Private Affairs Page 7

  "I am not going to start out the first day by asking reporters to run our paper for us. God damn it!" Matt kicked his chair, making it spin a full revolution. "That bastard managed the whole operation; obviously he wasn't the greatest, since the paper was going downhill, but he did run it." And we've never run a newspaper, he thought. Not off the protected turf of a university.

  Elizabeth lined up a row of pencils on Matt's desk, very carefully, very

  neatly, trying to keep down the fear spreading through her. "What do you think we should do?"

  He shrugged and began pacing again. In a minute he stopped beside her where she perched on the corner of his desk. "Hold on," he said, and took her face between his hands. "This is both of us, remember? The whiz kids who are going to do everything together. So let me ask you: can two smart, talented, mature, ambitious people replace one crude, thoughtless, probably inept bastard?"

  Elizabeth gave a small laugh and she brought Matt's face to hers and kissed him. "If you're willing to be half a managing editor, I'm willing to be the other half."

  "Top or bottom?" he grinned, sitting beside her.

  "Anything you say." She became thoughtful. "But if I'm features editor and half a managing editor—"

  "Not much time for eating and sleeping. About the same as my being the other half, plus editor-in-chief."

  "And publisher," Elizabeth added. "But I was thinking about my column. I was going to start it in a couple of weeks."

  There was a pause. "It's going to have to wait," Matt said.

  She was silent. It had waited sixteen years. "Not for long," he went on, with more assurance than he felt. "As soon as we know what we're doing around here, we'll hire a new managing editor. I'll tell you what," he went on when she still said nothing. "We'll set a deadline. Two months. You'll be writing your column in two months, if I have to raid the New York and Chicago newspapers to find someone."

  Elizabeth smiled faintly. "More likely the University of New Mexico Journalism School; that's all we can afford. It's all right, Matt, I can wait." Through the glass wall, they saw the staff coming in, moving restlessly about the large room, making coffee, perching on the edges of chairs, glancing covertly or openly at Matthew and Elizabeth Lovell: their new bosses.

  "They're nervous," Elizabeth said. "I wonder if they know we are too."

  Matt stood. "As long as we're calm, confident, knowledgeable, and in control, everything will be fine."

  She laughed. "You take control; I'll sit back and admire you. I think that's what they expect of a woman. Forward," she added, echoing Matt from the night before, and they went out to greet their staff.

  Since the Chieftain had been sold, its fifteen staff members had been speculating about Matt, whom none of them knew, and Elizabeth, whose byline they'd seen for years in their rival newspaper. "And she's good," they said. "Good writer. But what she's like to work for . . . and what

  he's like . . . what the hell does a printer know about running a newspaper?"

  The previous management had been a disaster, but that didn't mean they were ready to welcome new owners with open arms, and when they took a look at the young couple walking out of Matt's office, the older ones looked at each other and shook their heads. She was a stunner; nobody that gorgeous was serious about hard work. And he had a long stride and confident air that meant he probably was stubborn. So they were cool and watchful when Matt introduced himself and Elizabeth, and they listened in silence as he described their backgrounds and their determination to make the Chieftain as big as its rival, the Examiner, and then bigger.

  "I want to hear your problems and suggestions," he said. "But first you ought to know that Ned Engle has resigned as managing editor"—he waited for the flurry of comments to die down—"and until we hire a new one, Elizabeth and I will handle that job."

  "Handle it?" asked Herb Kirkpatrick, gray-bearded with fierce eyebrows to match. "When you've never worked on a real paper before? Do you have a step-by-step manual?"

  "Shut up, Herb." The lines in Barney Kell's face deepened in a scowl. "It isn't their fault; they didn't fire him. Did you?" he asked Matt, suddenly anxious.

  "No. We asked him to stay. He said he would. And then quit. By letter."

  "Son of a bitch," Barney said sourly. "Leaving you in the lurch. So how will you do his job?"

  "We'll write a manual," Matt said shortly.

  "We'll ask your help," Elizabeth cut in quietly. "All of you. You know the paper; we don't. But you'll be surprised at how fast we learn."

