Invitation to the Dance Read online

  Invitation to the Dance

  Tamara Allen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Invitation to the Dance

  Copyright 2018 by Tamara Allen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Tamara Allen, P.O. Box 7571, The Woodlands, Texas 77387

  December 2018 First Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-578-42580-1

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank Naomi Hughes and Tera Cuskaden for their invaluable editorial assistance and Polgarus Studio for the excellent formatting. I also want to express my appreciation to Illustration Web for the beautiful cover art. Last but far from least, thank-you hugs galore for Alla and Chris, the kindest and loveliest of friends.

  Chapter One

  There were better ways to waste a Wednesday evening in the middle of a mild November, and however agreeable the view from the Herald’s second floor down to busy Broadway, Charlie had seen it too many times in the past two years to find it as entertaining, even with holiday shoppers staggering against the bracing wind like hapless blackbirds.

  He wondered whether he should wait.

  Three minutes, Holloway had assured him.

  Charlie fished out his pocket watch and snapped it open. Ten and counting.

  That was the trouble with old Holloway on a tear. One dash upstairs to the composing room or down to the business offices—it didn’t matter which—would run him square into any number of problems that would demand more than three minutes of his time. That was the lot of a managing editor.

  Charlie didn’t think much of it. Nor much of the lot of a reporter whose stories were incessantly throttled by over-zealous desk editors.

  He’d wait.

  Holloway’s leather sofa situated invitingly in a fading patch of pale sunshine — that would suit. He dropped onto it, and tucking a fringed pillow behind his head, propped his feet on the armrest opposite. Holloway might be put out to catch him napping, but the compelling tale of his undaunted courage in the face of the first annual flower show of the New Jersey Floricultural Society ought to win him sympathy—if for nothing more than the miserable ride to Orange and back.

  He’d written a fine piece on it, a perfect piece until old Trumbauer had gone after it with his blue pencil, blotting out every spark of life and interest in the thing. But never mind. Once Holloway had compared the original to Trumbauer’s lifeless version, Charlie had no doubt which copy would end up in print.

  Trumbauer would have something to say about it, of course, before retreating to his desk to complain to the other editors that their lot was the most thankless of any man at the Herald, and he was dead certain most reporters only kept their jobs because editors such as he were around to turn their unintelligible drivel into respectable copy.

  The bastard.

  Charlie indulged in an aggrieved snort and shut his eyes. If Holloway wanted to keep him waiting a while longer, that was all right. A catnap was calling all the more insistently, now that he’d gotten comfortable.

  And of course since he had gotten comfortable, someone would knock at the door. Probably old Trumbauer, come to protest any complaint made against him. Charlie settled even more determinedly against the leather, eyes still closed, but the knock came again, with greater urgency. Charlie yanked loose the pillow, ready to hurl it if Trumbauer dared enter without invitation. The knob was tried and the door eased ajar to permit the peering of an unfamiliar face. A pity it wasn’t Trumbauer, really; that would’ve occupied the wait more interestingly than dealing with a visitor—one seeking a position at the paper, from the look of him. He was neat as a pin in a double-breasted brown frock coat, spotless gloves and hat, shoes polished to a near-new shine. The tentative turn of his smile clinched it.

  Charlie tossed aside the pillow and sat up. “You’ve come about the copy editing position?”

  That brought the gentleman all the way into the room. “Yes, sir.” He shut the door with undue care—for the usual racket still came from upstairs, downstairs, and every office in between—and reached the desk with an anxious little lurch, offering his right hand even as his left found a seemingly necessary purchase on Holloway’s stack of city directories and dictionaries. “William Nesmith. I’m a little early, I know.” He removed his hat, uncovering a crown of honey-colored hair not as tamed as the rest of him. “I’ve brought a sample of my work…” He drew a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “A friend of mine at the Standard wrote up the story and gave me leave to edit it—”

  “The New Brighton Standard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  If he’d been raised in New Brighton, Nesmith surely wasn’t a bad sort; but the copy he’d handed over was blue-pencilled to an extent that sent a chill up Charlie’s spine. That—and the confidence now shining in the hazel eyes—did not bode well.

