Chapter Seven
They’d spent the entire following day writing articles, organizing the Friday edition, and coordinating efforts. Emails were scheduled. Files were off to the printers. All the comic boxes were filled with prints of old editions to sell, thanks to Scarlett and Dorothy, who’d copied endlessly and put them into sleeves. The podium counter behind the glass display case now had one of the spare computers with an accounting program so they could ring up purchases, and a cash drawer, all courtesy of Forest’s help. The Gazette was ready for the big reveal tomorrow morning.
Rebecca was stupid excited.
Forest, the night before, had broached the idea to Graham to begin restocking the sidewalk newspaper boxes around town again. Rebecca had no idea when they’d stopped, but Forest thought it had been at least five years. It had taken Graham an hour of finagling to get the ten boxes reset on price and another hour to figure out who’d fill them each morning from the printing press. Funniest part had been discovering a little over thirty-five dollars in quarters still sitting in the machines.
It was a great idea, however, Scarlett had pointed out most people may not notice with as long as they’d been empty. Thus, Graham had printed signs in bold colors and laminated them to affix to the outside of the boxes. Currently, they were sitting on his desk between him and Rebecca because they hadn’t wanted to put them out too early.
Graham had also suggested adding a slot box up front for townsfolk to drop their pet or weather pics and kid art for the folks who didn’t email them. After a run to the store, said box was attached to the building beside the door under the awning.
She slouched in the seat across from his desk, staring blankly at the ceiling. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.” And sore. Dark had descended sometime an hour ago.
“Ditto. I can’t feel my fingers.”
She laughed. “I like your idea for a Healthy Report section. It’s smart, getting tips from the medical clinic every day.” The nearest hospital was in Savannah, but Vallantine did have an urgent care and physician’s office. A good chunk of citizens didn’t get a yearly check-up. His first article for tomorrow was signs of a heart attack and what to do.
“Appreciate it. All the concepts we knocked around, and it seemed fitting.” He paused. “I like your ideas for a Recipe addition. We might get subscribers for that alone.”
After calling and emailing this morning, she’d run home during a break to get Gammy’s recipe for peach pie. “We did good, boss.”
“Thanks to you. We make a good team.”
“That we do.” She sighed. “It wasn’t just me.”
“No, it wasn’t. Your friends were very helpful. I like them.”
She smiled, and even that took effort. “Me, too. But I mean that we used your ideas as well as everyone’s. It was a coordinated effort.”
“Again, thanks to you.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, she rolled his answer around, and didn’t like the way it sat heavy in her head. “I was raised in Vallantine, so I know the town and what they’d be looking for, but you were handed a broken system. Fixing it wasn’t as simple as adding filler or more articles. Yes, I helped, but don’t underestimate yourself. A good editor listens to suggestions, delegates appropriately, seeks guidance when necessary, and supports their staff. The past few days, you’ve done all those things and more, not accounting for your own ideas to add to the mix. You haven’t run things like a dictatorship when you really could have, and you showed gratitude.” She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Coordinated effort, Graham.”
He was silent so long, she wondered if he’d fallen asleep from an adrenaline crash. She lifted her head, and found him staring at her.
She couldn’t read his expression, other than he appeared contemplative. Emerald eyes searched hers for an extended breadth. His jaw ticked. Otherwise, he remained motionless, and it was beginning to unnerve her if not for the uncanny, strange sensation he was burrowing in her head. Dissecting. Infiltrating.
They’d spent immeasurable time together the past few days. He’d proven her first impression false and that he was a decent person. Honestly, he just seemed like a fish out of water. She hadn’t an inkling what had brought him to their tiny little town, but she found she really wanted the answer. Get to know him. Understand what made him tick. His motives and desires. Her friends liked him. If he had Forest’s stamp of approval, Graham had to be solid.
