Chapter Nine
In her apartment, Norma didn’t know how to reconcile what had happened in Mr. Chapel’s office. How could she attempt to be the same after that? Maybe he did have his eye on her—his hands were on her no mistake. But after it was all said and done, he agreed it was a bad decision. On his part? On hers? Something was certainly between them before.
And she still didn’t ask Mr. Chapel to cover Elsie’s disappearance. That, after all, was the reason she had knocked on his office door in the first place. His kiss. That was all she could think about, even if it was on her neck. Her hand lifted to trail a finger over the space between her jaw and throat. Tingles danced down her back. She lowered her hand.
Still, she was conflicted about the composite sketch of Elsie’s. She’d have to cover the story behind Mr. Chapel’s back because there was no way she would go to his office again.
She’d have to put on her crime reporting hat, gather ideas of how she would attempt to break the story. Forget what had transpired with Mr. Chapel in his office, because that only tempered her, made her care about things that would only hurt her. She was a reporter, and now was the time to prove it. She’d have to be calculating and careful, and not worry about the danger part. What crime reporter worried about that? Perhaps she would shadow Anton Perugi, the staff crime reporter, in his methodology. Note to self. Talk to Anton about his tactics.
She walked to the fireplace in her drafty brownstone apartment, rubbing her hands together over the heat from the flames. She ached with the chill. It reminded her of when her father would leave for days at a time, and her mother would be incapacitated in the bedroom. Her mother was crippled with her own mind, and unfortunately Norma would spend nights shivering in the brutal cold or left hungry because her mother wasn’t well enough to cook, or sometimes both. She dismissed those thoughts of long ago.
She’d accomplished so much since then. Attended Northern Illinois University with the help of her grandfather, Fritz Braun, who ironically thought a woman’s place was in his kitchen cooking his meals—and his bed—and not in higher education getting unhealthy and dangerous thoughts put in her head.
Her grandfather chased wealth, as many other immigrants did like him at the turn of the century. Commodities made men wealthy overnight, and her grandfather was no different with his soda company. But nonetheless, she refused to take monetary support from her grandfather’s trust after graduation. She decided she’d make a different kind of life for herself. She would be in charge of her livelihood and not depend on anyone or become a gilded butterfly in a mental prison like her mother. She paid her rent like the rest of the nation, and she did so on time the first of every month. But sometimes, though more lately, she felt like she was losing control. Where had it gone?
Kneeling in front of the fireplace, she poked at the bright orange logs with an iron rod. She jabbed until a flame erupted and the heat stung her face. The fire popped and hissed with each poke. When it settled, she placed the iron rod against the stone fireplace façade and watched the flames dance in chaotic choreography. They looked…peaceful and made no excuses for what they were. She wished she could be like those flames. She hated holding back. She hated fighting for the right thing…or wrong depending on what stance was taken. Her mouth got her into trouble and had since she was able to speak. Maybe it was just a cover for something hidden in her subconscious.
She grabbed a piece of loose hair and twirled it between her fingers as her musings continued.
Her hair had always been a source of contention for her. In all honesty, she wanted to free herself from the puritanical stronghold it represented. She wanted to free herself from being a prude. In that brief moment, she decided Too-Dry-Two-Shoes would cease to exist.
Within seconds she stood in front of her bathroom mirror holding a pair of heavy shears. She examined her reflection; the woman on the other side looked…scared. Her chest heaved from either the idea of freeing herself or from the exertion making the decision took on her body.
Holding a large chunk of unruly hair between her fingers, she sucked in deep. Her grandfather always loved her long hair. He said women were meant to have long hair. He said long hair was the cornerstone of being a woman. Oh, grandfather. She fought for equal treatment but didn’t indulge in the pleasures of being alive. She wanted to have a passionate love affair without the constraints of marriage, she wanted to drink a mint julep to her heart’s content, and she wanted to be a crime reporter. She wanted a lot of things.
Carefully sliding the thick blades up the length of her hair to the line of her jaw, she pressed down with all her might. Brown curls rained over her chest and floated down like feathers around her bare feet. Her heart pounded until what she did sank in—she couldn’t stop now. Pressing her lips in a firm line, she gave the girl staring back in the mirror a reassuring nod. In seconds another section of hair was chopped away and then another until nothing but a bob of loose curls was left behind. The blood coursed through her body, proving that she’d survived the long hair. Proving she was still alive.
Her lips curled up in a small smile, and she laughed softly, which heightened until she exploded into an all-out belly, good-for-the soul laughter—much like the kind of laughter from child’s play.
Oh my! What have I done?!
