In Search of a Story E-Book

Andrew Grey

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 305

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

He's searching for a story but finds so much more. Brad Torrence is next on the chopping block at the newspaper where he works. Hungry for any source he can find, he runs across an ad in the classifieds: For Sale: Nursery Items, Never Used. It's the lead he's been looking for. Thinking a piece about the loss of a child will give him the edge he needs to keep his job, Brad follows up. He doesn't expect a single man to answer. Rather than being offended, Cory Wolfe finds sharing the story of his grief and pain liberating. He's even surprised by the spark that strikes, and one story leads to another. Brad digs into his stories and Cory's life, eager to know everything about the man who's caught his attention. But when a lead points him to the hospital where Cory works, he unearths a mystery that might have been safer left buried. Brad's search for a story could prove deadly….

Leseprobe

Readers love ANDREW GREY

The Good Fight

“As per his normal, Mr. Grey has created great characters, used vivid descriptions, a fast pace, a well-scripted plot and all the emotional turmoil I could handle.”

—Literary Nymphs Reviews

“I get a glimpse into the lives of people living very differently from me and it’s never condescending or boring. He brings them to life by cutting through all the labels and bringing out their humanity, both the good and the bad. They never live in an ideal world or fit into some preconceived stereotype. I love that!”

—Reviews By Jessewave

An Isolated Range

“This is a great story about personal independence, love found and lost, and what it really means to be a loving, supportive parent. Another wonderful character-driven novel in the style we have come to expect from the story-telling mind of Andrew Grey. Enjoy.”

—Mrs. Condit and Friends

A Foreign Range

“If you are looking for a quick romantic read about some emotionally guarded but hunky cowboys then saddle up and take a ride on the Range series.”

—Guilty Indulgences

Legal Tender

“Buy the book and have an engaging, enjoyable day of reading.”

—Randy’s Book Bag Reviews

Novels by ANDREW GREY

Accompanied by a Waltz

Dutch Treat

In Search of a Story

Love Comes Silently

A Wild Ride

Three Fates (anthology)

Work Me Out (anthology)

ART SERIES

Legal Artistry • Artistic Appeal • Artistic Pursuits • Legal Tender

BOTTLED UP STORIES

Bottled Up • Uncorked • The Best Revenge • An Unexpected Vintage

CHILDRENOF BACCHUS STORIES

Children of Bacchus • Thursday’s Child • Child of Joy

GOOD FIGHT SERIES

The Good Fight • The Fight Within • The Fight for Identity

LOVE MEANS… SERIES

Love Means… No Shame • Love Means… Courage • Love Means… No Boundaries

Love Means… Freedom • Love Means … No Fear

Love Means… Family • Love Means… Renewal • Love Means… No Limits

SEVEN DAYS STORIES

Seven Days • Unconditional Love

STORIES FROMTHE RANGE

A Shared Range • A Troubled Range • An Unsettled Range

A Foreign Range • An Isolated Range• A Volatile Range

TASTEOF LOVE STORIES

A Taste of Love • A Serving of Love • A Helping of Love • A Slice of Love

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Novellas by ANDREW GREY

A Present in Swaddling Clothes

Organic Chemistry

Shared Revelations

Snowbound in Nowhere

FIRE SERIES

Redemption by Fire • Strengthened by Fire • Burnished by Fire • Heat Under Fire

CHILDRENOF BACCHUS STORIES

Spring Reassurance • Winter Love

LOVE MEANS… SERIES

Love Means… Healing • Love Means… Renewal

WORK OUT SERIES

Spot Me • Pump Me Up • Core Training • Crunch Time

Positive Resistance • Personal Training • Cardio Conditioning

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SWSte 2, PMB# 279Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either 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.

In Search of a Story

Copyright © 2013 by Andrew Grey

Cover Art by Brooke Albrecht

http://brookealbrechtstudio.blogspot.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62380-613-2

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62380-614-9

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

May 2013

To Hope S. for giving me the idea.

Chapter 1

“BRADLEY,come to my office now,” Mr. Carew snapped, and Brad nearly dropped the sheaf of papers he’d just pulled from the printer. He knew that tone; he’d heard it enough lately.

