Inspiration struck.
“Memaw, how do you feel about a good home-cooked meal tonight?” He closed his eyes and smacked his lips. “I’m talking mashed potatoes, green beans, the works. I can fry up some hamburger steaks, throw in a bit of onion, too!”
She laughed with him, the deep belly laugh he hadn’t heard in ages, didn’t realize how much he’d missed till he heard it again.
“Oh, sweet boy, that sounds like heaven to me.”
He got to work, thawed out the meat from the icebox, found a can of green beans and had peeled all the potatoes, and was slicing onions when he noticed he was actually humming to himself, humming like Mama used to hum, that old hymn “Marching to Zion,” and tapping the knife along with the beat. He giggled at himself then, realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy.
He was so caught in the melody and the tapping that he almost didn’t hear it at first, the low thumping bass that grew steadily louder and louder outside.
But then he heard it, and the sound made him freeze dead in his tracks. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
Everything was over. Everything, every little thing that had made him feel lighter than air moments before, like he was walking on clouds and had hope in the world again, was suddenly and completely gone.
Done.
Finished.
He heard the unmistakable motor, the slam of the car door, the chirp of the alarm.
Uncle T was back.
CHAPTER 25
Rebecca
She waited at the bistro table in Joe Mama’s at ten the next morning, clenching and unclenching her jaw. Her latte sat untouched before her, next to the stack of articles she’d printed out last night. “W Media Buys Tickersville Chronicle.” “Milltown Gazette Now Part of W Media Chain.” “W Media’s Littleton Herald Takeover Latest in String of Small Paper Buys.” Every one of them detailing how the Wennerman-led media company had swooped in on a so-called dying paper and saved it from demise.
She’d been right. Erik Wennerman’s ad offer really had been too good to be true. Her neck prickled, red-hot anger still boiling. She wasn’t sure who earned her rage more—him or her. How could I have been so blind?
Erik joined her then, wearing a hangdog look and carrying a large mug.
“Rebecca, it’s not what it looks like,” he said as he slid into the chair across from her.
She held up a hand, the other a tight fist atop the articles.
“Erik, stop.” The words came out harsh, and she took a breath, reining in her anger. “You’ve been visiting me week after week,asking me out, coming to the ‘rescue’ with this amazing ad deal, making me believe full well your family business is all about the retirement home industry, and you never once mentioned anything about W Media?”
His brow creased at the center and his face looked suddenly long, reminding her of the mastiff from that movie Turner and Hooch.
“I should have mentioned it, and I’m sorry. I see that now.” He looked down, and she could have sworn his bottom lip turned down in a pout. Her eyes narrowed. “My dad owns several companies, W Media among them. But I don’t have anything to do with any of them—only the homes. That’s it.”
“Sure you don’t.” Her laugh was bitter.
“I mean it! W Media’s an entirely separate company, my brother and my dad and a couple of silent partners, and I have absolutely no connection. Take a look at the website, all those articles you have there.” He gestured to the stack, his eyes steely. “I promise you, Rebecca. My name appears nowhere. Not a single place.”
“Oh, drop the game, Erik.” Her voice was tired. “Just because you’re not listed as part of the team doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does to me.” He looked hurt. “You don’t have to believe me, but I am telling the truth. My focus is entirely retirement lifestyle and marketing. The only dealing I have with newspapers, or any other media for that matter, is buying ads. That’s it. And truth be told, my brother and I don’t have a whole lot in common besides the fact that we share parents.”
His lips were tight. Either he was that good of a liar or he was telling the truth.
“I’m not stupid, Erik. I read the articles. That one paper that wouldn’t sell, the one in Lark Run? You all got really dirty with that one, even started a competing newspaper in the same town, charging very little for advertising and offering the paper for free, until numbers got so bad the first paper was forced to sell out or gounder entirely.” She gave him a look. “I’m sure you had absolutely nothing to do with selling them ads on that one.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic here. It’s not fair.” He was right, she realized. She could tell she’d hurt him.
Suddenly, all the steam left her. She let out a breath.
