Free Flawless by Lara Chapman Page A

it.
    When the news finally wraps, Mom says a few quick good-byes to the cameramen before coming to get me.
    â€œGreat, as always,” I say with a smile, proud of Mom and all she’s accomplished.
    â€œLike you ever watch,” she says, which is basically true. I only watch her in person. Somehow, seeing her on television isn’t the same for me. She just never seems real.
    I follow her down the wide corridor that leads to the enormous newsroom, affectionately referred to as “the pit,” divided only by cubicle half-walls and a menagerie of filing cabinets and desks. This is truly the heart of the newsroom and I defy anyone to walk through this space and not get a little rush of adrenaline. I wave and smile at the faces I know as we move to Mom’s office, one of the few enclosed rooms along the back wall.
    Once inside, she quickly removes her jacket and hangs it on a hook behind her door. She grabs the clothes hanging in her armoire. “Let me change and then we’ll find Jen before going to dinner.”
    Mom slips into her private bathroom as I sit in the buttery-soft leather chair behind her desk, which is littered with Post-its, notepads, and about two dozen different pens and pencils. I have to stop myself from organizing the mess. The last time I did that, she nearly had a heart attack.
    She emerges from the bathroom looking like a model for Ann Taylor, wearing crisp white capris with a pale yellow cardigan set, which is stunning against her spray-tanned skin and shoulder-length blond hair. “Let’s find Jen,” she says.
    Mom has a history of introducing me to up-and-coming reporters at the station in the hopes that their excitement and newfound success will light a fire in me. I gave up fighting these meetings years ago.
    I follow Mom as she walks through the newsroom, keeping my head down when she peeks over cubicle walls. Don’t want to frighten the newbies by throwing my nose into their already-crowded cubicles.
    â€œThere she is,” she says, waving at a tall, beautiful brunette leaning over a printer and looking like she might tear it apart and throw it out the fourth-story window behind her.
    â€œWhat’s the problem, Jen?” Mom asks, like she would have a clue about how to help her. She knows just enough about technology to send and receive e-mails. Even that’s a chore for her.
    Jen lets out a frustrated sigh. “Bum equipment.” She drops the screwdriver onto the table and extends her hand. “You must be Sarah. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”
    I take her hand, noticing her firm handshake, something Mom insists every professional woman must master. “It’s nice to meet you, Jen.”
    â€œJen Masters,” she says, filling in the last name for me. I’m stunned at her ability to look me in the eyes, not wavering for even a second. Impressive.
    â€œHow long have you been working at the station?” I ask, easily slipping into my own form of investigative journalism. I have a bank of questions for these kinds of meetings.
    â€œJust under a month,” she says, her velvety voice warm. I like her instantly, unlike so many others I’ve met before her. Despite her drop-dead-gorgeous looks, she’s surprisingly real.
    â€œWhere did you work before you came here?” I ask.
    She laughs with a small roll of her eyes. “I was a reporter in Texarkana.”
    Anyone with a morsel of knowledge about broadcast journalism knows that a move from Texarkana to Houston is the equivalent of jumping from T-ball to the World Series.
    â€œCongratulations,” I say.
    â€œThanks, Sarah. I’m really excited to be here.” She casts a disparaging glance at the ancient printer on her desk. “Well, I would be if I could get this piece of junk working.”
    â€œHere,” I say, moving around her desk to the printer. “Let me look.”
    â€œOh, no. That’s okay. You