Massachusetts - That Boston Man (Americana 21 - Massachusetts)

CHAPTER ONE

The din of the newspaper office was steady; telephones ringing, the clatter of typewriters and voices, an unceasing hum of activity. Sitting on the edge of a desk in an area partitioned away from the rest of the staff workers in the room, Lexie Templeton was impervious to the background noises. A paper cup of black coffee was in one hand and a half-finished Danish pastry in the other.
Her attention was on her co-worker Ginger Franksen, who was also her roommate and friend. Lexie veiled the amusement that glittered in her blue eyes as she thought, not for the first time, that Ginger seemed the epitome of the fresh, innocent Midwestern type, which she was. Two years older than Ginger's twenty-two, Lexie felt at times like Ginger's mother instead of a friend, and at other times simply irritated by Ginger's traditional outlook.
She studied the slim, blue-jeaned figure of her roommate pacing about the alcove, long and beautiful corn-silk hair flowing past her shoulders. There was little makeup to detract from Ginger's wholesomely attractive features, that all-American look of pure honey that gathered men like bees. Ginger rattled on in a troubled and despairing voice with a quaint Midwestern accent, but it was her words that were making Lexie lose her taste for the pastry in her hand.
A sideways glance caught the amused but tolerant look of the third member of the impromptu gathering. Shari Sullivan, whose desk Lexie was sitting on, was considerably older than both of the others, but she was hardly the mother figure of the group. Sophisticated, chic, always dressed to the teeth, Shari was a blonde, too, thanks to the expert skill of Boston's best and most sought-after hairdresser.
Despite all Shari's worldly airs and hard-bitten glamour, Lexie often felt sorry for the woman. She so obviously clung to the image of youth while seeking status and prestige with greedy hands.
They were definitely an incongruous threesome. Lexie had often wondered what inner needs the three of them fulfilled in each other. Obviously there was something; they congregated each day at Shari's private desk for morning coffee, Ginger coming from her lowly position in the sports department and Lexie from her fast, riding post in political news. Shari had the society and gossip column in Boston.
"…and Bob was so angry because I wasn't in when he called last night." Ginger continued her lament that had been going on for the past several minutes.
Lexie wrapped a paper napkin around the rest of her Danish pastry and tossed it into the wastebasket beside the desk. "I suppose you apologized for going out to do your laundry," she commented dryly.
"Well, I was sorry that I wasn't there when he called," Ginger defended.
"Honestly, Ginger—" exasperation riddled Lexie's response "—how can you let yourself become a doormat for that man?"
"I am not a doormat," came the protest. "He wanted to talk to me and I wanted to talk to him. We just didn't make the connection, that's all. But that has nothing to do with my problem. What Bob is really upset about is this weekend. I can't make up my mind whether I should go with him to Cape Cod or not, and I'm afraid if I don't go, he'll ask somebody else."
"Let him," Lexie declared in disgust. "Bob Jeffers is a sexist and you'd be well rid of him. He wants you at his beck and call—never vice versa."
"I think you hate men, Lexie," Shari observed in a husky, cultured voice she had cultivated to perfection over the years.
"I like men well enough," Lexie said, denying the allegation, "if I can find any that will really treat me like an equal. You should have been with me yesterday when I interviewed that new candidate for Congress and heard him explain why he didn't have any women holding the responsible positions in his campaign. He gave that old song and dance about the difficulties of a single woman traveling in the company of so many men and problems of a married woman leaving her husband and family behind while she's on the campaign trail." Lexie stared angrily at the black liquid in her cup. "Why is it that a man is never asked how he manages to combine marriage and a career successfully, but a woman always gets that question thrown at her?"
"Excellent point," the older woman agreed with a throaty laugh.
"And speaking of careers—" Lexie warmed to her subject with a vengeance "—stop and think about the way men have taken over. Women always did the cooking until men discovered they could make money at it. Voilà! Now they're chefs. The same is true with sewing and clothes. Men found out there was money in that and now our fashion designers are almost exclusively male. The same holds true with hairdressers. It used to be a woman's job, but men are making a fortune at it now. The list just goes on and on and on."
"It's a pity we can't convince them they can make money having babies," Shari offered in a dryly amused voice.
"Isn't it, though?" Lexie murmured, impatiently brushing a lock of titian hair from her forehead. "No matter what men say, secretly they want a woman to assume the traditional role of wife and mother and helpmate."
"I don't think that's true," Ginger inserted.
"Believe me, it is." Lexie's head bobbed with positive certainty. "A man may tell you that he feels a woman should work if she wants to, but what he really means is some other woman—not his wife. Men are such shallow creatures. They want women to soothe their furrowed brows, to pander to their insatiable male egos, to tell them what great lovers they are, and the women's reward is the so-called pleasure of their company." Her gaze strayed to the tear sheet on Shari's desktop, a photograph of a man dominating the page. "And he's the worst of the lot," Lexie accused.
"Rome Lockwood!" Shari exclaimed in disbelief, false eyelashes intensifying her round-eyed look.
The grainy newspaper photograph didn't do the man justice, but Lexie had seen him too many times in person to be deceived by the picture. She had never met him personally, only observed him at political functions. That had been enough to form her opinion.
Lean, dark features were molded into a stunningly handsome male face. Jet black hair grew with rakish carelessness above the wide intelligent forehead. Equally dark eyes glittered from the paper, a knowing light in their depths as if he knew the power of his attraction. And that mouth caught by the photograph in a disarming smile…More than once Lexie had seen it work its charm, smoothly and subtly and successfully.
"Yes, Rome Lockwood," she repeated. "God, that name sounds like something Hollywood would make up!"
"He isn't a politician," Shari remarked, "So how did you come to meet him?"
"Political functions often become social functions," Lexie answered, again with a trace of contempt. "And, as you know, no social function is considered a success unless Rome Lockwood attends. Have you ever seen him with the same woman twice in a row?"
Shari thought for a moment. "I can't say that I have—not twice in a row. No one has even come close to hooking him yet, although a lot have tried—desperately. Which is probably why his black book has so many names. He probably finds safety in numbers."
"If I were Rome Lockwood, I'd be worried," Lexie observed.