Ellie was already exhausted from having battled through the day. And cold, since the snow was getting worse and her navy leather gloves were hip but worthless. Her feet were wet, too, because one of her furry boots had decided to leak. And even though the knit cap covering her hair and ears was drenched, it was warmer to keep it on. Why would anyone choose to live in a bleak and winter-locked place like Boston? Now, lugging her briefcase and shoe bag and longing for redemption in the form of red wine and hot tea and maybe even chocolate, she’d encountered one more barrier between her and apartment 3-A: this woman.
“Are you okay?” Ellie asked.
“Yeah, no,” the woman replied. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” She saluted with a red Solo cup, then got to her feet, brushing down dusty acid-washed jeans. With her dark hair in a bouncy ponytail, she almost looked fifties-era, with shaggy bangs and sweetly pink lipstick.
Trying to look younger than she was, Ellie assessed, but she figured fortyish, older than Ellie herself. Not city. Not chic. And definitely not scary. But who really knew anyone?
“Truly, thanks,” the woman went on. “Just waiting for my keys. Am I in your way?”
Ellie heard a faint Midwest-or-something accent. “Keys?” Her weary brain finally clicked the pieces into place. Duh. This is why she got the big investigative reporter bucks. “Oh. Are you a new tenant?”
“Yeah, no,” the woman said again. “I mean, yeah, I’m the new tenant—or will be, if the person with my keys ever arrives. You live here?” She held out a hand. “I’m Meg. Meg Weest.” She spelled it. “Weest, with two e’s. A family thing.”
Ellie put down her briefcase, slipped off a glove, shook hands. “Ellie Berensen. And I’m sorry, I’m zonked.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “When’s—whoever—coming to let you in?”
“Ten minutes ago.” Meg took a sip from her cup, gave a weak smile. “Wine, I fear,” she said. “Wine at the end of the tunnel is the only thing that’s gotten me through this crazy day. Most of my stuff is already inside, thank goodness, but Jimmy just went down to…” She tucked a lock of escaped ponytail behind one ear, but it instantly came loose. “Wherever. To get another key. I should have gone inside before he left, but I didn’t. It’ll all be over soon. I’m so tired I’m not thinking straight.”
“That makes two of us.’” Ellie had already unlocked her apartment door, swung it open. “Come in,” she offered, gesturing toward her almost familiar living room. As she flipped on the lights, she quickly assessed whether she’d moved the laundry from the couch or left any unwashed dishes on the coffee table—not that it would matter. Housekeeping wasn’t her biggest worry now, not as long as she had soggy clothes and dripping hair. Blinker padded to the door, her white tail on high alert, and entwined herself through Ellie’s legs and various bags. “Have a seat. You can wait for Jimmy here. Just let me, um, take off this hat. And dump my stuff. Hope you’re okay with the cat.”
By the time Ellie retuned, Blinker was on Meg’s lap, one white-tipped paw extended to touch a tired throw pillow on the humdrum tweedy couch that came with this furnished apartment. Stupid cat barely registered Ellie’s arrival. So much for feline gratitude.
“Sorry to take so long,” Ellie said. “I was soaked through and through, you know? And I needed to rip out my contacts and wash my face. But I see you’ve made a pal.” Ellie gestured at the two of them as she stood in front of the fireplace. She wished it actually worked, making her new place wood-smoky and cozy, but it was only for show. Pretending to be a fireplace. A fauxplace. “Blinker usually disdains newcomers. Except if they hate cats. My boyfriend is semi-allergic, so of course Blink won’t let him out of her sight.” She shrugged. “Cats.”
“Boyfriend?” Meg stroked the cat head to tail as the fickle Blinker stretched to extend the pleasure. Then Meg craned her head to the left as if to look behind Ellie. “Is he here? I don’t want to interrupt—”
“Out of town,” Ellie said. Then regretted it. She hadn’t meant to let that little exaggeration slip, but she was tired. In truth, he had never met Blinker, but he had told her he was allergic to cats. She glanced toward the door, though she understood it was probably rude. “You have a cell phone? Want to call to see what’s up? Or maybe Jimmy-with-the-key texted you?”
Meg stood so quickly Blinker scrambled to the floor and scampered away. “I’m intruding, and it’s so late.” She put her fingertips against her mouth, then tilted her head, apologetic. “Fine way to meet your new neighbor.”
“No, no, all good,” Ellie lied. “Can I offer you more wine? I’m getting some.”
When Ellie returned with two glasses of malbec, Meg was on the couch again but looking at her cell phone. “I’m so ridiculous. He went to return the U-Haul. I never drive, so he did that for me. And he thought I had a key. But it’s fine, it’s late, the hallway is safe—I guess, isn’t it?—and I can wait out there. You’ve already been too kind.”
The opportunistic Blinker was back at Ellie’s feet now. Almost midnight, and Ellie anticipated a big day tomorrow. She was on the verge, she knew it, of a big story. And now there was a stranger in her living room. She couldn’t kick Meg out, but she certainly couldn’t invite her to stay over. That’d be like some story her newsroom would headline: cray-cray stranger comes to town and dupe-woman welcomes her in. Why didn’t she realize? they’d wonder. How clueless could anyone be?
“It’s fine,” Ellie lied again. Tried not to look at her watch. Doomed. As Meg accepted her red wine, Ellie plopped into the armchair by the not-fireplace, its hearth now home to a ceramic bowl of certain-to-die ferns and ivy, a welcome to Boston gift from the station. She’d checked to see if the plants were cat-friendly. “So. Long day. Sounds like we’re both pretty tapped out. Sit. Tell me about yourself. Why’d you move to Boston? Are you working?”
“Broken heart, I suppose, short answer. Family stuff. Looking for a new opportunity.” Meg took a sip of wine, saluted approval with the glass. She set it on the coffee table by her Solo cup. “How about you? What brought you here?”
Ellie stared into her own wine, the fatigue of the day hitting harder now, her eyes burning and the last shred of adrenaline sapped. Every moment of every day was a juggle, remembering who knew what, and whom to tell what, and what to do after that. Being a reporter wasn’t only about digging up information. It was about balancing it. Hoarding it. Using it. About understanding what to let out and what to keep in and who’d be helped by it. And who’d be harmed. Sometimes her brain felt too full, as if there were too many puzzle pieces, some old, some brand-new, and they wouldn’t all fit together. Not in a picture that made sense, anyway.
“Yours is as good an answer as any,” Ellie admitted. “Broken heart. Family stuff. Anyway, now, I’m a reporter at Channel Eleven. The all-new Channel Eleven, I’m instructed to say. Our first day on the air is in three weeks, so until then it’s all prep and promo. I was hired a couple months ago, from a smaller market where I worked for a few years, and then, like many of my fellow worker bees, started at the station three weeks ago. They’ll give me full-time, they say, if the story I’m working on gets the go-ahead. I live on pizza, I’m embarrassed to reveal. Plus the occasional guilt salad. As you said, same old same old.”