Chapter 1
Clementine, Arkansas
S eb glanced at his watch. Three o’clock and Haskell Panchak wasn’t here yet.
It figured. Clementine’s earnest, friendly, and mostly capable mayor was terrible with time and deadlines.
More than once he’d had to nudge the man to get his monthly column done and turned in before The Clementine Times went to press.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Seb was having a hard enough time getting local content for the once daily newspaper that was now a biweekly publication that went out on Mondays and Thursdays.
If circulation and advertising didn’t change for the better, he would soon have to go to just Mondays.
But he didn’t want to think about that now.
Instead, he observed the cast of characters sitting at the long conference table in The Times ’s conference room.
They were all waiting on Panchak’s arrival.
Or Pancake, as Seb had christened him in one of his columns a couple of years ago.
It was a joke at the time that ended up a part of Clementonian vernacular, much to the politician’s consternation.
There were Cletus and Paul, cousins who were as good ol’ boy as any two guys could get and had worked The Times ’s press for thirty years.
They typically didn’t attend staff meetings, but Seb had invited them to this one.
Across the table from them was his sister, Evelyn Margot—his advertising manager who also doubled doing layout and graphic design.
Next to her was Flora Fisher, The Times ’s bookkeeper, who had no idea what was in store for her as soon as Pancake arrived, and she was talking to Isaiah Boston, the sports beat reporter who also picked up breaking news.
Sitting next to Seb was Tyler Hernandez, an eighteen-year-old kid who was graduating from Clementine High next week but had been working for Seb for two years.
Tyler reminded Seb of himself when he was younger—eager, willing to do the most menial of the jobs while also showing an aptitude for taking on more responsibility.
Right now he was the unofficial circulation manager, and the only reason he was unofficial was because Seb couldn’t afford to pay him an official salary.
At best he’d been able to give him a bonus Christmas ham from the Piggly Wiggly, the nearest grocery store, last year.
But Tyler didn’t mind the pay or the measly ham, and he was quickly turning into Seb’s right-hand man, much like Seb had been for Buford.
Seb shifted his gaze to the modest conference room that hadn’t changed since the early seventies, complete with a picture of Buford and his wife, Glenda, on the opposite wall.
It wasn’t a large photo or a staged one.
Just the two of them sitting on their patio at their cabin thirty minutes outside Clementine.
It was the last picture of them together, taken a couple of years after Seb had bought The Times , two months after Buford first offered it to him, and for the one dollar the man had promised.
It wasn’t often that Seb turned wistful, and maybe it was due to the real reason they’d all gathered in the conference room, but seeing Buford and Glenda during happier times tugged on his heartstrings.
Little did anyone know that shortly after the picture was taken, and only two-and-a-half years into their retirement, the unthinkable would happen—a deadly car crash that took both their lives.
The grieving process had been hard, but he’d been stoic and helped his staff get through it.
But there were times, like now, that he wanted Buford to be here. He and Glenda should be here.
“Sorry I’m late.” Pancake swooshed into the room, the three strands on top of his balding head hanging on for dear life as he took his seat on the other side of Evelyn.
Grateful for the respite from his melancholy thoughts, even though he was irritated by the mayor’s tardiness, Seb stood up.
“Now that everyone’s here,” he said, giving Pancake a stern look, “we can start the meeting.”
Pancake shifted in his seat.
“Ignore him, Haskell,” Evelyn said in an exaggerated whisper. “He’s just being his usual crabby self.”
“No, he’s right. I was late. I had a meeting with the Clementine Historical Society, and we ran behind. My apologies.”
Considering the historical society was comprised of five women in their sixties and seventies who were all compulsive talkers and stealth gossipers, Panchak could be forgiven his tardiness.
“No problem,” Seb said, softening his stance.
“Okay, a quick state of the union and we’ll be on our way.
The Memorial Day Hoedown is three weeks away.
” As far as Seb knew, Clementine was the only town that held a hoedown in the spring instead of fall, which elicited questions from non-Clementonians every year.
