Chapter Four
Graham leaned back in the chair in his office, gaze on the computer screen in front of him displaying a spreadsheet with numbers. It wasn’t looking any better than it had the last twenty times he’d glared at them, but something had to be done. Perhaps an idea would light a bulb over his head if he stared long enough. He was just desperate enough to try anything.
Six months. That’s how long Gunner Davis, town mayor and owner of the Vallantine Gazette, had given Graham to turn things around for the paper. Subscriptions were down, advertising near zilch, and the newspaper could barely eke out one page of material a day. His whopping two-person staff team consisted of Joan Hornady and Jefferson McCraw. The former did a gossip or opinion column and pulled the Atlanta weather report. She was a baby boomer who spent most of the day at her desk scrolling Facebook. The latter handled sports and sometimes local news if there was anything noteworthy. Which wasn’t often. He was in his seventies and often napped the entire afternoon. Both were part-timers.
Graham had no idea what he was paying them for, but firing the entire staff after two months on the job wasn’t going to earn him any friends.
A sigh, and he glared at the ceiling. He wasn’t good at this kind of crap. Managing? Sure. Writing a good story? Yep. Editing? Absolutely. Marketing, building subscribers, and fixing what he feared was a permanently damaged system in a small southern town of twenty-five hundred residents? Not so much.
Acid ate away at the lining of his stomach. If he failed, he had nowhere else to go. There wasn’t a newspaper or blog in the fifty states that would hire him after the scandal that got him canned in Minneapolis.
A jingle indicated someone had opened the outside door to Main Street. Probably Joan heading out for a smoke break. Again. He didn’t bother checking.
But then a newly familiar voice lilted from the front of the room toward him instead of silence.
The wall in his office in back facing the newsroom was glass. On the other side were six desks, two of them occupied by Joan and Jefferson. Rebecca Moore stood in the aisle between them, chatting with both people.
Honestly, until she walked in, Graham would’ve sworn on his mother’s life that Jefferson was incapable of cracking a smile. The elder black man showed up for work three days a week in pressed slacks and a button-down short-sleeved shirt, nodded hello, then parked it in his chair. He was straight-up old school. Alas, he was not only grinning, but engaged readily in conversation. Most Graham had gotten out of him were one word replies.
Joan, who arrived for work in tracksuits of varying colors, warpaint resembling a clown, and bottle brunette hair teased like 1980’s Texas, often wouldn’t quit yammering once he got her going. Anything from nail polish color to her grandkids’ names or hobbies. Thus, he tried hard not to start anything he couldn’t or wouldn’t finish. Whatever she was telling Rebecca had her animated, hands flailing, and a polite smile from her avid listener.
His heart did some kind of shift. Perhaps started beating again, he didn’t know, but Rebecca was lovely. The classic kind that didn’t require artificial help. Sunlight from the big bay window storefront lit her blonde strands and created a halo around her form. The term angel came to mind, but her feisty attitude toward him didn’t fit the adage. That, or he was finally losing his gourd if he thought seraphs were coming down from On High.
She shifted the strap for a portfolio bag on her shoulder, patting Jefferson’s arm as she passed to walk Graham’s way.
Her stride resembled her personality. Strong. With purpose. Confident. About halfway to his office, she lifted her gaze to his, and her steps faltered. Confusion wrinkled her forehead as she moved slower. Once she reached the doorway, she looked at the nameplate beside the door, then at him, then at the plate again. A close of her eyes, and she dropped her chin, sighing.
He wanted to laugh. Badly. Guess she’d been unaware he was the new editor. “Hello, Rebecca.”
“Mr. Roberts.” She stared at him, deadpan.
He smiled. Not a difficult feat, yet it still felt foreign to his cheeks. “You can call me Graham. We’re neighbors, after all.”
“I suppose we are. Graham, then. Do you have a moment?”
For her? He had all day. “Of course. Come in. Have a seat.”
She claimed one of the black leather chairs across from his desk and set the bag in her lap, looking around. Her gaze traveled over the diplomas and framed articles on the brick wall behind him, then at the tall black shelving units on the walls beside him where he had books and trinkets of his life.
“What can I do for you today?” After his conversation with Forest the other night, Graham figured he knew what had spurred the visit, but he’d learned not to assume.
“I’m looking for a job.” She opened her portfolio and passed him a folder. “That’s my résumé, references, and letters of recommendation.”
Her accent had shifted from the drawl in the bar when she’d been pissed off at him to barely a trace of her southern lilt. And her tone was coolly polite. Pity. He preferred the sass.
“Let’s have a look.” He’d been itching to know more about her, if he was being honest.
