Shooting Sunshine Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Manhattan, New York

“I used to be Amish.”  The extra-hot, double shot, oat milk latte burbled in Darcy King’s stomach.  She clutched the cup in an over-caffeinated death grip, fearing any moment it would crumple and cascade coffee down her white cashmere sweater.  “At least my family was…back in the day.”

Everyone—every editor and staff writer and editorial assistant and freelance photographer like herself and, oh yes, the terrifying Editor in Chief of Hudson Magazine, Margo Ricconi-Gladstone herself, stared.  Darcy shifted on the three-inch wide windowsill at the back of the conference room where she perched with the other freelancers lucky enough to gain access to editorial meetings and desperate to maintain that status.  She swallowed hard, tasting coffee and fear.  She’d been advised repeatedly to fly under the radar. Drawing attention to herself and in so doing, the ire of every senior staff member was not necessarily wise.  Some staffers rolled their eyes and smirked.  Others licked their lips and salivated like sharks set loose in a tank of guppies. Assuming sharks had lips.  And salivary glands.

Margo slid purple-rimmed glasses the size of luncheon plates into a mane of silver hair.    “Amish?  Your mother certainly never mentioned that.”

A stream of perspiration, hot and sticky, snaked between Darcy’s shoulder blades.  She’d been dreading the moment Margo would mention her mother. If the other staff members didn’t hate her already, they certainly did now.  Being a newbie photographer, desperate for a full-time position was bad enough.  Even worse was the impression she only had the opportunity because of family connections. Which might be true to some degree, but she had an MFA in photography and a solid portfolio and banging new shoes and absolutely deserved a seat at the table. Or on the teeny-weeny windowsill overlooking Tenth Avenue.

Then again, she could have kept her mouth shut.

Every month the editorial staff gathered to hear the upcoming issue’s theme and pitch stories.   Glacial blue eyes glittering, Margo had slid onto the desk in the front of the room and pronounced the single word, “Modernity,” like it was the eleventh commandment.  Writers fell over each other with competing story ideas ranging from cell-phone addiction to urban sprawl.  They grilled each other mercilessly.  “What are your sources?” “Has anyone else covered it recently?” “Does this topic really resonate with our readers?”  

When Margo interrupted a vigorous debate about the merits of space tourism saying, “But what about those who take the opposite path?  Natives in remote island communities or…who are they…you know with the quilts and hideous beards? The Amish?  Anyone have a beat on them?”

The room had gone silent.  Darcy King had more than a beat.  She had a grandmother who fled the Amish and was shunned like in those cable television movies.  She had distant family in Pennsylvania.  She had an in that might finally make a blip on the radar, landing her a position in one of the most prestigious journals of news, literature, and opinion.  How could she have kept quiet? 

 Still in the hot seat, she sipped her latte, noting once again how most of her lipstick had smudged onto the cup. Did she have some on her teeth?  She made a quick swipe with her tongue. “We’re Amish on my father’s side, actually—were Amish, I should say.  His family left in the sixties.”

Margo narrowed her icy gaze. “Why?” 

She bobbled the latte, and the plastic lid popped off.  Was this a test?  She had no idea why they left.  She knew nothing more about her grandparents than what she recalled from the one July she spent with them after she refused at the last minute to go to summer camp. She remembered a creek, a dog, a tire swing, and the feeling she could do exactly as she liked every single day once her chores were finished. It was, in point of fact, the best July of her life.  But she had been too young to discuss sensitive family matters. 

As to intel from her parents, they barely even texted her between work and charitable functions and nights on the town that made her Brooklyn social scene look like a knitting circle.  Deep family convos were not a common occurrence.  Her Pennsylvania grandparents were regarded as embarrassing compared to her mother’s Park Avenue dynasty.  If her mother knew she’d even mentioned Grossmammi Leora to Margo Ricconi-Gladstone, she’d blow her well-coiffed top.  She nudged the plastic cap carefully onto her latte.  “Why did they leave?  I’m actually not sure.  I could find out.  We still have family in Pennsylvania.”

“Wonderful! You’ll go!” 

Every cubic centimeter of HEPA filtered air was gasped from the room.

“I’ll go?” Darcy prided herself in a deep speaking voice utterly devoid of vocal fry that no one ever expected to emanate from a blonde.  In that moment, however, she squeaked.

