Articoli correlati a Midnight on Julia Street
Delving into a century-old mystery, New Orleans reporter Corlis McCullough turns, reluctantly, to a college adversary for help and discovers a newfound attraction, in a novel by a winner of the Romantic Times Gold Medal Award. Original.
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L'autore:
In addition to her career as a novelist, Ciji Ware was a reporter and commentator on radio and television in Los Angeles for more than twenty years. She is a graduate of Harvard University, where she majored in history, and serves as a member of the board of directors. Her numerous awards include an Emmy and a Dupont for her television work, a Silver Gavel for magazine journalism, and a Best Fictionalized Biography Award from Romantic Times magazine for her first novel, Island of the Swans.
Ciji is also the author of A Cottage by the Sea, Wicked Company, and the nonfiction work Sharing Parenthood After Divorce. She lives in Montecito, California, in an 1873 Gothic American farmhouse.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
Ciji is also the author of A Cottage by the Sea, Wicked Company, and the nonfiction work Sharing Parenthood After Divorce. She lives in Montecito, California, in an 1873 Gothic American farmhouse.
December 20
The trouble with weddings, Corlis McCullough concluded, was that the invited guests could never be sure if they were about to witness the beginning of a wonderful life or the end of everyone's fond illusions--including the bride's.
Corlis slammed the door of the news van and stared up at the venerable Saint Louis Cathedral, its three slate-clad spires silhouetted against the New Orleans night sky. Another day in the Big Easy. Another cream puff story. Another chance to blow her cool over the sorry state of television journalism. And a golden opportunity, after twelve years, to run into Kingsbury Duvallon.
For once in your life, McCullough, don't shoot yourself in the foot!
She glanced quickly around the deserted plaza that fronted the large church. At this predinner hour, Jackson Square was devoid of its usual street performers, chalk artists, and tarot card readers. In the center of the gated park, Old Hickory sat astride his bronze horse, keeping silent vigil over the mighty Mississippi two hundred yards distant. The river churned with paddlewheel sight-seeing boats, the Algiers ferry, and freighters riding low in the water as they plied their way toward the Gulf of Mexico, a hundred miles downstream.
That old, familiar feeling had begun to gnaw in the pit of Corlis's stomach.
Candlelit nuptials. An evening wedding. How chic.
How revolting!
She'd started to hate weddings, and she especially hated attending this one. The situation that faced her this unseasonably sultry December evening was the one she'd been dreading from the moment she'd arrived from Los Angeles two months earlier to go to work at WWEZ-TV in the fabled Crescent City. However, there was no ducking this assignment.
With a sigh she advanced with her news crew across the expanse of stone paving toward the church's arched entrance, neatly avoiding tripping over the scuffed boots of a wino who was apparently sleeping off the effects of letting the good times roll.
Within minutes Corlis, along with her cameraman and sound operator, was ensconced in the balcony that overlooked the historic structure's vast interior. The seasoned reporter put her mind to the task of calculating the best way to cover this so-called Wedding of the Season--a marriage ceremony that would join two of New Orleans's most prominent old-line families.
Soon, however, Corlis began to calculate her own margin of safety. She sternly reminded herself that associate professor of architectural history King Duvallon was merely a groomsman in this wedding tonight. He was also the brother of the bride. At the moment there was no sign of the Hero of New Orleans, celebrated everywhere for putting a stop to misplaced bridge and highway projects, condo complexes, minimalls, and other scourges threatening this southern city's hallowed and revered architecture. Despite Corlis's duty to cover this wedding in the French Quarter, there was absolutely no need for her to get up close and personal with anyone tonight, especially King.
Just dodge this bullet, baby. You can't afford to get fired one more time.
The church's pillared interior was suffused with the golden glow of twinkling lights from two rows of chandeliers that hung from the barrel-shaped ceiling. Parallel lines of eighteen-inch tapers--each ivory candle attached to a pew--marched down the center aisle of New Orleans's famed landmark. The pungent smell of incense collided with the sweet scent wafting from banks of fragrant red and white roses and abundant pine boughs that had been deployed everywhere as part of the Christmas wedding theme. In fact, the bloom-filled church served as a vivid advertisement for Flowers by Duvallon, the firm owned by the bride's family, and the only florist ever recommended to bereaved customers by the groom's family, founders of the prominent Ebert-Petrella chain of funeral homes.
This merger must have been in the works since the bride and groom were in kindergarten! Corlis thought with a glance around the cathedral.
