

      “Has he changed his position about writing the book at all?”

      “Uh…” Nope. “I think he’s looking at all the possibilities. Let me ask you, Melissa, who would do the actual writing? I mean, the man’s an astronaut not a writer obviously. Maybe that’s what is holding him back. A bad case of writer’s block.”

      “We could hire a ghost writer. We do it all the time for celebrity autobiographies. Heck, we did an autobiography of a rock star who, I was pretty sure, didn’t know how to read let alone write.”

      “How does a person get that job? Would she interview or provide some samples…what?”

      “What are you getting at, Gabby?”

      Apparently Gabby hadn’t been very subtle. She could hear Melissa’s sharp tone loud and clear even though the cell reception on the island wasn’t the greatest. “You know I have a background in journalism. I’m a solid writer. I’m also a good interviewer.”

      “You want to write Jamison Hunter’s story.”

      It wasn’t a question—was that good or bad? She hadn’t been working with Melissa long enough to tell. “Am I the first newbie to suggest something so crazy?”

      “No. But you’re also the only newbie I know who has actually gotten him to talk and hasn’t been crying when I called for an update.” She paused. “Look, Gabby, I can’t promise anything. But if you can convince him to do this book and you’ve forged some kind of connection with him, well, that will definitely be taken into consideration. First things first, though—we need a commitment. A time frame. Something, anything we can plan with.”

      “I’m working on it,” Gabby assured her.

      “Do it. And Gabby? An FYI. You’ve basically let me know you have no real desire to be an editor. So you better make this ghost writer thing work for you because I don’t know how much of a future you have as a junior editor at McKay Publishing. I know it sucks. But I don’t need people filling in time here while they search for a different career. I need people who want to do the job they have.”

      Gabby swallowed hard before she could speak. “I understand.”

      “Okay, good. Now, get me that book.”

      Gabby ended the call and felt the air in her lungs swoosh out of her.

      So this is what it felt like to burn a bridge.

      * * *

      IT WAS AFTER SEVEN o’clock at night and Gabby finally had to admit she was starving. After her jog-slash-mostly-walk, she’d returned to the inn to shower, change and then set about doing what she imagined most successful ghost writers did—research and write down observations she had about her subject.

      She’d contemplated using a recorder to capture her thoughts, but having tried it once to prepare verbal notes for interviews, she knew she felt silly talking aloud into it. Not to mention when she paused during her thought process she made this weird breathing sound she suspected she made a lot but was able to ignore as long as she didn’t hear it played back through a recorder.

      Instead she typed random thoughts into her laptop and saved the document simply as Hunter.

      Things she knew about him so far—he didn’t want to be interviewed. He was shorter in person. He was hotter in person. She deleted that point. His natural instinct was to help her when she’d fallen even though he didn’t want to be bothered by her. He drove a truck instead of a motorcycle. He spoke to his dog in soft affectionate tones, which made her shiver a little. She deleted that point, too.

      Not exactly ground-breaking biographical material at this point but she was just starting out.

      After the past hour of staring at the screen and telling herself her stomach wasn’t growling, she finally had to admit it was. Which meant going in search of food. After the horror at the café two nights ago, she’d chosen a convenience store hot dog for last night’s dinner. On the island there was one gas station with a small food store next to it. In the store there was a rotisserie containing three hot dogs she was fairly sure had been sitting on the rack for minimum of two years.

      The store was down one hot dog and she was down about five Tums to digest the thing, which meant she wasn’t going back.

      Earlier in the day she’d tried to hint to Susan an inn that served dinner probably would be a smashing hit, but the caretaker merely smiled and said breakfast was her forte. But for a fine meal Gabby could do worse than the café down the street.

      Unless the café people hated her.

      There was always the hope she could be worried for nothing. Maybe Adel and Zhanna didn’t work every night. Or if one of them did, maybe they would stay in the back and Gabby would have a different waitress serve her. Perfect. Where there was hope, there was food.

      Gabby put on her sneakers. She concluded that as unfashionable as they might be, they were the only practical shoes she owned. Anything less than heavy socks and total foot coverage was plain stupid for as cold as it was. Bundling into her coat, she trotted down the street and crossed in front of the café. No jaywalking signs. No clearly marked pedestrian walkways. In this town you looked both ways and, if there were no cars coming, you crossed.

      If there were, and you chose to ignore them, you got hit.

      Seemed pretty straightforward to her and a lot simpler calculating if you could get across the street with the seconds counting down on the pedestrian traffic light.

      The bell chimed as she stepped inside the restaurant and her hopes were quickly dashed.

      “Oy, it’s you again.”

      “Hello, Zhanna. Nice to see you.”

      “Sit,” the girl said pointing to an empty booth. “I’ll be with you when I choose.”

      Gabby took encouragement she hadn’t been told to leave. If she was sitting, there was a good shot they would feed her. She didn’t allow herself to reach for the menu. She didn’t want to know the sumptuous specials they were offering tonight. All she needed was a salad. With the dressing on the side.

      On the side. On the side.