Not for the first time, his scent invaded her space. Bergamot or something akin to it. Citrus and spice. Clean, refreshing. Masculine without being overpowering. Like him, really. Or what she’d gathered thus far. Stirrings of attraction rose again, just as they’d done periodically since they’d met, but she let it settle this time. Analyzed.
Oh, he was a looker. Midnight hair and scruff dusting his jaw. Lashes that were an unlawful waste on a male. Firm lips that could decimate when he grinned. Which wasn’t often. Angular face. Wide shoulders. His hands, though. A weakness of hers, a man’s hands. There was something erringly sexy about them. The size, the strength, whether they could be gentle or commanding. She’d bet he knew how to use his for pleasure.
It had been way too long since she’d had a lover.
The last thing she needed to be doing was lusting after her boss. Some emotions couldn’t be helped, though. Like attraction. For the sake of sanity, she’d try. They had caution written all over them.
And he was still staring.
Plucky began chirping another song quietly from the newsroom. She’d already grown used to him because his singing had become white noise today.
She cleared her throat. “Something wrong?”
A slow shake of his head, yet Graham said squat.
Struggling, she tried to conjure something, anything to say to fill the silence. It was becoming its own entity. “We have some of those large black wire basket stands upstairs.” She didn’t know what they were previously used for, but they had legs and were about three feet high. “Since we’re only doing Monday through Friday editions, we can line the baskets on the floor inside the window, one for each day of the week, and put the unsold previous week’s edition in them for half off. In case someone missed an issue and wants to catch up.”
“Mmm hmm.” His gaze searched hers. Again. Or still. “Your brain never stops, does it?”
Was that an insult? She couldn’t tell. “Rarely.”
“Figured as much.” He finally looked away, and she was oddly disappointed. “Another great idea. I’ll bring them down tomorrow.” He rubbed his jaw, creating a scratching sound of skin against whiskers, and she realized how quiet the office had become. “I should get these posted on the sidewalk boxes.” He jerked a chin at the signs on his desk.
Once again, she wished she knew him better because she couldn’t translate if that was a cue for her to leave or him attempting to work up the energy.
“Trying to get rid of me?” She smiled, hoping humor might draw out more from him.
His gaze stealthy narrowed on her. “Why in the hell would I do that?”
Well, okay then. “Got a burr in your saddle, boss?”
Up went his brows. “You should write a book on southernisms. It’s like a whole different language at times.”
Stretching her neck, she laughed. “Same could be said for anywhere in the States. Soda versus pop. Bubbler versus water fountain. You Minnesota and Wisconsinites have a specific dialect all your own. Errr, noo?” she teased in her best Fargo accent.
He did the damnedest thing. He threw his head back and laughed. Unbidden, coarse, and spanning ten seconds. Her belly heated, lighting a zing through her whole midsection. He really should do that more often.
“Touché.” He sighed, amusement subsiding. “How did you not pick up the craggy Boston accent after living there ten years? How often did you drive your cah in the city?”
Slapping a hand over her mouth, she bent over with a fit of hysterics. It was true. Bostoners replaced all “r” sounds with “ah” or “aw.” It wasn’t a half-bad impression. It had taken her forever to get used to it.
Fanning her face, she blew out a breath. “Just lucky, I guess.”
He made a grunt of agreement. “In all seriousness, you do have an odd accent. Southern drawl when you’re mad, northern when you’re focused, and a mix of both the rest of the time. When amused, it’s a light Georgia lilt.”
Interesting observation. Most wouldn’t have noticed. Must be the reporter in him to be that detailed.
“Keen ear.” Crossing her arms, she resettled in the chair. “I tried hard to drop the southern accent, especially after college. My immediate supervisor and co-workers looked at me funny every time I opened my mouth to speak. I found they were focusing more on my dialect than my words. There’s a common stigma throughout the country that a southern accent equaled ignorant or uneducated. It pisses me off. Like all we do down here is roast pigs behind our trailers, play the banjo, make moonshine, and pick our tooth.” She raised a finger for emphasis. “Tooth, not teeth.” She shook her head. “One time, this snobby bitch from the fashion column patted me on the head and told me to go back to the plantation to fluff my hair.”