  “Easy enough to edit copy in your own time. I think…” The neatly typed report on the flower show still lay on Holloway’s desk and Charlie picked it up with a twinge of regret. “Not afraid of a real test, are you?”

  Nesmith seemed to lose a little color at that, but smiled gamely. “Right here?”

  “Quietest spot you’re going to find. Got a pencil?”

  Of course he did. Charlie stepped around the desk and leaned over his shoulder as Nesmith took out whole sentences with cold-blooded efficiency. “You know, the ladies like a little description when it comes to flower shows.”

  “There’s more than a little.” Nesmith pushed on, leaving roses, asters, and petunias scattered in his wake. “I’m assuming you want a quarter column.”

  There was hardly that much left. “Leave the chrysanthemums, anyway.”

  Nesmith seemed to be holding back a smile. “Yes, sir.”

  “You were an editor at the Standard?”

  “For eight years.”

  Curiosity got the better of him. “Why’d you quit?”

  “The parting was amicable. They understood it was time for me to try my luck in Manhattan.”

  It was an evasive answer. “Let me guess. Your wife got tired of taking the ferry every time she wanted a new hat.”

  That brought the pencil to a standstill and Nesmith’s startled gaze up to meet his. “I’m not married…”

  Charlie caught the unspoken “yet.” “Engaged?”

  Wary amusement replaced the surprise. “It’s not a prerequisite for the position, I hope.”

  “Marriage, no. Experience, however… Have you worked at a city paper?”

  “New Brighton is—”

  “Not Manhattan.”

  “No.” Nesmith laid aside the pencil and sat straighter. “I’ve only just left New Brighton. I was hoping to—”

  “Start at the Herald?” Charlie leaned against the desk and gave the blue-pencilled copy a glance. “You don’t think your editing’s a little—immoderate?”

  Nesmith shifted almost imperceptibly in his seat. “I don’t know which of your reporters wrote the story, but it’s my honest belief he would only benefit from the strictest editing. He’s long-winded and clearly fond of giving his own opinions when facts will suffice. He has a showy style—entertaining, I suppose, but not as concise as he might be. And his spelling…” Nesmith shook his head gravely. “Atrocious.”

  Charlie maintained a polite smile, despite the verbal lashing. It was his own fault for invit
ing the critique—but damn, it smarted. “Reporters at the Standard must’ve gone into hiding at the sight of you.”

  Nesmith looked taken aback. “You edit as thoroughly at the Herald, sir.”

  “There’s a difference between nurturing talent and quashing it.” A difference few editors of his acquaintance seemed to appreciate. “I think it’s a charming bit of copy, really. Oh, maybe it needs a little brushing up here and there, but on the whole, folks will find it colorful and amusing.”

  Nesmith had fallen to staring at him blankly. “Well…” He cleared his throat. “There’s no harm in a bit of color and—ah—”

  “Amusement.”

  “Yes.” Nesmith got slowly to his feet. “If I seem provincial—”

  “Not at all.” Charlie came around the desk, hand extended. “Have you tried the Times? They tend to be less colorful and certainly far less amusing.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.” Nesmith was unresisting as Charlie’s handshake took on the secondary purpose of ushering him to the door. “I suppose I needn’t bother to call and inquire about your decision.”

  “There are probably more productive ways to spend your time.”

  Nesmith broke into an unexpected laugh. “Well, thank you for being so direct.”

  “No point in holding out false hope,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Good day, Mr. Nesmith.”

  “Good day—oh, I beg your pardon,” Nesmith exclaimed as he bumped into the returning Holloway. “I seem to be heading in wrong directions altogether today. Forgive me, sir.”

  Holloway was looking him over with too much curiosity. “You the fellow up from New Brighton?”

