“Of course,” Lib Pauling snapped. “Now, I know you’re getting ready to put out this week’s paper, and I want to make sure we’re not going to have any of those ridiculous stories about the new banks and Dahlia’s economy. I’ll have you know my precious son-in-law is the president of one of those banks, and you’re talking about real people when you write that garbage. And two,” Lib paused for a deep breath, Rebecca waiting as patiently as she could muster. “That story on those two hikers who got lost in the state park, the one whose mama was born here? That was most excellent. Ron Stone would have been proud.”
Rebecca blinked. Lib Pauling had actually told her the mythically perfect formerDahlia Weeklyeditor would have liked her article? Been proud? That was a first.
“Well, I appreciate that, Mrs—”
“Don’t thank me.” Maybe it was Rebecca’s imagination, but Lib’s voice sounded a tad less clipped than before. Softer, somehow. Then she barked, “Keep it up,” and hung up.
Rebecca sat a moment, staring at the receiver in her hand. Lib Pauling was truly one of the most confusing women she’d ever met.
“Was that Mrs. Pauling?” Millie asked as she rose from her seat, the creak loud above the din of the newsroom.
“Yeah.” Rebecca shook her head. “That one’s hot and cold.”
Millie crossed the room, filled a cup from the coffee station. “She was a lot nicer before she lost her husband a few years ago. Went through quite a spell for a time. She used to come in here and scream at the last editor all the time before he finally barred her from the office.”
Lib, a widow? Still, Rebecca couldn’t help herself.
“This is the nicer version?”
Millie shrugged, tried to disguise a smirk as she headed back to her desk. “In a manner of speaking.”
The bell above the door tinkled, and in walked Josh Jamison, checkbook in hand.
“Well, hey there!” she said with a smile, standing to greet him. He wore jeans and a green T shirt, the logo for Jamison Contracting front and center, and a pencil was tucked behind his ear. As they hugged, she saw Dinah stop what she was doing and stare up at him, a little curve on her lips. Tiff grinned from over her shoulder, then turned back to her computer.
“Ran out for some more supplies, thought I’d swing by and pay my ad bill.” He handed a check to Millie, gave her a wink before he turned back to Rebecca. “That was some time on Friday. I don’t think JJ talked about anything else all weekend.”
Rebecca laughed. “I don’t blame him. It really was fun.”
“I think we’ll probably be there again this week. You going?”
Part of her wanted to beg off, make up some excuse. The other part wondered what she was afraid of. Going a couple times didn’t commit her to going forever. And there was the article to do.
“I think so.”
“Well, good! See you then, if I don’t see you before.” His grin was boyish, made him look ten years younger, and she realized she hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d come in. “Bye, ladies.”
He waved a general goodbye at the office, turned to go. But as he got to the door, it opened.
In stepped Erik Wennerman.
Instantly, Josh’s demeanor changed. He pulled up short, stiffened.
“Jamison.” Erik’s smile was poised, and he stood aside, let Josh slide past.
She couldn’t see the expression on his face, but the muttered “Wennerman” said it all. Josh was out the door and into his truck, gone.
She stared after him, the mood of the newsroom suddenly turned on end, like everything had gone quiet. Too quiet.
Erik approached her desk. He looked good as usual. Today he wore a burgundy and white striped shirt, and the tie was loosened, the collar unbuttoned. The slim khakis fit nicely, and today he wore a large silver watch. He carried a few folders.
It was the first time since she’d seen him last week, when he’d asked her out. Her tongue felt dry in her mouth. She forced a smile. Act natural. Just because he’d asked her out didn’t mean she needed to act like a teenager. They needed the business, anyway, and she couldn’t afford to push him away.
“Got a minute?”
“Absolutely.” Her voice sounded warm to her ears, like she dealt with this every day of her life. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Millie watching them.
“Brought you some more of our latest plans, thought maybe you could steer me on the timing.” He opened the folders on her desk, his hand faintly brushing hers as he pointed to one of the papers. “Retire in style,” the one on top proclaimed in extra-large print, with a picture of a smiling older couple, each holding a tennis racquet, taking much of the space below. The company logo and contact information was at the bottom.
