Page 2 of The Queen of Roses

“The family’s expecting it to be published soon.”

“Shouldn’t have made any promises, Johnson. You know how it is. Obits get killed all the time.”

The irony of killing a piece that was meant to celebrate the life of the dead was not lost on Theresa.

“I didn’t make any promises,” she said, “but it’s a good piece.”

“Put it in the tray,” said Phil, as he slashed through a paragraph.

“Could you at least let me know if it has any chance of running this weekend? News is always slow on holiday weekends.”

Instead of responding, Phil pointed to the metal basket on the edge of his desk with the end of his pencil.

Theresa’s eyes narrowed, but she dropped the paper on top of all the other articles languishing as they waited for edits. Better to eventually have a byline printed than to get no byline at all.

When she didn’t leave, Phil set down his pencil with a sigh. “What is it?”

“I heard there might be a job opening up in the Metro section.”

The editor took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Damned reporters. Can’t keep a secret to save their lives. Yes, Roy’s leaving for the Santa Barbara job.”

It would be a huge step forward for Roy Royle. After more than twenty years of reporting, he’d been handpicked by the owner of the Pasadena Herald Times to become Metro editor of the business’s new Santa Barbara paper. It also meant that there would soon be a rare staff job open in the ranks of the Herald Times’s Metro section.

“I’d like to be considered,” she said.

“Roy hasn’t even packed up his desk yet and already you vultures are circling,” said Phil.

Theresa kept her lips firmly shut. She’d learned during her tenure at the Herald Times that sometimes it was better not to say anything than to argue a point.

“You really think you’re ready for Metro?” asked Phil, his skepticism clear.

“I do,” she said. “I’ve been working in Obits for two years, and I fill in on weekends—”

“Only in rare circumstances,” Phil reminded her.

“Nevertheless, I think I’ve more than proven I can do the job.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Phil before adding, “but it won’t just be my decision. Gareth will have final say.”

“I understand,” she said. Winning over managing editor Gareth Packard would be a tall order, but after two years of keeping her head down and producing good, consistent work in Obits, surely he’d have to consider her.

“Now go. I have a job to do and so do you,” said Phil.

Theresa turned on her heel and walked back up the length of the newsroom, holding her breath as she passed through the cloud of cigarette smoke that always hung around Archer Madison, the way dirt followed Pigpen around in the Charlie Brown comics.

“Still languishing in the land of the dead?” asked Archer, the paper’s most ambitious young reporter, with a smirk.

She shot him a sweet smile. “Still a pompous ass?”

That sent Archer laughing, which made him cough, which made him hack. And hack. And hack.

Theresa couldn’t bring herself to sympathize with the bastard. The first day she’d arrived at the paper fresh from the Columbia Journalism School in New York City, Archer had taken one look at her and asked, “Lady reporter? What are you working? Weddings or Society?”

“Obituaries,” she’d ground out.

“Just as bad,” he’d said before treating Theresa to her first show of his laugh/cough/hack triple act.

She hated that what Archer had said that day was true. Most women reporters were stuck in the doldrums of newspapers across the country. A few had risen through the ranks thanks to hard work, good luck, and general mercilessness to write major stories on crime and politics, but Mr. Packard had made it very clear during Theresa’s interview that the most she could probably hope for at the Pasadena Herald Times was one day covering the education beat.