“Whoa.” Leaning forward, he set his elbows on the desk. “Is she still breathing?”
Bless him. “Yes. She was a lead columnist and I was a no one. Going to HR wouldn’t have done any good. Anyway, that’s why I have a blended accent, I suppose.”
Nodding slowly, he studied her. “Not all of us Yankees are condescending.” He grinned slowly, reminding her of the Cheshire Cat. “I’m rather fond of your angry drawl.”
Was he flirting? Kinda seemed like flirting. “Are you sayin’ you like it when I’m madder than a wet hen at you?”
Nostril flared, he inhaled. Hard. “Gonna plead the fifth.” Quickly, as if to dispel the mood, he rose. “For the record, you’re not a no one. How do you feel about Mexican?”
She was getting whiplash. “The country or in a general sense?”
“Smartass.” He collected the laminated signs. “Let me buy you dinner. What’s a southern term for you worked your ass off and have been busier than hell?”
Standing, she lifted fingers to punctuate points. “Running all over hell’s half acre. Busy as a one-legged cat in a sandbox. Busier than a moth in a mitten.”
He raised his palm, chuckling. “Yeah, that. I’d like to thank you. Dinner?”
“Yes to dinner. I appreciate the thank-you, but a reward is not necessary. It’s my job and we all worked hard.” The giddy little girl still buried inside her relished the praise, as it had been difficult to come by in her career, but the professional side scoffed at the attention. She was just grateful he’d noticed.
He strode toward the doorway, waiting for her to exit before cutting the light. “I just have to put these up first.”
“I’ll help.” Outside, while he locked the office door, she faced him. “What about the dog? Don’t you have to head home?”
“Forest took care of it for me after I realized how late we’d be working.”
She nodded, walking beside him on the cobblestone sidewalk. “You should bring Twain with you to work.”
“You think?” He paused outside the first box by the curb. “It seems unprofessional.”
“Not at all.” She held the laminated sign while he taped. “I mean, if you worked at the bank or courthouse, maybe, but not at the Gazette. Besides, Twain is super sweet and mild-mannered. He could be another unofficial mascot, like Plucky.”
They continued toward the next box, and she rolled her head to stretch her neck. Her fibro was getting overly achy again and fatigue was threatening to put her under. Most of the excitement from the day had wound to a close.
“Yeah, okay. I could try to bring Twain for a few days and see. He’d probably love tagging along.”
There were a few stragglers out and about, but most of the shops had closed for the night. All except the bars and restaurants. Vallantine liked to roll its sidewalks up after dark, or so the expression went. She’d have to get used to that again now that she was home. Boston never seemed to sleep.
A cool breeze blew, tinged with scents from the river and spring blooms. Cherry blossom trees lining the curb were at their peak, as pink petals floated in the air, coating the street. Soon, leaf buds would replace them. Cast-iron old-world lampposts lit the way with a yellowish glow while purple and white pansies danced in the curbside flower boxes. Stars winked overhead, too vast to count, and she’d missed it. More than she’d remembered. Missed this. Being able to see this many stars and stroll in early spring without five layers of clothes or watching over her shoulder to be sure she wasn’t followed. Colorful awnings and turn-of-the-century buildings. Window displays and people who waved.
Distracted, she turned to look at him, and found him staring at her. Again. He’d paused by the next news box, stoically watching her. A silent smile crinkled the edges of his eyes, even if his lips hadn’t caught up yet.
“Sorry.” She shrugged. “I was reminiscing.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Do you know you wrinkle your nose when you’re embarrassed?”
Shoot. Did she? No one had told her that before. She brought her hand up to cover the traitorous body part, but he gently grabbed her wrist, lowering her arm.
