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chapter seventeen THERESA
On Wednesday morning at 9:30, Theresa found herself waiting in the lobby of the Pasadena Sun Tribune offices on North Lake Avenue. It was already hot, and the receptionist had a fan working at full blast, making her stiff bouffant tilt precariously backward.
The door just to the right of reception opened, and Theresa turned to find Mary, in a dark green linen suit with white piping and shoes to match, standing with one hand on her hip as the other held open the door. Mary’s dark pixie cut and black plastic–rimmed glasses gave her a serious look that had intimidated Theresa when they’d first met until she, Mary, and Carla had each sunk a martini at lunch and the laughter had started to roll.
“Theresa, good to see you. Why don’t you come back?” Mary asked.
Theresa stood, straightening the skirt of her pale yellow shirtdress to follow her fellow reporter through the door. “Did your librarians have any luck?”
“I think you’ll be pleased,” said Mary. “It looks as though those two had quite the wedding.”
Mary pushed open the door to the newsroom and Theresa was hit with the familiar smell of cigarette smoke, typewriter ink, and stale coffee. The Sun Tribune’s setup was similar to her newsroom, with offices for the managing editor and publisher against one wall and most of the action in an open bullpen. There was a circular copy desk in the middle of the room where three men sat hunched over stacks of paper. Several reporters lingered nearby, watching their stories be slashed in edits, while others sat at desks with phone cords stretching out in front of them as they leaned back in their chairs.
Mary’s desk was at the end of the Metro cluster nearest to the door. On it sat a stack of articles pasted onto black card.
“Take a seat,” said Mary, gesturing to her chair.
Theresa sat, and Mary leaned on the desk before sliding the articles over.
“That’s your announcement on top. Then there are pieces about the bride’s dress, the family, all sorts of society stuff.” Mary reached over for a pack of Lucky Strikes and a matchbook from the Track, a cocktail bar Theresa sometimes drove past on Wilson Avenue.
While Mary lit her cigarette, Theresa took out her notebook and began transcribing the wedding announcement.
PASADENA HOTELIER MARRIES ENGLISH BEAUTY
Mr. Guy Whitley, owner of the Andalusian Hotel on Raymond Avenue, married Miss Adele Pearce, lately of London, at All Saints Episcopal Church last Tuesday. The ceremony was performed by Rev. J. W. Cartwright.
The bride wore a dress made of point d’Angleterre lace and duchess satin with lace appliqué and pearl beads. It was created by Worth.
The evening reception was held at the Andalusian Hotel and was attended by Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Pearce, the parents of the bride, as well as many friends of the happy couple.
Theresa paused to study the photograph of Adele in her wedding dress. The marriage had been front-page news at the Sun Tribune, apparently, with studio portraits of the bride and groom in cameos set around the main wedding photograph. Miss Pearce, lovely with her dark waving hair piled on top of her head and her full lips, wore a white gown of frothy lace that cinched with a wide band at the waist and was accented by enormous sleeves. From the tilt of her head, Theresa could just see the white roses in her hair. On her arm, Guy Whitley stared out at the camera, his hair swept away from his temples. He cut a dashing figure, his broad shoulders framed in a black suit, but Theresa couldn’t help noticing how stiff the couple looked, as though they were dolls lined up next to one another.
Theresa worked quickly, moving on from the wedding announcement to an article that detailed the wedding dress, and another about the couple’s first appearance at a charity ball for the benefit of railway workers five months later, after returning from their European honeymoon.
When she was done, Theresa closed her notebook and tucked it into her bag before standing up.
“Thank you for this,” she said.
Mary stretched her arm down to ash her half-smoked cigarette into a black plastic dish. “You’re fast at that. Shorthand course?”
“Mother’s orders.”
Mary gave a little snort. “Mine, too. Let me know how you get on with those corrections.”
“I will,” she said.
“Let’s get lunch again sometime. Maybe this time we can go somewhere that doesn’t cost half my week’s pay.”
Theresa laughed. “I thought that was just me.”
“Leave it to a Style reporter to choose a place like the Honker,” said Mary with a shake of her head.
“I’m more of a lunch counter girl myself,” Theresa admitted.
“The Fair Oaks Pharmacy it is,” said Mary. “I’m driving up the coast to see my parents soon, but how about when I get back? You can buy me a tuna melt to say thank you.”
“It’s a date.”
