Ride the Eagle

RIDE THE EAGLE

Kristina O’Donnelly

Published by Rose International Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 1999-2016 by Kristina O’Donnelly

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Rose International Publishing

Publication history:

Worldwide Library, 1987, USA/Canada (Published as Ride the Eagle)

Rose International Publishing House, 1st Printing 2000

2nd Printing: 2003, USA (Published as Beloved Enemy)

Epsilon Publishing House, October 2003, Turkey

Fictionwise, 2006

Contents

Special Note by Author Kristina O’Donnelly

Reviews for Ride the Eagle

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Books by Kristina O’Donnelly

RIDE THE EAGLE

Tensions Explode in New York City Newspaper Union Strike When Passions Are At War With Principles!

Caroline Keller is the first labor relations representative for the nation’s largest daily newspaper, The New York Mirror. As a rising star in the Citadel of Corporate Power, she is also the fastest in the fast lane, racing straight to the top. Until she finds herself bargaining not only for her employer, but also for her heart. Lester Gordon, of Cherokee-Indian roots, is the man leading the union battle. Brilliant and uncompromising, he is a man who fights for what he believes in without giving an inch. He is everything Caroline has ever wanted in a man, but he’s Labor, she is Management.

Enemies on the Business Battle Field Caught in a No Win Negotiation of Love.

Special note by author Kristina O’Donnelly

This tale harkens to the early 1980s. Nevertheless, it’s timeless for it’s a tale of taking the lemons handed to me, and squeezing them into delicious lemonade. And as it so happened, just recently I was recounting it to a fellow author, and she felt so good afterward, that I’ve decided to share it with you, too. Yes, I do believe it’s an inspirational tale and you will smile. It’s about my novel, Ride the Eagle (Beloved Enemy), which has been published not only in the United States and Canada, but in faraway places such as England, Bermuda, New Zealand, Spain, and even in Turkey. Yes, Turkey! Such a distant, exotic land.…

So, are you ready, friends?

...’twas a dark and stormy New York City afternoon, on a November 10, many years ago, and I was home from work (I used to work for the New York Daily News), suffering from an awful cold and blazing high fever, could not even breathe because so horribly were my sinuses stuffed up, in my top floor Woodside, Queens, condo (described in my heroine Caroline Keller’s condo in Ride the Eagle).

As usual, I was using this sick day to sit by my typewriter, placed on a desk overlooking the dramatic East Side Manhattan skyline up from the Bronx down to the Empire City Building and Twin Towers; and so, around 2 p.m., I paused my breathless dance on the typewriter keys (I was writing the first version of Waltz with the Wind) and went down to pick up the mail.

Lo! a package, but gasp! it’s a returned manuscript, yet another rejection. I take the elevator back to my apartment feeling like leftover road kill, then drag myself to my desk, sit down, look out at the skyline, and began to cry with great big sobs. Hey, who needs a rejection on a birthday? Yup, you see, this is my birthday, of all days.... Then in between sobbing and blowing my nose, I open the package, with shaking hands, of course, pull out the enclosed letter, and read the editor’s comments: This is a very interesting novel, says she, commenting on the original version of The Horseman. You are very talented. I pause here to consider, well at least this editor is kind: she is dumping me in style. Then I continue, But dear Vita, my nom de plume at that time, I am now in charge of a line of novels designed to celebrate the American way of life... she then proceeds to give me a laundry list of her requirements, concluding with so, Vita, if you want to send me a novel along these lines, I will be glad to consider it.

Chin in hand, I begin to think and stare out the window, and the splendorous Manhattan skyline.

American... American.... hmmm.... well, yes, with the exception of my very first literary agent, A. L. Fierst, who really liked my epic, The Horseman, and took the 1200 page ms and hand-edited it down to 800 pages, and corrected my grammar along the way... (remember, English is not my native language, I came here at the age of 23, and fluent ONLY in German, Turkish, and some Italian, and did not have the time/money to go to a formal school, but had to start working immediately), everyone and his mother-in-law on Publisher’s Row was beating me down or thumbing their nose at me because my material was just too unusual and controversial for them...