  Far too much curiosity. “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes,” Charlie began, only to bite his tongue as a narrowed gaze beneath perpetually-knit brows swept him up and down.

  “Bullshit,” Holloway said succinctly and took the copy from Charlie’s grasp. “Trumbauer edited this?”

  “I did,” Nesmith said before Charlie could turn the conversation down a safer road.

  Holloway was scrutinizing the copy intently. “In the last ten minutes?”

  If Nesmith was confused, the suspicious glance he shot Charlie indicated he was swiftly sorting things out. “Yes, sir.”

  “Nesmith, isn’t it?”

  “William Nesmith.”

  “Fine job.” Holloway thrust the copy back into Charlie’s hands. “Show him to a desk, Mr. Kohlbeck, and give him a box of pencils.” Starting past Charlie to go into the office, he paused and the knowing light in his eyes brought an involuntary protest to Charlie’s lips—one he left unspoken when the smallest gleam of warning tempered the amusement there. “A big box of pencils.” Holloway’s drooping, white moustache twitched. “Mr. Nesmith’s going to need it.”

  Charlie dared utter nothing beyond a half-hearted affirmative before the door slammed, leaving him with his battered copy and the weight of Nesmith’s disapproval settled squarely upon him.

  That disapproval he could ignore. “Come on, then.”

  Nesmith fell into step beside him. “That was a rotten trick.”

  The man knew how to get to the point. “If it had worked,” Charlie agreed with false cheer.

  “It was, regardless. I can’t believe he didn’t discharge you on the spot.”

  “One of his best reporters?”

  Nesmith’s sidelong glance turned rueful. “You know, I do believe I’ve read your work before. And I must say…”

  Charlie couldn’t tamp down a smile. Praise was coming, no matter how reluctantly. “Yes?”

  “It’s very well edited.”

  Editors were bastards, to a one. It was essential to their nature. And Charlie had just given Nesmith every reason to be one of the particularly malicious variety.

  But maybe it wasn’t too late to smooth things over. “Say, how’d you like a tour—”

  “I’ve already had a look about.” Nesmith stayed apace as they stepped into the city department. “Which desk?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Any desk off to the right,” he said with a nod toward the row farthest from the windows. “Sunshine and fresh air’s reserved for the senior members of the staff.”

  Nesmith’s nose wrinkled but he took the worst of the lot, a hulking, battle-scarred pile of oak living out its last days between the hall door and the night editor’s office. Settling gingerly into a chair as ancient, he opened the drawers on either side and unearthed a box of pencils and jar of paste. Charlie sat on a corner of the desk, ignoring the creak of old bones beneath him. “A word of advice—”

  “Not necessary.”

  Charlie snorted. “You seemed like such a trusting soul.”

  Nesmith merely smiled. “How trusting would you be, were our positions reversed?”

  “It was nothing personal. Any reporter here would’ve tested you like I did.”

  “I doubt any reporter here would have misled me into believing he was the managing editor.”

  “I never once said I was. You just assumed it.”

  “And you did not correct me.”

  “No.” But Nesmith had sure as hell corrected him. “Guess you’re looking forward to the chance to edit my work again.”

  “If you’re suggesting my goal will be to punish you, you’ve passed a rather hasty judgment as to my character.”

  Charlie had to grin. “No temptation at all?”

  “I’m here to serve the paper. I will edit you accordingly. How you interpret the end result is—well, less of a concern.” Nesmith smiled again, the sort of supremely confident smile Charlie expected would be getting on his nerves shortly. “Keep in mind we’re to work together to suit Mr. Holloway. It will cut less keenly when you must hand in your work for—how did you put it? A little brushing up?”

  Merton Palmer’s arrival spared Charlie having to acknowledge Nesmith’s advice—which was fortunate, as one transgression a day was all Holloway usually stood for. Charlie wanted to be grateful, but Mert had a habit of parading his copy around the department as though it was a story destined for the front page; and too often that turned out to be the case.