  "Bravo," said Wally McLain under his breath.

  Matt, cooler now, ignored Kirkpatrick's disdainful look and asked the rest of them for their comments. And as if floodgates had been opened, complaints poured out: major ones, minor ones, gripes they'd been making for years and new ones they thought of as they went along: wages, hours, vacation time, medical benefits, the lousy coffee machine, the obsolete darkroom enlarger, the former owner's crackpot decision not to buy computers.

  "The computers are being ordered," said Matt, who had been taking notes. He looked up to see smiles on the faces before him.

  "Well done," murmured Barney. In forty years he'd seen five different

  owners tackle the Chieftain, none of them off to this fast a start. "Maybe this old dog can learn some new tricks with it."

  "We'll all be learning new tricks," said Matt, grateful for some support. "Anything else?"

  "More sensation," said Cal Artner, long-chinned and narrow-nosed, his black eyes magnified by thick glasses. "Only way to sell papers. Dig up lots of dirt, sex, secrets—"

  "No!" burst out Wally McLain, young and handsome in the starched shirt his girlfriend had ironed for his first meeting with his paper's new owners. "Serious investigations. People in this town don't always get along, but if you read the Chieftain you think we're paradise. We should write about problems between Anglos and Spanish, and how we're getting ripped off by developers who build for the rich, ignoring local people who can't afford—"

  "We're not here to knock Santa Fe," Herb Kirkpatrick interrupted. "How many tourists would we have if word got around that the town is full of troubles?"

  "I didn't say troubles; I said problems."

  "Just as bad."

  "Bullshit."

  Mildly, Matt said, "I've always liked investigative journalism; we'll do a lot of it. Not to tear Santa Fe down," he added to Kirkpatrick. "To make it better. And to increase circulation. People like to know somebody's peering behind doors and over politicians' shoulders, reporting what's really going on in their town." He paused. "Other comments be-fore I make mine?"

  "Increase circulation how much?" asked Barney Kell.

  "Double it within a year," Matt said calmly.

  They stared at him. Elizabeth's pencil skidded on her notepad, though she kept her face still so no one would see her surprise. Matt had never told her that; they'd always talked about struggling to keep circulation at its current ten thousand, since it had been going down for the past two years.

  "Double it," mused Barney, his seamed face showing more approval by the minute. "How would you do that?"

  Matt started talking, going through the plans he and Elizabeth had worked on together. They would change the layout of the pages: wider columns, larger, easier-to-read type, more pictures, bolder headlines. They would increase investigative stories, buy a food section from a news-paper in Denver, a fashion section from a paper in Los Angeles, and run a new column by Elizabeth Lovell, "Private Affairs," about people in the

  area. They'd cut expenses to the bone, which meant no new equipment except for the computers already ordered. When circulation began to go up, they'd look at equipment, salaries, hours, benefits, and vacation time. "Until circulation shows a steady climb, you can expect to work longer and harder than ever before," he said flatly. "Elizabeth and I want your suggestions and criticism, but we make the rules and that's the first one: if you turn out a paper so good another ten thousand people want to buy it, we'll al
l get rewarded. Otherwise, we won't."

  "But the enlarger . . ." began the photographer, Bill Dunphy.

  "I'll take a look at it. That may be an exception."

  "And the coffeemaker," said Herb Kirkpatrick. "Coffee is essential to my health and productivity. Without coffee I am weak in the morning, helpless by noon, and barely conscious by three o'clock."

  Amid the friendly laughter, Matt began to relax. Kirkpatrick, the potential troublemaker, had chosen humor over confrontation. A good beginning, he reflected as he gave Kirkpatrick the job of pricing cof-feemakers, but he still had to face Elizabeth.

  "You've been thinking about speeding up our plans for a long time," she said when they were back in his office. She sat on the edge of a chair beside his desk. "You didn't get that idea on the spur of the moment. But you never mentioned it."

  "You'd have said I was being unrealistic."

  "Aren't you?"