“Yes, right away, sir,” Brad answered. He rushed back to his desk in the very back corner of the newsroom and set down the papers before hurrying back toward the editor’s office. He’d taken three steps when he remembered he’d better have a pad and pen, so he raced back to his desk and grabbed the pad and pen, nearly knocking the sheaf of papers to the floor in the process. Then he hurried to Mr. Carew’s office.

“Close the door,” his boss said without looking up from the paper he was reviewing. “This is total crap.” He thrust the pages toward Brad, and they dropped to the floor before Brad could grab them. “Leave them. There’s no use in trying to do anything with that story. It’s totally unredeemable, and no one wants to read an exposé about school lunches or about how bus drivers sometimes nap while they’re waiting for the kids to get out of school. There are no kids in the vehicles, for God’s sake! How long did you sit in the bushes, or wherever it was you did to get your data?”

Brad opened his mouth to answer and then snapped it closed again when he realized an answer wasn’t expected. “I….”

“Does stuff like this really excite you? Do you really feel passionate about high school cafeteria food or what bus drivers do on their downtime?” Mr. Carew leaned forward across his desk. “Does shit like that get your dick hard? Because if it does, kid, you’re one sick puppy.” He sat back in his chair, and Brad’s stomach tightened. That stance always meant bad news. It meant the editor had made up his mind about something, and even after being at the paper for less than six months, Brad knew those decisions were rarely good.

“But it’s important,” Brad protested weakly.

“No, it isn’t. We need to sell papers and get website hits so people will subscribe and help pay your salary and mine. Without paper sales and website ad revenue, I’m out of a job, and I can tell you that long before I’m out of a job, you’ll be on the unemployment line.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad said softly.

“I’m starting to think that you wouldn’t know a story if one dropped in your lap,” Mr. Carew told him, and the last of Brad’s hope that he would be able to keep this job dropped through the floor. “I know you moved here and all, but I’m not sure what to do.”

“I’m a good writer,” Brad said, lifting his chin.

“Yes, you are, but the stuff you choose to put your talent toward is crap. I mean, it’s dull, boring, and sleep-inducing. I wonder if you could make a county commissioner screwing his dog worth reading.” Mr. Carew smiled at his own joke, and Brad braced himself for the worst. “I certainly don’t know what to do, but I’m going to give you another chance. By damn, you’d better come through somehow, though. Find something that interests you and come back to me with a viable story idea by the end of the day.” The heat and finality in the editor’s eyes chilled Brad to his bones. This was it—he could feel it. He had to find something, or he would be out of a job and probably out in the street as well. He’d lose the car he’d just bought, and a whole cascade of failures stretched out in front of him. “What are you waiting for? Time is wasting, and you don’t have much of it left.”

“Where should I….”

“You want me to tell you where to look?” Mr. Carew picked up a copy of the previous day’s paper and handed it to him. “Try the classified ads.”

Brad took the paper and blinked a few times. He didn’t think his editor was serious, but he wasn’t sure, and since Mr. Carew didn’t say anything more, Brad pulled open the door and left the office before hurrying back to his desk and flopping in his chair.

“Cubbie, what happened to you?” asked Harold Piety, a reporter with years of experience and the stooped shoulders to prove it, as he stood in front of Brad’s desk.

“I have to come up with a story Mr. Carew will love by the end of the day,” Brad said softly, still clutching the newspaper like it was some sort of lifeline.

“Did he give you any idea what he wanted?” Harold asked.

“He said to check the classified ads,” Brad said.

Harold hissed, looking toward the windows on the far side of the room.

“What?” Brad asked.

“Cubbie, that’s the kiss of death. Classified ads have been drying up since everyone started using Craigslist and stuff like that. Basically what he told you was to pound sand. He’s given up on you, and he’s giving you one last chance at a ‘Hail Mary’ pass before you’re done.” Harold walked around the desk and patted him on the shoulder. “It was nice knowing you, Cubbie.” Harold then turned and walked away. Thankfully, he seemed to be looking at the floor, at least slightly, and not meeting his eyes, so Brad figured there was one person here who might miss him for ten minutes after he got fired and had to clean out his desk.