Her laughter slowed to a chuckle and then to a glimmer of a smile. She noticed something in her reflection. Her eyes. They looked…freed.
“Well, Miss Hill,” she began, “I wonder what they’ll think of you now.” Her soft voice echoed in the miniscule bathroom. The neighbors probably thought she was lit or worse, a lunatic. Freud’s sign came to her mind again. No matter. She squinted and then widened her stare as she studied her new look. “See you later Too-Dry-Two-Shoes—not if I’m lucky.”
****
“Well, my word…” Ingrid rose from the metal chair, her mouth dropped to the floor. “Surely I’m not still ossified since the last time I was on a toot, but I would bet good gin that Norma Hill stands before me as I live and breathe!”
She’d just strolled into the Daily with light footsteps, may as well have walked on a cloud. Of all the reactions she would get, Ingrid gave her the one she most wanted. “Says you!”
“Your hair!” Ingrid reached over to tuck back a loose curl that fell in Norma’s eye. “It’s the berries! Truly! Better than Clara Bow, the jazz baby herself!”
“It just came over me.” Norma removed her coat and placed it on the back of her metal chair. The printing press revved up and hissed from its deep sleep in the adjacent room. The whole room seemed more alive, every sensation, every smell, every sound was heightened.
Ingrid’s front teeth, stained again with red lipstick, peered through her partially opened mouth. “Well, I am thrilled about this! I really am.” Her tongue flicked over the top of her lip, and the red tooth was white again.
Norma ran her fingers through her hair, but it wasn’t long before her heart fluttered as she became acutely aware Mr. Chapel entered the room. Nine on the dot. The morning sales and production meeting would begin any second. Oh darn! She quickly sat and suddenly became self-conscious; her fingers pulled at the ends of her short bob. Could a person hide behind hair? She wished she could cover her face with the curls and render herself invisible. Perhaps she should just keep her eyes low. If she didn’t see him, Mr. Chapel didn’t see her either, right?
Mr. Chapel walked slowly down the center of the room. The metal desks were perfectly spaced so he didn’t have to inch sideways but could stand to his full size and swing his arms as he confidently approached the front of the room the way he always did. His green eyes were cloudy, and his jaw was clenched. He didn’t look pleased, again. Did he ever look pleased at the staff meetings? No. She couldn’t remember one single staff meeting where he had a smile on his face.
Norma sat in her chair, sliding down so the desk pressed against her chest. She actually wore a well-fitted suit, so moving as freely as she wanted wasn’t a problem for once. Her legs involuntarily crossed under her. Too uncomfortable, she couldn’t stay that way for the duration of the meeting.
Her tongue swiped over her dry lips as she looked up.
Mr. Chapel’s gaze impaled her. Had she done something?
A wave of energy surged through her body and activated all her nerve endings. Shifting in her metal chair, she forced herself not to look away. His eyes darkened the longer they stared into each other’s eyes. Within that stare, they shared the recollection of what happened in his office. His lips on her neck. His hands on her thighs. All the things he did to her, pinned up against the glass shared in that long, all-knowing stare. Could anyone else see what was between them? Everything south of her belly button pulsed. He may as well have touched her right there for everyone to see.
Oh dear.
Then he broke the stare, gaze shifted from her face and continued to scan the room with those expressionless pupils—he was so good at that. “As you know, we have a goal here at the Chicago Daily News.” His voice strengthened with every syllable. He held a cigar in his left hand, which wasn’t lit until after lunch. “What is that goal?” He looked at the various reporters who lifted their hands, eager to answer him. “Miss Hill?”
“Er—yes?” She instantly sat up in her chair. Her heart pounded loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
“What is our goal here at the Chicago Daily?” He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing.
Norma gulped. How could she answer after her naughty reverie? She did a terrible job forgetting whatever it was that they did. “Um…” Seconds passed and she still couldn’t form a proper sentence.
“It’s certainly not ‘um.’ ” He folded his arms across his chest, cigar still clutched between his fingers.
The old Mr. Chapel resurfaced—not the man whose touch made her sizzle or the man who saved her from a womanizing sap. Where had he gone?
Her stomach flip-flopped. The room was silent as it always was when Mr. Chapel had a beef—more specifically, with her.
“I would say a good goal is to treat employees as equals,” she spit out. Once again her mouth moved involuntarily—she really should try to do something about that problem.
The staff gasped in unison.
Mr. Chapel’s infamous smirk resurfaced—the Big Cheese resurfaced. He said nothing for a few seconds, only turned on his heels and walked to the opposite end of the room, lingering amongst the desks at the other side near the printing press room. Only breathing filled the silence in the space. He held his composure, although with a clenched jaw. Finally, he turned around and faced the staff, which hung on his every word.
