Chapter 2 #2
“Now, on another note,” he says, switching to a tone a degree or two more upbeat, “what I’m about to share next is a little, shall we say”—here he quirks one shaggy white eyebrow—“backstairs.” When he reclines, his old desk chair creaks a complaint.
“I just got a call from Steph Stoneback’s agent—no, scratch that—her publicity manager.
” Disdain drips from the last two words.
My head snaps up. Come again? A high-voltage hum seems to fill the room. Dust motes flash like sparks in a shaft of late-day light.
Sam couldn’t possibly have said—
Meg breaks the stillness, leaning forward. “Not . . . you don’t mean the Steph Stoneback. The one churning out all those sappy suspense novels?”
Sam hikes his eyebrows meaningfully. Then he screws up his face.
“You gotta be kidding,” she says.
Dot and I exchange a side-glance. When I tell you Dot is a peach, I offer an apt metaphor.
My coworker drips with juicy sweetness. Her pert, heart-shaped face, auburn pigtail stubs, and remarkable lack of wrinkles belie the fact that she’s raised three children to adulthood.
At the moment, though, her features have gone slack, and no doubt my expression mirrors hers.
She and I have shared many a gush over the latest Steph Stoneback bestseller.
Not to mention the movie versions of Yukon Thunder and Delta Deception.
Has there ever been a swoonier fictional hero than Gage Remington? Dot would assign this an emphatic no.
I plead the Fifth.
Clearly Sam, aka Samuel Peabody III, aka Lou Grant—the private nickname my parents love to use when we discuss my boss—doesn’t share our sentiments.
Apparently Grant was some pudgy old bellyacher from the Jurassic Era of sitcoms, and my folks find the comparison a real knee-slapper.
Like most of their archaic cultural references, this one, too, is lost on me.
Just let the old folks have their fun, as I see it.
“Seems the illustrious author will be in town next month to do some background work,” Sam says.
“She’s looking to get the whole central Oregon wilderness experience—whitewater rafting, rock climbing, fly-fishing, and what have you.
Figures she might fly under the radar here.
” He pauses to insert one of his trademark derisive chortles.
“Nevertheless, her people alerted the press. They’re giving us an exclusive. ”
Dot snatches a folder off Sam’s desk and begins fanning herself feverishly. A current zips through my veins. Steph Stoneback in Charity Falls? Surreal.
Brad runs a hand down his face and lets fly a swear word.
He moves his ever-present toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth and forms a wolfish grin.
I suppose he’s thinking this ought to help him sell ad space.
I hate knowing that any bonuses will more likely go toward green fees or cryptocurrency speculation than catching up on his child support.
This is the trouble with a small town. Sometimes you know too much.
Sam raises a hand. “Now, thing is, I promised to keep it on the DL. Her manager wants a say over when we publish. I’ll grant her that much. Which means for the time being, I need you all to keep this debajo de sus sombreros.”
I clear my throat. “Think she expects to dictate our content?” I’ve often heard Meg moaning about an interviewee determined to control the narrative. Not that I blame them. Isn’t that what I do when it comes to my personal history? Control the narrative?
“Oh, I put the kibosh on that.” Sam’s barrel chest deflates, and he shakes his head with disgust. “Probably more trouble than it’s worth. Whoever covers this will need to accompany Ms. Stoneback on some of her open-air emprises.”
Not a term I’m familiar with, but this is nothing new. Sam speaks his own version of our common language. I’ll look it up later.
“’Course, I’m too, uh—let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of those kinds of exploits.
” I make the mistake of following his gaze up to the snarling bear.
Which is a far cry from the docile creature conjured up by “Teddy Bear’s Picnic,” the kiddie song constantly blasting from the bright-red kids’ cassette player my little brother Mikey carried everywhere—once upon a very different time.
If you go down in the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise . . .
Great. Now the tune is stuck in my head.
“Got the hitch in my step to prove it,” Sam says, yanking on the waist of his jeans.
By now, Mighty Meg is a bull mastiff perched on high alert, and for good reason.
