A little curious, Celia listened again. What could her estranged father possibly have to tell her? And why didn’t he just spill it in a message? It felt like manipulation, and she bristled. She was well acquainted with his manipulation; Celia had learned the skill from him. She pressed the delete button and went to bed.
On Saturday, Bart arrived at 7:30 exactly. Celia gave herself a once-over in the mirror before answering the door. She looked amazing, she had to admit. The blue dress fit her in all the right places, and her hair had just the right amount of loose curls teasing her neck. She opened the door and smiled. Her date was equally stunning.
“You look wonderful tonight,” Bart said, kissing her cheek. She stiffened a bit but smiled.
“Thanks, you look pretty good as well. Shall we go?” Celia held her wrap with both hands so he wouldn’t try to take her arm. No touching or affection, she thought. Very clear boundaries.
Once they arrived, a valet took Bart’s Mercedes, and as they walked in, Celia could feel a few stares. She straightened and walked with a bit more hip movement. Too bad Bart was such a clinger; they made a breathtaking couple. They found their assigned table and sat down, greeting another couple already seated there.
The dinner was delicious, and Celia managed to keep Bart at arm’s length. A few important people had their say, and then Norah Jones was introduced. Celia applauded along with everyone else, and she relaxed as the artist began to play and sing. After several selections, she took a break, and the house band began to play. Several couples began dancing, and Bart turned to Celia.
“Would you like to dance?”
“Yes I would,” she smiled.
Bart was an excellent dancer, and Celia enjoyed following his lead. She kept a bit of distance between them, despite Bart’s attempt to pull her closer, but he didn’t react. After a couple of dances, she said she was ready for something to drink, so they made their way to the bar.
“Celia? Is that you?”
Celia turned to see Keith, dressed in a security uniform, walking toward her.
“Hello, Keith, how are you?” Celia shook his hand.
“You look great!” Bart stepped beside Celia as Keith gave the compliment. “I’m Keith Rhodes.” He shook Bart’s hand.
“Bart Vandiver,” Bart said with a thin smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too. I hope you two are having a nice evening.”
“We are,” Bart said. “We were just headed to the bar.”
“I won’t keep you then,” Keith said. “Nice to meet you.”
Bart began walking to the bar, but Celia stayed back. “Good to see you. Moonlighting I see.”
“Yeah, prison guards don’t make the big bucks,” he joked.
“I’ll see you next week,” Celia said, and then she joined Bart, who didn’t look especially pleased. Oh, well, she thought, that’s his problem. It’s not like Keith was a rival. No one was a rival because they were just friends, right? She smiled and ordered a drink, ignoring his expression.
They danced for a little while longer, and then Nora Jones began performing again. Celia enjoyed her immensely, but when she bowed for the final time, Celia was ready to go home. She hoped Bart wouldn’t suggest a nightcap.
“This was wonderful, Bart, thank you. But I’m exhausted for some reason.”
“Probably all that dancing,” Bart smiled. “I’ll take you home.”
It started to rain as they drove back to her townhouse, which Celia counted as lucky. Once they pulled into the driveway, Bart reached for his door handle.
“Oh, you don’t have to get out in this weather. I can see myself in. I’m so tired I’ll probably fall right into bed and sleep. Thank you for a wonderful evening.” She exited the car before Bart could protest.
Once she was inside, Celia shed her dress, took down her hair, and scrubbed the makeup from her face. She was tired, that hadn’t been a lie. Two nights out in a row were enough for her after a busy week. Shaking her head, she thought, So this is what forty feels like. Once in bed, she flipped through a few channels and then settled on a documentary. However, she was asleep before the narrator even finished the introduction.
Chapter 11
Even though Celia was looking forward to the next interview with Natasha, she had to admit the week without travel to and from the prison was a nice change. She had other pieces to finish, research to do, and several meetings, including a quarterly staff meeting—“all hands,” as John liked to call it. It would have been a nightmare to add travel and an interview into the mix.
At 10:00 on Wednesday, the entire staff gathered into the too-small conference room. All chairs pointed toward the podium, where John would lead things. Celia tapped her pen on her notebook and watched the stragglers trickle into the room. John wouldn’t begin to talk until everyone was there and he had their undivided attention. He hated being interrupted. Finally, the last couple of people took their seats in the back.
“Okay, everybody, let’s get started. I’m gonna ask you to turn off your phones or put them in your pocket on silent. We need to focus, and none of these stories needs to get out of this room.” It was the standard speech he gave at the start of every meeting.
“First,” John continued, “the numbers. Our readership is up, which is good news. Thanks for the hard work. Two-thirds of our stories were picked up internationally this quarter, and a few of our reporters are working with the big three. Let’s hear it for Omar Sirami and Celia Brockwell.
“Now, we have a lot of work to do. I don’t want anyone—anyone—one-upping us on a story. We get it first. Always. That means nobody sleeps on the job, and nobody talks about the big stories outside these walls.
“Now, let’s talk about stories and collaboration.” John pointed to a reporter. “Hannah, how’s the piece about
