Page 3 of Noel Secrets
She leaned against a brick wall, catching her breath.
Ginny kept talking. “It’ll be magical! We’ll bake cookies and decorate gingerbread houses. And of course there’ll be presents. I think I still have your gifts from last year, so you’ll get double.”
Jayda looked down at the photos still in her hand. The woman stood on the famous crooked street in San Francisco. In the second picture, she stepped onto a train.
Jayda made a snap decision.
“Sorry, Ginny. I can’t come. I’m going on a cross-country trip. San Francisco.”Maybe even out of the country if that’s not far enough.
“San Fran! Maybe we can join you!”
A glance at the second picture gave Jayda the perfect out. “I’m traveling by train,” she added. How longwasthe cross-country train ride? A week? Two? Too long for Ginny and four-year-old twins, that was for sure.
“What? Oh, that’s perfect! We’ll all go with you! What fun! I’ve always wanted to see the Rockies by train.”
Jayda peered around the corner of the building. “No, Ginny, you?—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll plan it all. The whole family—Michael too.”
“Michael?” Her voice squeaked. “That isn’t?—”
“He’ll get the time off. I’m calling him right now.”
“Ginny, please don’t?—”
The line went dead.
“Ginny?” Jayda blinked at her phone.What had just happened? In running from a killer, Jayda had instead been ambushed by Ginny. Jayda groaned, slid down the alley wall, and let her headclunkgently against the bricks.
“I should’ve let the killer shoot me.”
I can’t go to San Francisco.
I can’t be stuck on a train with the Blair family and their new foster kids. With Michael!
What have I done?
By the time Jayda had slunk home to graduate housing and shut the door of her apartment behind her, twenty minutes had passed, and her phone had buzzed five times. Three missed calls and two texts.
All were from Michael Blair.
Michael Blair’s article was good.
Scratch that—it was more than good. It was sharp, thorough, and relevant, the in-depth political analysisThe New York Newswas supposed to champion.
But his boss, Harold McKenna, was tearing it apart like it was a bad first draft from a freshman journalism student.
“I don’t care if it’s airtight, Michael,” Harold said, waving a hand at the computer screen where Michael’s article was pulled up. Harold acted as if the words offended him. “It’s about conflict in the Middle East. Conflict is depressing. We’re going into Christmas, and no one wants depressing.”
Michael, seated across from him, leaned forward. “It’s not depressing. It’s important. It’s about how fragile the peace talks?—”
Harold held up a hand. “Our readers want Christmas cheer. Hope. Nostalgia. Something they can sip cocoa over while the tree lights twinkle. You’ve been here long enough to know the drill.”
Michael blinked. “You’re rejecting it? Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “So instead of covering one of the most important geopolitical stories of the year, you want me to…what? Write about sugar cookies?”