  Still glad for the distraction, Charlie introduced him, and Mert clasped Nesmith’s hand as if bestowing the blessings of the entire department with one handshake. “Nesmith? Say, you any relation to the California Nesmiths? Though I don’t suppose you’d waste your time sprucing up copy, if you were.” Mert adjusted his spectacles on his bulbous nose without losing the fistful of papers in his grasp. “Speaking of which…” He trailed off at the sight of the blue-pencilled copy Charlie, with dour amusement, dangled before him. “Ah. Yes. Well, then.” A faint flush came into his sallow cheeks and the spectacles were given further adjustment. “Haven’t seen Trumbauer about, have you?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Holloway’s office, I’d guess.”

  Nesmith smiled as politely as Charlie had ever seen anyone smile. “I’m at your disposal, Mr. Palmer.”

  “It’s not quite finished,” Mert wheezed, clutching the papers to his chest. “I’m in need of coffee. A good deal of coffee. I was kept long, fighting crowds all up and down Fifth.”

  Charlie straightened up in alarm. “You didn’t get Belcourt, did you?” Reporters had been stalking the man for weeks, in vain. “You couldn’t have—”

  “I wasn’t after Belcourt,” Mert retorted. “I wasted the day chasing around after the duke and his lovely bride. More fool, I.” He shook his head. “A perfect nightmare at the Plaza. And the church! Good God. However…” He waved the copy with an air of triumph. “Details to delight even the weariest.”

  “From you and a thousand other reporters,” Charlie said with a short laugh.

  Mert’s expression was more mulish than usual. “You think I won’t get Belcourt? Pay attention, Mr. Kohlbeck, and I’ll teach you how to reach the unreachable.”

  “If you could, you’d have done it already.”

  “I’ll do it,” Mert said loftily. “Before you or anyone else, I promise you.” />
  Charlie contrived to look only more skeptical. “No one’s gotten near him. I don’t guess you’re any more endearing or persuasive than the rest of us.”

  “I’ll wager five dollars I’m more endearing than you, Kohlbeck.”

  A soft snort from Nesmith momentarily distracted him, but after a reproachful glance in that direction, Charlie fixed the full measure of his contempt on Mert. “I’ll wager ten you’re not.”

  “Is gambling permitted in the office?” Nesmith inquired.

  Mert clasped Charlie’s outstretched hand. “Beginning tomorrow morning? So we’re equally rested.”

  “Fair enough. Old Smitty here is our witness.” Charlie turned to a wary Nesmith. “You know who Belcourt is, don’t you?”

  “I do read the papers.”

  “Good.” Charlie snatched the copy out of Mert’s hands. “Let him go ahead and edit it. I don’t want you claiming Nesmith’s partial to me.”

  The hazel gaze narrowed all the more sharply. “I can assure Mr. Palmer that’s not the case.”

  “All right, so I won’t claim you’re partial to Palmer.” Charlie handed him the copy and Nesmith marked through it with the same blood-chilling ferocity, oblivious to Mert’s ever-reddening features. Before Mert could haul Nesmith out to the sidewalk to punch him in the nose, Holloway made an appearance.

  “Palmer! Kohlbeck!” He paused in mid-shout to send a dubious glance around the department. “Is this some goddamned holiday? Where the hell—never mind, you’ll have to do. The Suffragist Convention up in Newburgh.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Charlie said. “I only just survived the Jersey flower show—”

  “Are you arguing with me, Kohlbeck?” Holloway shifted the growling disapproval to Mert. “Where’ve you been?”

  The color in Mert’s cheeks began to dissipate. “Fifth Avenue, sir. But it was a long night! I got two full columns on the wedding—”

  “A paragraph by the time Nesmith’s done with it,” Charlie predicted.

  Holloway ignored him. “Palmer, you’re for Newburgh. Kohlbeck, you’re in town, but you’ll have to settle for West Eleventh. Remember that boarding house robbery? Seems the police nabbed the wrong man. Go down and get the details—”