Chapter 27 #2
Alex’s office is the total opposite of the messy farmhouse I picked my way through this morning. A couple of framed articles hang on the wall, but aside from that the space is spotless. A neat row of red pens is the only decoration on his desk.
“Good to have you back, Lennon.”
“Thanks,” I respond. The words are genuine, but I’m guessing Alex wouldn’t have been upset if recent events meant I didn’t return to the paper for a few more weeks.
“Now, for the summer—”
Emily, one of the other research assistants, pokes her head in from the hallway. “Sorry to interrupt…”
“Then why are you?” Alex asks, grabbing a pen and spinning it between two long fingers.
“Mr. Stradwell is here. He’d like to speak with Lennon. Immediately.”
“Right.” Alex’s face looks resigned, like he was expecting this.
I can’t say the same. Tom Stradwell, the Gazette ’s owner, attended Gramps’s funeral, but aside from that, I can’t recall the last time we spoke. He focuses more attention on his golf game and grandkids than at the many papers he owns.
Since he’s almost a decade past the traditional retirement age and the sole reason I’ve had a reliable paycheck for the past three years, I judge his time management less harshly than I know many of my co-workers do.
“Let him know—” Alex starts.
“No need to send a messenger, Alex-boy. I’m right here.”
Alex’s jaw clenches. If I had to guess, I’d say being called “boy” by your boss while you’re in your early thirties is not the greatest feeling.
“Hello, young lady.” Tom’s gaze has shifted to me.
Unlike Alex, I’m expecting the greeting. It’s what Gramps’s friends have always called me. It started when I was a toddler jumping into puddles and has stuck ever since, despite the fact I’m a “lady” often scrubbing water buckets or dumping manure when they stop by. Maybe because of it.
“Hi, Mr. Stradwell,” I respond.
“Tom, Lennon. Always Tom.” He smiles at me. The corners of light blue eyes crinkle, forming creases that work their way down his aged face. “Can we have a minute, Alex?”
We’re in his office, but Alex doesn’t point that out. “Yes, of course, Mr. Stradwell.”
There’s no name correction this time. Alex’s jaw tightens before he shoos Emily out of the room, shutting the door behind them.
Tom rounds the corner of Alex’s spotless desk and takes a seat in the swivel chair, leaning back as far as the springs will allow.
They let out a squeak of protest, and that’s the only sound in the small room for several seconds.
Tom folds his fingers under his chin, surveying me closely. I shift under the scrutiny.
“You doing all right?” he finally asks, kindly.
I knew venturing out into the world would probably involve some obligatory sympathies, but I didn’t expect to end up in a conversation with one of Gramps’s oldest friends.
“I’ll be fine,” I answer.
It’s not exactly what he asked, but he lets it slide with an understanding “hmmm.”
“I know Earl felt like he would likely leave you with an awful lot to worry about.”
“I’ll manage.”
“If you need money—”
“I’m good,” I reply quickly, then soften my tone. “Thank you. But I’m good.”
Tom’s lips quirk. “That Matthews pride is still a force to be reckoned with, I see.”
I acknowledge his observation with a small smile.
“I want you to know you’ll always have a place here. Full-time position is yours once you graduate, if you’d like. Course, I’d imagine you may end up someplace else once you and the Winters boy make things official. Earl seemed to think it was just a matter of time.”
“Official?” I echo. “We’re just dating.”
Tom grins. “I follow Clarkson baseball closely. Caleb Winters risked being benched his senior year to stick around town. You’ve got a good man there, young lady.”
“Um, thanks.”
I’m not sure what else to say.
That boy doesn’t love a thing in this world anywhere near as much as he loves you, Lennie. I can recall Gramps’s voice perfectly. Did Caleb risk his baseball career to remain in Landry, or is Tom exaggerating?
Tom raps the desk twice, then stands. “If you need anything—anything at all—you let me know, okay?”
“I will,” I promise.
I may be stubborn and proud, but if I need money, I’ll take it from Tom. With him, it would merely be a loan. With Caleb, it’s complicated. Even considering—because of—the implication Tom just made.
Tom hears the honesty in my voice. “Good. Now, it’s off to the links for me. Here’s hoping the grandson can manage to hold on to his club this time.” He winks at me, then heads out the door.
Alex returns seconds later to walk me through my assignments and schedule for the summer. He doesn’t ask what Tom and I discussed, but sends me a series of curious looks that make it clear he’d like to. I pretend not to notice as I scribble notes on research topics and deadlines.
