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the casual but expensive slacks and sweater he wore that night. The eldest at the table was Carl, forty-nine, whose prematurely white hair was countered by his lanky frame and the aggressive energy that flashed from his eyes; his breeding and bearing were Brooks Brothers all the way, a correct but laid-back dressiness perfectly attuned to his role in the world. And between them sat I, forty-two, wearing my favorite gabardine suit, a nattier wool version of the khakis and blazer that I habitually wore to the office.
    Carl got to the point. “There must be something in the air to account for this epidemic of career-tweaking—my move into politics, Roxanne’s name on the door at the firm, and now word of your rather stunning intentions, Mark.” He laughed, slapping my shoulder. “Is it true? Are you really folding your tent at the Journal and heading north to… Wisconsin ?” He, Roxanne, and Neil leaned toward me, waiting to hear it from my lips.
    Our drinks arrived—bourbon for Carl, the usual vodka for Neil and me, mineral water for Roxanne. We exchanged a quick toast; then the group fell instantly silent, still waiting to hear my story.
    I confirmed the whole plan, detailing the arrangement that Neil had agreed to. “So, probably sometime after the first of the year, I’ll take over as publisher of the Dumont Daily Register —assuming I can pull the finances together.”
    “A desk job?” scoffed Roxanne. “That doesn’t sound like you, Mark.”
    “I’ll be the boss,” I reminded her, “so I can take on any duties that suit me. As publisher, I’ll be responsible not only for the business of the paper, but also for its thrust, direction, and stature—that’s the whole point of this move. I confess I don’t know much about the day-to-day logistics of running a paper, so I’ll need a good number two. Barret Logan’s managing editor is nearing retirement age, so I’m sure they’ll leave together, and that’s just fine. I’ll need to build my own team anyway, so I’ll start with the managing editor.”
    “But what about investigative reporting?” asked Neil. “That’s what you’ve always done, what you’ve always loved. Won’t you miss it?”
    “The paper has a reporting staff,” I assured him, “and it’s known to be a good one. If a particularly juicy story should come along, though, I can always don my old hat and do a bit of sleuthing.”
    “In sleepy little Dumont?” asked Roxanne, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Somehow, Sherlock, I think your whodunit days are over.”
    We all laughed. “You’re probably right,” I conceded.
    Little could I imagine how wrong we were. Though I have never placed the least credence in superstition, I can only conclude that our flippant humor that night must have nettled some fractious gremlin of fate.
    By the next week, word of my intentions had spread further, and I began to receive queries, by letter and phone, regarding the managing editor’s position in Dumont. I was surprised—both pleased and humbled—to discover that so many of my journalism colleagues, some of whom I had never met, had such unswerving faith in my new undertaking that they were willing to uproot their own lives and follow me to a smallish town they had never seen.
    At first I just stuffed the résumés into my briefcase, but the collection thickened to the point where I had to dump it on the kitchen counter at home one evening. Neil and I had no plans that night, so we spent a couple of hours together sorting through the applications, commenting on likely candidates while sipping a cocktail or two.
    “Wow,” he said. “Guess who wants to move to Dumont with you.”
    I looked up from the cover letter I was reading. “Who?”
    He passed the papers across the kitchen island. “Lucille Haring.”
    Sure enough, the letter, the resume, the supporting documents—all crisply laser printed on heavy white Strathmore—were hers. Lucille Haring worked upstairs at the Journal in