Oh, right. Granny. And that bottle of pills. And Peter. Her mouth suddenly felt like a desert, and she realized she was clenching her red pen so tight her knuckles had started to ache. She loosened her grip, forced herself to breathe.
A fresh start wasn’t bad. It was just, well. Different. She couldsay it a million times over, try to convince herself all she wanted, but at the end of the day, living in Dahlia was about the most frustrating thing she’d ever experienced. People were nice. She shouldn’t complain. It could be so much worse. But it wasn’t New York. Wasn’t anywhere near New York.
“Why bless yer heart, sugar,” Millie was saying into the phone, like whoever was on the other end was a relative or close friend. Maybe it was. “You really think she did that?”
Get off the phone, Millie. Rebecca literally had to bite her tongue to keep from saying the words. Making nice on the phone was customer service after all, even if it was production day, and they were already behind, and the sooner Millie got off the phone, the sooner they could finish the classified layout.
The door jangled then, slammed open so hard the frame rattled and the doorknob bounced against the doorstop, and Rebecca looked up, her heart beginning a slow, uncomfortable thud. It was an older man, his face red and his eyes squinted.
And he was heading straight toward her.
“You’ve got some nerve.”
The vein in her head began to throb as she stared at the man. He was no taller than her reporter, Tiff Steadman, in heels, and almost as skinny, but between the balled fists and the hot gleam in his eye, it didn’t take rocket science to figure out he meant business. Outside, someone in a waiting pickup gunned the engine.
She squared her shoulders against the roar in her ears and stood to face him. She could feel the eyes of her staff upon her, saw Millie hang up the phone.
“Beg pardon?” Rebecca managed in the most ladylike voice she could muster, fingernails digging into her palms so they wouldn’t quiver.
“You heard me.” His voice was a hiss, and she wanted to take a step back. “That was my mother, hear? I don’t know what theydid up north where you come from, but ‘round here, we take last respects serious in our town paper.”
She recognized his voice. He’d called that morning. Hung up on her, in fact. She leveled her shoulders, spine straight and chin raised. Her childhood ballet teacher would have been proud. A flame of anger began to push past the fear.
“Mr. Calhoun, with all due respect, we’re a business, not a charity, and as I tried to explain on the phone before you cut me off, we cannot run obituaries for free in this newspaper any longer. We’re just losing too much money.” She softened her tone. “I’m sorry for your loss, truly I am, but—”
“Sorry?” The man barked out a laugh, lips tight behind his grizzled beard. He loomed closer, and she could smell bitter coffee on his breath. “You’re sorry?”
Rebecca swallowed, pressed sweaty hands against her thighs. Her heart was pounding so hard she imagined he could see it through her thin summer blouse. She raised her chin, opened her mouth to speak, but he waved a hand and pressed on.
“We’re family here, not some outsider-run business. I don’t care who your granny is. Mark my words, Miss Yankee. You’re gonna make some enemies in this town if you keep this up—”
“Now, Jim.” A quiet but stern voice spoke up from the far side of the room. Millie.
“Don’t you ‘now Jim’ me, Millie Jeffers.” He glared over his shoulder at Millie, then pointed hard at Rebecca. “We don’t need you in this town. Remember that.”
And with that he was out the door and climbing in the passenger side of the pickup, wheels spinning out as they pulled onto the main road.
Rebecca closed her eyes, took five slow, deep breaths, jaw tight to keep the shaking at bay, every exhalation punctuated with the unspoken thought: I will not let this get to me. She opened hereyes to find all three of her staff staring at her—Millie, Tiff, and Dinah the advertising representative. The smallest staff she’d ever had. Tiff let out a nervous giggle, and the vein in Rebecca’s head began to pound anew.
“Okay, back to work, people. We go to press in an hour.” She clapped her hands, made shooing motions. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a complaint before.”
“Not like that.”
Millie kept her tone low, but the emphasis on the word “that” was not lost on Rebecca.
“They’ll get used to it.” Rebecca’s voice was tired.
She felt rather than saw Millie press her lips into a line. “Lot of changes lately.”
“And lots more coming.” Rebecca rubbed her neck. “Look, Millie, they hired me to turn this paper around and make some money, save everyone’s jobs, and keep the paper afloat. That’s what I’m trying to do, all right? And I’d appreciate it if you’d try to get on board with that.”
Millie tensed, appeared to consider whether to say more, then let out a soft sigh. She turned back to the reception desk, roller-chair creaking.
Rebecca closed her eyes and turned back to her own desk, willing her emotions under control. She pictured the bottle of antidepressants in her purse, her new therapist’s number printed in bold black on the label, and gritted her teeth. Once she’d prided herself on her ability to brush off insults and confrontations like they were nothing. Now everything meant more. Stung more.
She missed her old life so badly she could almost taste it. She knew she didn’t fit in here, knew only Granny lent her legitimacy, though that was marginal at best and quickly wearing thin.
As Rebecca was leaving an hour later, paper done, Millie stopped her.
