CHAPTER 9 #2
“Gentlemen,” she said smoothly, after a show of glancing at the papers and then deliberately setting them aside, “you hired me to turn this paper around. You knew the numbers were dismal before I started. They’re still dismal. That doesn’t change in mere weeks. What’s going on here?”
She gestured to their circle around the table, leaned back. Be confident. She eyed Stuart first, then Buck. Both stared right back.
“Ms. Chastain, the numbers are even worse than before you started.” Buck rubbed his hands on the legs of his tan suit, a large brass belt buckle peeking through. “We didn’t expect a turnaround, but a twenty-percent drop this month is significant.”
“I’m doing some radical changes to try to help numbers grow. Look at the expenses line.” Rebecca tapped at a column on the paper. “Printing is way down.”
Stuart pointed slightly above, his thin gray hair looking even thinner in the harsh fluorescents. “And look at circulation. Subscriptions are the lowest they’ve been in the history of this paper.”
“For now, yes, but that’s the initial fall-off of the wishy-washy subscriber base. The hard news we have lined up, the big investigative stories I’ve assigned our reporter, means they’ll be climbing and even exceeding by—”
“I don’t think you heard me.” Stuart leaned forward, made sure she was looking directly in his eyes. “Subscriptions are the lowest they’ve been in the history of this paper.” His voice grew softer with emphasis. “Why are we here if not for the readers?”
Her lips twisted. “I assumed this was a money-making endeavor for you.”
“Money, yes, but we have a passion for small-town papers, Ms. Chastain,” Buck said, his cool blue eyes unreadable.
“And frankly, I’m not so sure you understand what makes this one tick.
We thought with your Dahlia connection and the fact that you’d spent some summers here you had some sort of instinctive grasp of this town, but perhaps we were wrong. ”
“The calls I’ve been getting daily—yes, daily—from dissatisfied readers would knock your socks off, Ms. Chastain,” Stuart said.
His eyes she could read. Hard, with a hint of red-hot anger.
“What we want is your action plan,” Buck said, his voice tired.
He pulled his cell phone from his front shirt pocket, scrolled through, then set it down before her so she could see the calendar view.
“By Friday, we need to know exactly what you plan to do to turn this paper around in a way that is uniquely Dahlia. I need lists, concrete examples, and if it’s what you call ‘radical,’ I need references to other papers where this has worked. ”
Rebecca’s jaw was tight. She nodded.
Buck scrolled through the months view, got to December. He pointed, then gazed at her. His eyes were soft, and he looked genuinely troubled now.
“If we don’t have hard progress by this date, the first of December, you’re out of a job.
That’s six months.” Buck held up a hand as she started to speak.
“But not only that. If we don’t make those numbers, we’re closing the doors of the Dahlia Weekly forever.
We’ve had offers to buy out, merge this paper with a bigger publication that wants a local offshoot of what they’re already doing.
The readers won’t be left in the dark.” He shrugged.
“They just won’t have the Dahlia Weekly anymore after decades of existence. ”
Closing the paper. Out of a job. Failing—again.
Her mouth was bone dry. She nodded.
“We don’t want to let this paper go, Ms. Chastain.
But it’s been failing a long, long time.
Since Ron Stone passed away, really.” Stuart shook his head.
“That was an editor, let me tell you. You might read up on him, see how he did things. You may bring twenty years of big-city experience, but Ron knew Dahlia, knew small towns.”
Rebecca gritted her teeth. “Just bear with me, gentlemen. I have big plans for this paper. We’re upping the quality of articles and photography, quality of paper, and—”
“Quality means little when there’s no one left who cares.”
Stuart rose. Meeting done.
Buck stood, too, and gathered the paperwork. He paused before opening the door.
“We’re not playing games here, and we’re not out to micromanage you.
We’d rather have this paper open than closed, but frankly, we don’t have time to babysit an operation that’s on the way out.
Stuart has four grandbabies, my daughter’s due in November with her second, and we’d rather sell out now and focus on what really matters in life than throw shovels of dirt over something half in the ground.
” Buck raised his brows at her. “If you catch my drift.”
