| |
Lola and Audrey walked two blocks to arrive at the Abigail Adams Ballroom, the site of the United States Journalism Association Gala. In their black gowns, high heels, and extra layers of makeup, they looked stately and important, forcing people on the sidewalk to give them a wide berth and blink at them distractedly, as though they were minor celebrities.
“And maybe we are minor celebrities,” Audrey suggested under her breath. “It’s not like I recognize every famous person on the street. That’s really saying something on Martha’s Vineyard, especially in the summer when it’s full of actors and writers and musicians.”
When they reached the Abigail Adams ballroom, a woman in her mid-thirties greeted Lola with a smile and said, “Welcome, Miss Sheridan. We have a seat for you and your plus-one at the head table with the Journalism Association president and three other recipients of the prize.” She then pressed her headset to explain to some other person, “Lola Sheridan has arrived. We are in transit.”
Lola and Audrey eyed one another sheepishly, laughing inwardly about the clear importance Lola had at this dinner. It was so otherworldly.
The president of the United States Journalism Association introduced himself as Mark Rathburn. He was in his early sixties with salt-and-pepper hair, thick glasses, and an Italian suit that made his big beard look almost sophisticated. His hand was warm and large over Lola’s as he smiled and congratulated her on her tremendous accomplishments.
“This is my daughter, Audrey,” Lola explained as she stepped from his handshake. “She’s a journalism student at Penn State and is really making a mark on the world. I couldn’t be prouder.”
Mark Rathburn tilted his head knowingly as he shook Audrey’s hand, as well. “You know, when I read that article in the paper a few months back about all those deaths at the electrical company, I thought to myself... Sheridan? Another Sheridan? But I have to admit that I didn’t put two and two together. Audrey Sheridan actually is Lola Sheridan’s daughter. I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am privileged to sit with both of you tonight.”
Audrey’s cheeks burned crimson with a mix of embarrassment and pride. Lola’s heart swelled into her throat as she watched her daughter take this enormous compliment from such a prominent member of the Boston community.
“Thank you,” Audrey finally managed. “You don’t know what that means to me to hear.”
“I think I do know,” he told her. “I remember my first huge story. I broke it when I was a little older than you, living back in Seattle. I felt the importance and the power of my words and fell in love with journalism. The best advice I can give to you as an up-and-coming journalist is to be utterly fearless in everything you do.”
“I don’t even think she needs that advice,” Lola returned, beaming. “She’s already charged through the first steps of her career.”
“No telling where you’ll be in a few years, then,” Mark continued. He then flashed her a business card as he said, “Why don’t you send me an email? Maybe we can help one another in the future.”
Audrey took the business card with a shaking hand. She glanced toward Lola, initially shocked, before rebounding quickly and saying, “I’d like that, Mr. Rathburn. Thank you.” She then slid the card into her bra, as she had nowhere else to put it. Lola laughed inwardly, knowing that that wasn’t the type of thing you did at these events. Audrey would have to learn; until then, she would be forgiven.
Lola and Audrey sat side-by-side at the head table. Their names were drawn out in beautiful calligraphy on little place cards across their plate. Around the table, other recipients of the award greeted them: two men and another woman, all of whom had brought their spouses for the gala dinner. Two people at the table recognized both Lola and Audrey’s names as journalists in the Boston area, which thrilled and surprised Audrey to no end. She squeezed Lola’s hand hard under the table, mouthing, “I can’t believe this.”
“You’re a star, honey,” Lola whispered back. “It’s so deserved.”
“You must be proud to be the next Lola Sheridan,” one of the men receiving the award that night announced to Audrey.
To this, Lola interjected, “Actually, she’s not the next Lola Sheridan. She’s the first Audrey Sheridan.”
“Well said,” the gentleman returned contemplatively, lifting his glass of wine.
The gala dinner was served before the awards ceremony, offering roasted vegetables, a choice between vegetarian lasagna or roasted chicken, fresh breads with pads of melting butter, and several salads upon which roasted walnuts and cranberries were sprinkled. At their table, Lola and Audrey charmed the heads of the Journalism Association and the other honored guests, tag-teaming stories and giggling.
“You two are quite the characters,” Mark Rathburn affirmed. “I don’t know what we’d do at this dinner without you. And to be honest with you, I’ve nearly fallen asleep at this table for four years in a row.”
“My daughter’s always the life of the party,” Lola affirmed. “I don’t quite know what to do with her.”
After dinner and dessert, servers walked through to refill wine glasses and collect dirty plates. Mark Rathburn muttered to their table that it was “showtime,” sipped his wine, and headed up to the podium, where he tapped the microphone and made it scream.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the United States Journalism Association,” he began. “It is my pleasure this evening to welcome you to our annual gala, where we honor another year of investigative journalism across the eastern seaboard and prepare for another year ahead.”
The crowd applauded, glancing toward the head table expectantly. Lola heard her name echoing out from a number of lips. Again, it was such a surreal feeling.
