not only were his finances on the line—he could always make money again—but it was also his reputation. The reputation he’d spent a lifetime building, polishing.
If that went down in flames with Home Life he might never recover it.
So what was he doing in this crummy old building downtown trying to resurrect a business that had been terminally ill for half a century? Sure, he’d made a mistake—and it was just that, a mistake— but did he really deserve this kind of punishment?
If he’d had any time at all, he might have really felt ticked off about it. But as it was, he had to just step up to the plate and knock one out of the park.
So he’d do what he could, beginning with the one employee he had so far.
He’d gone to the archives with Kit Macy in mind. Now that she was gone and he wasn’t diverted by her obvious physical…assets, he could look at her work and try and determine if in fact there was any promise there.
Hell, maybe she could help him rescue this dog of a magazine. She probably couldn’t hurt.
Unless he let her.
His libido had gotten him into trouble before, God knew, and even today he’d tried to stop himself from letting Kit stick around and make his life harder. But in the end he just hadn’t been able to do it. There was something about her—he really couldn’t even say exactly what it was. It didn’t even matter now because he’d already said he’d give her a chance.
So maybe, just maybe, he’d find something in her work that would make him feel as if for once his head and his libido were both right about the same woman.
Chapter Four
“As we sit with our toes in the hot sand, it occurs to me that our lives are reflected perfectly in nature. The ebb and flow of the ocean mirrors our lives in the most straightforward way possible. There is good and there is bad, there is high and there is low. The only thing you can truly count on is you will face both. Over and over again.” Cal stopped reading and set last month’s issue of the magazine down on his desk before looking Kit in the eye. “This is what you’ve been doing these past five years?”
“No. Two and a half. When Edith died, I took over the job until we could find someone new, but then—” she shrugged “—I just kept doing it. We decided to just keep her byline on it.”
“Did you have any writing experience prior to that?”
“I majored in English in college,” she offered, knowing instantly that he thought that was feeble. “And of course I’ve done a lot of editing on the magazine.”
“So this woman died and you inserted yourself— someone with no writing experience—in her place? No interviews? No trying to get the best person for the job?”
“Well, having been her most recent editor, I knew her style,” Kit said, caught off guard by his judgment that she’d done something potentially unethical. “Ebbit felt I was the best person to replace her and I was glad to do it. Writing is one of the things I’ve enjoyed most about working here. It really helps me understand both sides of the job.”
“But that is exactly what’s wrong here. Home Life is an outdated publication, written at least in part by dead people because it’s more convenient than getting new talent.”
Kit worked to keep her temper in check. “But we were doing what our readers wanted.”
“What makes you think so?”
“We’ve gotten letters. They’ve been reading that column for years.” She brought out what she thought was a good point. “Since before you were born.”
“Exactly.” He jabbed a finger in the air toward her. “Exactly. Your demographics stink. Your audience is literally dying.”
Kit protested despite the knowledge that Cal had definitely scored with that remark. “That’s not fair—”
“Anyone who’s been reading Home Life since before I was born is way too old to attract lucrative advertising. That’s why sales are down. Home Life just isn’t relevant anymore. If it ever was.”
“We have two million subscribers who feel otherwise,” Kit said heatedly.
“And there are at least five or six million potential subscribers who agree with me.” He shook his head. “You’ve been writing and publishing this June Cleaver, Christmas in Connecticut stuff without regard to the fact that we’ve started a new millennium.” He gestured at the article. “No one lives like that anymore. Hell, I don’t think they ever did.”
How could he have missed her point so completely? “That was sort of the idea. To create an escape, a fantasy for my readers. A haven from this crazy world.”
“But that isn’t the fantasy anymore. It hasn’t been for thirty or forty years. The whole ‘happy homemaker’ idea is outdated, irrelevant.” He stopped and leveled a cool blue gaze on her. “And worst of all, it’s boring. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry at all.
She could have punched him for his tone, even while part of her knew he was right. Her writing had appealed to her own fantasies but she knew most people weren’t as old-fashioned as she. She’d always been a bit of a throwback. “So what is it you think our readers want?”
“Oprah. Tina Brown. Nigella Lawson.” He fired them off rapidly. “Women today have it all and wield their power from the bedroom to the boardroom. They want their success validated, their hard work rewarded. And in their downtime, they want some fast-food modern spirituality and good old raunchy gossip.”
“Gossip?”
“Sure. The bare naked truth about all those supposed style icons out there.” He stopped and jotted something down on the paper in front of him. “Women today aren’t as naive as their 1950s counterparts. That homey ideal might be nice, but it just doesn’t have a genuine place in their lives.”
It was as if he was shooting teeny tiny arrows at her with every word. She liked her homey ideal. She’d considered it timeless, not outdated. Yet she knew that in reality she was in the minority. The public didn’t share her mind-set, for the most part. She’d known that for a while now, even while she’d told herself she was providing something valuable.
Listening to Cal, she realized it was just…quaint.
And quaint wouldn’t cut it.
Now if she wanted to keep her job—and there was no if about it, she had to keep her job—she was going to have to do everything she could around there to make herself valuable. She’d do a column, be the managing editor, be the janitor if she had to.
And if she was going to do a column for this new incarnation of the magazine, she was going to have to change her whole personality to fit Cal Panagos’s corporate image of the modern woman. She was going to have to turn from innocent Sandy in the beginning of Grease to sexy, savvy Sandy at the end without even enough time for the wardrobe change.
“I can give you what you want,” Kit said evenly.
“Not in the