He glanced briefly at her deets. She’d been a reporter at her college paper for three years. Graduated in the top tenth percentile of her class with a journalism degree. She’d gone right from school to the Boston newspaper, where it appeared she’d remained until a few weeks ago. Again, he had to wonder why she wanted to shift from a huge print syndicate in a large city to a small press in an even smaller town. His position required him to be careful in asking.
“Why did you leave your previous position?” There. A common inquiry.
“It wasn’t a good fit for me, and I was looking for a change.”
A very practiced reply and proved she knew her way around professionalism. Most people around these parts interviewed like they were dining with kin and discussing the grapevine. “You were there almost seven years. Why wasn’t it a good fit?”
A swallow worked her delicate throat as she glanced at her lap. A few beats passed before she inhaled and met his gaze with her blue one as if shoring her reserve. Like a cobalt sky in fall, her eyes. “There was really no room for advancement.”
Another practiced reply.
Frustrated, because he wanted candidness, he looked at her file again. “What was your position in Boston?” Her résumé only stated the dates employed.
She offered a slow blink, and when she looked at him, it was through him instead. Defeat turned the corners of her lips downward. “Obituaries. Sometimes, they had me play with ad space if someone was on vacation.”
Oh. That seemed almost insulting to her skill set. No wonder she was upset and wanting a change. Everyone had to start somewhere, but after six years, she should’ve been promoted.
“Do you have examples of your writing?” Maybe she wasn’t very good. He doubted that, though.
She extracted another file and passed it to him.
The articles from her college years were everything from political commentary to security issues on campus to protest movements she’d covered. He scanned one article just to get a gist for her style, and liked it. A lot. She was to the point, backed up her words, but it read like a conversation over whiskey by a fire. Very inviting. She’d obviously found and knew her voice. Some journalists took half a decade to figure out theirs. Her example at the Boston paper was one article on a prominent art gallery owner who’d passed away. The other was a copy image of the obituary section.
“I assume you didn’t care for your role and level in Boston? Did you try to submit other stories?”
“My first few years, yes. After that, it was apparent they preferred me where I was, and I got overlooked for other positions I applied to.”
He wasn’t sure what to make of that. She had talent and a good eye. If he got to know her better, perhaps she’d share more details, but for now, he moved on.
Resting his forearms on the desk, he leaned forward. “What are you hoping to work on here if we employ you? Are you seeking full, part time, or consignment?”
Her gaze darted to his desk, expression flat. “I prefer full time, but will accept whatever you have available, including any positions that are open.”
Damn, but he despised this version of her. Someone, probably former employees or bosses, had beaten the spunk out of her and left her professionally dejected. Brimming under the surface was talent and, he hoped, some of that resolve she’d left Vallantine to pursue. No one exited small town America for a huge city seeking mediocrity. He searched for a way to bring out that backbone he’d witnessed in their previous encounters.
“And what if the only position available is a receptionist?”
Again, she closed her eyes in a leisure blink, the thick fan of her lashes creating shadows on her cheeks, as she appeared to gain control of her emotions. The quiver of her lower lip indicated she was wrangling the urge to cry. “Whatever openings you have are fine.”
He didn’t know whether to weep himself or take her by the shoulders and shake her. He’d be damned if he was going to be another person on a long list to stomp on her, though, so he leaned back in his seat and tried brutal honesty.
“The Gazette is failing.”
Her gaze whipped to his, wide, but she said nothing.
He nodded, rising to close the door, then reclaimed his chair. “Gunner Davis hired me to fix it, or he was going to stop print for good. Apparently, it hasn’t been in the black for a decade. Only reason he hasn’t quit before is because the paper’s been a long-standing staple for seventy-five years. I have six months, four now, to bring it back to life.” Exhaling, he scrubbed his hands over his face and looked at her. “I inherited those two out there,” he pointed to Joan and Jefferson, “but they have little more interest than what they’re doing, and offered no suggestions. You’re the first person to walk through that door at all, never mind with experience. I’m a journalist turned editor, not a marketing guru.”
Chewing her lower lip, she stared at him, contemplation in her eyes. “I can’t imagine Vallantine without the Gazette.”
Gunner Davis had mentioned something along the same lines.
“You have more to say.” It was obvious by the way she’d scooted to the edge of her seat. “What’s on your mind?”
Her pretty, perfect, pouty mouth opened and closed several times before she shook her head and dug in her bag. She set a copy of today’s paper on his desk. “It’s only two pages.”
“Yep.”
“It’s mostly filler content.”
“Yep.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Can I speak frankly?”
Finally, they were getting somewhere. “Yep.”