"Virgil," she addressed her cameraman, "give me lots of wide shots and some good cutaways of the altar, and some close-ups of the priest ... and Jack Ebert ... Daphne Duvallon ... that sort of thing."
"When do you wanna do your lead-in and the stand-up?" Virgil asked, carefully placing his video camera on its tripod and tightening the screws.
"After the ceremony," Corlis replied. "Let's record an intro and maybe a bridge in front of the church just before we take off, okay? When the guests leave for the reception, I'll stay up here and write the copy while you go down below and grab what you need of the wedding party during the family picture-taking."
Good plan, McCullough. Keep your distance from the almighty Mr. Duvallon.
Virgil Johnson raised his shaved, ebony head from the camera. Then he arched an eyebrow and shrugged agreement with a change of logistics that even she knew was completely out of character for her. When had she ever, in the two months they'd worked together, not been standing right next to her camera operator, breathing down his neck to make sure he got every damned frame she was going to need when it came time to edit?
She turned to address sound technician Manny Picot. "Be sure you record a nice long stretch of organ music so we can lay it under the action and my voice track, okay?"
"Yeah ... gotcha," Manny mumbled behind his thick black mustache that bespoke his Hispanic-African ancestry.
Mellow sounds of classical organ music resounded throughout the cavernous space as five hundred of the bride and groom's nearest and dearest continued to file into the church with help from an army of groomsmen.
Corlis glanced down at the best watch she'd ever owned. Seven-thirty-five. She had purchased it during her heady days as a well-paid, on-air consumer watchdog in Los Angeles. Exactly one week prior to the day she got fired, she'd plunked down an outrageous sum and then was promptly axed for graphically reporting the amount of air pumped into various brands of ice cream. Did she know that her former television station's biggest grocery chain sponsor was the worst offender?
Yes.
Did she overrule the twenty-three-year-old kid on the assignment desk and do the story anyway, despite his warnings that the ad department would kill her?
Yes.
Did she get fired for telling the truth at a moment when she could least afford to?
Yes.
Had she shot herself in the foot that time, too?
Yes.
So, what else was new?
Well ... there were extenuating circumstances that time....
Let's not think about that, she told herself. Just think about getting through the job you came here to do.
Where the heck was Kingsbury Duvallon, anyway? she fretted, peering over the edge of the balcony at the center aisle below. She certainly didn't intend to be blindsided by him--again.
At that moment Corlis heard footfalls coming up the stairs to the balcony, and to her horror, her nightmare suddenly materialized. A dashing, six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered figure, clad in white tie and black tailcoat, appeared like an apparition, not twenty feet from their media outpost.
King looked even handsomer than she remembered, damn it! His stylishly trimmed dark brown mane was a far cry from the close-cropped hair he'd sported when they had both been college students in California. In the shadowed church balcony, his eyes appeared to be a darker shade of blue than when he'd last glared at her while they shouted at each other in the blinding Los Angeles sun. And the engaging grin he'd bestowed on virtually every female member of the UCLA cheerleading squad was nowhere in evidence this evening. In its place, the man's sinfully sexy lips were set in a grim line above a cleft chin that could prompt movie stars to sign up for plastic surgery.
Corlis prayed King wouldn't recognize her after twelve years. After all, her look now was certainly different than it had been in those days. During her tenure as a take-no-prisoners editor of the feminist journal Ms. UCLA, she'd adopted a magenta-streaked punk rocker hairdo, shapeless sweatshirts, and baggy jeans, plus she'd been a good twenty-five pounds heavier before the media consultants revolutionized her dietary habits.
Any hope of remaining anonymous was dashed as Corlis became acutely aware that King Duvallon was staring rudely at her across the church balcony. From his glowering expression, he obviously knew exactly who she was. His gaze meandered southward and lingered on the curve of her calves.
Well, to be fair, the man had never seen her legs, now, had he?
King abruptly broke into her reverie asking, "Corlis McCullough, right? My, my ... I thought it was you."
His voice still had its lilting southern inflections, but it had also deepened, and his stare held her glance like a locked-on laser--cool and deadly.
"Hello." She felt her chin jut into the air at a belligerent angle.
Hello? That's all she could manage after twelve years? Not: Hello Mr. Chauvinist Pig? Hello, you enemy of all women on the planet! Hello, and will you please vacate my balcony?
"I need to talk to you," King said without preamble.
"Now?" she asked incredulously. "Isn't your sister supposed to walk down that aisle in about two minutes?"