Brad sighed and forcefully tossed the newspaper in the trash can. Of course, he used too much force and the damn thing tipped over and spilled everything onto the floor. Brad shoved everything back into it and righted the trash can before once again staring at the now soiled newspaper in his hand. “What the hell…,” Brad muttered half under his breath and sat back down before opening the newspaper to the classified section and starting to read. “Ten speed for sale, good condition.” He scanned down the page. “Boat motor, runs good.” He continued glancing down the page, afraid to look up in case everyone else in the room was staring at him. He was desperate, and he had to come up with something. Brad had lifted the paper off his desk, getting ready to wad it up and pitch it for good, when he paused. “For Sale: crib, car seat, stroller, changing table, clothes, diapers, shoes, rocking chair, everything you need to start a nursery… all new.” Brad stopped as a chill went up his spine. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly as memories and pain poured over him.

After a few minutes, Brad looked up from the paper and slowly stood up. He stepped away from his desk and then returned, grabbing the newsprint with a loud rustle before heading to Mr. Carew’s office. Pages dropped to the floor, but he didn’t notice them. He clutched the page that contained the ad and knocked on the editor’s door. Mr. Carew looked up, and Brad stepped inside and plunked the paper on his desk. “There’s my story,” Brad said, pointing to the classified ad.

“I was pulling your leg. That joke is as old as dinosaur crap.” He sat back once again and shook his head.

“No. I want to do a story on how mothers grieve after they lose a child. That ad is filled with pain. She furnished a nursery, bought all the stuff, and probably spent time painting and decorating it just like she’d always dreamed, and then, for whatever reason, she never got to bring her baby home, never got to hold or rock him or her to sleep. She was pregnant, hoping and praying, but all she got was an empty nursery. How do you come back from that?” Brad pointed to the ad. “There’s an air of finality about it. I mean, if she could have more children, then why sell all the stuff? Just try again and hope. No, that’s gone too. It’s all gone.”

Mr. Carew looked at the ad and then up at Brad, blinking a few times. For the first time in all the months since he’d started working at the Mechanicsburg Crier, Brad saw a hint of emotion on his editor’s face. Well, at least an emotion that didn’t include swearing, cursing, or yelling at the top of his lungs, usually in Brad’s direction. “Is this something you really feel passionate about?”

“Yes,” Brad answered without letting go of the paper. That flimsy piece of paper felt like a lifeline and the only link he had to the person who’d placed the ad. “This I want to write.”

Mr. Carew stared at him for a few seconds, but they felt like an eternity. “Okay. You have a week. By then I want a draft of the story, and it better have an angle that will sell papers. I don’t want just some tearjerker that I’d see as a movie on the schmaltz channel.” Brad nodded. “What are you waiting for? Go! Get out of my office and get to work.” Brad turned and did as he was told as fast as he could.

When he got back to his desk, he jotted down the information from the ad and then hurried down to the advertising department. It took him a few questions before he was directed to the desk of the person who ran the classifieds. “Are you Gloria? They said you might be able to help me,” he said from the office doorway, and an older woman with steel-gray hair swiveled her chair around.

“Yeah, I’m Gloria.” An unlit cigarette hung from between her lips, and Brad stared at it for a second. “They don’t let us smoke in here anymore, but sometimes I just need one of the things,” she said in a gravelly voice. Obviously she’d smoked plenty of cigarettes in her time. “What can I do you for?”

Brad handed her the newspaper. “I need to get in touch with the person who placed this ad. I was wondering if you have an address,” Brad said.

“Probably, but I can’t give it to you. It’s against policy. That sort of information’s private,” Gloria said as she took the paper and glanced at the ad. “One of the sad ones,” she said as she handed it back. “We get all kinds. Your run-of-the-mill stuff, mostly. Sometimes you get the weird things, like the guy who wanted to place an ad to sell slightly used bondage gear, or the man who was interested in buying high heels in size fourteen.” She laughed. “We’ll place most ads people want unless they’re offensive. My advice is to call the number in the ad and see if they’ll talk to you.”

“I guess,” Brad said. He’d really been hoping to be able to get more of a feel for the situation, but that didn’t really seem possible. “Isn’t that sort of devious?”