“Running a small town paper is different than a metropolis. Especially in the south. It has to be a mix of personal and informative, catering to the clientele. All the info here,” she tapped the paper, “is something anyone with a phone can Google, so why pay for the news? Times are tough right now, also, between the economy and hits from the pandemic. The Gazette needs better stories, better access, and better reach. Not to mention revenue.”
Heck yeah. There she was, the woman he’d met outside their homes and in the bar. The feisty, speak her mind, hot as hell blonde who didn’t back down.
She snapped upright. “Why are you smiling at me?”
Despite better judgement, he chuckled and scratched his jaw. “I like this version of Rebecca better. Plus, you’re right. Any ideas on how to go about what you suggested?”
She gave him a speculative glare. “First and foremost, the tourism market should be considered when doing content. Strategic marketing and placement of the paper, to boot. The Gazette doesn’t have social media accounts, nor does it have an e-print version.”
Steepling his fingers, he grinned. “What else?”
Deadpan stare. “Am I hired?”
She had the job before she’d walked into his office. “I can’t offer the salary you were making in Boston.”
“Okay.”
“Nor can I assure job security with the state of the paper now.”
“Okay.”
“You might be doing work you don’t like some of the time instead of the hard-hitting journalism you prefer.”
“Okay.”
Yeah, he figured she knew all of that, but it needed to be said. “What are your terms?”
“Full time, two weeks paid vacation a year, five sick days, salary versus hourly pay, access to the archives, and permission to work on what stories I want, within reason.”
She’d come prepared. His grin widened to the point his cheeks ached. “Done.”
“If you hire me, I will help you get this paper back to something great again, but it’ll require you trusting me. Some methods may seem unorthodox.”
“Done.”
Fifteen minutes in the same room with her talking shop, and he had zero doubt she’d deliver. She had her pulse on the community and knew her way around a newsroom. It appeared her particular skill set was marketing, which was his weakest point. They’d be a good counterbalance.
“To make money, you might have to spend money.”
He jutted his chin. Gunner had given Graham an allowance, of which he had yet to use. Frankly, he’d had no clue how to go about utilizing funds in order to help the Gazette thrive. He hadn’t even written half the articles or implemented the changes he’d contrived because they had no reader base.
“I’ll agree, if you stick to a budget.”
“Okay.” She cleared her throat. “I would suggest switching Joan and Jefferson from part time to consignment. It’ll save money. There’s no reason the two of us can’t handle things. Consignment would be a happy median as opposed to laying them off. You also might want to get more specific in what stories you want from them to justify the expense, make sure you’re getting solid articles that are worth it and not fluff filler.”
He hadn’t officially hired her yet, and they were already on the same track. “What would you recommend? Story-wise?”
She set her gaze on the ceiling, lips pursed in thought. “Joan does mostly opinion pieces. I’d perhaps have her do a restaurant or product critique twice a week. It would spotlight businesses and shops while serving our purpose.”
His brows rose. “Damn good idea.”
“Thanks. As for Jefferson, he solely writes about sports, but all he really does is a condensed version of a game wrap up. We can add a section to the paper for professional Georgia team scores that’ll take zero time, eliminating his position. However, why not highlight the local middle and high school sports? Possibly a few state colleges. It’ll tie in with the community and give him something unique to write about while engaging the town.”
Nodding, he wondered where she’d been the past couple months while he’d been floundering. She’d just added two to four new sections to the paper without hiring fresh staff, ones that would engage or interest the town. Not to mention… Brains were sexy. “Excellent idea again. I’ll discuss it with both of them this afternoon. They can finish out the week, and I’ll move them to consignment.”
She politely nodded, but in her eyes, hope bloomed.
“What else?” he prompted.
“Lots of things, but they’re fluid ideas.”
Evasive little minx. “Such as?”
She studied his features as if searching for a chink in his personality. “Am I hired?”
God save him. “Absolutely. When can you start?”
She grinned slowly, and it nearly leveled his kingdom in three seconds flat. “Yesterday.”
A laugh, and he swiveled in his chair to a file cabinet. He passed her a packet of new hire paperwork. “Go ahead and fill this out, please. I’ll get a laptop set up for you while you’re working on it.”
Clicking her pen, she used the edge of his desk to write.
He went to the closet in the newsroom, grabbing one of three laptops left, and reclaimed the chair in his office. When Gunner had hired him, it was one of the few requests Graham had made of his boss was to supply new equipment. Four of the six desks up front had new computers. The other two were empty. Seemed an awful waste of space in his opinion.
“With just the two of us in the office most days, what do you think about the newsroom?”
She didn’t look up from her task. “I have ideas.”
