The Correspondent, page 1
part #1 of Emerson Pass Contemporaries, Book Four Series
The Correspondent
Emerson Pass Contemporaries, Book Four
Tess Thompson
Copyright © 2022 by Tess Thompson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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To the real Stormi, loyal reader and friend. Thanks for the inspiration and love over the years. You are the heroine of your own story and it’s a great one!
Contents
1. Stormi
2. Stormi
3. Huck
4. Stormi
5. Huck
6. Stormi
7. Huck
8. Stormi
9. Huck
10. Stormi
11. Huck
12. Stormi
13. Huck
14. Stormi
15. Huck
16. Stormi
17. Huck
18. Stormi
19. Huck
20. Stormi
21. Huck
22. Stormi
23. Stormi
More Emerson Pass!
Also by Tess Thompson
About the Author
1
Stormi
Five Years Ago…
I was born on a stormy night on Halloween. My mother said I came in like a storm and thus named me Stormi. Tonight, however, on my twenty-second birthday, the weather was calm and cold. A night in New York City when the lights sparkled so brightly the stars disappeared, but one knew they existed, nonetheless. Faith and hope were the tenets of my young life in the city, even when one couldn’t see the stars.
The costume party was in full swing by the time I arrived. I’d dressed as a cat burglar, having had no time, what with my two jobs, to come up with anything more creative. A pair of black leggings and a tight black sweater were easily accessible since I wore them a lot of the time anyway. I’d covered my head and face with a knit cap that had only eye and mouth holes. I’d originally thought of going as a cat but realized it was impossible to wear whiskers and a pink nose while covered in the cap, which then made the cat burglar costume necessary. It reminded me of the time my best friend from childhood had originally wanted to dress as a pumpkin but the costume came out too red, so her mother had decided she would be a tomato instead.
I’d worked a long shift that day and arrived late. Juggling two jobs in New York City to try to make the exorbitant rent for the apartment I shared with three friends, I was always late. And exhausted. Like all the time. Scratchy eyes and irritable, I was glad my face was covered. Perhaps the mask would hide my mood.
Every year this particular bar threw a Halloween bash. We’d wanted to go the year before, but we were all too broke. I was born on Halloween. As a kid, I hadn’t minded too much. It was like the whole world threw a party just for me. Which was good if you had a mother like mine who’d never made a cupcake in her life nor organized a party for her only daughter.
At this point in time, I’d been out of college for over a year. My fine arts degree hadn’t given me many opportunities for a fancy office job. Instead, I waited tables during the day and bartended at night. My hopes of making a living as a wedding photographer seemed too far away to even dream about any longer. I’d pretty much decided my mother had been right all along. I was useless to do anything but daydream of a better life. I didn’t have the talent or drive to do better. The grime and noise of New York City made me feel physically ill. My roommates were friends from my college days and were decent enough if you could overlook Kaitlyn’s boyfriends, who rotated in and out of her life in rapid succession and were always waking me in the middle of the night with the various volumes and styles by which the men expressed their enjoyment. Susanne, on the other hand, had come from a deeply religious upbringing and not only despaired for Kaitlyn’s soul but openly fretted about the parade of men who ate from her corner of the refrigerator.
So we bumped along together, trying our best to be good roommates to the others but failing. My trouble was in the details. I liked everything neat and tidy. Neither of my friends was of the same ilk. Susanne loved to cook but apparently didn’t realize that dishes were left at the end of whatever gourmet meal she’d made. Kaitlyn had gobs of clothes, none of which were ever hung in the closet in the bedroom we shared. And don’t even get me started on the bathroom.
They called me Mommy Dearest, trying to make light of my militant instructions on how to keep the place clean, but proving that it annoyed them. Humor only barely disguises the truth.
However, tonight they’d planned a gathering for my birthday, reminding me of what good friends they were even if we all annoyed one another as roommates. They’d chosen a club that threw an annual Halloween party on the last Saturday of October as the venue for the aforementioned celebration. Which was good with me, even if I did have to come up with a costume. I was used to it. When you’re born on Halloween, one had to accept these things.
I found my friends at the bar. Susanne wearing a cotton dress that looked like it had come from the 1800s paired with a clown mask. “What are you supposed to be?” I asked as she gave me a birthday hug.
“A child’s worst nightmare,” she said.
“That’s a good one.” I hoped it wouldn’t give me nightmares. Clowns were not my favorite. Really, who liked clowns? Did anyone? Apparently, yes, because there were actual schools. We had a good friend from art school who had recently decided he wanted to be a clown and had enrolled in an actual school, which I hadn’t even known was a thing.
Kaitlyn was dressed as a naughty nurse. She wore the same costume every year. This time, however, she had added a black veiled masquerade mask, which seemed more like an evil nurse look than a naughty one. “Where have you been? This place is raining men.” Kaitlyn was an aspiring actress and often used references to songs in musicals. “And it’s your birthday,” she added, as if realizing that she should have opened with that.