Gloria rolled her eyes. “Kid, I’ve been here thirty years, and I’ve seen them come and go. The ones who stayed are the ones who’re hungry for it. They have passion and want to change the world. If you’re afraid of pissing someone off by calling and asking questions, then you’re probably in the wrong business.”

Brad swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he said before turning to leave. Upstairs, back at his desk, he checked the clock and was thankful it was nearing the end of the day. He wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe everyone was right, and he wasn’t cut out to be a reporter. He was a good writer, everyone had told him that, but no one seemed to believe he had what it took to be a journalist. He always thought he had, but….

“No guts… no glory, Cubbie,” Harold said as he walked up. “The story isn’t going to write itself, and it isn’t going to fall in your lap.” He sat down in the old chair next to Brad’s desk. “I know you’ve had a tough time of it lately, and everyone here can see you’re trying. You get here early and you stay late, but if you want to make it in this business, you have to be tenacious.” Harold leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice. “Journalism is a lot more than being able to write well. Because you do that, there’s no doubt. It’s about reporting your stories objectively and remaining objective.”

“I know that,” Brad said.

“Yes. That’s what they drill into every journalism student. But there’s a whole hell of a lot more. It’s about taking stupid stories like the township filling potholes and somehow making them, if not interesting, at least worth reading. It’s also about the desire to change the world.” Harold looked around the room. “There isn’t a person here who didn’t start out wanting to make a difference. Most of us got jaded and cynical along the way, but we still have that fire.” Harold looked Brad square in the face. “Do you?” He didn’t wait for Brad to answer. “Because it’s that fire that will keep you going when you’re stuck writing stories about road repair, or covering borough council meetings that would put anyone to sleep. But sometimes, out of those meetings come stories that touch people’s hearts or change lives.”

Brad glanced down at the classified ad once again. “Or maybe a story about something that changed someone else’s life?”

Harold followed his gaze to the ad. He lifted his eyebrows and shifted slightly so he could get a better look. “That’s an old standard. When one of my professors talked about finding a story he used that example. ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn,’ were his exact words, I believe.”

Brad’s heart fell through the floor. “I guess I better pack my things.” Brad opened his desk drawer.

Harold shook his head. “I meant what I said: no guts, no glory. It’s not the idea that makes a story, but the angle. What are you going to do to make this story fresh?” Brad shook his head. “Then that’s what you need to find, and it won’t happen here sitting on your butt.” Harold jabbed at the paper. “Your answers are there, and all you can do is make the call.” Harold stood up, and Brad watched him take a few steps before he turned around. “There is a story there; I can feel it too. Go find it.” Then he continued walking back to his desk.

Brad closed his eyes and released the breath he’d been holding. Maybe there was a chance he could do this. Maybe, just maybe, he actually had some sort of journalistic instincts. Although the excited feeling he’d gotten in the pit of his stomach could have been lunch. Brad closed his eyes and prayed the stomach tightness was more than his chicken salad sandwich, then picked up the phone.

A man’s voice answered. “Hello, this is Cory.” He sounded pleasant, and Brad smiled.

“Hello,” Brad began and immediately wished he’d rehearsed a bit of what he wanted to say. “I’m a reporter with the Mechanicsburg Crier. I’m working on a story, and I was wondering if I might be able to stop by and talk with you.” God, he knew he sounded lame.

“Where did you get this number? Is this about the ad in the paper? Is something wrong?” The questions came at him in rapid succession.

“No. Nothing is wrong, sir. I saw your ad, and I realize this must be a difficult time for you and your family, but like I said, I’m working on a story and would very much like to talk with you.” Brad made a concerted effort to keep his voice as calm and soothing as he could. He didn’t want to come off like some predator.

Brad waited but heard nothing. He checked the display on his phone to make sure he still had a connection. “I don’t know…,” came through the line in a whisper.

“I understand,” Brad said as he too lowered his voice, and he wondered what he should do now. Maybe he should have posed as someone interested in looking at the baby things, but that seemed unethical and wrong to him. Of course he was close to losing his job, so maybe he was all wet. He had to say something, or the man on the other side of the phone was going to hang up, and Brad would lose his only lead. “When I saw your ad, it touched me,” Brad said honestly. “I understand some of what your family is experiencing.”