Mark Rathburn continued on, thanking a number of his colleagues at the Journalism Association and honoring past members who’d retired in the previous year. He then went on to talk about the importance of women in journalism, saying, “It’s only been in the past several decades that women have been allowed to speak their truths across the media, and we, as a culture, are far better for it. Of course, we can pinpoint various women who’ve pushed this to the forefront— women like Barbara Walters, Ida B. Wells, and Christiane Amanpour. They’re some of my personal heroes, adding texture to a male-dominated industry and allowing voices like the one we’re about to honor to come to life. But as a male, I don’t want to stand up here and talk about women in journalism for too long. I’ll leave that to the woman we’re honoring first tonight, a woman who has such a whip-smart personality and a clear curiosity and a real sense of style.
“Lola Sheridan began her career at the age of nineteen. At the time, she was a new mother, waitressing tables to pay the rent and using the rest of her time to chase stories and force editors to give her a chance. I remember when I first heard about her about fifteen years ago and thought, ‘Wow. If that woman can do all that as a single mother without any money to back her, I have absolutely no excuse not to be successful,’” Mark continued.
The crowd laughed good-naturedly. Lola felt strange, awkward, listening to this man she’d only just met talk about her as though he’d known her for years.
“In the wake of her first stories, she’s written about everything from the women’s rights movement to sexual assault in the workplace, to teachers’ rights, to fashion icons, to musicians, to crime aficionados across the Greater Boston Area. Her stories are continually bright and electric, intellectual without trying too hard. They’re a sincere treasure to read... Which is why we’ve put together the majority of her work into this book.”
Mark lifted a thick book from the base of the podium and pressed it through the air toward Lola. Lola’s heart lifted with surprise.
A book? Of all my stories?
It was better than any scrapbook. Audrey gripped her hand adoringly as Mark Rathburn beckoned for Lola to come to the stage. As Lola rose, she forced herself to blink out across the audience, to take stock of every shining face, all pointed toward her. They honored every minute she’d ever strived for perfection, every night she’d ever stayed up till dawn writing, and every moment she’d ever cried and thought, maybe it all wasn’t worth it. As she strode to the podium, her heart pounded with a resounding truth: it all actually was worth it. Every moment.
At the podium, Mark Rathburn stepped to the side as he continued to applaud, his eyes illuminated. Lola nodded and positioned herself behind the podium, forcing any last fear into the pit of her stomach. What did she care what these people thought of her? She’d already proven herself.
“Good evening,” Lola began, her voice clear. “I can’t thank you enough for the honor of this certificate of excellence. Now that I’m forty years old, I look back on the past twenty-one years of my career and think to myself: how did any of that happen? Especially to a silly girl with a dream?”
Before her, the crowd laughed good-naturedly, grateful that Lola could joke about herself in a lighthearted way.
Lola knocked her head back to allow her long hair to cascade down her back. “When I was a child, about seven or eight, I had a tape recorder with a microphone attached. I felt like that thing gave me access to another world, a world that was elevated from normal reality. I sat on the kitchen counter with the microphone extended toward my mother, asking her question after question, imagining myself like a television reporter. My mother always played along, pretending to be everything from a bank robber to a weatherwoman to Madonna. She would make up these little characters and answer my questions, making the interviews whimsical and alive. She forced me to consider how to sculpt the interview to make the best story, something that I required in my career.”
Lola’s eyes watered at the memory. She hadn’t actually planned to share those stories with this crowd yet felt the words flow through her, uninhibited. Her eyes met Audrey’s over the crowd. They were heavy with tears for the memory of this woman Audrey had never been allowed to know.
“My mother died when I was only eleven years old,” Lola continued, clearing her throat.
The crowd seemed unsure of where to look. How could they all collectively handle one woman’s intense sorrow?
“But after her death, I carried her with me in everything I did. I felt her at every interview, as I stayed up late to write stories or wait tables, and even as I washed my dishes, usually with tears running down my face. Everything I did, I did due to some belief in a greater mission. And today, here with my daughter, journalist Audrey Sheridan, I feel, finally, that I succeeded. I passed on my mother’s love for storytelling, both to my daughter and the Greater Boston Area. And I couldn’t be more pleased with myself. I strive to continue to bring storytelling and curiosity to the eastern seaboard, no matter the article’s contents. The news is ever-changing— but our approach to releasing the truth to the masses never does. Thank you so much.”
Lola stepped away from the podium as Mark Rathburn took a few steps closer to deliver a gold-plated award, which was sculpted into an opened newspaper. Lola’s name was printed along the base— LORRAINE SHERIDAN, which, she decided then and there, she would never change to GASBARRO. How could she? Her love for Tommy had nothing to do with wanting to remain a Sheridan, to link herself forever to Anna, to Wes, and to their shared past.
“Thank you,” Lola mouthed to Mark as the crowd continued to roar. “This is one of the greatest days of my life.”
When Lola returned to the table, Audrey flung herself up to wrap her arms around her mother’s neck. “I’m so proud of you, Mom,” Audrey whispered into her ear. “The life we’ve had together is the most beautiful thing I know.”