Sam wasn’t sure which was scarier: knowing why Raul Smothers had shown up in her workplace in her town, or not knowing.
“I came to tell you I quit the Times.”
Sam’s jaw dropped open. “You quit your dream job?” It seemed like an awful long drive just to share that piece of news. “Congratulations?”
“And to tell you I now live a few minutes from here. In the city. Near you.”
Sam wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Was this career change a chess move to win her over? Or was it something far worse, the only thing that Sam simply could not survive:
“You’re not working for this magazine, are you?”
“Me—working here?” Raul laughed a little too hard for Sam’s liking. “Not a chance.” Then Raul noticed her glare a moment too late. “And I’m not trying to demean your job, Sam. It’s just… you know how I felt about you leaving an actual writing career to become a glorified secretary.”
Sam held up the page that Raul had called good. “It just so happens that I’m no longer a glorified secretary. I got promoted—thanks to the sit-in you didn’t support.”
“Because you left a message with a lady who wasn’t my dead mother,” he interjected.
“And I finally got my own advice column now.”
“Really? That’s far out!” Raul clapped, a genuine happy sound that made Sam smile. Finally Raul cracked her frown! “You earned it, kid. I expect big things from you.”
“What about you, though?” Sam couldn’t understand why Raul, the publishing prodigy, had lost his job and left the city he loved more than anything. Even more than his own mother, although that wasn’t saying much.
Had this gem lost its luster?
“What about me?” Raul asked.
“What drags you to Pittsburgh, if not the distinguished Women’s House Magazine? Because I can only imagine you came here kicking and screaming.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Raul answered.
“Try me,” she goaded.
“Okay. I’m working at a children’s television show.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t decide what was more unbelievable—his below average face donning every television set across the nation, or his child-allergic temperament shaping little tykes’ minds. God save America.
“Have I heard of the program?”
Raul glanced at the floor. “Probably not. It’s small potatoes and is pretty low-budget.”
“I’m all about the small potatoes, Raul. I work here, after all.”
“It’s called Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. If you ever decide to watch after-school children’s programming, check it out.”
“Maybe I will.” She absolutely would watch it the first chance she got. “Care to explain why you left a prestigious journalism career for a no-name children’s television show? And I’m not trying to demean your job, Raul.”
Raul grinned. “Well, it’s complicated.”
“I like complicated.” Sam did like Raul, after all.
“Okay, well, I needed a break from all the dark stuff. The death and conspiracies and crime. It was exhausting and turning me into someone I didn’t like.” And someone most other people didn’t like either. “But when I heard the show’s creator—Fred Rogers—was looking for a writer, I checked it out and valued what he stands for. Plus, the job was here. Near you. It’s crazy how things worked out.”
“Crazy indeed.”
So he was stalking her, Sam realized, if stalking involved quitting one’s job and relocating to a new city just to be near a girl. Not that she totally minded this possibility.
“This calls for a celebration,” Raul announced. “Let’s go for drinks. On me.”
“It’s not even noon yet.”
“Then how about coffee?”
He gently rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder, then slipped his hand into hers, guiding her around the rows of desks, through the bullpen, and toward the lobby doors.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Sam concluded.
“Oh, c’mon. I’m betting you haven’t had breakfast yet.”
But Sam knew breakfast would lead to dinner, and dinner would lead to talking, and talking would lead to heartbreak.
“I can’t. Besides, you look ridiculous in those pants. I’m not going out in public with you wearing those.”
“Why? These are all the rage.” Raul saw the twitch of her lip, the crease across her brow. Her objection wasn’t about his magnificently large bell bottoms. “Look, I promise no funny business. We’ll toast to your new column.”
“Maybe another time, Raul,” Sam decided. She had a new job to focus on, and she didn’t need any distractions. Raul was nothing if not a distraction.
Raul took her arm and rolled up her sleeve with a gentleness that betrayed his size. He grabbed a pen off of Betty Number Five’s desk. That was how everyone at the magazine referred to the newest fresh-faced Betty addition after human resources nixed Babelicious Betty, as there were four other Bettys in the office due to the popularity of Betty Hutton’s 1950 role as Annie Oakley in Annie Get Your Gun, the year all of these Bettys seemed to have been born. Raul pressed the pen’s tip to Sam’s wrist. When he was done, a series of black numbers ran up her arm.