  "I don't know, and neither do you. What can that crew turn out if they're really pushed? What will readers buy? We don't know. I'm guessing." His stubborn jaw reminded Elizabeth of Zachary—obstinate but anxious for approval. "We won't get anywhere if you're too timid—"

  "Just a minute." She was tense from the meeting—after all, she'd let him do all the talking, to make those men more comfortable; she hadn't challenged him in front of them; and now he accused her of timidity! Feeling her anger build, she lowered her voice. "We came out on this limb together, we worked out a schedule together, and I don't expect you to accuse me of being timid if I want to stick to it."

  "I'm sorry; I didn't mean that." Matt leaned forward. "I know we had a schedule, Elizabeth, but it's too slow! You heard them: they're still not convinced we know what we're doing. But if we can get them excited, shake them up, give them a goal they think has a chance, even if it sounds crazy, don't you think we could speed everything up? Didn't you feel it? It went so much better than I'd hoped—you haven't said a word about how well it went—"

  "I meant to. I was going to tell you you're wonderful, but then I was thinking about—"

  "You should never think about anything else when you're about to tell your husband he's wonderful."

  She smiled. "Probably not."

  "I love you," Matt said. "And I know you're not timid." Through the glass wall, he saw Cal Artner hesitate before knocking. "I want to kiss you but I think we'd better wait." He motioned Artner in.

  "I've got a terrific idea," Artner said to Matt. "Been working on it for a long time, waiting for somebody who'll go all out to get more readers. There's a Feast Day Dance coming up at Nambe Pueblo—you may not know about it. ..."

  Amused, Matt said, "We go to it every year."

  "Oh. Do you. Well then, you probably know they don't like to have the dance photographed—"

  "Don't like?" said Elizabeth. "They don't allow it. They don't even allow anyone to make sketches."

  Artner glanced at her, then spoke to Matt. "A friend of mine has a helicopter and he can fly me in low enough to get some shots. It's dyna-mite; nobody's ever done it and those ceremonies are a big mystery to people who've never gone out to the pueblos. We'd blow the mystery wide open; the tourists would eat it up. And we could sell the pictures to other papers around the country . . . shit, it can't miss; we'd put the Chieftain on the map."

  "Cal, don't you understand?" Elizabeth said. "It's not allowed."

  "Look," Artner said with exaggerated patience, "I'm making a suggestion to Matt."

  A heavy silence fell. Looking at Matt's face, Artner got the clear message that he'd made a mistake. "To both of you," he backtracked hastily. "It's just that I'd like to be taken seriously."

  "We do take you seriously; that's what bothers us," Matt said evenly. "It's the Nambes' reservation, it's their pueblo, it's their ceremony. And they say photos aren't allowed."

  "I know what they say! But they couldn't stop a helicopter; you don't suppose they'd shoot us down, do you? Are you saying you don't want these photos?"

  "I'm saying we are not going to be known as a newspaper that violates the holiness of Indian religious ceremonies or flouts pueblo laws. Which means you aren't going to photograph them."

  "Of all the sanctimonious shit—! You don't know a fucking thing about the newspaper business! I've been in it for twenty years and I know a

  scoop when I see one; Christ, we could beat the shit out of the Examiner —isn't that what we're in business for?"

  "We're in the business of running a paper," Matt said tightly. "And you work for us. You'll accept that or you'll get the hell out."

  "I don't take that," Artner began, but his words had lost their steam; he was trying to figure Matt out.

  Elizabeth stood up beside Matt. It had suddenly occurred to her that Artner might quit and they'd have two people to replace instead of one. "Our son Peter has friends in the pueblos, Cal. We know how they feel; if we publish photographs of them, they might close the ceremonies to visitors."

  "They can't afford it. They need the money."

  "They need their religion, too."

  Again Artner spoke to Matt. "I thought you'd understand how important this is to us."

  'We understand it's important to you," Matt snapped. "But we have already told you we won't be a party to it."

  "You mean it? You won't okay it?"

  "We won't okay it. Photos are out. You're a writer; do a story on the dance with good writing and plenty of adjectives and adverbs. The tools of a good reporter."