“Don’t. It’s an adorable trait. Besides, I need all the leverage I can get when it comes to you.”
His timbre had dropped a note. Seductively lower. The motion of touching her had shifted him closer, so that they were nearly toe-to-toe, and he had yet to release her wrist. Warm hands. Calloused fingers. Thoughtful eyes. So darn green. More like moss in the low light. And Lord help her, his scent was alluring.
One of them needed to speak, so she said the first thing that came to mind. Which was dumb. She hadn’t done that since she was a kid. Plus, she couldn’t comprehend what had come out of her mouth because she was distracted staring at his.
“He was a stray.”
What? Blinking back into focus, she raised her gaze to his. His answer still didn’t compute. Probably because she didn’t know what she’d said.
“You asked where I’d gotten Twain.” One corner of his mouth curved in a half smile like he’d known her thoughts had plummeted south into naughty territory. “One of my first nights in the new house, I caught him digging through the trash cans. I had a dog growing up, but not when I’d lived on my own. Not sure why I decided to keep him. Had a connection, I guess. I love the doofus.”
Aww. “Meant to find one another.”
Grunting, he pivoted to continue walking. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those that believe in fate and destiny.”
Keeping pace beside him, she thought it over. “Not sure. Maybe. There are certain situations where I have to wonder if more is at play. A higher power or planets aligning.”
Huffing a laugh, he crouched by the next box. “Or it’s just a coincidence. The choices we make steer us on one path versus another.”
“True.” So, he wasn’t spiritual. More a black and white sort of guy. She wondered how many shades of gray he allowed in with that mentality. “Some things can’t be explained.”
Shaking his head, he grinned, continuing their trek. “Most things can.”
They approached the corner of Main Square where a small courtyard held the town’s infamous peach tree, and it gave her an idea.
“How do you explain this, then?”
Up went those brows. “A tree?”
She smiled, glancing at the current topic in question. A black fence surrounded its base with a brick walking path. Smaller lampposts and benches decorated the grassy part of the courtyard around the tree, which had been planted by the town founder William Vallantine for his wife Katherine. Thus, its name, Miss Katie. It had telltale characteristics of Belle of Georgia peach trees with a rounded crown shape on top, upward reaching branches, and dark green deciduous leaves. Currently, like Belles did each spring, brilliant bright red flowers adorned its foliage. Very pretty.
That’s where the similarities ended. Miss Katie was a modern marvel.
Tilting her head, Rebecca glanced at Graham. “The tree was planted in 1875, making it almost one hundred and fifty years old.”
“Uh huh.” He narrowed his eyes, obviously unimpressed. “And?”
“And, Belle of Georgia’s have a lifespan of fifteen to twenty years.”
Crossing his arms, laminated signs still in hand, he widened his stance as if preparing for an intellectual throw-down. “It’s made of good stock.” He shrugged.
“They typically grow to a maximum height of fifteen to twenty-five feet with a span of twenty feet at maturity. They rarely even get that big.”
A slight rear, like she’d finally surprised him, and he redirected his attention to Miss Katie. “That’s got to be, what, thirty feet tall and twenty-five around? It must really have liked this location.”
Stubborn man. “The 1898 hurricane that killed William and Katherine, plus took out their mansion, left this tree and the library intact. Both have withstood countless tropical storms and hurricanes since.”
He nodded. “Weather can be fickle, especially storms in what damage they cause. It’s a phenomenon in itself.” A sigh. “I’ll admit, that’s a lot of coincidences, but the town obvious took great care with the tree. They built a damn shrine to the thing.”
“That we did. History is important, even if embellished with legend. The garden club fertilizes her every spring. All of these shops were built around her, in fact.” She looked at Miss Katie, gorgeous blooms and strength in her branches. “She’s known to grant wishes, you know.”
Shaking his head, he barked a laugh. “Don’t tell me you believe that.”