He’d always liked the originality. “I want everything covered before the event. Evelyn, what’s the advertising status? ”
She flipped through her spiral notebook. “We’ve got a general ad going out this week, and next week three of the vendors who will be there have taken out small—emphasis on small —ads. I’m working on filling our empty spots in the next two issues.”
While he wished those spots were already full, he knew she would do her best to complete the job. If not, she’d come up with some drawings and cartoon blocks to fill the empty space, but it would be nice to earn some needed funds from ads.
He asked Pancake for more info on the hoedown and the progress being made to get everything in place, and the mayor obliged. He then queried Isaiah and Tyler for their reports and assigned both of them to cover the hoedown. Isaiah, always cool and collected, just nodded. But Tyler’s eyes lit up.
“Take plenty of pictures.”
Tyler grinned and pushed up his large round metal glasses. “Yes, sir.”
Ah, enthusiasm. Seb could use some of that.
Evelyn got up from her chair. “I’ll be right back,” she said, giving Seb a small nod.
Showtime. He faked a scowl. “We’re in the middle of a meeting, Evelyn.”
“Cool your jets. I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the room.
As Seb pretended to be irritated, he noticed Pancake’s gaze had followed her out the door.
Well, well, well. Although Haskell’s fading hairline made him look much older than thirty-four, he and Evelyn had gone to high school together, and she was actually three years older than him.
But this was the first time he’d seen the man take a visual interest in his sister. Seb wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“Sebastian,” Flora’s resonant voice was butter-smooth as she spoke his name. “I’ve got an appointment at four—”
“Congratulations!” Evelyn burst into the room carrying a cake she’d picked up earlier that day from the Clementine Bakery.
She set it in front of Flora as Flora’s husband, Carl, and her mother, Florine, came into the room.
Carl held two six-packs of Coke and Florine had a paper bag with the cups, napkins, and plates Evelyn had requested her to bring.
Flora looked at the top of the cake. It read: Retirement Suits You. Her gaze darted around the room. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“There’s no way we were going to let you go without a little celebration,” Evelyn said, putting her arm around Flora’s shoulders.
Seb stood to the side and watched as his staff celebrated Flora’s retirement.
The woman had been his bookkeeper for the past ten years, and she’d been Buford’s for twenty before that.
Thirty years of service to The Clementine Times .
That deserved more than a cake, but he was waiting for the plaque commemorating her service to come back from the engraver. For now, a cake would have to do.
“Get over here, sugar.” Florine waved her hand at him, her long, perfectly manicured coral nails a nice contrast to her dark skin. Ms. Florine was never without her nail polish or her pearls. “You’d better get your piece of cake before Carl eats it all.”
“Hey,” Carl said, scoffing at his mother-in-law. “I’ve only had two.”
Chuckling, Seb uncrossed his arms and walked to the table where Florine had a slice at the ready. For the next thirty minutes, he was able to take off his publisher and editor-in-chief hats and just be Seb—a man hanging out with his friends.
At ten to four, the cake was put away and the mess cleaned up. Flora told Carl and Florine she’d see them at home. When everyone had left the conference room, Flora went to Seb, tears in her eyes. “You didn’t have to make a fuss,” she said.
“Sure we did.” He smiled, keeping his emotions in check. “It was Evelyn’s idea.”
“I’m sure she didn’t have to twist your arm.” Flora dabbed at her eyes with a retirement-themed napkin and looked around the room. “I’m going to miss this place.” She faced Seb. “I’ll miss you the most.”
He drew her in for a quick hug. “Same here. I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years.”
“You would have survived.” She stepped back. “Just like you’re going to survive now.”
Doubt crept in. “I’m glad you’re confident.”
She touched his cheek. “Don’t forget to come around on Thanksgiving. That’s a standing invitation, no matter what.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss your collard greens and Florine’s potato pie.” While Evelyn usually spent Thanksgiving with their mother and their stepfather, Bill, in Tennessee, Seb didn’t like to stray too far from Clementine and The Times . Flora and her family had taken him in on the holidays.
She nodded. “I best get to that appointment. You holler if you need anything... even though I know you won’t.”
She was right—he probably wouldn’t. The Times was his responsibility, not hers. “I’ll keep it in mind, though.”