“How could you?” the man snapped.

“Because when I was growing up, my family went through the same loss,” Brad answered.

Once again the man was quiet, and Brad wondered if he’d pushed too far, or not far enough. But at least he’d been honest.

“Okay,” the man whispered, and Brad’s heart began beating again. “If you’d like to come by tonight, say, about seven?” he said and gave Brad the address. Brad recognized the address as being in the more historic part of town, but only because he’d made an effort to learn as much about his adopted town as he possibly could.

“Thank you. I’ll see you then,” Brad said and hung up. Then he grabbed a notepad and wrote down everything he could remember. Once he was done, he glanced at the clock. He had a few hours before the interview, but he wanted to be prepared, so he tried to develop some questions to bring out the basic information he’d need. Harold had said to look for an angle on the story, but he wasn’t quite sure what it would be. All he could hope for at this point was to ask good questions and pray he stumbled on the story angle he needed.

“SODIDyou get it?” Mr. Carew asked, and Brad jumped in his chair.

“I’m supposed to talk to them at seven,” Brad answered, his mouth dry. “I have some questions prepared.”

“Good,” Mr. Carew said. “Be polite, sensitive.” He leaned over the desk. “And get a damned fantastic story.” He turned and walked back toward his office. Brad swallowed hard and returned to writing possible questions.

“The ad seemed very final to me. Are you not able to have more children?” The question sounded so insensitive, but he needed the information. He had to get the Who, What, Where, When, Why, and How. What he would do with them was another matter.

“OKAY,Cubbie, let’s see what you got,” Harold said. Brad handed him the list of questions, and Harold read them over. “Not bad, and I can see where you’re going for the recovering grief angle, but that’s expected. You’re going to have to find something different if you want to impress our illustrious leader.”

“I know,” Brad said. “But I don’t know what it is, so all I can do is try to think of general questions. I’m hoping that something will reveal itself.” Harold handed him back the pad. “I have my phone, so I was going to ask if I could tape the interview.”

Harold hissed softly and then shook his head. “Take notes. People tend to clam up when they’re being recorded, and especially during potentially emotional interviews, you want them thinking about their own experiences and talking to you, not worried that they’re being recorded. I know I’m old-fashioned, but sometimes the old ways are the best ways. This story is only going to work if you make a connection with them. Don’t lie, but while you’re talking to them, you need to project the image that you’re a friend.” Harold turned toward the clock. “Your interview’s at seven, right?” Brad nodded. “Then go home, get something to eat, and freshen up. You’ve done this before, and you’ll be fine.” Harold went back to his desk, grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, and smiled quickly at Brad before going home for the night.

Brad took a deep breath. Harold was right. If he was a nervous wreck, he wouldn’t have a good interview. He got his jacket and took his pad and pen, along with the laptop, and headed toward the door. He forced himself not to look into Mr. Carew’s office as he passed. He was nervous enough as it was.

Chapter 2

CORY WOLFEchecked the clock again. He thought many times about calling the paper and trying to cancel the interview with the reporter he’d talked to on the phone. The kid had sounded so young, and he’d agreed because he’d said he understood the loss, but as soon as he’d hung up, Cory began to wonder if he’d fallen for a line from the reporter so he could get his foot in the door. Then he’d wondered why anyone would want to talk to him in the first place. In the end, he’d done nothing, and now he was expecting the reporter to knock on his door at any moment. After checking the clock once again, Cory got a drink of water and heard his doorbell chime. After downing the water, he sighed and set the glass in the sink, then walked through the house and answered the door.

The man on his doorstep was as young as he’d sounded on the phone, with deer-in-the-headlights eyes and a nervous smile. “Hello, I’m Brad Torrence from the Crier,” he said and extended his hand. The kid looked a bit like an excited puppy.

“Cory Wolfe,” he said, and they shook hands. Cory stepped back so Brad could enter and then closed the door. He motioned toward the living room. He waited for Brad to take a seat and then he sat in his favorite leather chair.

