“I told you lifeguard training would come in handy,” her dad said.
Emery ducked under his arm into the warm, peaceful-looking atmosphere of Cottage 1. Peace. That’s all Caleb wanted. Peace again. “Good night, Mr. Quinn.”
“Night, Caleb.”
Heading down the Beachwalk toward home, passing under the old lamps and palm trees, he realized that when Emery left for Cleveland, she’d be taking his heart with her.
18
EMERY
Now . . .
It didn’t seem right that she had tickets to the Beach Boys when the SundayGazette was a disaster.
Their beautiful Sunday edition with an extended mural story, along with more of Kadasha’s stunning photographs, Rex’s piece on Diamond Dog Golf Courses, and Jane’s discovery of an advocate group wanting to shut down the food trucks, was a disaster.
Thousands of dollars’ worth of missing ads. Big holes on every page where a display ad was supposed to be.
She spent the better part of two hours fielding calls from angry advertisers—the ones she convinced to trust her—promising them recompense, talking to Elliot, trying to make him understand what she didn’t, then digging in with Rex to figure out what happened. They found nothing. Ambrose even came in after church to help, suggesting that maybe the old Atex system simply needed to be replaced.
As a test, they resent the zipped files to the press and all the ads were there.
What now? Even Tobias, who came in to finish cleaning the floors and carry out the weekend trash, peeked over their shoulders for a look-see. However, the man could barely use his smart phone, so he was more moral support than anything else.
By the time Caleb picked her up at theGazetteoffice for the Beach Boys concert, she was exhausted and frustrated. As temporary ad director, she finally knew what it felt like to labor in sales only to have production go belly-up.
“We don’t have to go to the concert,” Caleb said as they drove from the East End into the West.
Emery glanced over at him. “Yes, we do.” The iconic sound of the Beach Boys filled the truck cab from the playlist on Caleb’s phone. “It’s just ... how? I can’t stop thinking about how every ad was missing, yet when we re-sent the file this morning, they were all there.”
“Glitch? Something happened while sending the file?”
“We don’t think so, but it’s on a schedule, so who knows.”
“Wish I could say it’ll be okay, but I have no idea. In the meantime, how do you like my ensemble?” He tugged on the collar of his Hawaiian shirt.
She laughed. “Very beachy. And how do I look?” That morning, she’d slept in. Taken a long, hot shower. Was about to enjoy theSunday Gazettewhile dining on a Sweet Conversations pastry with a cup of Sophisticated Sips coffee beans when Rex called.
“Have you seen the paper?”
She jumped into a pair of yoga pants and an oversized Ohio State T-shirt, wrapped her wet hair in a topknot, and ran out the door.
Caleb gazed at her for a long moment, and she felt suddenly shy and tugged the tie from her hair.
“Maybe you shouldn’t answer that question,” she said.
“You look pretty. Or should I say good-looking.”
“Bentley would be proud, but I’ll take pretty, even if I don’t believe you.”
“I’m serious. Your hair is all wavy. And it smells good.”
Emery rested against the back of the seat. “Okay, Quinn, get in the right mindset. You’re about to interview the Beach Boys. Oh—” She sat forward. “Delilah said, ‘If the boys remember me, tell them hi.’”
“Delilah Mead, the woman who still holds sales records, thinks they won’t remember her?” Caleb slowed for one of many West End traffic lights. “You think she’ll ever tell you why she walked away from music?”
“I think her story is very special to her. Like deeply personal. She’s not going to share it until she’s ready.”