“Maybe once, long ago.” Wistfully, she exhaled, recalling the instances as a young girl where she’d run to Miss Katie with whatever ailed her. Wishing for her parents to still be alive, for a certain boy to like her, to get accepted into her college of choice, to become a somebody in her career field. None of it had happened. “You never know.” Perhaps they hadn’t been the right wishes.
Or perhaps she’d just been unworthy.
“Alrighty.” Turning, he began walking anew. “I’ll meet you halfway and agree we’ll never know for certain.” A mischievous grin lit his eyes, curved his lips. “Are you superstitious, too? Seven years back luck for breaking a mirror, that kind of thing?”
“Not particularly.” She thought it through for the sake of being truthful. “It begs the argument for crowd mentality, doesn’t it? Do superstitions exist because they actually happen or because enough people believe they do, giving credence to nothing at all?”
A jut of his chin as if impressed by her answer. “Good point.”
They posted signs on the box by the curb outside the library, and he paused to stare at the building. She tried to look at it from an outsider’s perspective.
It wasn’t large compared to most colonials, but it had been built with love and was meant to be a private library collection. The place did need quite a lot of help. Or maybe it just needed to be loved again. Rebecca had gotten the impression Mr. Brown had a like/loathe relationship with the library. He hadn’t had a lot of aid from the town or funding to keep it afloat. She wondered if his father and grandfather before him had felt the same way. All the Vallantine heirs. Perhaps, between resentments and time, the library knew those facts. Had simply given up, too.
“Do you think buildings have a soul?” She could feel Graham’s gaze on her, but she kept hers ahead. The library resembled, in a way, old courthouses from back in the day. Peaked roof. Pedimented gables. Greek support columns. Rectangular shape. It stood alone, against a navy sky littered with stars, trees to the rear, and surrounded by grassy fields. It seemed rather lonely. “That places can absorb the energy around it or the people who once lived there?”
“Eh.” He issued a sound of contemplation. “Honestly? No. Buildings are nothing more than framework. Lumber and glass and drywall. I think they definitely develop personalities over time, in the broad sense of the meaning, based on architecture, design, and what the occupants have done. Actual feelings? Nope.”
Humming, she smiled. “So, you don’t believe in ghosts?”
“Ha.” He strode to the opposite side of the road, her following, toward the other half of the sidewalk boxes. “I don’t believe in spirits, no. Nor tarot cards or any pseudoscience.”
“A lot of experiences back up the claims. Who knows what happens to us when we die.”
“Agree on that front. In my opinion, ghosts are another mass hysteria based on circumstances and inspired by a sense of dread or fear. The recent boom in paranormal programs only adds to the mindset.”
Yup. Black and white, this guy.
She was enjoying this immensely, the vast conversation and genuine meeting of the minds. “Hauntings and lore have been around longer than television or film.”
“Fables meant to prove a point, tell a tale, or scare children into obedience.”
Interesting take. “Which simply means, you’ve never had a paranormal experience.”
Dropping his chin, he shook his head. “And you have?”
“Nope.” She winked. “But I’m young.”
“You threw a but in there.” He pointed like she’d just made his case for him. “Meaning, you’re open to suggestion. Take your library, for example. You spent a lot of time there growing up, but you’ve not witnessed the supposed ghost of Katherine Vallantine. You’d think she would have appeared to you by now if she existed.”
Maybe. Maybe not. “She assists all who enter seeking knowledge. Guess I wasn’t asking the correct questions.”
He sighed, but it was on the undercurrent of a smile. “Agree to disagree.”
She couldn’t help but think the world might be a better place if more people did that. Beliefs on their proper sides of the aisle, calmly making their case, listening to opposition, and agreeing to disagree. No name-calling or insults. Simply a differing of opinions.
They crossed the street, heading back to the Gazette. A check of her watch revealed an hour had passed without her realizing, and they’d finished the laminated signs. It seemed like they’d just left.
And they hadn’t even gotten to dinner yet.