And here I am now, I continue wallowing in misery, once again entrenched in the ‘rejection circuit.’ I feel more tears burning in my eyes. First I steel myself against shedding them, and then decide: why not? I’ve a right to feel disappointed, especially on my birthday! Then I smile. Ah, I know I’m close, I feel it in my bones. The one heck of a lucky editor destined to discover me, is waiting just around the corner. Only the timing isn’t right just yet; my number hasn’t come up. That’s all, folks.

So Vivian wants me to write something American, huh? Mmm, something American... something American... well, I can, can I not? But of course! Until now, I’ve mostly drawn upon my life prior coming to the States, which is fine, but now I should narrow my focus to sift through my experiences here. If I concentrate hard enough, I’m bound to come up with something I can build a brand new novel upon.

Come on, old girl, today is your birthday, I prod myself. I didn’t reach this glorious day for nothing, right? Then it occurs to me: If life hands you lemons, make lemonade… meaning, if you get a rejection on your birthday, you grasp that rejection by the horns and turn it into something positive. Such as cooking up a winning plot and characters... Ah, as my muse is my witness, I sure met plenty of characters in New York alone.

I stare at the horizon, my mind whirling around like a kaleidoscope. After several 360 degree turns, my kaleidoscope spins again until it comes to a shaky halt as two words step forward: The New York Daily News. The Newspaper Guild.

Other words follow the first two, names and faces pop up, some of them fade away, some of them grow in dimension. Automatically my fingers home in on the electronic typewriter’s keys and tap feverishly. Hours pass by. I don’t stop for a breather until my stomach rebels, demanding attention. When I glance at my watch, I’m surprised that it’s already five o’clock in the afternoon. Leaning back, I count the pages, a beatific smile playing on my lips. Then I blink and count the pages again: Twenty-five pages. A full plot. A complete story, with a beginning and an ending. Still suspicious, I review its contents. My throat dries and I break out in goosebumps. Here they are, a man and a woman, Lester and Caroline, both American, a liberal and a conservative, he representing the Union, she Management, between them a chasm as big as the Grand Canyon, around them the raging fires of the Great Newspaper Strike of 1978...

Needless to say, within an hour, drawing upon my then eight-years with the New York Daily News and the Newspaper Guild of America (I’m Christine Connelly, the much-discriminated and beleaguered Shop-Stewart in Ride the Eagle, surely you will guess this when you read the novel), I’ve the comprehensive outline of a novel which was as American as Apple Pie.

* * * *

TWO MONTHS LATER, in a fully optimistic mode that I was about to realize my dream, I mailed it out to the editor, completed.

Then came the harrowing news: Vivian had moved on to greener pastures, and the editor who took her place, rejected it (and did so nastily), she opined: ...this novel has no romance, and reads like Labor propaganda.

Heck, no, I did not give up! I live to learn and to write, it’s a genetic thing (my late parents were writers as well, albeit non-fiction). I wept, yes, threw many a silent tantrum, yes. But then went on burning up the proverbial midnight oil, cooking up more tales, and sending out more packages to editors.

Another eighteen months passed… and... the upshot is, in the end, not only was Ride the Eagle published by the better, more prestigious branch of the same publishing house, with almost four times the money, but I had the wonderful pleasure of sitting at a lunch table, in Toronto, Canada, a lunch set up to welcome me, by that very same publishing house, a lunch to welcome me because by then I was a personality, and on that table... among a group of ten people, guess who else was sitting?

You got it, the editor who had rejected me with a nasty note. Well, friends, what do you think, was I enough of a lady to keep my mouth shut regarding the rejection letter she had sent me...?

Wink, wink. Well, dear Reader, I spilled the beans while indulging in my third glass of champagne. Ahhh, and the sparkling bubbly never tasted so good!

