“Bye!” Logan hung up.
Jade put the phone in the cradle and sat back in her chair, worried she’d said too much. Now that she’d told him, she’d have to make sure Mr. Brink did everything possible to make the adoption happen. That would cost money—more than she had. But Logan was worth it.
She looked at the clock again and her stomach churned. Talking to Logan was easy compared to what she had to do next, and she had ten minutes to figure out what she was going to say to Sebastian.
A printed contract from Preston Ustace was on her desk, ready for her signature. She looked through the media company’s offer one more time, then picked up her pen. The ballpoint hovered over the signature line. Once she signed this, her world would change, and she suddenly felt weary. She was tired of change. Her entire life had been one upheaval and disappointment after another, with a few victories along the way—making it through foster care almost unscathed, graduating from college in three years, finding an accounting job right away, then moving on toThe Democrat-Gazette... and meeting Sebastian.
Her chest squeezed. But she knew what she had to do. With a surprisingly steady hand, she quickly signed the contract, sealedit in a brown envelope, and put it to the side of her tidy and organized desktop to mail on the way home. There. A done deal. She was doing the right thing—for her career and, most importantly, for Logan.
This wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to put her happiness on the back burner. She doubted it would be the last.
* * *
SEB’S VIEW
BY SEBASTIAN HUDSON
In the immortal words of Snoopy, it was a dark and stormy night. But storms didn’t deter fans of the Quisenberry Golden Rockers and the Sterling Spring Chickens as they watched the two senior teams vie for the covetedWe Ain’t Too Old for Thisbowling trophy at the Little Rock Professor Bowl. The sassy and steadfast septuagenarians battled through three close games, with the Spring Chickens emerging victorious.
“We’ll get ’em next year,” Horace Quisenberry, the Rockers’ team captain, said, shaking off the loss as he spooned a stack of sauerkraut on his foot-long hot dog. “This is all in good fun, and we raised over two hundred dollars for the senior center.”
Mr. Q.’s wife of fifty years, Pearl June, wasn’t as magnanimous. “Those Chickens cheat,” she muttered, her frosty pink lips pursed in a scowl while her good-natured husband strode off. “We should have won the second game
Briiiiiiing!
Sebastian jumped at the jingling sound coming from the sleek black telephone perched on the edge of his desk. His fingers froze over his manual Smith Corona typewriter as he switched his thoughts from the Professor Bowl to his office. He shoved aside the ever-present stack of papers in front of him, found the phone, and picked up the receiver. “Hudson here.”
“How are things in the big city?”
Seb smiled at Buford Wilson’s gravelly voice. “Still hustling and bustling.”
“That’s why I like it here in Clementine. No hustle or bustle.”
Leaning back in his creaky antique chair, Seb grinned. “It’s good to hear from you, Buford. It’s been a while.”
“Far too long.” A pause.
His grin faltered. “Everything okay? Glenda doing all right?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just needed to ask you something.”
Seb glanced at the paper in the typewriter. His column was due by end of day, but he could spare time for his old mentor. Besides, it was his own fault he’d procrastinated so long on it. Not something he normally did, but the muse had struck during the weekend, and he’d spent both Saturday and Sunday working on his novel instead of the writing that paid his bills. “Sure,” he said to Buford. “What’s up?”
“My retirement.”
Seb sat up. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m shocked. You said you’d retire when you were dead. Wait. You’re not—”
“No, no. I’ll be alive and kicking as long as the good Lord wantsme to. It’s just... I’m tired, Sebastian.” His voice turned gruff. “And with my nephew, Bo, happy with his farm and having no interest in the newspaper business, I realized I need a succession plan. I want you to be a part of it.”
That was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“I want to sellThe Clementine Timesto you. Before you say anything, just listen to my offer. I talked it over with Glenda and Bo, and they agree with me—you should be the one to carry the paper into the future. But I know how important your work forThe Democrat-Gazetteis, and I don’t want to pull you away from that.”
Seb wouldn’t call it important work—not really. AfterThe Arkansas Gazettemerged withThe Arkansas Democratand formed one paper with a rather uninspired yet self-explanatory moniker, Seb had moved from hard reporting to writing slice-of-life features for Seb’s View.He didn’t think his column would be missed all that much if it were to disappear tomorrow. His new editor sure wouldn’t mind if it was gone. Frank had little respect for what he called “boring” little columns.“Readers want excitement,”he’d said more than once.“They like stories with conflict, not fluff.”
