“I suppose. It’s just that he’s supposed to be first usher, right next to Neal.” Neal Barrett, Alan’s brother and best man.
“I’d say the Invisible Man just got demoted for tardiness,” Jillian told her. “You show up more than twenty—” she consulted her watch “—twenty-five minutes late, you take your chances.”
“I agree,” said Carrie Summers, walking up from behind. Carrie had that brisk, take-charge air that mothers seemed to acquire. Of course, it made sense. Carrie was practically like a second mother to Lisa, ever since they’d met when Carrie and her husband, Brian, were adopting Lisa’s son, Timothy. Somehow birth mother and adoptive parents had become friends, then family. And Lisa, who’d lost both parents to an auto accident when she’d been young, had a home again.
“Let’s reshuffle things,” Carrie said now. “Besides,” she added sotto voce, “if we leave everyone in the order you’ve got them, we’ll have Jillian towering over her escort.” She nodded at the short, stocky guy standing across the way. “A switch would be better, assuming Alan’s friend is tall.”
Tall enough for a five-nine woman wearing heels, to be exact. Yet another reason Jillian had never quite fit in. “Well, if he’s not here, I can’t very well be taller than him, now can I?” she asked.
“Oh, Gil’s taller than you,” Lisa said distractedly, watching her fiancé. “I think he’s even taller than Alan.”
“Then it’s settled.” Carrie briskly shooed the ushers toward the altar. “We’ll match him up with Jillian.”
“It’s a straight shot down the aisle,” Jillian said drily. “I’m pretty sure I can find my way on my own if I have to. And if not, I’ll just hitch a ride with Christina’s usher.”
“I’ll arm wrestle you for him,” Christina, Alan’s college-aged daughter offered, laughter in her blue eyes.
The usher in question, standing nearby, frowned. “If I was a chick, you’d be screaming sexism,” he complained.
“But you’re not a chick, so you should be flattered,” Christina said, giving him a saucy look from under her lashes.
“You take him, Christina,” Jillian said, getting into position at the end of the line of bridesmaids. “I’ll make it on my own.”
Just as she always had.
Gil Reynolds typed furiously, his fingers clattering swift and sure on the keyboard, and then leaned back to read what he’d written.
Snow & Taylor Construction, contractors for the billion-dollar downtown Portland streetcar line slated to begin construction this fall, may have won the project without a proper bid process, according to recent documents unearthed by the Gazette.
His favorite kind of story, blowing the lid off corruption in city government. He had his facts up front, a couple of source quotes. Just the way he liked it. Of course, it was still missing that certain something.
A comment from the guest of honor.
With a smile, Gil pushed his dark hair back off his forehead and reached out to dial the phone.
“Yeah?” a man’s voice answered brusquely.
“Nash? Gil Reynolds from the Gazette. We’re running a story on possible fraud in the contracting of the streetcar project. According to the transcripts I saw, Snow & Taylor managed to get the project without competitive bidding.”
Charlie Nash, city councillor. Better than a few, worse than most. There was a pause while Nash took it in. “Reynolds? What the hell are you doing calling me? I thought you were an editor now. You get busted back down?”
“Filling in for one of my reporters who’s on compassionate leave.”
“You don’t have a compassionate bone in your body,” the city councillor growled.
Gil’s teeth gleamed. “Now, come on, Charlie, aren’t we friends? I figured this story was a good chance for us to catch up. Snow & Taylor dumped a lot of money into your campaign, didn’t they?”
“You’re a menace.”
Gil leaned back in his chair. “Maybe you should get that put on a plaque. I could hang it on the wall next to my Pulitzer.”
“You run that story, I’ll sue.”
“I’m just running the facts. What makes you think there’ll be anything to sue about? That sounds like a guilty conscience talking. Come on, you’ll feel better if you confess to Uncle Gil.”
“In a pig’s eye. Why don’t you go after O’Donnell?”
“O’Donnell wasn’t heading the appropriations committee when the contract got let. You were, and your buddies got the job without even trying. Seems to me like the public ought to know. I wanted to be fair and give you a chance to air your side, though. You could set the record straight. Or should I just call for an audit? You got some state and federal bucks for the project, didn’t you?”
“You piranha.”
Gil grinned. “Can I quote you on that, Nash?”
“You can quote me on this.” When the line clicked, Gil chuckled. Merrily, he tapped away, listening to the hubbub of the newsroom outside his office door. In these, the waning hours before deadline, the room was gripped with a feverish purpose, everyone working as quickly as they could to get the paper together and out the door. Not the least of which was him, given that he’d been trying to fill in for two people ever since Mark’s father had had his fatal heart attack.
“I need that streetcar story.” Ron Bates, his copy editor, stood at the door impatiently. “And the Willamette pollution story and the Logan piece.”
“The streetcar story should be in your in-box.”
“What about the other two?”
“Soon,” Gil promised.
“How soon?”
“Gee, let me get my magic wand out and see. Look, I’m going to need at least fifteen minutes to go through them.”
Ron glowered. “You make me miss deadline and the press manager will be coming after me. Which means I’ll be coming after you.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re angry, Ron?”
“Kiss my ass,” his copy editor said, and turned away.
Grinning, Gil picked up the ringing phone. “Reynolds.”
“Gil, this is Alan. Alan Barrett? You know, your college buddy who’s getting married tomorrow? The guy whose rehearsal started half an hour ago? That guy?”
Gil snapped his head around to stare at the clock, which had somehow vaulted forward an hour and a half since he’d last checked it. He uttered a heartfelt curse.
“That’s one way