“Everyone’s covering tech.  No one is doing Amish. Take three weeks. You’ll need time to establish rapport, and I want a full photo essay.  If memory serves, they’re fairly camera shy.”

Fairly camera shy?  That was one expression for a people who were forbidden by religious law to be photographed.  Was this a joke? 

Margo waggled a jangly, braceleted hand toward her assistant.  “See Rolff later for  details.”

Rolff-with-two-fs lifted his phone in acknowledgement.

She scribbled nonsense in a notebook to avoid the glares, but they were so sharp edged, they sliced through her tastefully layered look.  Glancing up, she caught the gaze of a well-groomed photographer who looked ready to cut off his man bun and choke her with it.  Lengthy out-of-town assignments were unheard of in the current media climate. Most staff writers and photographers groused they couldn’t even attend conferences.  A three-week stint was a unicorn that clearly did not belong in the lap of a freelance photographer.

Granted being a freelancer wasn’t exactly enviable.  She had no steady salary, job security, or health insurance.  She didn’t even have a cubicle—she shared a group workspace on those days she was in the office. In many ways she was expendable. She wouldn’t be missed.

Story of her life.

After the meeting, she slinked upstairs to Margo’s corner suite.  Though she’d been working for Margo since the new year, four months of occasional office time and equally as many assignments had not produced a workplace bestie. She had no wing woman on this particular flight. 

Rolff stood sentry at the door.  Actually, he treaded sentry at a standing desk anchored above a treadmill.  His simultaneous walking and typing seemed as acrobatic as tightrope walkers who sky walked between towers.  

He tapped a button on a sleek wireless headset and beckoned. “Look at you, Fancy-pants.  Your first big photo essay.”

Darcy clutched the leatherbound notebook to her chest. “No one is more surprised than I am.  Except every single person who’s worked here for more than four months.  I’m pretty sure they hate me.”

With a flourish, Rolff swept a scarf over his shoulder.  “Honey, they hate everyone.”

So, it wasn’t her imagination.  She lowered her voice.  “But don’t you think it’s weird?  Why me?  Why not a staff writer like…” She struggled to recall a single name of one of her colleagues.  

“Man bun? Animal prints? Overalls girl?” Rolff nabbed a piece of tofu with reusable chopsticks. “Who can say? Margo is Margo.  She’s unpredictable.  That’s what makes her a genius.  She’s got mad instincts for knowing what’s hot. And not every girl from Brooklyn can say she’s got connections with the Amish.” He aimed the chopsticks toward Darcy’s feet.  “What I want to know is what you’re gonna wear?  Those shoes won’t last a day in a barnyard.”

She flushed.  She was Brooklyn by choice.  If Rolff scratched her with his barely concealed claws, she’d bleed Upper East Side all over his bento box.  The shoes were great, but they were designer discount from her favorite online retailer.  She was determined not to dip into her trust fund.  “You don’t think…”  She swallowed.  She didn’t want to but she had to ask.  “You don’t think it’s because Margo knows my mother, do you?”

Rolff made a face.  He grabbed either side of the desk and leaned in conspiratorially. “Please.  Half the people in this building are here because someone knew someone who owed something to somebody else.”  He flashed a perfect, white-toothed grin.  “Except me. That I’m walking at this fine desk is one hundred percent Washington Heights hustle.  We get the job done, know what I mean?”

Rolff was beautiful.  Lithe and fine-boned with coffee-colored skin and an impeccable haircut, he’d be right at home in the pages of a fashion magazine.  Her nose for a story said there was more to Rolff than pleased the eye. Once this crazy assignment was finished, she’d get to know him better. “You do.  And thanks.”

“I’ve seen your work, girl. You deserve this assignment.  Margo wants you there May first.  Do you have a place to crash?”

Her grandparents died years ago. A twinge tightened her chest at the memory of her grandmother’s sudden death not long after their summer together. Her grandfather passed soon after, most said of a broken heart. She could stay in a hotel of course, but to get the story she wanted, she needed to live among the people. How in the world did one wrangle an invitation to an Amish farm? Having publicly claimed a connection, she didn’t have a single name.  Or number.  Did they have numbers?  Even an address would be a start.  

With practiced poise, she shouldered her bag, marched through the office and out the door. Rolff wasn’t the only one with hustle.  She would do whatever it took to get this story, starting with... 

Her stomach turned.  

Starting with dinner on Park Avenue.