Rebecca’s smile in return was genuine. “I understand. And I know this is hard for everyone. We will continue offering a basic listing, for free, of everyone who has died and been born, as a courtesy to this community. But as you said, standard obituaries are long, and baby pictures take a lot of room. In this business, space is money.”
A man waved an arm. “Will you accept news suggestions?”
“Definitely. Call or email me,” Rebecca said, and pointed to the short stack of business cards on the front table. “My contact information, including deadlines, is on that card.”
Polite applause filled the room and she made her way to her seat, trying her best to still her nerves and be approachable, stay poised.
After, filing out with the others, she stopped to snag a banana from the breakfast table.
“Thanks for speaking with us,” a voice said, and she turned to see a sandy-haired man in a button-down and khakis, his hand out for a shake. He looked familiar, really familiar. She found herself smiling almost on reflex, and grateful her talk had at least resonated with someone. “Can I offer some friendly advice? Just be careful.”
“Careful?” Rebecca raised her eyebrows as she shook his hand, took a half step back.
His palm felt almost too warm against hers, and calloused. She tried to place where they’d met before, though in this town, with so many people related, it could merely be that she’d met his brother or father.
“You don’t want to tighten your belt so much you cut off the blood flow and lose the whole thing. Take it from me,” he said kindly. “I run a building company, and I’ve seen that happen on houses. You put in cheap tiles, cheap siding, and cheap carpet, scrimp on labor and cut too many corners, and pretty soon you wind up with a house not even worth the land it’s on.”
Rebecca considered the analogy. “Well, I’ll definitely take your words to heart, but there’s a difference between cheap and short.”
“Not in this town. You cut out too many things and you’re gonna find people don’t even want to read it anymore. Just my opinion.” He shrugged, and she peered at him closer. He definitely reminded her of someone, but who? “Anyway, I’m Joshua Jamison. Jamison Contracting.”
His name jumped out at her. Jamison. The letter-writer. Her eyes glinted.
“You turned in a letter-to-the-editor Saturday.”
A small smile hinted. “I’m one of those readers. And I mean no offense.”
“None taken,” she said like she meant it, then gave him a sideways look. “You know, Mr. Jamison, I remember that field trip photo. We have thirteen grades in Dahlia School, not to mention James Watkins Elementary on the edge of town, plus the preschool. Running field trip photos for all of them isn’t easy.”
Why wouldn’t people understand the paper was a sinking ship, and she was trying her best to get it back on track? She let her hand trail into her purse, fingered the small bottle of Prozac.
He nodded. “I understand. I’m sure it’s not newsworthy on a big scale, someplace else. But here in Dahlia, it’s news to us. And it’stradition. You walk a fine line, and I don’t envy you your job, but you’ve gotta weigh pictures of people’s kids over, say, that national news roundup you started. They can get that on the Internet. Put yourself in our shoes a moment.”
She let out a breath. “I’ll try.”
She was trying. But the last editors had left her with a colossal mess, and she needed to fix that before the paper could make any kind of strides whatsoever.
He smiled, again that something familiar nagging at her.
“Give it time. Get involved. You’ll see what I mean.” He turned to go, then paused. “Oh, and that letter wasn’t meant for publication. It was just for you. To be helpful.”
“I’m happy to print it, Mr. Jamison.” Her voice was even, but inside her heart did a happy dance. She would love not to run it. She’d been in the business a long time, but the embarrassment of being publicly called out never got easy.
“Josh. And no, I’d rather you didn’t. Just pray on it.” He gave a half-wave, walked off.
She peeled the banana and took a bite, puzzling over his words. And frowning, she stepped out into the bright morning sun and decided Dahlia was quite possibly the strangest place she’d ever lived.
???
Back at the office, Rebecca had put out two sales fires and had finished giving a new article assignment to Tiff when the little bell over the door tinkled. She looked up to see two suited men walk in and survey the flurry of activity—including her ad rep on the ground with a pile of paperwork and her shoes off.
Her stomach dropped. Stuart Hansler and Buck McCafferty. The owners.
Rebecca plastered on a smile. “What a pleasant surprise! Staff, I hope you remember Mr. Hansler and Mr. McCafferty, our owners.”
Tiff wiggled her fingers, and Dinah waved cheerfully. Millie stood and, to Rebecca’s shock, gave both men a big hug.
“It’s been a long time! How’s that newest grandbaby of yours, Miss Millie?” Buck McCafferty’s smile was open, sincere.
