Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [58]
“Your folks are nice,” he said over the din.
“I know,” she said. “I’m lucky to have them, to have been brought up by them.”
“Did you plan to follow in your dad’s footsteps, getting into journalism?”
“I guess so. He likes to think I did.”
“I was talking to him about the stories he’s been writing. He’s funny. He asked me whether tips have fallen off from single women at the bar because they’re uptight.”
“He asked you that?”
Was he going to quote what Tom had said in his next article? she wondered. She hoped not.
They hadn’t been dating long and spent the next half hour getting to know each other a little better, telling tales about their lives, their growing up, school experiences, especially mortifying ones, and discussing what they currently did for a living.
“You’re an only child, huh?” he said. “No brothers or sisters?”
“None that I know of,” she replied with a chuckle. “We have a very small family, a couple of cousins somewhere in the country, but just the three of us here. Actually, I’m happy it’s this way. All attention is focused on me—ta da!”
He laughed. “I come from a big family,” he said, “three brothers and two sisters. All attention definitely wasn’t focused on me. Dance?”
“Sure.”
After fifteen minutes of sweaty gyrating on the hardwood dance floor with less space in which to maneuver than a Tokyo subway car, they headed for the club’s exit, knowing that they would continue the evening in bed. The only decision left to be made was whether it would be her bed or his. They chose Roberta’s because she had to be up early, while he didn’t go on duty until four in the afternoon. It was the third time they’d slept together. As on the previous two occasions, their lovemaking was unsure but generally satisfying. As they sat up in bed leaning against the headboard, she realized she was conflicted. It would be nice to wake up next to him in the morning. On the other hand, she wanted him to leave. He solved her dilemma when he said, “I think I’d better be going, Robbie. I’d love to stay, but you’ve got an early start tomorrow. Frankly, if I stay, I’ll want to repeat this and spend the morning doing it. Or the week. Okay?”
Her expression of disappointment was genuine, if not slightly exaggerated. She kissed him good-bye at the door, latched it behind him, and sat at her window overlooking the quiet street. She couldn’t put her finger on it and was unable to codify her feelings at that moment, but they weren’t about Tom Curtis. She was thinking of her father.
He’d changed, no doubt about that. Was it simply a matter of growing older, of facing mortality, of losing physical strength and mental acumen? That would be normal. She’d seen it in many senior citizens, their gait less steady than in their youth, their minds not quite as sharp. If so, she could readily accept it.
But there was another dimension to the change in her father, one less predictable and easily explained. She knew he was disappointed in his career now that it was winding down. Her mother had spoken to her about it, mentioning more frequent bouts of depression over the past year, and outright expressions of failure. He was wrong to feel this way, of course. He’d had a good career. How many reporters got to work for such a newspaper as The Washington Tribune? He’d been there how many years, twenty-four, twenty-five? He’d covered many of the city’s most infamous criminal cases, murder, rape, arson, crimes involving elected officials, the whole spectrum of society’s underbelly. He’d done it with aplomb, his interviews skillfully conducted, his research meticulously mounted, the pieces written with style and concision, not a word wasted, everything tracking so that the reader was never left in the dark. He was the consummate pro. On top of that, he’d been a wonderful father and husband, always there for her and her mother, even-tempered, witty, a joking but caring man who truly honored the human condition.
A failure? Hardly.
But there was more, she knew, and it was that intangible something