"Exactly!" he countered sharply. "Can you come with me?"
" 'Fraid not," she replied, pointing at her watch. "It's just about show time and I've got a job to do." Then she added archly, "I'm surprised you even recognized me after all this time."
"It's been pretty hard to avoid you," he retorted. "You're on the news every night."
Of course! The ID slug at the bottom of the TV screen. Even without the spiky magenta-colored hair and the ill-fitting clothes, how many Corlis McCulloughs...
The trouble with weddings, Corlis McCullough concluded, was that the invited guests could never be sure if they were about to witness the beginning of a wonderful life or the end of everyone's fond illusions--including the bride's.
Corlis slammed the door of the news van and stared up at the venerable Saint Louis Cathedral, its three slate-clad spires silhouetted against the New Orleans night sky. Another day in the Big Easy. Another cream puff story. Another chance to blow her cool over the sorry state of television journalism. And a golden opportunity, after twelve years, to run into Kingsbury Duvallon.
For once in your life, McCullough, don't shoot yourself in the foot!
She glanced quickly around the deserted plaza that fronted the large church. At this predinner hour, Jackson Square was devoid of its usual street performers, chalk artists, and tarot card readers. In the center of the gated park, Old Hickory sat astride his bronze horse, keeping silent vigil over the mighty Mississippi two hundred yards distant. The river churned with paddlewheel sight-seeing boats, the Algiers ferry, and freighters riding low in the water as they plied their way toward the Gulf of Mexico, a hundred miles downstream.
That old, familiar feeling had begun to gnaw in the pit of Corlis's stomach.
Candlelit nuptials. An evening wedding. How chic.
How revolting!
She'd started to hate weddings, and she especially hated attending this one. The situation that faced her this unseasonably sultry December evening was the one she'd been dreading from the moment she'd arrived from Los Angeles two months earlier to go to work at WWEZ-TV in the fabled Crescent City. However, there was no ducking this assignment.
With a sigh she advanced with her news crew across the expanse of stone paving toward the church's arched entrance, neatly avoiding tripping over the scuffed boots of a wino who was apparently sleeping off the effects of letting the good times roll.
Within minutes Corlis, along with her cameraman and sound operator, was ensconced in the balcony that overlooked the historic structure's vast interior. The seasoned reporter put her mind to the task of calculating the best way to cover this so-called Wedding of the Season--a marriage ceremony that would join two of New Orleans's most prominent old-line families.
Soon, however, Corlis began to calculate her own margin of safety. She sternly reminded herself that associate professor of architectural history King Duvallon was merely a groomsman in this wedding tonight. He was also the brother of the bride. At the moment there was no sign of the Hero of New Orleans, celebrated everywhere for putting a stop to misplaced bridge and highway projects, condo complexes, minimalls, and other scourges threatening this southern city's hallowed and revered architecture. Despite Corlis's duty to cover this wedding in the French Quarter, there was absolutely no need for her to get up close and personal with anyone tonight, especially King.
Just dodge this bullet, baby. You can't afford to get fired one more time.
The church's pillared interior was suffused with the golden glow of twinkling lights from two rows of chandeliers that hung from the barrel-shaped ceiling. Parallel lines of eighteen-inch tapers--each ivory candle attached to a pew--marched down the center aisle of New Orleans's famed landmark. The pungent smell of incense collided with the sweet scent wafting from banks of fragrant red and white roses and abundant pine boughs that had been deployed everywhere as part of the Christmas wedding theme. In fact, the bloom-filled church served as a vivid advertisement for Flowers by Duvallon, the firm owned by the bride's family, and the only florist ever recommended to bereaved customers by the groom's family, founders of the prominent Ebert-Petrella chain of funeral homes.
This merger must have been in the works since the bride and groom were in kindergarten! Corlis thought with a glance around the cathedral.
"Virgil," she addressed her cameraman, "give me lots of wide shots and some good cutaways of the altar, and some close-ups of the priest ... and Jack Ebert ... Daphne Duvallon ... that sort of thing."
"When do you wanna do your lead-in and the stand-up?" Virgil asked, carefully placing his video camera on its tripod and tightening the screws.
"After the ceremony," Corlis replied. "Let's record an intro and maybe a bridge in front of the church just before we take off, okay? When the guests leave for the reception, I'll stay up here and write the copy while you go down below and grab what you need of the wedding party during the family picture-taking."
Good plan, McCullough. Keep your distance from the almighty Mr. Duvallon.
