“Almost two now,” Millie said with the biggest grin Rebecca had seen since she’d met the prim-faced woman. “Potty training,” she stage-whispered, and the men chuckled.
“Mine turned three last week. What a love.” Buck patted her shoulder. “You keep up the good work, and make sure to hug that baby’s neck next time you see her.”
“Sure will.” Rebecca couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Millie was downright blushing.
The men turned to Rebecca, shook hands all around.
Stuart Hansler jammed a thumb out, motioning to the conference room. “Got a minute?”
“Always.” Her heart was pounding. It felt like New York all over again. She half expected Ed to walk in, cock his head, and say, “Sorry, sister,” like he did last time. She gritted her teeth and followed them into the cramped wood-paneled room.
Stuart shut the door behind them, swiveled the blinds shut. Once they were settled at the round oak table, he laid some papers in front of her, sat back, and crossed his arms.
Financials.
“Gentlemen,” she said smoothly, after a show of glancing at the papers and then deliberately setting them aside, “you hired me to turn this paper around. You knew the numbers were dismal before I started. They’re still dismal. That doesn’t change in mere weeks. What’s going on here?”
She gestured to their circle around the table, leaned back. Beconfident. She eyed Stuart first, then Buck. Both stared right back.
“Ms. Chastain, the numbers are even worse than before you started.” Buck rubbed his hands on the legs of his tan suit, a large brass belt buckle peeking through. “We didn’t expect a turnaround, but a twenty-percent drop this month is significant.”
“I’m doing some radical changes to try to help numbers grow. Look at the expenses line.” Rebecca tapped at a column on the paper. “Printing is way down.”
Stuart pointed slightly above, his thin gray hair looking even thinner in the harsh fluorescents. “And look at circulation. Subscriptions are the lowest they’ve been in the history of this paper.”
“For now, yes, but that’s the initial fall-off of the wishy-washy subscriber base. The hard news we have lined up, the big investigative stories I’ve assigned our reporter, means they’ll be climbing and even exceeding by—”
“I don’t think you heard me.” Stuart leaned forward, made sure she was looking directly in his eyes. “Subscriptions are the lowest they’ve been in the history of this paper.” His voice grew softer with emphasis. “Why are we here if not for the readers?”
Her lips twisted. “I assumed this was a money-making endeavor for you.”
“Money, yes, but we have a passion for small-town papers, Ms. Chastain,” Buck said, his cool blue eyes unreadable. “And frankly, I’m not so sure you understand what makes this one tick. We thought with your Dahlia connection and the fact that you’d spent some summers here you had some sort of instinctive grasp of this town, but perhaps we were wrong.”
“The calls I’ve been getting daily—yes, daily—from dissatisfied readers would knock your socks off, Ms. Chastain,” Stuart said.
His eyes she could read. Hard, with a hint of red-hot anger.
“What we want is your action plan,” Buck said, his voice tired. He pulled his cell phone from his front shirt pocket, scrolledthrough, then set it down before her so she could see the calendar view. “By Friday, we need to know exactly what you plan to do to turn this paper around in a way that is uniquely Dahlia. I need lists, concrete examples, and if it’s what you call ‘radical,’ I need references to other papers where this has worked.”
Rebecca’s jaw was tight. She nodded.
Buck scrolled through the months view, got to December. He pointed, then gazed at her. His eyes were soft, and he looked genuinely troubled now.
“If we don’t have hard progress by this date, the first of December, you’re out of a job. That’s six months.” Buck held up a hand as she started to speak. “But not only that. If we don’t make those numbers, we’re closing the doors of theDahlia Weeklyforever. We’ve had offers to buy out, merge this paper with a bigger publication that wants a local offshoot of what they’re already doing. The readers won’t be left in the dark.” He shrugged. “They just won’t have theDahlia Weeklyanymore after decades of existence.”
Closing the paper. Out of a job. Failing—again.
Her mouth was bone dry. She nodded.
“We don’t want to let this paper go, Ms. Chastain. But it’s been failing a long, long time. Since Ron Stone passed away, really.” Stuart shook his head. “That was an editor, let me tell you. You might read up on him, see how he did things. You may bring twenty years of big-city experience, but Ron knew Dahlia, knew small towns.”
Rebecca gritted her teeth. “Just bear with me, gentlemen. I have big plans for this paper. We’re upping the quality of articles and photography, quality of paper, and—”
“Quality means little when there’s no one left who cares.”
Stuart rose. Meeting done.
Buck stood, too, and gathered the paperwork. He paused before opening the door.