“This is a great room,” Brad said with a touch of awe in his voice. Then he sat and waited. Cory got the impression he was waiting for something.

“You wanted to ask me some questions? I’m a little unsure why you’d want to interview me,” Cory said. “But I’ll try to help.”

“I probably should have been more clear: I was hoping to interview both you and your wife.”

Cory smiled. “Nope. It’s just me. No wife.” That simple statement sent a stab through his stomach.

“I’m so sorry,” Brad said.

“Wait, let’s back up. There’s never been a wife. I think we have a misunderstanding of some kind. I’m not married and never have been,” Cory clarified. Brad became jittery, and for a second Cory thought he might hyperventilate.

“But the ad…,” Brad said.

“Yes. Like I said, I never had a wife, but I was getting ready to have a baby,” Cory said. “I had a partner a few years ago, but he wasn’t interested in children, though I was. That and, well, other things, doomed the relationship….”

Brad smiled and opened the notebook he’d brought, appearing distinctly more relaxed.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?” Cory asked.

“I can,” Brad said. “Your ad caught my attention, and I thought there was a story behind it. I’ll admit that I was expecting to do a story about mothers recovering from grief after the loss of a child. My mother lost three babies after me.”

Cory nodded thoughtfully and then stood up. “Come on,” he said, and Brad stood up. Cory led him up the stairs, and at the small landing, he opened the door and turned on the light. He hated entering this room now. Brad stepped inside, but Cory remained in the hallway, physically unable to enter. “This was to be Adam’s room. I picked out the furniture, painted the walls. I spent days picking out just the right color blue. Then I asked a friend to paint the teddy bears on the walls, and we even added stars to the ceiling.” Cory didn’t look up. Unable to take any more, Cory stepped away from the door and waited for Brad to come out of the room. Then Cory turned off the bedroom light and closed the door. Without saying anything more, Cory led the way down the stairs and back to the living room, where he once again sat in his chair.

“Mothers aren’t the only ones to feel grief,” Cory said flatly.

Brad nodded slowly. “What happened?” he whispered.

Cory wasn’t sure why he opened up, but he did. “About a year ago, I found out my best friend, Eileen, was pregnant. She wasn’t married and was barely able to take care of herself. Eileen was wonderful, but there wasn’t a maternal bone in her body. She’d decided that she wanted to put the baby up for adoption, and I asked if I could adopt the child.” Cory’s voice broke, and he yanked a tissue from the box on the lower shelf of the end table. He never thought he’d keep tissues in various rooms of his house, but for months now he’d needed them. “Eileen was thrilled. She would still get to be a part of her baby’s life, and that was all she wanted.”

“You said his name was Adam?” Brad prompted.

“After we found out she was having a boy, I came up with the name, and Eileen liked it, so we started referring to him as Adam. I bought the nursery things and fixed up the room upstairs. Everything was ready.” Cory paused and blew out his breath. He needed to get himself under control. What he wasn’t prepared for was Brad to reach over and touch his hand. Cory hadn’t been touched in quite a while, and he liked it. The gesture was probably a breach of journalistic integrity and objectivity or something like that, but it was what he desperately needed.

“Please, take your time,” Brad told him. “I’ll listen.” Cory thought he might have seen tears in Brad’s eyes, but it was hard to tell through his own.

“Eileen was about eight months pregnant, and she was at home. I hadn’t heard from her that day, so I stopped by after work. I found her on her kitchen floor, where she’d fallen.” Cory figured he might as well finish the story and get it over with. “The autopsy showed that she had a blood vessel burst in her brain. It was probably a defect she’d had since birth, and it burst. They said she died pretty quickly.”

Brad had taken notes throughout his story, and Cory waited for him to finish. “Did you get any help? With the grief, I mean.”

Cory shrugged. “Some. I actually found a group for people who lost children in Harrisburg—eleven women and me. The thing was, at the time I didn’t consider my grief as bad as theirs. I wasn’t the one who’d carried the child, but….”

“You still lost a child just the same,” Brad said.

Cory nodded. He does understand.

