I came upon Sailor’s Hideaway and pressed my face to the window for a view of the space. With the rendezvous still a day away, I felt like a spy lurking about, come to case the joint. The interior was old-fashioned, to say the least, with rustic wooden tables and floor, and scores of old framed photos lining a wall. Above the counter between the dining area and the kitchen was a large blackboard with choices from the menu on display: oysters, various shellfish, and the daily special sauce.
The restaurant’s patrons seemed a bit more modern than the decor, for the most part, a mix of lively young city dwellers crowded around large tables. My stomach began to growl. I had eaten almost nothing since London, so I decided to head inside for a bite. The hostess seated me at a table against the wall.
In all the countries I’ve ever visited across the globe, I’ve noticed that restaurants never seem to appreciate the solo diner—hence my table with a lovely view of the wall in all its glory. Luckily, this particular wall was lined with faded photos, vestiges of a past long forgotten. They were all of the same group of friends, probably around the same age as me, drinking and enjoying a night out. The young people seemed wild and giddy, with a life of freedom I could only imagine. As my envy swelled into full-blown jealousy, I decided to get over it by mocking their outdated looks and over-the-top attire. The guys looked absurd in grotesque bell-bottoms, and the women’s hairstyles were just as bad. Clearly moderation wasn’t in fashion back then. Each of them had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and their glazed looks made me think they were puffing away at more than just tobacco.
My eyes drifted from frame to frame, until one particular photo caught my attention. I rose from my seat and leaned in for a closer look. Two women were locked in a passionate kiss, one of whom I had never laid eyes on before. But the other . . .
My heart began thumping at a hundred miles an hour. The other woman in the photo—not yet thirty years old, looking far younger than I had ever seen her—was my very own mother.
20
SALLY-ANNE
September 1980, Baltimore
With the night already in full swing, Sally-Anne traipsed about Sailor’s Hideaway with a magnum champagne bottle in hand. May winked at her from the bar, and Sally-Anne blew back a kiss, zig-zagging toward her and filling up champagne flutes along the way.
“You don’t slow down with that champagne, you’re gonna blow all our money on one party!” May warned.
“Darling! We got the green light. The bank approved our loan! I think we can afford to splurge for one night.”
All formal steps to register the new publication had already been taken, and the lease for the warehouse transferred into the paper’s name. The newsroom was fully staffed with an impressive roster of journalists, all of whom were gathered now for the official baptism of the Independent. Joan, who was in charge of graphic design, had created a new typeface for the paper that the whole team was buzzing about, and she’d gone with sophisticated Caslon italics for the nameplate. With a month left before the first issue, May was working hard to bring her feature article up to date, the very same investigative report her former boss had refused to publish.
As for Sally-Anne, she had an entirely different target in her crosshairs: a sprawling tale of fraud and scandal, how a formerly wealthy and renowned family rose back to prominence in the aftermath of the war. As she took another sip of champagne, Sally-Anne savored the sweet taste of revenge that had gotten stronger over the course of almost two decades.
The two women were too drunk by the end of the night to ride Sally-Anne’s Triumph, and accepted Keith’s offer to drive them back home to the loft.
Two days later, the whole staff shuffled in at eight in the morning for the paper’s first editorial meeting. As each new team member settled in at their workstation, Keith took a moment to admire his own handiwork before leaving for his day job.
They started by reviewing each of the current leading story pitches, which were posted on a large board in clear view of the entire team. There was a rumor in town that city officials had accepted bribes in exchange for a shady deal that would award a public works outfit from a neighboring state with a plum contract. Sally-Anne insisted they would need far more than unsubstantiated rumors to go to print. The Independent was no tabloid rag; the paper had to maintain an irreproachable standard of ethics.
Another writer suggested an article on the lopsided allocation of funds in the budget, with education getting the short end of the stick. Schools in impoverished neighborhoods were subject to steep cuts, while funding for schools in higher-income, generally white neighborhoods seemed to be untouched.
“True, but that’s not really much of a scoop, is it?” said Sally-Anne, sighing. “Everybody knows about that, it’s just that nobody gives a damn, at least nobody whose vote matters.”