Isabella was early arriving at the Evening Post. She had her best charcoal, pastels and pencils with her, and she also carried her own paper, but hoped they had some nicer quality paper for her to use.
“Ah, the new girl,” a man said, stepping up behind her. “We’ve all heard about you.”
She turned to find a man in a bowlers hat, his tie askew and a shrewd look in his eyes.
“Should I be flattered or mortified?” she asked.
“Flattered of course. It isn’t often a woman’s hired, and especially not with what you do. I’m Josh Templeton, by the way.” He shook her hand.
“Ramona Thompson,” she said, nodding.
“Don’t you mean Isabella?” He winked.
Her breath caught in her throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking ab—”
“Come, come . . . We’re not all as daft as that. We know who you are. You went from paper to paper, looking for work. We’re happy to have you here,” he said.
He motioned to the open office before them with scattered desks all around the room.
“I’m curious though, why you were hired. We have a photographer, and we keep them busy. An artist is hardly required, and very archaic in the newspaper industry.”
She blinked and held her breath for a moment. When she released it, her thoughts cleared. “Perhaps Mr. Bryant realizes there are times when a photographer is barred from the news, whereas an artist is much more discreet and can safely wiggle their way in to see what is taking place in the middle of the action.”
“I heard that is what happened the other night when Mr. Masen was beaten down in a club fight.” He smiled at her.