“BFH made me stay late,” I said. BFH stood for Boss From Hell. His real name was Martin, but we all referred to him by his nickname. “My replacement didn’t show up. He almost didn’t let me go. One of our regulars had to guilt him into it by telling him it was my birthday. Which, by the way, Martin didn’t seem to believe, but he couldn’t have the whole bar turn on him, especially on Halloween.”
I ordered a Manhattan from the bar, happy to be on this side of it for once, and scanned the crowd for my friends. However, they’d disappeared into the masses.
Next to me, a man was dressed as Indiana Jones with a mask made of distressed leather. The eyeholes were only slits, and the mouth only large enough for a straw to fit through, making it impossible to see anything but shadows.
“Nice mask,” I said.
“Why do you say it like that?” He had a raspy, gravelly voice. A smoker, maybe? I hated the smell of smoke. Several of my mother’s past boyfriends were smokers. I could never get the scent out of my clothes.
“Say it like what?” I asked him.
“Sarcastic. Patronizing? Or indulgent, like you’re sorry for me and my homemade costume.” Even with the mask hiding his mouth, I could tell he was teasing me.
“Sometimes I sound sarcastic when I don’t mean to be. According to my mom anyway. I like your mask for real. I’ve never seen one like it before.”
“My mother made it,” Indiana Jones said. “She’s one of those types of mothers. You know the type.”
“Not really.” Whatever type he referred to, my mother was not it. She would no sooner think to make a mask for a party than climb Everest. “Good idea for a costume, even if it is a little old school.”
“Old school? Are you calling me old?”
“Are you old?”
“I’m twenty-five, if you must know. In the prime of manhood, just like Indiana Jones. However, to your point, I’ve worn this costume since I was in high school. We had a masquerade dance our senior year. Everyone was into it so I had to step up even though, in general, I hate dressing up.”
“You don’t like Halloween?” I asked, as I thought about his answer. Twenty-five was just the right age for me. Dare I hope? Was I actually meeting a nice guy?
“Not particularly. It’s a lot of work. And a little weird, you know, adults dressing up in costumes.”
“I was thinking that exact thing earlier.” I swept a hand down the side of my sweater. “Thus, my lame costume. I always go as a cat but threw the mask in at the last minute.”
“You wear it well.”
“Which part?”
“I can’t see your face, so I’m going to have to go with the costume itself. Not everyone can wear a skintight catsuit.”
Black leggings and a sweater weren’t a catsuit, but I didn’t think that was worth correcting.
“And you fill it out just right,” he said.
Under my mask, I felt my cheeks flame. There was something about his voice that sent shivers up my spine. The good kind. “Is your voice always so raspy?” I had to ask. Getting an answer about the smoking question was relevant to whether I would be hanging around for more flirting.
“No, I screamed my head off at the Jets game last night.”
“I thought maybe you were a two-pack-a-day smoker or something.”
“No way. I hate smoking. Hate the smell,” he said.
“I do too.”
&n
“Is that a football team?” I asked.
“Never mind then.” Despite the volume of the music, I heard him chuckle.
“Have you been here for the Halloween celebration before?” I asked.
“No, I’m here with friends. This is my last night in New York before I head out for work.”
Last night? Bummer. I should have known better than to get excited about a man in New York City. “What kind of work do you do?” Given his outfit, it was hard to imagine him as anything other than an archaeologist. Was he headed to the desert to look for ancient sand scripts or something? Would he ride a camel and sleep in a tent?
“I’m a reporter for the Times—headed to Afghanistan to cover the war. I’ll be gone for at least a year.”
“Wow. That’s really cool.” I was impressed. Most of the people I knew were like me, struggling artists. This guy had a real job with a real paper. The paper, as far as that went. Too bad he was leaving tomorrow. That’s how it went for me and romance, though. All the good ones were taken or otherwise engaged, like reporting from across the world.
“It’s been my dream to be a foreign correspondent since I was a kid,” Indiana Jones said.
“I thought it was to find buried treasure, Indiana Jones?”
“Only on Halloween. Normally, I prefer to chase stories instead of treasure. Although I have to say, given the way you look in that outfit, I’d say you were treasure enough for one night.”
I had trouble hearing him over the music, which was unfortunate because I liked compliments and this guy seemed to know just what to say to make me smile. Instinctually, I leaned closer to him. He smelled like oranges mixed with bourbon. Heady and delicious. I blinked, trying to focus. The drink was going to my head already. Or was it the primal attraction I seemed to feel for this masked man? He was only here for one night, I reminded myself. Don’t get too excited. I’d probably never see him again after tonight.
What did he look like under the mask? The rest of him was tall and lean. He wore the brown leather jacket unzipped, giving me a glimpse of a muscular chest under a white T-shirt.