“Writing compelling, informative copy and increasing sales is our goal here at the Chicago Daily News.” His voice was smooth—too smooth—and controlled. His eyes glimmered.
Norma looked down at her intertwined fingers, embarrassed and somewhat ashamed, though she wasn’t sure why. He really made it easy for her to dislike him. She could never like a man who exerted his power in such a way.
“Yes, Miss Hill, even the weather report can be compelling,” he grunted.
Cheeks flaring, she snapped her gaze up and caught his in an instant. How dare he? She looked away—if she didn’t, she couldn’t be liable for what came out from her mouth. One, two, three, four, five…
Mr. Chapel cleared his throat, addressing the nervous staff as they shifted in their metal chairs, gazes down to desks, typewriters, or uninteresting shoes. “Sales up by fifty-eight percent mean we are adhering to our goals. Keep up the good work.”
With those words, Mr. Chapel dismissed the staff meeting. He made his way through the sea of metal desks and stopped in front of Norma and said, “In my office. Now.” His voice was deceptively calm.
****
Henry made his way to his office, the one he began to refer to as his cave. He’d spent too much time there the last eight days. He even slept there over the weekend, which wasn’t a far cry from his drafty, empty penthouse. Reminiscent of his childhood home—large and empty like a museum. The lights overhead illuminated the office space, and his desk was covered with stacks of paper and outdated newspapers. He couldn’t think about how the office needed to be tidied up, he had a more pressing need on his hands. Miss Hill.
“Close the door,” he instructed as Norma’s lean body slunk into the office without her making eye contact. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have something to say—she always did. And surely she would say he’d embarrassed her. Not his intention.
What was his intention? He’s spent the better part of the night contemplating that. Though his conclusion didn’t feel right, he knew what he had to do to keep the peace. But as he drew in her body, her face, her mouth, he knew all he wanted to do was disrobe her. He wanted to continue where they left off and give it to her until she made noises only dogs could hear. He sighed; oh, all the things he wanted…
“Let’s not beat around the bush, Chapel.” Confidence dripped from her words and solidified the air around her like armor. She stood before his desk, her arms crossed across her chest. Something was exciting about her standing over him as he sat. He tilted his head upward. He could easily change his mind.
“Okay…”
When he didn’t say anymore, she frowned; she was frustrated. She squinted further as her lips rolled in and scraped against her teeth several times. While her face tightened, her eyes glazed over. What was she thinking? He wanted to hear her say what she wanted to say.
“Well?” Her arms tightening around her chest. The white knuckles contrasted against her dark jacket.
“Well, what?” He leaned against his desk, steepled his fingers under his chin.
“Mr. Chapel, I don’t like this cat and mouse game we seem to be playing. Why did you call me in here? Why did you do that?” Her hip jutted out; the movement drew his attention like a cat to tuna fish.
Once his gaze found her face again, he cleared his throat. “Do what?” His words were slow, too slow maybe, but he knew what she was referring to. God, you’re a juvenile, Chapel.
She licked her lips. Too beautiful. Anything her mouth did was beautiful. The billowy pink lips pouted, and no doubt could be ready for him in a flash. He groaned inside, his arousal scarcely contained in his trousers—it was a good thing he sat. If she knew how much she affected him, she could have the world at her feet—and a crown on her head. She could make him do that. His heart stilled as tremors ran through his body with those thoughts.
“Why did you embarrass me?” Her index finger pressed against the sleek desk.
“I don’t think I did.” Stop being an ass, Chapel.
She frowned again.
“I need all my reporters to be on the same page.” To break away from her troubled expression, he glanced outside where the snow fell in thick sheets. The conversation wasn’t going as he imagined.
“You make it hard for people to work for you, Mr. Chapel. You’re demanding and angry all the time. And…” She lowered her eyes. “I’m hardly your reporter.”
He rested his chin on steepled fingers again for a moment, sitting back in his chair. The air was thick between them. She was right. It was impossible to please him. But that wasn’t what he focused on. The truth was, she was hardly his reporter. She became something else to him, and he had to address it. How would he though? Being the boss made the situation a bit stickier than he’d like. Had he met her under different circumstances perhaps acting on his impulses and desires would be…easier. “About yesterday…I’m your boss, Norma.” Too much air escaped his lungs as he spoke gently—he could have easily been winded if he didn’t. Staring at the unlit cigar, he sucked in a cleansing breath. Finally, he looked up and saw something troublesome in her eyes. They very well could have reflected his own. Nevertheless he spoke, “That is all I am.” He simply didn’t know how to be more.
