Page 76 of Hearts on the Line

I pull the phone away, certain I won’t regain the hearing I just lost. She’s nothing if not consistent, even while in the hospital.

“I’m at the desk, ready to report for duty.”

“You’re a newspaper editor, Sloane. You’re not going to war.”

Clearly she’s forgotten what it’s like to go up against the head of the garden club. Mrs. Fernshaw is ruthless if anyone dares to stray from her preferred “thriller, filler, and spiller” formula. The summer of my sophomore year, Mr. Benny, who ran the general store, dared to plant sunflowers. I still haven’t emotionally recovered from answering her call here at the paper, where she made me dictate a very nasty letter to the editor voicing her disappointment in flower choices.

“Well, in that case, a newspaper editor probably needs the password to the computer,” I reply.

“Ah. Are you ready?”

I grip the pencil and ruffle around the desk to find a stray receipt for—I flip it over—three gallons of pistachio ice cream. I peek at the date. Given it’s from February eight years ago, I guess it’s probably not needed.

“One, two, three, four, five.”

I blink, my brain momentarily blanking as I catch up to what she just said. “You’re kidding. The entirety of the Merritt Point Herald is locked behind the easiest-to-guess password ever? Ruth, we’ve got to work on that. There’s proper password protocol.”

“Pish posh, I can never remember anything. Had an assistant editor a while back try to do something with my name and a year and some symbols, and I was always locked out. Too annoying. I like what I have. Much easier to remember.”

Right. Easier for everyone else maybe.

“Thanks, Ruth.”

“I want you to read the copy I edited for last week’s paper. Then call an editorial meeting and make sure you’re on track for this week. You need to decide on your stories. Today.”

“Okay, Ruth.”

There’s something sticky on the mouse, and I’m afraid to figure out what it is. I jiggle the mouse, waking the computer up, which seems way too old to handle paginating the eighteen-page weekly. I don’t know how she does this every week.

The inbox is flooded with emails asking where Ruth went, along with the usual news tips and spam.

“A lot of people missed you,” I say.

She only grumbles.

“Okay, Ruth. I’ll call you later today and let you know how it goes. Bye!”

I don’t know where to start. First, probably degooping the mouse. Eat the frog or whatever the saying is. Or is it an elephant? Either way, I start small. I find a container of cleaning wipes out back with the stacks of newspapers that desperately need to be organized.

I don’t think organizing these newspapers was the most glamorous job I did back in high school, but it helped break up the time I spent answering the phones or going out to source quotes.

The cat awkwardly curls up into a ball on the desk, keeping its eyes narrowed on me, watching.

I wouldn’t be half surprised if, by the end of the day, the cat launches itself at my face again. It’s clear I’m not trusted. But at least I’m not alone.

I dive back into clearing out the inbox. And after an hour or so, I think I’ve caught up. I follow up with the publisher, call in about ads running this week, and figure out what needs to be carried over from last week. Now, I need to email everyone for the staff meeting. Easy enough.

I peek through the email and am relieved when I find she has the group saved. I click, then I click again because I’m confused. I’m missing something. Surely.

Then I realize the staff meeting I need to pull together today involves me and this one man named Michael. That can’t be right. I grab the paper from two weeks ago off the desk, scan the bylines, and realize Ruth was writing and reporting the majority of the stories. Almost all of them. The rest are wire stories from the Associated Press or from the smaller sister paper a few towns away. And Michael is the freelance photographer. I send the email, quickly introducing myself, but once I hit send, it dawns on me: Between now and noon, I need to figure out what I’m going to cover in this week’s issue because Michael is going to need his assignment list. Luckily, I realize I have someone who can help.

I grab the old manual again and flip through until I find a list of contacts. Then I dial the number and take my chances. It rings, and I’m not even sure anyone will pick up until her voice crackles over the line in the sweetest, most deceptively innocent hello I’ve ever heard.

“Gloria,” I say, “I need your help.”

“Oh, I never thought you’d ask. You want to ask Ethan out, honey? You don’t have to be scared. That boy would⁠—”

“Actually…” I drop my head into my hand. Ethan is no boy. I can barely sit today. “I was calling to ask if you’d like to help me with the newspaper.”