* * * *

Reviews for Ride the Eagle (Beloved Enemy)

…Sizzling Sensuality Set in the raw world of modern NYC journalism... the individual characterizations and the sensual overtones of this story are its strength -- the people are complex and believable, and the love scenes are pulse-racing! RIDE THE EAGLE should not be read unless an amorous partner is near!

Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

Romance Has a New Jackie Collins! The author has unleashed fireworks of sexual combustion!

David Gould, Gould Features Syndicate

…the author has a nice touch with dynamic tension as she scales the heights of romance.

Nan H. Doporto, Affaire de Couer

RIDE THE EAGLE has an authentic ring of fact and scandal behind the headlines.

George Csicery, Documentary Film Producer

…Ride the Eagle is pure poison for some, tantalizing red meat for others. This extraordinarily written novel ignites the readers’ emotions like a pyromaniac playing with a stick of dynamite! Careful, the fuse is lit!

Bruce Wynn, CEO, Merlinhouse Publishing Company

… Successfully combining on the scene experience, realism and romance, this is a page-turner you’ll not forget.

Rima Firrone, Ocala Star Banner

… stands out as one of the better contemporary novels I’ve read in a long time.

Bea Hurt, Waldenbooks, NYC

"Fast-paced, thought-provoking and romantic, for everyone interested in a quality read."

Dawne Coker, Bookland, FL

Sensitive, insightful and gloriously sensual! And the relationship between the heroine, Caroline, and her mother, Annabelle, a very profound and brave rendering.

Joi Nabisso, Author

Chapter One

FEELING RESTLESS, Caroline moved forward in her chair and opened the briefcase on the table. Slowly and deliberately she reviewed its contents. Yes, she had all the necessary papers. Yes, she had certainly done her job, thoroughly researching the complaint. Aware that arbitrations were costly in terms of time and money, she had made a real effort to settle the grievance beforehand. All the angles were covered, and she ought to feel confident about today’s hearing.

Yet she didn’t. She felt apprehensive. Why?

Her gaze traveled around the paneled hearing room of the American Arbitration Association. The tall, thin, gray-haired arbitrator stood with his back to the group, talking on the wall telephone, the pretty female stenographer was setting up her electronic equipment, and Burt Matlock, the attorney handling the legal side of The Mirror’s labor disputes, was seated next to Caroline discussing his case presentation with George Thomas, the Mirror’s director of labor relations. At 9:45 a.m. the Newspaper Guild’s team had not yet arrived. Obviously they’re dragging out their appearance to the last minute, intending to keep us on our toes, Caroline mused wryly.

After retrieving a set of papers from her briefcase, Caroline tried to concentrate, her eyebrows pulled together with the effort, her chin supported by an open palm. Yet her thoughts continued to wander.

I’ve come a long way... she admitted to herself, feeling a sense of satisfaction and wonder. At age thirty-four, Caroline Keller was the labor relations representative of The New York Mirror, America’s largest circulation daily. The position was prestigious and well-paying, involving lots of work and responsibility as well as long hours. Being a person who thrived on challenges, she never thought to complain about the latter; rather, she was proud that she had fought every inch of the way to get ahead in The Mirror’s male-dominated managerial environment.

Caroline was aware of allegations that she had been promoted to this position only because she was a woman, and the newspaper had a quota to fill to satisfy a class-action suit filed by female employees. Well, the gossip mongers conveniently chose to forget that she had thirteen years invested in the newspaper field, a Master’s degree in Labor Relations and a proven track record of success.

Of course, the man is making a political issue out of this Bob Williams case, she overheard Burt Matlock saying to George Thomas and turned her head to look at the lawyer.

Sensing that he had captured her attention, Matlock faced her with an arrogant smile. Don’t you agree, Caroline? he asked, obviously confident of her answer. You must’ve had as much fun as I had reading his overblown campaign literature!

Annoyed at the self-assuredness on his handsome, blue-eyed, Germanic features, Caroline averted her gaze. I wouldn’t put it quite in your words, but yes, I did find his pamphlets interesting.

Placing his hand on the back of her chair, Matlock leaned closer to her. She could feel his warm, tobacco-scented breath against her cheek and instinctively drew away from him.