“Uh, one last thing.” Alex’s voice has shifted from commanding to uncomfortable, and it makes me look up. “I’ve—I’ve heard you’re in a relationship with Caleb Winters?”
“Um, yes,” I reply, startled.
Alex is not the sort of supervisor you confide in about bad dates in the break room. He makes it clear to every member of the staff that if it’s unrelated to work, he doesn’t want to hear about it. A mindset I appreciate, and one I did not expect him to break out of.
“There’s some interest from the sports staff about doing a feature on him.” Some scorn follows the words.
Alex is clearly not a baseball fan.
Suddenly I’m back in high school, staring Andrew down in the glorified closet where we had our paper meetings. The only difference now is that I know I hold some sway over Caleb’s choices. That if I ask him to do this, he will.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“They’re wondering if you think he’d be…amenable,” Alex replies, looking very much like he’d love for a member of the sports staff to be talking to me about this instead. I’m surprised he even agreed to mention it.
“That seems like a question for him,” I respond.
Alex nods. “Understood. That’s all, Lennon. Thank you.”
I nod. Based on his expression, I actually might have elevated his opinion of me with my response.
Just another unexpected part of today.
* * *
I spend the next seven hours doing research for the politics editor, Alice.
The primary this fall is for Landry’s seat in the state legislature, one previously occupied by a familiar name: Richard Winters.
Caleb’s grandfather. He was already representing Kentucky at the national level by the time I was born.
It’s hard to picture the distinguished looking, stern man I’d occasionally see in town ever concerning himself with any of the issues listed on the current candidates’ websites.
Everyone has to start somewhere, I guess.
I leave the paper just before dinnertime. When I reach the end of the driveway leading to Matthews Farm, I discover the rusted mailbox has chosen today to topple over.
I pull into the driveway and hop out of the truck to straighten it. Unfortunately, the post itself has rotted through. No matter how many different angles I try to prop it up from, it refuses to stay upright.
“Fine,” I mutter, yanking the box clean off the post and plopping it in the dirt. Sorry, mailperson , I think, as I add buy new mailbox post to my mental to-do list.
I should probably get a new mailbox as well. The peeling letters that spell out Matthews Farm are barely visible. The outline from where the sun has altered the rest of the paint is the main reason it’s even possible to read what was initially displayed along the side of the metal mailbox.
The horses all head for the gate as soon as I park outside the barn. They know what my arrival home means. I walk into the tack room first to mix their grain, depositing a bucket in each stall before returning to the gate.
I grab Stormy and Dusty’s halters first, buckling them in place and then leading the two mares into the barn.
I repeat the process with the rest of the mares, then make my way over to the west pasture to fetch the stallions.
I grab Geiger first. Unlike the mares, I never lead the stallions in at the same time.
They’re ornery and unpredictable on a good day.
When I return for Gallie, he’s trotting back and forth along the fence line. I whistle, and he bolts for me. I grab his halter and put it on as efficiently as I can with him constantly tossing his head.
Rather than start toward the barn, I close the pasture gate behind me, containing us both inside the couple of acres the stallions graze on every day.
I knot the lead line around the ring I clipped it to, forming a makeshift set of reins.
After guiding Gallie over to the fence, I climb the lower two rungs.
I’m still a foot below his broad back, but it’s enough I can pull myself up with a mixture of determination and exertion.
It’s Gallie’s day to be exercised, but I would be on his back tonight even if it wasn’t. This isn’t how I usually ride him. Ride any of the horses.
But I’m feeling tired. Lazy. Reckless.
Even at age six, Gallie could give the horses set to race in the Landry Cup this weekend a run for their money. Riding him without a bit or saddle is similar to standing on a plane during take-off.
I slide onto rippling muscles anyway. Gallie’s figured out what’s going on. He’s dancing in place, tossing his head in excitement. Before I second-guess this decision—before I grab my makeshift reins, even—he takes off, eating up meters of grass at a breathtaking pace.
I knot my fingers in his black mane, weaving them between the rough strands in a desperate attempt to stay on his back.
The speed is jarring.
My stomach got left back by the fence.
Adrenaline streams through my veins. For the first time in days, I can’t think. I’m focused on the immediate, on ensuring I don’t end up beneath the hooves trampling the ground with a rhythmic series of resounding thuds. On the strides churning up divots of grass at a startling speed.