“Sorry, Lib.” Rebecca tried a smile.
“It’s Mrs. Pauling to you, and I hope you will reconsider thatawful new policy.” Lib straightened and snapped her purse shut with a sharp click. “You have no business charging for major town events like this. Why, half of us are kin to each other. Births and deaths are important.” The words came out in a hiss. “That’s, why, that’s downright wrong to go and do something like that. Your Granny should be ashamed of you.”
Here we go again. Rebecca pressed the ad sheet into the woman’s hand. Lib took it, her head high. She turned and left without a backward glance.
Rebecca locked the front door after her and made sure the office sign was still turned to closed. Then she walked to her desk chair and slumped into it, taking a deep, centering breath. Despite what some people had insinuated, she had zero malice in charging for births and obits. But the paper was in serious trouble. They needed to cover their bottom line somehow.
She couldn’t fail again. Not after New York. Not after—everything. If she did …
No. She couldn’t allow the thought to even begin to form. You’re not going there, Rebecca Chastain. Not now, not ever again.
She turned her attention to the stack of mail Millie had left for her yesterday. On top, printed on a pale blue sticky note in the secretary’s firm, no-nonsense hand, were the words, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble—Psalm 46.” She eyed the note as she tore open the bank account statement, swallowed hard as she realized how low their reserves had dipped. At this rate, unless they managed some new ad accounts, they wouldn’t have enough to make it till fall out of their checking, and continuing to rely on savings wasn’t sustainable. She did some quick calculations, then opened a file on her computer, plugged in a few numbers. Better for now, but it still didn’t look good. And she didn’t want to lose any staff, at this point. Not that they had that many to lose.
She glanced at some of the “extreme measures” she’d listed—cutting the ad rep and charging for calendar items—and knew they’d go over even worse than the births and obits ruckus, but it felt good to have a plan.
A loud knock came, and she started. A middle-aged man stood at the door, peering in, clearly unsure if anyone was inside. She froze. The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk to anybody. After a minute, he decided the office was indeed closed, slipped an envelope through the mail flap, and walked back down the sidewalk.
When he was long-gone, she fetched the envelope.
Dear editor,
I don’t normally write to the paper, but I have been a reader and subscriber of theDahlia Weeklyfor twenty-seven years, since I got a free year as a delivery boy when I was fourteen. My parents and their parents read the paper. All my neighbors and friends read the paper. Or did.
We all know the paper has taken a downward slide in the last few years, but these latest changes are the last straw. Charging for announcements like we are some big-city publication goes against everything that makes Dahlia what it is: a community-first kind of town where you are proud to know and love your neighbors. And your recent policy limiting what you call “features” in favor of “hard news” is completely backwards.
People in this town like reading good news about our friends. Call it old-fashioned, but we like stories about Mr. Johnston’s pick-your-own blueberry farm, or the annual pictures of the end-of-year field trip, which you decided to nix. It hurt my son’s feelings pretty bad when he didn’t get to see his friends in the paper. I tried to explain, but frankly,I don’t understand either.
I highly recommend you reconsider your policies or you will find yourself entirely out of subscribers—and a job.
Sincerely, Joshua L. Jamison
He’d printed an address and phone number, all by the book, the whole thing far less than three hundred words, which meant it met all the standards for publication as a legitimate letter-to-the-editor. The other letters she’d received had either been anonymous, or way too long, or contained name-calling and other slams, so even though she’d gotten her share of nasty calls and complaints, she’d actually been able to avoid printing anything in the paper. But this letter was fair game.
Well, fine, Joshua L. Jamison. I’ll publish your stupid letter. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to face the flames, and I’ve always come through.
She remembered the slams she’d gotten for months in New York over outing the senator’s daughter’s drug habit, or the time her old managing editor had gone to bat for her after she’d embarrassed the publisher’s wife with an expose of her law firm. In a strange way, she sort of admired Joshua the Letter-Writer. His name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Still, it was a good letter. Objective, fair, pointing out the issue while allowing just enough emotion so others could relate. And not even a single derogatory comment, while still managing virtuous outrage.
Well done, you self-righteous jerk.
She filed the letter in the typing stack for Tiff, then listened to her voicemail to find a cancelled subscription, two more complaint calls, and the most atrociously hokey story pitch possible, suggesting she do a profile on somebody’s great-aunt who’d gone to college with Meryl Streep. As if. She gathered her keys and refilledher water bottle. Time for some coffee and a walk the long way home. She’d show Peter and his 5K-running fiancée.
“Well, hey, honey!” The high-pitched voice accosted her the moment she stepped into the sunlight. She peered and saw a track-suited older lady waving vigorously from a trim house two doors down. “Aren’t you the workaholic—in the office at eight on a Saturday morning!”
Rebecca’s smile felt dry and tight over her teeth. “That’s me. Hello, Mrs. Blackwelder.”
“Have a good day, sugar. I’m praying for you. Oh, now look out!”
Look out? Rebecca whirled to start down the steps and almost ran straight into a very tall, very well-built man who looked almost as taken-aback as she did. He wore a crisp blue and white button-down and a bowtie that somehow managed to look good on him, not in the least bit pompous.
“Good morning!” He grinned, an arm out to steady her.
“Good morning, yourself,” she said, breathless, self-conscious for the second time that day. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Well, I was just looking for the new editor, Rebecca Chastain.” He looked sheepish. “I know it’s a Saturday, but I guess I was just hoping to catch her and pitch a business idea.”
“I’m Rebecca,” she said, then took a step back, realizing she was gazing up at him. She motioned to her running clothes, forced a confident laugh. “Obviously I’m not dressed for work, but I have a few minutes if you want to talk now. Or we can chat next week.”
He was even more handsome than Peter, if that was possible. The morning sunlight glinted off golden hair that was professionally styled, yet somehow tousled in a boyishly appealing way, and his biceps ... Stop it, Rebecca. Stop it now. Dating is off-limits, Nancy had reminded her in numerous therapy sessions. She needed to work on herself. Not that she wanted to date anyone anytime soon. Butshe certainly didn’t need to allow herself to get giddy over some perfect stranger.