She winced. Self-preservation Norma resurfaced and brought her hard, empty eyes with her. Did she want more in spite of her words—in spite of his? Had he read her wrong? His heart pulsed.
Seconds passed, but there were no words. Imagine that, a Harvard graduate with no words; his father would have a field day with that.
“Exactly right,” she finally said, her voice strained. “That is all you are. That is why we agreed it would never happen again. Whatever it was…it was the right decision. I think we should forget the whole thing.” She stood and straightened her nifty suit, not looking at him. After a few moments, she smoothed down her short curls and nodded—a self-assuring nod.
“I’m sorry you think I embarrassed you, I didn’t mean to.” The words just came out. He didn’t want to leave things as they were.
“I guess I should be used to it by now.” Then she was gone, door shut behind her. Nothing left of her, but her honey scent. Nothing left but the stupid look he probably had on his face.
“Dammit, Chapel,” he said under his breath.
That didn’t quite go as he expected. Norma was quite different. Upon first glance, he decided she was trouble. She wouldn’t back down to him, and it made him uneasy. Challenging his work ethic, she should get a Pulitzer for that.
****
Norma scurried from Mr. Chapel’s office with tears stinging her eyes. She really didn’t know why she was crying, or why his very true statement hurt her so much. He was her boss. That is all he was. What did she expect? She and the boss man would have a scandalous affair; he would fall in love with her, and they would live happily ever after? How ridiculous to think that. The whole notion was absurd, and she needed to get out of looney land fast.
Get yourself together. She clumsily wiped her eyes before she returned to the press room. Surely more bets had been placed on her continuing employment. To the staff, she was always on the verge of getting canned. Those darned men needed to mind their business. Frankly, she couldn’t stand the bull sessions. The men gossiped worse than any woman she knew. They stared as she made her way through the sea of desks to her work station. Heat whisked through her body. She’d had enough.
“Keep looking. I’m still here, boys.” She looked at all and none of the men. Fists pressed to her hips. “So get lost!” Her heart pounded. She wanted to say something far worse than that, but she didn’t. The men gaped like she’d lost her marbles—perhaps she had. Regardless, she wasn’t in the mood to be trifled with. Not after Mr. Chapel rejected her. Is that what he did?
“Norma!” Ingrid lunged from her chair, reaching for her, her bony fingers grabbing at Norma’s shoulders. “What happened? What’s got you all balled up? Did Mr. Chapel can you?”
Norma nudged herself out of Ingrid’s grasp—she didn’t want to be touched. Ingrid wasn’t strong anyhow; it was easy to push her away. She just needed a darned moment to organize her thoughts. Accept the finality of her relationship with Mr. Chapel—kissed or not kissed. That’s what she had to do.
If only she wasn’t his subordinate…
Finally, after running her fingers through her short, springy curls several times she spoke. Her voice was low and hoarse. “No…he didn’t.”
“Sit,” Ingrid demanded.
Norma sat in her chair, the hard metal biting at her tailbone.
“Norma?”
“I’m fine.” She wasn’t.
“I wished I could believe you, doll. But if you say so.” She reached in her pocket and handed Norma an envelope. “From the courier.”
“Thank you,” Norma murmured as she grabbed the letter. She had barely contained herself before she carefully unfolded the note and read,
To: Miss Norma Hill, weather reporter,
The Chicago Daily News
From: Former Mrs. Charles Hill
My dearest daughter Norma,
I hope this message finds you well. Unfortunately I have not been well. I have had a horrible accident and request you come to Arlington Heights to assist me. I will expect your presence this evening.
Your loving mother,
Bonnie
Former Mrs. Charles Hill? Norma gasped. Had her mother always signed letters and telegrams that way? She felt sympathy for her mother, the former Mrs. Charles Hill, who never got over the divorce. How was her mother always able to get over the affairs but never the divorce, which actually freed her to marry a man whom wouldn’t have indiscretions? Norma digressed and reread the note.
What accident? What did her mother do now? She’d had episodes in the past and claimed to be injured or not well, but it had been a con. She folded the letter and placed the small, tightly bound square into her pocket. She would go to her childhood home in Arlington Heights immediately on the commuter train.
Norma grabbed her coat, sliding it over her suit while she called to Ingrid, “Will you tell Mr. Chapel I had a family emergency requiring my attention?”
Ingrid stood from her desk with further alarm—she’d pass out with another incident no doubt. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, my mother is not well. Please, just tell Henry…er…Mr. Chapel that I had to leave.” She was out into the grand hall in no time flat, pressing the button until the elevator opened and she entered. But it wasn’t until the doors closed that she breathed.