that she always traveled light.
She stepped from the train and started to mount the stairs, looking up toward the skylights expectantly. Yes, the light was bursting through, dancing off the heads of hurrying passengers and shimmering over every polished surface. Usually she loved this elegant passage from the train to the waiting room, loved stepping onto the gleaming travertine marble floors, imagining that she was in some kind of grand palace. She had no heart for it today, though. Weary and cranky, she was still smoldering over the
Times
’s demand for her presence. She made a halfhearted attempt to straighten out the mess of stringy hair pinned carelessly on top of her head, then glanced down at her shoes. Van Anda would probably make a few cracks about the length of her skirt, which now skimmed a few more inches above the top of her ankles. What did he expect her to wear when she was working?
She walked past a huge, gold-framed mirror and stopped, staring at her reflection. Well, surprise, she looked as cross as she felt. How could Van Anda have pulled her off the mental-hospital investigation to stick her with survivor interviews? It made her uneasy. He was a good boss, backed her up on most of her assignments. But in the end he was just like any other man in the newspaper business: when you’ve got something pathetically sentimental, bring in a woman reporter; that’s what they’re good for. If she had been booked on the
Titanic
—now that’s a story that would have been worthwhile. Now she was stuck with the too-easy job of wringing human-interest accounts out of survivors.
She walked on, indignation rising. Sometimes she wondered why she kept reporting. Would her father ever admit to being proud of her? She had grown up hearing from him how smart she was, but then there were the little sharp-edged asides: most women are married by your age; what about a family? Pinky stopped again, scramblingin her bag for taxi money. She had more freedom to do what she wanted to do than most women, and maybe he hadn’t liked sharing with her the guilty joy of the job. When she was exposing abuse at an orphanage or forcing reform in a mental hospital, she felt powerful. The truth was, she could still be yanked off an important story as quickly as a child being pulled away from a candy box.
She sighed as she hurried out of Pennsylvania Station and joined a line of people waiting for taxis. At least they didn’t have to put up with horse-drawn hansoms anymore.
CITY ROOM,
NEW YORK TIMES
NEW YORK CITY
APRIL 18
10:00 A.M.
Van Anda had hardly slept in three days, not that it mattered. Every other paper in the country was eating humble pie. Only the
Times
had had the nerve to print the story of the
Titanic
’s sinking before the White Star people finally stopped lying and confirmed it. This was the coup of his life, and there was no way he was going to lose that lead now. The
Carpathia
was due this evening, and he was almost ready. A whole floor at a local hotel had been reserved for his reporters, and they were ready to go. A dozen phones had been installed, with direct access to the rewrite desk. “We were first, and we’re going to stay first,” he crowed to the excited reporters in the city room.
“Hello, Carr.”
He looked up to see Pinky Wade standing in front of him, her arms crossed, a frown on her face. He smiled, noting that her skirts had inched up again. She was pretty enough—rosy skin, bright eyes, and a laugh that always had a bounce to it. Also something of a chameleon, which helped on undercover assignments. Plenty of courage and strong opinions. If it weren’t for her smart mouth, she might even get away with pouring tea in one of those mansions on Fifth Avenue.
She always gave the impression that she held enormous amounts of energy bottled inside her ready to burst out at any moment. No one loved a good story more than Pinky.
“You’re to be down on the dock when the ship pulls in,” he said
She stepped from the train and started to mount the stairs, looking up toward the skylights expectantly. Yes, the light was bursting through, dancing off the heads of hurrying passengers and shimmering over every polished surface. Usually she loved this elegant passage from the train to the waiting room, loved stepping onto the gleaming travertine marble floors, imagining that she was in some kind of grand palace. She had no heart for it today, though. Weary and cranky, she was still smoldering over the
Times
’s demand for her presence. She made a halfhearted attempt to straighten out the mess of stringy hair pinned carelessly on top of her head, then glanced down at her shoes. Van Anda would probably make a few cracks about the length of her skirt, which now skimmed a few more inches above the top of her ankles. What did he expect her to wear when she was working?
She walked past a huge, gold-framed mirror and stopped, staring at her reflection. Well, surprise, she looked as cross as she felt. How could Van Anda have pulled her off the mental-hospital investigation to stick her with survivor interviews? It made her uneasy. He was a good boss, backed her up on most of her assignments. But in the end he was just like any other man in the newspaper business: when you’ve got something pathetically sentimental, bring in a woman reporter; that’s what they’re good for. If she had been booked on the
Titanic
—now that’s a story that would have been worthwhile. Now she was stuck with the too-easy job of wringing human-interest accounts out of survivors.
She walked on, indignation rising. Sometimes she wondered why she kept reporting. Would her father ever admit to being proud of her? She had grown up hearing from him how smart she was, but then there were the little sharp-edged asides: most women are married by your age; what about a family? Pinky stopped again, scramblingin her bag for taxi money. She had more freedom to do what she wanted to do than most women, and maybe he hadn’t liked sharing with her the guilty joy of the job. When she was exposing abuse at an orphanage or forcing reform in a mental hospital, she felt powerful. The truth was, she could still be yanked off an important story as quickly as a child being pulled away from a candy box.
She sighed as she hurried out of Pennsylvania Station and joined a line of people waiting for taxis. At least they didn’t have to put up with horse-drawn hansoms anymore.
CITY ROOM,
NEW YORK TIMES
NEW YORK CITY
APRIL 18
10:00 A.M.
Van Anda had hardly slept in three days, not that it mattered. Every other paper in the country was eating humble pie. Only the
Times
had had the nerve to print the story of the
Titanic
’s sinking before the White Star people finally stopped lying and confirmed it. This was the coup of his life, and there was no way he was going to lose that lead now. The
Carpathia
was due this evening, and he was almost ready. A whole floor at a local hotel had been reserved for his reporters, and they were ready to go. A dozen phones had been installed, with direct access to the rewrite desk. “We were first, and we’re going to stay first,” he crowed to the excited reporters in the city room.
“Hello, Carr.”
He looked up to see Pinky Wade standing in front of him, her arms crossed, a frown on her face. He smiled, noting that her skirts had inched up again. She was pretty enough—rosy skin, bright eyes, and a laugh that always had a bounce to it. Also something of a chameleon, which helped on undercover assignments. Plenty of courage and strong opinions. If it weren’t for her smart mouth, she might even get away with pouring tea in one of those mansions on Fifth Avenue.
She always gave the impression that she held enormous amounts of energy bottled inside her ready to burst out at any moment. No one loved a good story more than Pinky.
“You’re to be down on the dock when the ship pulls in,” he said
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