I don’t blame the man, Matlock said, his lips curling with disdain. Why, after all his heated pre-election rhetoric, what with resurrecting the spirit of the union and all that crap, he’s got to prove to the members that he’s worth the dough he’s getting paid.

A sudden anger welled in Caroline’s throat. The nerve of him! She was well aware of the salary he was being paid, and there were times when she was convinced he wasn’t worth half of what he was raking in. Dismissing the thought, she shrugged. I understand Lester Gordon left a better paying position as the Guild’s pension plan administrator to be active with the Local again. His nomination for president was unanimous and he ran unopposed. Her tone turned non-committal. "That is not to say that I agree with the aggressive fashion in which the Guild is handling this case. An account of the dispute was posted on all the Guild bulletin boards in The Mirror. That’s really asking for dissent."

Frowning, Matlock lit a cigarette and for once had the courtesy to blow its smoke away from her face. I’ve dealt with Gordon before. He has a way of getting under my skin and goading me into losing my temper. He simply rubs me wrong.

I’m sure you’ll prevent him from succeeding today. Caroline’s soothing voice did not reflect the irony she felt. She was familiar with Matlock’s ‘trigger-happy’ temper, a serious flaw in an attorney. Also, the open pleasure he derived from gossiping at every opportunity about Lester Gordon—the newly elected, popular and controversial president of the Newspaper Guild—embarrassed as well as irritated her.

Although she had yet to meet him in person, Lester Gordon’s reputation as a hotheaded fighter with a cool mind in legal matters had preceded him, making her feel she would be dealing with an unknown and dangerous predator. As president of Local 3, Gordon was directly responsible for collective bargaining and organizing. The president did not always appear at arbitrations, which were handled mostly by the Local’s attorney and reps. Lester Gordon must be coming today to add a new angle to their case presentation! But what?

As snatches of conversation faded in and out of her hearing range, Caroline recalled other aspects about Lester Gordon. Burt Matlock had called him a half-breed because Gordon was partly of American Indian ancestry. Sure, she had read his campaign literature, distributed within every member unit of The Mirror and The Times, but contrary to Matlock’s claims, she was impressed by Gordon’s platform. Proud of being a self-made, no-nonsense career person herself, Caroline ran her department with an enthusiastic efficiency. She was sensitive enough to feel a sincerity in the hard-working Gordon’s statements—a sincerity that went beyond the rhetoric of the written word. This, she respected.

Suddenly her heart skipped a beat, her hearing sharpened and her eyes riveted on the closed door. Several pairs of footsteps thudded along the length of the corridor outside. They paused in front of her door—probably for a last minute strategic caucus, she reflected. Then the door swung open and he entered, dwarfing everybody with his towering and vibrant presence.

Actually a group of five people entered the hearing room. But Lester Gordon alone was clearly perceived in her mind and heart’s eye. Vaguely the keenly professional side of her nature registered the others: Bob Williams, the former unit chairman of The Mirror, a middle-aged, black man with tufts of white hair highlighting the smooth ebony of his skin, whose change of work shift and locale was the topic of today’s hearing; Tom Paolo, the gray-haired, incumbent chairman; Christine Connelly, the blond vice chairwoman known for her militancy; and Barry Litvak, the Guild’s bearded attorney.

Tall, his muscular body shaped like a wrestler’s, Lester Gordon approached Caroline Keller’s group, smiling, unhurried.

Within a split second, her mind snapped a complete picture of him from head to toe, not missing any detail: thick hair, black and shining, swept back from his high forehead, curling slightly around his muscular neck; prominent cheekbones and broad face testifying to an Indian heritage; wide, athlete’s shoulders; crisp blue sports shirt open at the collar, its short sleeves tightly wrapped around bulging biceps. A reddish-brown windbreaker was suspended from his shoulder, hooked on a thumb, and on the right pocket of his snugly fitting beige trousers a round ink stain challenged the world.