The woman scales ten-thousand-foot mountains for kicks.
Once, caught overnight in a sudden winter storm on Mount Hood, she built an ice cave while nursing a broken leg and lived to write about it.
She’s also our only staff reporter, with the exception of Brad’s business coverage. We all know where this is going.
Sam turns to her. “Megs, what d’ya say?”
“Shoot, yeah. No problem.”
A solid plan. So why do I feel like my insides are shriveling? Mine will be the last set of eyes on Meg’s article before it goes to print. Also important. Still, what might it be like to be her for one day? To have moxie?
Has she ever even read a Stoneback novel? Doubtful. Stoneback’s stories are for the rest of us. And judging by the author’s bestseller status, we are no small group who prefer to experience our share of suspense on the printed page.
Ideally with a side of romance.
Sam juts his chin at the oversized wall calendar.
“For now, let’s target the October twenty-one issue.
” Conversation follows, but now I sit fixated on the calendar, only giving my editor one ear.
Because his mention of that particular date one month from now overshadows even the Steph Stoneback revelation.
There it is again, that chill raising the hair on my arms. October twenty-one.
This time, though, the memories stay in their crypt.
That was another girl, another life. Five years have put a Grand Canyon of distance between her and me.
Still, shouldn’t I have something more to show for half a decade?
Absently, I retwist my sloppy bun and re-stab it with the pencil.
Face it. You’re a woman who wants to do a lot of interesting things, trapped in a body that doesn’t.
My coworkers stir, alerting me this meeting has come to a close. But when I rise to follow them out, Sam speaks up. “Mind hanging back a minute, Lucy? Take a seat.”
Fiddlesticks. Suddenly my throat is parched.
“Listen,” he says. “Now, I’m well aware you’ve got your hands full at home. And you know I understand. But we sure could use your help for a bit.”
Again with the menacing melody. If you go down in the woods today, you’d better go in disguise . . .
I sit up straighter and put on my best Lois Lane face. After all, Samuel Peabody III is my editor, not my therapist.
I clear my throat. “What did you have in mind?”
“Priority one’s the city hall beat—I’d much rather have you on it than Brad. Things are heating up over there, what with all this talk of a highway bypass. Could get mighty contentious with downtown business owners. Not that you couldn’t handle it. You’ve got great instincts.”
The compliment passes through my body in a wave of prickly heat. At the moment, I’m forced to question Sam’s instincts about me. Great instincts? I’m barely one step ahead of a trail of life choices that tell a very different story. Also, contentious? The word itself is, well, contentious.
“And then, of course,” he continues, “you know I’m always looking for features. Just bring me your ideas.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I say. “I’ll definitely give it some thought.”
“Good. Good. Yes, well . . .” His eyes drop.
So does my stomach. I haven’t offered the hoped-for response.
Every cell in my body sings with desire to rise to the occasion.
I want to be a team player. I just prefer to do it from my front desk sanctuary.
Lucia Maria Montgomery is the unfortunate recipient of exactly zero extrovert genes, and what Sam proposes is basically a wide blue Pacific Ocean of opportunities for failure. Mine and the paper’s.
The calendar draws my eye. The box marked October twenty-one appears to pulsate, issuing a challenge. There goes the corner of my left eye twitching. Now is when a better woman would spout, What I mean to say is, I’ll do it. Her editor’s reply: Great! Knew I could count on you.
Sam’s chair groans as he settles into a posture of resignation. “Well. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You’ve got the chops.”
I rise to leave and offer a tight-lipped smile. It’s all I can muster. I’m not immune to Sam’s praise. Just tempted to flick it away, like apple-cake crumbs from my top.
“G’night, Montgomery.”
I like it when he calls me that. Hearing my maiden name in a professional environment allows me to pretend I’m still the woman I was before the nightmare.
Before I turned over the wrong rocks and experienced things a person can’t un-experience.
It isn’t possible, of course, to ever again be Lucy Montgomery, the before girl, in anything more than name. Which isn’t all bad.
True, today I’m less carefree. But I’m also less naive.