“Yeah. I buried my best friend and child and then tried to go on with my life. I kept the door to the nursery closed so I could try to keep living. I only placed the ad because my sister insisted that I try to move on. I’ve had six people come by to look at the furniture, but I can’t bear to part with it, and I can’t go in the room either.” Cory felt his self-control returning, and his voice became more forceful. “I’m trained to deal with things like this. That’s what pisses the hell out of me.”

“What do you do?” Brad asked.

“I’m an anesthesiologist. I’m the doctor who puts people to sleep during surgery. As a doctor, I’m trained to help people deal with grief and loss. I see it almost every day.” Cory couldn’t help raising his voice. The frustration coupled with his loss was almost too great to bear.

“Doctor, heal thyself,” Brad said softly.

Cory paused. “Exactly,” he said. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve thought about trying to adopt another child, but I don’t think I can do it. So I placed the ad, and I hope I can eventually bring myself to sell the things and move on.” Cory sighed softly, releasing his breath in a controlled manner. “Thank you for listening. I don’t know how much help I was to your article, though.”

Brad smiled. “I don’t know either, but I do have a few final questions. Is it okay to use your name?”

“Yes, of course,” Cory answered.

“Could you tell me the name of the program you attended?” Brad asked. Cory got up. He dug around in his bag and managed to find a card from the place. He certainly didn’t need it, so he handed it to Brad. “Thank you.”

Cory nodded. “So where do you think your story will take you?”

Brad smiled a bit. “I don’t know. But I can tell you that the story you told me will be used sensitively and carefully. I want to write a piece that will help people.”

“If you need to talk again, that would be fine,” Cory said. Now that he’d told the story, he felt a bit free, like some of the weight had been lifted away. “I’m going to open a bottle of wine. Would you like a glass?”

“I really shouldn’t,” Brad said. “I’m still working.”

Cory smiled, really smiled. It had been a while since he’d done that. “No, you’re not. The interview is over, and you’re about to go home. So close your notebook and have a glass of wine with me.” Cory jumped up and went into the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator and got out a bottle of white wine. After hunting up a corkscrew, he opened the bottle and returned to the living room with glasses.

He poured two glasses and handed one to Brad, who sipped from it and then placed it on the table. Cory sat in his chair and took a sizable gulp from his glass, the bite of the dry wine tingling his taste buds. After taking another drink, he glanced at Brad and saw him stare back and then look away. He’d wondered if Brad was gay, especially given the way he didn’t react to the partner comment, although that could have been the reporter in him trying to keep some distance. But there was no mistaking the intensity in Brad’s gaze. Cory could almost feel it physically.

Brad stood up. “Thank you for the wine and for speaking to me,” Brad said, sounding nervous. Cory stood up as well and walked him to the door.

“I hope I was helpful,” Cory said.

“You were. Thank you again,” Brad said and pulled open the front door. They shook hands, and then Brad strode down the front walk to his car. Cory closed the door with a small sigh before returning to the living room and collapsing into his chair. The remote was on the coffee table, and Cory reached for it, then got up, grumbling softly, and refilled his wine glass before returning to his chair. He turned on the television and sat, watching sitcoms and drinking more than half the bottle of wine, until it was time for him to go to bed.

Cory turned everything off and carried the bottle and glasses to the kitchen. He rinsed the dishes and corked the bottle, then placed it in the refrigerator. Once everything was cleaned up, Cory turned off the kitchen lights and climbed the stairs. The relief he’d felt after telling Brad what had happened had faded, probably with the wine he’d been drinking. For a few moments he stared at the closed nursery door and then went to his room. He knew he was being a bit maudlin, mourning for months a child he’d never gotten to hold or see other than on a sonogram.

Cory pushed thoughts of Adam away and headed to his bathroom. He used the facilities and cleaned up before climbing into bed.

With the amount of wine he’d consumed, he should have dropped off to sleep right away, but he tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable for much of the night. When he did sleep, he had weird dreams about rushing out of the house and across the street, then turning around just in time to see the house collapse before his eyes for no apparent reason. In the dream, he called Brad and asked him to come over because he thought there might be a story. Then somehow Brad had miraculously appeared by his side, and they watched together as his house settled into a pile of rubble. “Well, at least the baby stuff is gone,” the dream Cory said, and then the real Cory sat up in bed with a start.