Caroline shook hands with the newcomers, said all the right words and felt herself enveloped in a warm euphoria when Lester’s hand reached for hers. His grip was firm and dry, his smile bright and infectious—the kind that bubbles up from the spring of the soul and reaches out generously, encompassing all life.

Lester’s piercing blue-eyed gaze acknowledged Caroline’s oval face, chin-length wavy red hair, golden hazel eyes, and with open pleasure, assessed her slender figure, clad in her corporate look: pearl-gray, tailored blazer with black buttons, matching straight skirt, black silk blouse with a Peter Pan collar and a discreet string of pearls, low-heeled black pumps and a matching soft leather briefcase with her gold-lettered initials. Everything was coordinated to project the upwardly mobile career woman she was — a career woman who blushed girlishly while looking up at a man who was unlike anybody she had ever met in her life!

After the polite preliminaries were over, Management and Guild settled around the polished, oval table. The arbitrator, Harold Davidson, took his place at its head.

As Caroline’s eyes met Lester’s across the table, she found herself smiling at him.

He smiled back. He had white teeth, strong and even and a deep dimple on his left cheek. Out of the blue, her heart shook with the strange notion that she had known him from before. Yet, she knew this wasn’t true. Lester’s carved, handsome face with its Indian ancestry would stand out in any crowd; no matter what the circumstances, she’d have remembered when and how she’d met him. The feeling of familiarity persisted against her better judgment as her thoughts scurried back to her childhood.

Raised in Charleston, South Carolina, her head had been filled with lofty, albeit vague ideals of helping the underprivileged masses. In her teens, Peter, Paul and Mary had been her favorite folk group, their evocative songs celebrating truth and beauty, articulating her innermost thoughts. But being a shy, introverted girl, her dreams hadn’t gone further than hoping to marry someone in public office. Someone who would embody her dreams, someone dedicated and sincere.

Someone like Lester Gordon? A cynical voice asked in her mind. What’s the matter with you? She chastised herself angrily, get your act together!

Then Matlock’s firm voice presenting management’s position to the arbitrator placed her back on the right track. Bob Williams was transferred to the Brooklyn plant and to the night shift because his services and expertise were of greater use to us on that particular shift and locale, he stated. As it’s documented here, we tried in vain to settle this dispute in every possible way within the bounds of the contract. Besides, it’s a fact that lateral transfers are made solely at the publisher’s discretion. A fact the Guild seems to ignore!

Granted, you’d find it perfectly justifiable to play havoc with a man’s career and self-esteem, Lester Gordon interrupted him calmly. By subjecting Bob Williams to undue hardship, you hope to force him to quit his job.

You’re out of order, Mr. Gordon! Matlock barked.

Mr. Gordon, Mr. Matlock is right. Davidson turned to Burt Matlock, nodding. Please, go on.

Frowning, Matlock quickly concluded his summary and, when his opponent began stating the Guild’s point of view, took careful notes.

Caroline noticed a slight shake in Matlock’s hand.

"The Newspaper Guild has filed on behalf of Bob Williams a charge of unfair labor practices against The Mirror, because it’s clear that Williams is being punished for his successful activities as a Guild unit chairman, Lester Gordon opened. As soon as he lost his bid for reelection, the publisher transferred the grievant despite the fact that he has an unblemished work record over the course of twenty years of service, and despite the fact that he’s performed his job well."

With a significant pause, Gordon glanced at George Thomas who remained unaffected, then continued, In short, Williams’s record does not support the claim that the publisher made a dispassionate, nondiscriminatory decision with regard to the transfer. Nor does it support the claim that Bob Williams would be more productive in the shift more commonly referred to as the ‘graveyard shift,’ the name itself unmistakably referring to its undesirability.

As Lester continued to speak, Caroline was more preoccupied with the warm, bass tone of his voice than his actual words. Yet she couldn’t help admitting that his presentation was straightforward and filled with facts, appealing to the arbitrator’s common sense. Something in Lester Gordon’s speech and manner began to touch her, infusing her with doubts about management’s stand. She hoped the carefully set, aloof and businesslike mask on her face did not reveal her inner turbulence.

