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Chapter Fourteen

Amanda was writing an article on a craft fair being held in Harvard Square over the weekend that she'd been assigned to attend. It'd been freezing, and she'd worn three layers of sweaters under her coat and two pairs of mittens. She'd been given cocoa by a woman zealous to have her cocoa powder company mentioned in the paper and a bag of nuts by a man who roasted them in southern New Hampshire. She'd taken photos and interviewed dozens of artisans, and then put off writing the piece until the last possible moment. It was due for paste up in less than two hours and she was only two paragraphs deep. Her fingers were flying over the keyboard.

A junior writer who worked under her approached the desk. "I'm sorry to interrupt you," she stammered, a look of fear residing on her face.

Amanda wondered if she'd ever given the fresh-from-internship associate a reason to fear her over the past six months they'd been around each other, but she couldn't even remember the girl's name, much less if she'd mistreated her. "What?" she asked, trying not to sound angry - though she admittedly was. She had a deadline and she'd been in the groove. Writing, for Amanda, took a groove. "What is it?"

The writer's voice shook. "I - I was reading this article," she said, tossing a piece of printed copy onto the desk, "And I was wondering if that's you."

Amanda looked at the paper. She looked up at the writer. "Get back to work," she said, purposely putting an edge to her words. The writer scurried away. Amanda looked back down at the byline. "Fucking A, Tobias..." she muttered. Her eyes scanned the words, landing on the final sentence. Mystery woman? She turned in her chair, her heart racing.

Nick was recreating the road trip - reliving the experience - with another woman?

It wasn't that she hadn't known he'd been seeing other women - she was well aware of that. Too aware, as a matter of a fact, but what he did with his ding-dong was up to him. This was an entirely different violation and it cut Amanda to the quick. This wasn't just dinner plans and a martini. This wasn't a quickie in the local pay-by-the-hour. This was the trip, the time with Brian, with eachother, this was the one thing that he should not be sharing with anyone else.

She looked at the article as she'd written it so far. The words bled together like alphabet soup and she felt borderline dizzy. There was no way in hell she was going to be able to concentrate. She looked over at the junior writer, who was bent over her desk, avoiding Amanda's gaze.

"Hey you," she called.

The writer looked up, "Yes?"

"How would you like to write a feature piece on that craft fair in Harvard Square we went to this week?"

The junior writer's eyes widened, "A feature piece?"

"Yeah." Her editor was going to kill her, but why not?

Gushing with excitement, the writer thanked her profusely, but Amanda shrugged off the praises. Her mind was elsewhere - wondering what else Nick would do with this mystery woman of his. She made a quick decision and, after securing the junior writer with the series of interview transcripts she'd collected, Amanda dialed the still too familiar number to the Pop Stuff Online editor's office.

Somethings had changed, of course, over the sixteen years. For starters, Amanda's father, Eric Golde, no longer worked with Pop Stuff Online. When the print edition of the magazine was cancelled by the publisher, he'd sold the online portion to none other than Amanda's co-worker and assistant on the Something Beautiful piece, Tobias Winterson. Toby - who Nick probably would remember more by his alias, Ben - had tracked them through the length of the trip, taking photographs discreetly so that Nick wouldn't suspect Amanda. Toby had written several pieces in the series of articles, as well, especially once Amanda's moral standing had caused her to waiver in her journalistic activity. Now, Toby's byline appeared at the top of the page that the junior writer had given her, and she felt it only appropriate to speak directly to him about his sources and pry for more information on the mystery woman.

"Tobias Winterson's office," the gummy-sweet voice that chimed into the phone seemed to giggle mid-word and Amanda rolled her eyes at the implications of this sort of voice in a position such a secretary under an admittedly handsome young-ish editor.

"Hello," she said, "My name is Amanda Golde, and I would like to speak to Mr. Winterson, please."

"Oh sure, just a sec hun," the voice seemed to giggle again, "He's expecting a call from you."

Amanda was about to ask what that was supposed to mean, but the phone clicked on hold and the sound of the current Pop Top 20 radio countdown filled her ears. She sighed and waited, clicking her fingernails against her desk, her eyes still on the junior writer who was now hard at work. Her jaw tightened.

"Why hello Miss. Golde," came Toby's smooth, arrogant voice, "What seems to be the problem?" he cooed.

"Cut the crap, Winterson," Amanda responded sharply. She saw the junior writer jump an glance over her shoulder. Amanda turned in her chair, giving the girl her back. "Who are your sources and who the hell is the woman?"

"Hold your horses there, Golde," Toby chuckled, "Aren't we going to at least exchange pleasantries? How's Boston treating you?"

"Cold, like you," Amanda retorted. "And I assume California is just brilliant like you seem to think you are. Now cough up the information, ass."

"Clearly you were raised by wolves," Toby commented.

"You've met Eric, do I need to say more?"

"He was always quite pleasant to me," Toby replied.

"C'mon Winterson, I don't have all day."

"Well I do," he answered.

Amanda sighed. She pressed her hand to her forehead, feeling a migraine coming on. "Toby, c'mon. You know how important this is to me."

"Yes, you're right, I do," he agreed, "Which is why I don't think I should be sharing it so freely. I need to be frugal, you know. I mean it is a cut-throat business. What's to keep you from stealing the story right out from under me? As of right now, it's a Pop Stuff Online exclusive."

"Yes because New England Magazine is really concerned with the Backstreet Boys," Amanda rolled her eyes.

"What do you all write about? Lobsters and foliage?"

"Will you please - please - just tell me what you know about the woman already?"

Tobias let out a sigh, "Since you asked nicely... I don't know any more than what I printed, actually. She seems young, but I haven't seen a really solid photograph of her yet."

"Who's covering the story?"

"An intern."

"You sent an intern to follow them? Jesus Toby. No wonder you haven't seen a good photograph."

"He's a Backstreet Boy for Christ's sake, Amanda," Toby argued, "It's not like they're the big thing like they were sixteen years ago."

"So you've got nothing about the girl?"

"Nothing. Other than the intern thinks she's too young for him. He said he's old enough he could be her father."

"Nice." Amanda pursed her lips. She could distinctly remember Nick complaining about his father having that same tendency - of going for girls a quarter of his age. She shook her head - like father, like son, she thought. "Thanks. Look, I'd appreciate it if you hear anything more about her if you let me know, okay?"

"Why do you care?" Toby asked, "I clearly remember reporting your break up with him several years ago."

"Ten years," Amanda replied, "And I just care, okay? Now please keep me in the loop."

"Yes ma'm," Toby replied.

"Thank you," Amanda said sincerely.

"Yeah, yeah..."

Amanda hung up with Tobias and put the phone into the cradle where it belonged. She spun in her chair, biting her lips, her mind completely elsewhere, the article still clutched in her fist. She pulled open her desk drawer and, with a quick glance to make sure the intern wasn't looking, pulled out a framed photo of herself, Nick, and Brian from the trip during the night they'd spent in Kentucky, at Brian's parent's house. She stared down at the smiling faces, a lump rising in her throat.

How in the world could Nick possibly violate such a precious memory by bringing along some girl he'd picked up at a bar?

Amanda shoved the frame back into her desk drawer and stood up, a wave of nausea washing over her. She clopped out from her desk, her shoes clicking on the tile floor, carrying her purse and pulling her badge off her neck.

"Have a good day, Miss. Golde!" called the junior writer.

She didn't respond. If she had the reputation of being a bitch, she might as well live up to it.