“I catch your drift, Mr. McCafferty.”
They opened the door, made nice with the staff, and were gone in their two-tone Lincoln within five minutes flat.
“What was that all about, Rebecca?” Tiff looked nervous, her skinny legs crossed tightly under her short skirt.
“One second, ladies—quick bathroom trip. Then we’ll talk.”
Rebecca fled to the restroom, locked the door, and willed her pounding heart to subside. She washed her hands carefully, then splashed a bit of cool water on her still-flushed cheeks.
She couldn’t tell the staff, could she? Morale needed to stay high, and if they thought they were on a sinking ship, they’d bail out now. At least, she would if she were in their shoes.
No. They needed to know. If she was going to make any headway, they’d need to pull together like their lives depended on it. Their livelihoods did, at any rate. So did hers.
She took a breath, stared at her reflection. She thought she could see fine lines peeking through the makeup on her forehead, and dabbed a bit of restroom hand lotion, smoothed it in. There.
She knew what she needed to do—she needed to make her staff care. Make them want to step up. This wasn’t going to be New York all over again. Not if she had any say.
Grabbing the door handle, she put on her show face.
“Okay, ladies, gather round.” She snagged a chair and pulled it to the center of the room, perched as naturally and confidently as she could muster.
“As you can imagine, the owners haven’t been happy with the numbers.
Ads are down.” She looked at Dinah, who bit her lip.
“Circulation is down.” Millie had the sense to look down before Rebecca could meet her eye.
One of Tiff’s stiletto heels started its nervous tap-tapping.
“They’ve given us six months to turn this thing around or they’re closing us down. ”
Tiff gasped, and Millie’s lips tightened, her expression unreadable.
“But—six months? I mean …” Dinah’s face flushed, and her chest turned an odd shade of plum.
“We’re going to do this.” Rebecca held up a hand. “I didn’t come all the way from New York with all my experience to run this thing into the ground. We’re making great strides to improve quality right now. We just need to up our game.”
Millie’s face darkened. “I knew those complaint calls were taking a toll. I’ve been working here going on thirty years. The last thing I need to be doing is job hunting.”
“I know. And I don’t want to see that happen, either.” Rebecca met their eyes. “I’m going to do everything in my power to keep us afloat. Got it?”
They nodded.
“So let’s think about what we do have going for us.
” Rebecca gave her most reassuring smile.
“For starters, the paper is a good product. Readable. Now we need to make sure our numbers reflect this, and that we’re generating a product that is so stellar people can’t help but subscribe.
Tiff.” She turned to the girl, who looked like a deer caught in headlights.
“I’m promoting you to assistant editor. This means you have a bigger stake in this paper, so you need to work a lot harder seeking out big news. The kind of news that sells.”
Tiff flushed a pretty shade of pink and nodded vigorously.
“Dinah and Millie.” Rebecca turned to them. “I’m increasing your commissions ten percent each.” Millie gasped, and Dinah’s eyes were wide. “New sales only, but still, a sizable increase.”
“That’s double what we’re making!” Dinah bounced a little in her swivel chair, her color returning to normal. “Thank you, Boss!”
“My pleasure.” Rebecca clapped her hands. “So let’s hop to it. I know we have some new changes around here, and yes, a lot of complaint calls. But we need to weather things a bit longer. People will get on board, and we’ll make this happen. The sooner the better.”
The circle scattered, and she was pleased to see Dinah pick up the Chamber of Commerce directory, no doubt scouring new businesses to contact. Millie looked energized, and Tiff seemed ready to burst with pride.
You just bought yourself three months of staff motivation with that little speech. Rebecca smiled inwardly, her stomach roiling. Now let’s hope it works.
She looked down at her desk, and the Wennerman Incorporated folder caught her eye. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she reminded herself. She slid it out, thumbed through for Erik Wennerman’s business card.
He answered on the first ring. “Erik, it’s Rebecca Chast—”
“Rebecca! I’ve been hoping you’d call.” Erik sounded genuinely pleased, and she found her cheeks were growing warmer.
“Erik, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’d love to take you up on the advertising offer.”