Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (spicy books to read .txt) 📕

them evidently on an important assignment of some kind. I put the page in my outgoing tray and reached for the next brilliant, one-paragraph work of journalistic integrity on my desk. Truth and Accuracy, Fairness, Impartiality, and Humanity, I thought with a sigh. The ethics of journalism, as I’d learned at school. It was just too bad Something Interesting wasn’t included on the list.

I was distracted by the activity around me. As of last Sunday, Canada was at war. For an entire week, the country had held its breath, waiting for Prime Minister Mackenzie King to announce that we would join Britain against Hitler’s Nazi Germany. The prime minister had seemed determined to do it in his own time, making it clear to Britain that we were an independent country now. Today’s announcement had thrown the newsroom into an excited chaos cloaked in sobriety—it would have been unseemly for the reporters to admit that they were practically salivating at the stories they needed to write.

I scanned the next article before me: an all-British military band playing an all-British programme at Christie Pits on Sunday. The name of the park brought me back six years, but I shoved it aside, as I always did, and told myself to focus on my work. If I added the names of the band’s pieces on the programme, I might be able to stretch it to three paragraphs, I mused. Then again, no one was going to flip all the way to page thirty-two to read it, so I supposed it didn’t really matter. I rolled another piece of paper into my old Underwood, slapped the bar down, and got to work.

“You planning to go to that?”

I jumped. Over my shoulder stood Ian Collins, hands sunk deep in his brown tweed trousers. “You scared me,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said, flashing an innocent smile. “I didn’t realize you were so mesmerized by the notices.” He peered past me, his blue eyes fixed on the note about the band. “Looks very entertaining.”

The first day I’d arrived at the Star, I’d been nervous about actually being inside a news office, and eager to make a good impression. I’d also been terrified that Ian Collins, now a senior reporter, would spot me, so I’d hidden behind my typewriter. After so many years of dodging his mother’s pointed suggestions that we go out, now I would see him every day. I’d rehearsed various apologies, preparing for the moment we finally spoke, but it turned out there’d been no need. Ian had been friendly from the start and put me at ease, commiserating with me about his mother’s persistence. He’d shown me the ins and outs of the office and introduced me to my new coworkers.

Now he came around to the front of my desk and leaned against the corner. He was undeniably handsome, with his sandy blond hair and relaxed but muscular build, and his smile could charm cheese from a mouse. I was flattered by his attentions, but then again, I reminded myself I was the only woman in the place, other than a few secretaries.

“Don’t make fun,” I said. “Listen, if you’d like to hand me something a little more interesting, I’d be happy to work on that instead.”

“I couldn’t help it,” he teased. “You looked so serious over here.”

“What are you working on?” I asked, trying to keep my envy from showing.

“Just a little opinion piece on making the war official.”

“Just a little opinion piece,” I echoed wryly. “I’m typing up theatre listings next.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Have you figured out what you want to see? I was thinking of going to the Wizard of Oz tonight. Care to join me? As colleagues, of course,” he added.

I hesitated. While I may have misjudged Ian all those years ago, based solely on his mother’s tenacity, I still wasn’t ready to start dating. My parents needed me, now more than ever. And besides, I wanted more than this tiny desk where I typed out community notices. As attractive and nice as Ian was, he was a senior reporter. If I dated him, I had a feeling I’d never be taken seriously in the office.

“I can’t,” I said quickly. “We’re having a big family dinner tonight. It’s going to be a full house.”

Disappointment flickered across his face, but he nodded, standing again. “Maybe another time.” He pointed at the short stack of papers I’d typed up. “Want me to take those over to Mr. Hindmarsh?”

I shook my head. “I need to walk around. I’ve been sitting in this chair all morning. But thanks.”

I watched him move away, stopping at a couple of desks to chat with fellow reporters, and I felt a pang of regret. What was I so worried about? It was only a date, after all.

I spent another half hour typing up the theatre listings, then I got up and stretched, dropping off my work in the editor’s tray. As I left Mr. Hindmarsh’s empty office, Roger Waters, one of the junior reporters, put a hand on my arm.

“Sweetheart, get me a coffee? Two sugars.”

I pulled my arm away. “I’m not a secretary, Roger.”

Across the newsroom, Ian looked up. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

Roger frowned. “You don’t have to be so testy. I just wanted a coffee.”

“Yeah, well, you can get your own.”

Averting my eyes from everyone in the room, I marched back to my little desk in the back corner. After years of night school and journalism classes, I fumed, this was where I’d ended up, being asked to get coffee and typing the most insignificant things. Practically the whole world had gone to war, and I was collecting recipes for a new feature Mr. Hindmarsh felt would “really give wives a lift.” It wasn’t as if I’d expected them to send me overseas, like a couple of the other reporters, but I thought I’d at least get something interesting to do. My thoughts went to Rhea Clyman, as they often did these days, and I wondered