When her turn came to speak, Caroline’s voice was taut, but her speech was direct, clipped and authoritative. Management has indeed exercised its contractual right to move an employee laterally, she supported Matlock’s point. I, too, reviewed Mr. Williams’s service record and of course, found it satisfactory. On the other hand, his past record, his present duties and the lengthy discussion I’ve had with Tim Johnson, his former supervisor in Manhattan, proved to me that Mr. Williams’s expertise is an asset and therefore essential in contributing to the success of our operation in Brooklyn.

As she talked, Caroline sensed Lester gazing at her mouth, his blue eyes following her every move. Blessed with a healthy complexion, she never used lipstick, but today, under his hooded, yet magnetic gaze, she wished she had. From the corner of her eye, she discerned him running his tongue over his lips as if alleviating their sudden dryness, then leaning his elbow on the table and shading his face behind his hand. To anyone else, he could have seemed to be absorbed in the papers in front of him, yet Caroline had the distinct feeling that his thoughts centered on her as a woman!

A prickling sensation racked her body, conjuring in her mind passionate kissing with him. Her pulse quickened, threatening to affect her voice. Did Lester set off yearnings within her that she had successfully suppressed through the years of her steady climb to the top of her profession? Ah, no, of course not! She barely knew this man, for heaven’s sake!

Though nervous, she managed to check the panic rising in her throat and concluded her speech without missing a beat. The effort left her drained and confused.

After both parties had completed their opening statements, a forty-five minute lunch break was agreed upon.

This is probably the only thing we’ll be agreeing on today, Matlock said, grinning after the opposition left the room. Let’s go and grab a quick sandwich, Caroline.

She shook her head. No, thanks. I’m not hungry. I’d rather walk, if you don’t mind.

Burt Matlock frowned. Guess what? I do.

George Thomas, who had long sensed that Matlock was interested in Caroline and that she chose to overlook it, slapped her shoulder encouragingly. Sure, kid, go out. We’ll see you later.

Once on the street, the warm and sunny September day uplifting her spirits, Caroline walked with a spring in her steps. Her mind busy with work related details, she mingled with the colorful army of lunchtime strollers and navigated toward Forty-ninth Street and Sixth Avenue. Slowly, her tension disappearing, she began to feel better. Her head slightly tilted to better see the cloudless, china-blue sky, she admired the beauty of the day.

Arriving at Radio City on Sixth Avenue, she stopped, her heightened senses registering the wafting smells of car exhaust, salty pretzels and other open-air grilled food. Everything around and above her, steel and glass skyscrapers and people included, seemed to glow with a pure, inner light. Caroline was fond of walking on the streets of Manhattan, and, despite hating its dirt and crowds, she loved the beauty it harbored. Unfortunately, much of this beauty was unseen—hidden away behind walls, or set high above, within cornices or niches. So she made a game of visually hunting for ornamental stone flowers, mythological birds, voluptuous Cupids, sculpted iron grillwork—all treasures for the roving, discerning eye. However, as she endeavored to rediscover these beauties and craned her neck upward, she often ended up tripping over obstacles or bumping into people.

Oh, yes, I love being in New York! She remembered how she had arrived here with virtually empty pockets, a broken heart and a soul boiling over with rebellion, and how she had managed to anchor her roots and to prosper. Today, her career was spiraling upward within the glass and steel cliffs of Manhattan. She was a Rising Star in the Citadel of Corporate Power, so to speak, and what else could she ask of life but more success? Yet a tiny sigh escaped her throat as a sense of loneliness stirred in her soul.

Dismissing the feeling quickly, she returned her attention to her surroundings, determined to enjoy the passing moments.

Almost literally walking with her head in the clouds, Caroline came back to Fifty-first Street and didn’t notice the man standing by a hot-dog stand. He was just about to bite into a bun full of sausage, mustard and onions when she bumped into him, knocking the food out of his hand. As her eyes opened wide with shock, she recognized Lester Gordon’s smiling, bronzed