Virgil Johnson raised his shaved, ebony head from the camera. Then he arched an eyebrow and shrugged agreement with a change of logistics that even she knew was completely out of character for her. When had she ever, in the two months they'd worked together, not been standing right next to her camera operator, breathing down his neck to make sure he got every damned frame she was going to need when it came time to edit?
She turned to address sound technician Manny Picot. "Be sure you record a nice long stretch of organ music so we can lay it under the action and my voice track, okay?"
"Yeah ... gotcha," Manny mumbled behind his thick black mustache that bespoke his Hispanic-African ancestry.
Mellow sounds of classical organ music resounded throughout the cavernous space as five hundred of the bride and groom's nearest and dearest continued to file into the church with help from an army of groomsmen.
Corlis glanced down at the best watch she'd ever owned. Seven-thirty-five. She had purchased it during her heady days as a well-paid, on-air consumer watchdog in Los Angeles. Exactly one week prior to the day she got fired, she'd plunked down an outrageous sum and then was promptly axed for graphically reporting the amount of air pumped into various brands of ice cream. Did she know that her former television station's biggest grocery chain sponsor was the worst offender?
Yes.
Did she overrule the twenty-three-year-old kid on the assignment desk and do the story anyway, despite his warnings that the ad department would kill her?
Yes.
Did she get fired for telling the truth at a moment when she could least afford to?
Yes.
Had she shot herself in the foot that time, too?
Yes.
So, what else was new?
Well ... there were extenuating circumstances that time....
Let's not think about that, she told herself. Just think about getting through the job you came here to do.
Where the heck was Kingsbury Duvallon, anyway? she fretted, peering over the edge of the balcony at the center aisle below. She certainly didn't intend to be blindsided by him--again.
At that moment Corlis heard footfalls coming up the stairs to the balcony, and to her horror, her nightmare suddenly materialized. A dashing, six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered figure, clad in white tie and black tailcoat, appeared like an apparition, not twenty feet from their media outpost.
King looked even handsomer than she remembered, damn it! His stylishly trimmed dark brown mane was a far cry from the close-cropped hair he'd sported when they had both been college students in California. In the shadowed church balcony, his eyes appeared to be a darker shade of blue than when he'd last glared at her while they shouted at each other in the blinding Los Angeles sun. And the engaging grin he'd bestowed on virtually every female member of the UCLA cheerleading squad was nowhere in evidence this evening. In its place, the man's sinfully sexy lips were set in a grim line above a cleft chin that could prompt movie stars to sign up for plastic surgery.
Corlis prayed King wouldn't recognize her after twelve years. After all, her look now was certainly different than it had been in those days. During her tenure as a take-no-prisoners editor of the feminist journal Ms. UCLA, she'd adopted a magenta-streaked punk rocker hairdo, shapeless sweatshirts, and baggy jeans, plus she'd been a good twenty-five pounds heavier before the media consultants revolutionized her dietary habits.
Any hope of remaining anonymous was dashed as Corlis became acutely aware that King Duvallon was staring rudely at her across the church balcony. From his glowering expression, he obviously knew exactly who she was. His gaze meandered southward and lingered on the curve of her calves.
Well, to be fair, the man had never seen her legs, now, had he?
King abruptly broke into her reverie asking, "Corlis McCullough, right? My, my ... I thought it was you."
His voice still had its lilting southern inflections, but it had also deepened, and his stare held her glance like a locked-on laser--cool and deadly.
"Hello." She felt her chin jut into the air at a belligerent angle.
Hello? That's all she could manage after twelve years? Not: Hello Mr. Chauvinist Pig? Hello, you enemy of all women on the planet! Hello, and will you please vacate my balcony?
"I need to talk to you," King said without preamble.
"Now?" she asked incredulously. "Isn't your sister supposed to walk down that aisle in about two minutes?"
"Exactly!" he countered sharply. "Can you come with me?"
" 'Fraid not," she replied, pointing at her watch. "It's just about show time and I've got a job to do." Then she added archly, "I'm surprised you even recognized me after all this time."
"It's been pretty hard to avoid you," he retorted. "You're on the news every night."
Of course! The ID slug at the bottom of the TV screen. Even without the spiky magenta-colored hair and the ill-fitting clothes, how many Corlis McCulloughs...
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- EditoreFawcett Books
- Data di pubblicazione1999
- ISBN 10 0449001873
- ISBN 13 9780449001875
- RilegaturaCopertina flessibile
- Numero di pagine470
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Midnight on Julia Street
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