“No.” Tiff’s cheeks pinked again. This girl would be a horrible poker player. “I mean, I did a story you didn’t assign. You can throw it out entirely if you don’t like it,” she rushed on, waving her hands for emphasis, “and I don’t mind at all, but I had some free time Saturday and decided to go for it.”
Rebecca’s interest piqued. What could Tiff Steadman be so interested in that she’d give up her own Saturday to write about? Rebecca could feel Millie and Dinah’s eyes on her.
“Just read it, okay?” Tiff said, pressed a button on the keyboard, and a moment later pages were coming out of the printer.
Tiff excused herself to the restroom, and Rebecca grabbed the pages, leaned back in her chair for a read.
“Behind the Business: Stories of the People Who Drive Dahlia’s Commerce,” Rebecca read silently, and she gritted her teeth. Gracious—the girl had gone ahead, despite Rebecca’s “no,” and done it after all! She kept reading, not sure whether she was angry or impressed.
Chuck Smathers, owner of Smathers Grocery and Convenience
By Tiff Steadman
Editor’s note: This week, we begin a new series profiling some of this town’s business owners, who have seen the community grow and change both economically and socially over the last decades. All of the owners featured in this series were born and raised in Dahlia.
The man behind Dahlia’s oldest grocery store has seen a lot over the years. Growing up bagging eggs and cornmeal at his Grandpappy’s knee, Chuck Smathers still remembers a timewhen the store didn’t sell milk because it came from the milkman, not the grocery store.
“We didn’t want to step on their toes,” Smathers said. “Dahlia’s family, and while it would have been good business to get in on the milk market, some things just aren’t right.”
Rebecca marked the copy here and there with red ink, not noticing when Tiff returned to her chair. When she’d finished reading, Rebecca looked up, surprised to see Tiff was there, eyes wide and holding her breath.
“I know you said not to, but I couldn’t let it go,” Tiff blurted in a small voice. “And if it’s bad, fine, no hard feelings. I just—”
“It’s actually good,” Rebecca said honestly. “Really good.”
“Really?” Tiff’s face broke into a grin, and Rebecca found herself smiling back.
“Really. Tiff, you were right. There’s a fine line between story and advertorial when you do business features. I mean, you don’t want to give away advertising disguised as journalism. But at least with this one, you nailed it.” Rebecca passed the sheaf of papers to Tiff. “Make these changes. I’ll try to find room for it in this week’s paper.”
Tiff clapped her hands like a kid, then realized what she was doing and stopped, composed herself. She grinned up at Rebecca.
“Thanks, Boss. Oh, and there’s more!”
“More?”
Tiff grabbed her notebook. “I already collected stories from Peggy Lancaster from the gas station, and old Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw, from that diner out on Highway Five? I just didn’t write them yet in case you didn’t like it. I’ve got a list of at least four more I can do easily, and maybe Millie can help with suggestions, since she’s from here and all.”
Rebecca glanced at Millie, who was pretending not to listen.
“Sure, happy to help,” Millie piped up before nosing back into her classifieds.
Tiff shrugged. “I figured, if you didn’t like the idea, maybe it’d made a good book series, something I can work on in my spare time. But I’d really rather see it in the paper.”
Rebecca shook her head incredulously. A book idea was positively brilliant. Talk about a sleeper—this girl was one surprise after another.
“I think it’d make a fine book,” she told Tiff. “I think you can do both.” She did some quick mental calculations. “No promises, but possibly the paper could help on the publishing end.”
Tiff flushed prettily. “Thanks, Boss. Really—thanks.”
“Look into alternate publication specs and pricing,” Rebecca scrawled on a notepad, then stuffed it in the “after press” inbox.
She eyed the wall clock—nine sharp. Time to get rolling on the paper. She glanced at her purse, where she knew her phone was tucked. Granny had promised to text her if Devon didn’t show. No telltale “ding” from the device meant good news.
Outside, thunder began in earnest, and the lights flickered. She held her breath—the last thing they needed on pre-press day was to lose power.
“Save your work, people,” she called as the phone rang and the newsroom began its usual Monday morning hum of energy.
By the time the weather service woman called her back, she had finished everything except final edits on Tiff’s stories and last-minute ad deals.
