"Yeah." Ed pushed his glasses up his nose and read from his screen.
"Lori Franks has long been a mother figure for the men on the Humpbacks team. Many feel they could go to her with their problems. Florence, in particular, enjoyed both her support and her cupcakes."
"I hear they're very tasty." Having my words read back to me sounded odd to my ears. Maybe because they were coming from this covert slimeball. "Are you asking me to hunt down the recipe? I'm sure that wouldn't be too difficult. I'll ask around."
Ed looked at me over his glasses again. "No. I got to asking myself why Mr. Florence felt the need of a mother figure. He grew up here in Lowball Bay. Surely a good lad like him visits Mummy every Sunday and sends a card every Mother's Day."
I looked down at my lap, then back up again.
"Then I did more checking and I saw his mother passed away…" He checked the screen. "Five years ago."
I shrugged and tried to pretend it was no big deal. "People lose loved ones. It's a private matter." Most of the time.
"Florence gives a lot of money to cancer charities," Ed stated.
"Lots of people do," I said.
"You see what two and two I'm putting together here," Ed said. "People like to think they can relate to their heroes. Knowing what he went through would make it easier for them to deal with their own battles. People love that shit. When they know, they'll open their bank accounts and give more to charities, to research." He rubbed his chin. "Wouldn't you say celebrities have an obligation to talk about this stuff, for the good of everyone?"
I hesitated. Obligation? No, I didn't think that at all. If it helped other people, then I understood what Ed was trying to get at. Celebrities’ private lives weren't usually as private as they'd like, and many came forward for the greater good, even if it hurt them in the process. That was their choice, though. It wasn't up to people like me to make them talk.
"I think if he has a story to tell, it's up to him to tell it," I said finally. What I wanted to say was “go fuck yourself,” but that wasn’t about to happen.
Ed took off his glasses and set them aside. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. I didn’t miss his eyes bouncing from my chest back up to my face. Creep.
"We're journalists. It's up to us to look for stories and break them," he said slowly. "If you're not up to it, maybe Harvey?—"
"No," I said without thinking. "I'll speak to him. I'll try to convince him to talk about his mother." I sincerely doubted he'd even consider it. Her passing was too raw for him, too difficult. Maybe someday…
Ed sat back and smiled. "Great. If anyone can do it, it's you. Stick close to him, you might get all sorts of interesting stories out of him. And the rest of his team. Who knows, you might even get a taste for juicy scandals."
I grimaced. "I don't think so. At least, I hope not. Harvey is better at dumpster diving than I am. He might be pissed if I tried to muscle in on his territory." Plus, I like having a soul. Doing what he did felt like the equivalent of selling it to the lowest bidder.
Ed smirked. "The competition would do him some good." He jerked his chin at me. "I bet you'd get stories out of people he could only dream of. He's a bit lacking in the cute, female department."
"I think it best if I pretend I didn't hear that," I said dryly. He was walking a very fine line.
Ed chuckled. "I'm not wrong though. Unless you find him cute." He spread his hands. "Each to their own."
I grimaced. Cute was the last word I'd use to describe Harvey, but talking about a coworker like this was icky no matter what, to say the least.
"I find it best not to find him at all," I said. "To be honest, I'd prefer to get interviews because I'm trusted, not because of my appearance."
Ed gave me a look which suggested I was dreaming if I thought looking pretty didn't factor into my work life in some way.
I didn't want to admit he might be right, even to myself. I'd have to work hard and keep trying to make people take me seriously.
In the back of my mind, I had the sinking feeling Ed would want this story on Hawk's mom, whether it was written by me, or someone else. I'd have to make sure it was only written byme, if it had to run. At least I could write about Hawk with understanding and compassion.
What I wasn't sure of was what Hawk would think about the article. The idea of him being angry with me, especially over something I knew was both personal and off limits, made my heart hurt. Somehow I had to make him understand. It was just work. Like it or not, I had to do my job, just like he had to do his, including speaking to the press.
I stepped out of Ed's office with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