  "Someone said a picture is worth a thousand words."

  "Sometimes it's true. If you can get the picture. We can't." Matt took a deep breath. "Look, Cal, I appreciate the thought you've put into this, but this is final. No pictures. Save the helicopter, though; we'll find a use for it. And thanks for corning in; I look forward to reading your story."

  "Well done," Elizabeth said quietly when they were alone.

  "You mean I mostly kept my temper. Aside from his half-assed idea, why couldn't the son of a bitch talk to both of us?"

  "I don't suppose he's the only man who doesn't like working for a woman," Elizabeth said dryly. "Maybe he'D get used to it."

  "He's going to be trouble."

  "Yes, but we'll handle him. I don't think he'll endanger his job." She gathered up a stack of papers. "Do you need me for anything else? I have work to do if I'm going to leave at six."

  "I thought we were setting an example by working late."

  "You can do that. I have to make dinner for my family."

  "Maybe that's why there are no women on the staff"

  "There is one now," Elizabeth said serenely. "And if she doesn't finish her work by six, she'll take it home with her. See you later, my love."

  And as she closed the glass door behind her, they both felt the same

  glow of pleasure and fulfillment: that after years of drifting apart, they were together again in every way—working, sharing, and loving, without a wrinkle in their harmony.

  In the next two weeks a secretary was out with the flu; a sudden rainstorm revealed a dozen leaks in the roof; the production manager pasted the last half of a story on page one and the first half on page twenty, so the two pages had to be redone at the last minute; and when a Chieftain delivery truck broke down in the middle of the Paseo de Peralta, the repairman said it was in such bad shape the only sensible thing to do was buy another one.

  Holding the telephone, Matt stared unseeing through the glass wall before him. Elizabeth, looking up from her typewriter, smiled at him, then her smile faded and she came to his office. When she closed the door behind her, he told her what had happened. "So we have to buy a truck, and even a used one will run us about five thousand dollars, which we don't have."

  "And we have to patch the roof," Elizabeth said. "We really ought to redo the whole thing. We didn't check it, or the trucks—"

  "We were in too much of a hurry. A couple of innocents, buying a new toy."

  Elizabeth heard his anger—at himself, no one else. "Wel
l, we're stuck with it now," she said, purposely casual. "I think it's time to take up my father's offer of help, don't you?"

  "Take money from Spencer and Lydia? No."

  "Not take, Matt. Borrow. They know we'll pay them back. With interest."

  Matt wrote $5000 on a scrap of paper. We'll owe everybody in town, Peter had said. And it was true; they were at the limit of their credit; there was no one else but Elizabeth's parents. "I'll call them," he said at last. "Your father will tell me I should have listened to him in the first place."

  "He likes being right," Elizabeth said.

  Matt glanced up and saw the small frown between her eyes. For the first time since she came into his office, he really looked at her. Had she lost weight? She seemed thin and pale, though it could have been the simple, almost severe, black suit she wore, or the way she'd pulled her hair back, holding it with two silver and turquoise combs—but Matt wasn't sure. They'd been working so hard, at the office and at home, eating erratically, sleeping restlessly, with no time for relaxation, no social

  Private Affairs 67

  life, barely a chance to spend an hour or two with Peter and Holly— probably both of them looked worn down.

  "But he wasn't right," Elizabeth said suddenly. "We did exactly what we should have done and I love doing it. I love working with you, even in a place that sounds like an African jungle with the drumbeat of water dripping into buckets. ..."

  He laughed. "That's what / love; having a wife who can joke in a downpour and look beautiful talking about trucks."

  "If you keep that up I'll kiss you," Elizabeth said. "And Cal will photograph us from a helicopter and put it on the front page."

  They smiled at each other. "You are very special," Matt said. "Thank you. It's the first time all day I've felt good about the world."

  Elizabeth went to the coffee pot in the corner of the office and filled two Styrofoam cups. She sniffed the coffee. "How long has this been sitting here?"

  "About four hours, I suppose. I've been too busy to notice."