“Stories can be treasures,” I said. “Right?”
“Depends on who’s writing them.”
“You must be good if you work for the Times.”
He shrugged one wide shoulder. “I do all right. There’s always more to learn. This assignment is coveted, so I’m feeling pretty high tonight.”
A drunk gangster tripped into me, spilling part of his beer onto my sleeve. I patted at the wet spot with a napkin and gave Al Capone a dirty look, which of course he wouldn’t be able to see because of my mask. “Do you want to go outside to talk? It’s really loud in here,” I said.
He nodded, causing his mask to bob up and down. “Cat burglars are more accustomed to quiet.”
I laughed as I followed him through the packed bar past several Red Riding Hoods, a nun, a zombie, and a mermaid. I breathed in the crisp air, as cold and tart as a green apple. It was nice to be out of the bar. The weather had turned cold last week, sucking away any remnants of our warm fall. Out here I could hear myself think. No more pulsing beat. I didn’t like how clubs always overdid the bass. He was most likely teasing me, but he was right—this cat burglar hated noise. I craved the quiet of the country, like the little town where I’d spent my childhood. As terrible as my mother or her boyfriends were, I’d always been able to escape outside to look at the stars or smell the summer roses.
“You come here every year for Halloween?” Indiana Jones asked.
“Not often. Too expensive for me. But it’s my birthday, so my friends are buying all the drinks.” I looked down at my hands, realizing I’d left my empty glass somewhere.
“You were born on Halloween? No wonder you’re a cat burglar.” His mouth under the mask was barely visible, but I caught a glimpse of pink lips.
“How about you?” I asked. “Have you been here for Halloween before?”
“Nah. My friends from work wanted to come here. It’s supposed to be my goodbye party, but I can’t seem to find them.” He tapped on his mask. “This thing doesn’t help.”
This guy had an ease about him that made me think he had money. Or had come from money, which was a subtle nuance but there just the same.
“You’re an artist, aren’t you?” Indiana Jones asked.
“How did you know that?”
“Your fingernails. There’s paint under them. Either that or you’re not a very hygienic person. Or maybe you’re homeless?”
“You don’t really think I’m homeless, do you?”
“I don’t think you’re homeless. However, I do think you’re a young struggling artist—very romantic.”
“I’m twenty-two. Today, in fact.” I lifted my chin, feeling defensive for no reason.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. I graduated last spring with a fine arts degree—emphasis in photography.”
“Not painting.” He picked up one of my hands and rubbed his thumb over my nail.
“No, that’s just for fun. I’m hoping to make a living with my photography—weddings if I can find the work. I have lots of dreams.”
“What kind of dreams?” he asked.
“Nothing too special. A wedding photography business somewhere beautiful. And a dog. I’d love to have a dog who loved me unconditionally.”
“They do that.”
“Do you have a dog?” I asked.
“Nope, not right now. I’m focused on becoming the greatest correspondent that ever lived.” His voice had a teasing lilt to it that didn’t hide naked ambition.
“Why do you want that?” I asked.
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s the family business to be ambitious and to earn a living through writing. My dad’s a writer too.”
“So you’re trying to prove yourself to him?”
“Something like that,” he said. “My father writes fiction and is one of those anomalies, you know. He’s doing exactly what he should with his life. I’d like to do that too. Sometimes it seems harder than I expected.”
“I know what you mean.” I surely did. When I was a kid I dreamed of taking photographs of famous celebrities and being invited to fancy parties where I could wear expensive cocktail dresses. I’d daydreamed as a way to cope with my reality, which was not parties or pretty dresses.
“What’s your name?” Indiana Jones peered at me through the slits of his mask.
I hesitated. Should I tell him my real name? No, too risky these days. All it took was a quick search on the internet and he’d know where I lived. “Since you’re leaving tomorrow, let’s just keep our names to ourselves tonight.”
“Why does it matter if we know each other’s names?”
“I don’t know you. If I give you my name, you can look me up and plan my murder.”
“Death?” He laughed.
“It’s not funny. How do I know you’re not a mass murderer? Or worse, a stalker.”
“A stalker is not worse than a mass murderer.”
“Okay, maybe not.” I grinned under my mask, having fun with this unexpected birthday present. Instead of answering his question, I changed the subject. “I don’t understand people who can write for a living. I can barely sign my name.”
“I doubt that.” He waved over one of the servers covering the outside area. I watched him, impressed at the way he could summon someone. Places like this loved to make people like me invisible. I didn’t matter here in the city. Just one more hopeful artist.
“A whiskey, neat,” he said. “And whatever the birthday girl wants.”
“I’ll have a Manhattan, please.”
After the server left, he turned back to me. “I’d never do that,” he said. “Even though it’s been hard to remember all the things I’m not supposed to say these days.”