Of course, she did. He’d bet her mind kept clacking even while asleep. They’d get into it later.
He focused on making sure programs were installed for her, created an email address under the Gazette’s account, and passed her the laptop to plug in a password.
“I’ll need access to the website server.” She gave him back the laptop. “It needs updating. I’ll ask permission before doing anything.”
She just jumped right in, didn’t she? What a relief. “You got it. Installing now.”
Setting her paperwork aside, she leaned back in her seat. “Do we have a list of emails for current and former subscribers?”
“Yes.” He’d planned on doing an e-print version of the Gazette before she’d suggested it, but with content as it stood, it hadn’t been worth it yet. “It’s in a csv file. I’ll put it on your desktop.” He tapped a few keys, then inserted a thumb drive. “Done. What else?”
“Where are the physical archives?”
“Upstairs.” There was a small storage space above the newsroom. He hadn’t been up there since his interview. “Why?”
She looked over her shoulder at the newsroom. “Why wait? Gunner gave you six months, and if you’re down to four, we should get going.”
It would kind of help to know what she had in mind, but at this point, whatever ideas she had floating around couldn’t be worse than how things currently stood.
A nod, and he rose. He stuck his head out his office door, sending Joan and Jefferson home for the day. He’d discuss consignment with them tomorrow instead.
Once they’d left, he crossed his arms. “Okay, Obi-Wan. I’m all yours.” Newspaper run files for tomorrow were already at the printers, so he had nothing else pressing.
She smiled at the nickname and stood, setting her bag on the chair, then strolled into the newsroom. She locked the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and eyed the room once again.
He followed, waiting on her. Sadly, this was the most exciting day he’d had in the office since he’d moved to Vallantine.
The room was divided into two sides, three desks on each. There were two empty chairs up front. That was about it, besides a small closet and the unisex half bathroom. The walls were old brick, which he found neat, but they were bare, and the floor was a solid ivory tile pattern. Overall, it was roughly a thousand square feet. The big bay front window had a large sill and room for displays, but nothing was there. Just as it had been when he’d started the job.
After an excruciatingly long pause, she made a humming noise in her throat. “Can we look upstairs?”
He huffed a laugh. “Sure.”
The door to the second floor was in his office, so they backtracked. He pulled the keys from his desk, unlocked the door, and flipped on a light.
He gestured for her to go first. “After you.”
The staircase was narrow and steep with dull lighting, making it seem grungy.
Once at the top, she set her hands on her hips, eyes wide. “Holy crap.”
Following her gaze, he grunted, using the switch on the wall to turn on the fluorescent overheads. “Yeah.”
One large open space. Wooden floorboards. Unfinished walls. Low seven-foot ceilings. Rafter beams. A thousand years of dust. Boxes were stacked in haphazard piles along the street-facing wall, and mismatched furniture pieces toward the back.
She made her way to the boxes, crouching to examine them. “These go back to 1948? The first year in print?”
“Yes, and I don’t know what you’re thinking, but they’re more organized than they look. There are dates written on the boxes, and from what Gunner says, there’s one copy of each paper since first run. He had someone come in ages ago to sort them. I have a box in my office that has copies since I was hired.”
“So much history,” she whispered. “This is amazing. The library didn’t keep files of the Vallantine Gazette. Which can work to our favor.”
He didn’t see how.
She shifted to the other side of the room, looking at the furniture. A few desks, one of them a tall podium counter. A couple wingback chairs. A bureau. There was a glass display case and a few bookshelves. At one point, the newsroom must’ve been set up with cubicles because there were divider walls in varying heights, folded and leaning against several large empty poster frames.
The weird thing? There was a huge birdcage, which she paused in front of, smiling.
“When I was a little girl, Mr. Forester, the old editor, had a yellow canary he’d keep in this cage in the display window. His name was Plucky, and everyone loved him. He became this strange sort of staple to the town. Even tourists would stop by the window to say hello.” She laughed. “He’d chirp when the door opened.”
Interesting. “We should do that again. Get another bird.” They were noisy and he didn’t care for them, but if ole Plucky had been that memorable, why not?
She set her gaze on him, and there it was again. That click between them, like time had narrowed through a vacuum. Nostalgia softened her otherwise determined features, a gentle smile curving her lips. If he wasn’t mistaken, respect shone in her eyes as if he’d done something worthy to warrant it.
“I love that.” She looked at the cage again, rapidly blinking. “We should get another Plucky.”
He nodded, unable to do much else. These rare moments where she exposed her tender underbelly were enough to punch the wind from his lungs.
A sigh, and she brushed her hands together. “Ready to hear my ideas?”