The Touch of a Woman Read Online Free Page A

Hispanic woman, her long hair dyed burgundy, appeared in the hallway behind the receptionist. Her face was blank, and she made no effort at eye contact. “I’m Angie Alvarez. I’ll be your supervisor. Follow me.”
    It was odd to hear her maiden name spoken aloud after all these years. Though she’d used it professionally for her Vista articles, it was only in preparation for her move to Sacramento that she’d made the legal change, right down to her social security card. All to avoid having to talk with strangers about the shooting. How long would it take for the world to forget?
    The hallway led to a large room of cubicles with windowed offices lining the outer walls. Many of the nameplates on the office doors included their job titles. Advertising Manager , Creative Director , Finance Officer . Around the corner, the offices got bigger, but Alvarez steered her into a labyrinth to a cubicle, naked but for the dust on the gray laminate desk and a 49ers mug with a lipstick ring.
    “This is you.” She yanked open a drawer containing pens, pencils and paper clips. “Supplies are here.”
    No computer, no phone. Not even a file organizer.
    “And whom do I see for my assignments?”
    “Nobody. They’ll come to you.” Alvarez scurried across the hall to a larger cubicle bearing her name and returned with two document baskets. “I’ll put the copy in your in-basket. Once you verify everything in it, you put it in the other and I’ll pick it up.”
    So assistant editor was another name for fact checker. Fine, she’d be the best fact checker Sacramento Vista ever had. “I suppose I’ll need some reference materials. A style manual. A computer, of course, with Internet access. And a phone.”
    Alvarez shook her head. “There’s a computer you can use in the conference room. That’ll have to do until we get another one in the budget.”
    Left alone in the tiny space, Ellis took a seat in the armless office chair, immediately noticing that it wobbled. Ignoring the fact that she was wearing nylons and a skirt, she knelt on the carpeted floor and flipped the chair upside down to find the loose connection. Using a dime, she tightened the bolts that attached the seat to its stem.
    The din of conversations in the surrounding cubicles didn’t concern her. She’d managed to work in a house with three teenagers amidst their video games, music and friends, so she could work anywhere.
    She tested her seat again. Workable.
    Alvarez reappeared with a cardboard box of miscellaneous desk implements. “Take whatever you want from here and leave the box in the break room. But first, Marcie wants to see you.”
    She was shown to a corner office, where a woman sat with her back to the door as she talked on the phone. The expansive windows beyond afforded an enviable view of the tree-lined street below with its pedestrian walk and light rail. Had Ellis stayed at San Francisco Vista all these years, she might even be editor by now, and looking out on the Bay from a corner office on Telegraph Hill.
    She seated herself in a pedestal armchair that was more style than comfort. All of the furniture around her was modern, including the L-shaped desk of black graphite and glass. At the far end was an iMac; at the near end, a laptop. And an iPad. No wonder there weren’t enough computers to go around.
    “That’s great. I’ll see you Thursday in LA.” The woman spun around as she signed off. Long straight hair of champagne blond, understated makeup, and wearing a black wrap dress that had to be a size zero. She couldn’t have been a day older than thirty-five. Marcie Wagstaff, executive editor. Her boss. Everyone’s boss.
    “Ms. Wagstaff, I’m so happy to finally meet you. Gil has told me wonderful things about your work.”
    “Call me Marcie,” she said, flashing perfect teeth in what appeared to be a genuine smile. “Gil says good things about you too. It’s obvious he really likes you.”
    “The feeling’s mutual. I’ve