Chapter 13
Thirteen
sagacity (n.): acute discernment
“Montgomery, I just checked my email,” Sam grouses on Friday morning. “Ya know, I’m one helluva editor. But for the life of me, I cannot edit a blank page.”
“It’s coming, Sam,” I say. “It’s . . . close.”
Geez. My article on Lieutenant Hayes—Wyatt—isn’t even delinquent until two o’clock. It’s almost as if my editor in chief lacks faith in me.
Go figure.
“I need it by eleven.”
“Oh. I thought you said—”
“I know what I said. Turns out sooner is better. Noleen has an appointment, so I’ll be incommunicado this afternoon.” He signals me to follow him into Dot’s office.
“Dot,” he says in a way that brooks no argument, “you’ll be switching stations with Lucy. She needs this spot to bang out an article.”
Next Sam galumphs toward Brad’s office, bellowing all the way. “Vickery! What’s this loquacious rant of yours about the new intersection? This isn’t an article, it’s a polemic. We can’t print this folderol!”
His tirade continues to carry from down the hall. “Was the city unavailable for comment? Did it never occur to you that the roadwork isn’t done until the porta potties are gone? This isn’t balanced reporting, it’s thinly veiled snark. And, by the way, did you never hear of spell-check?”
Sometimes Sam’s air of authority is more of a gale.
I dig for my notebook. See, this is what I should have been doing last night instead of attending the inaugural meeting of Charity Falls’ most eclectic group of townies ever.
Not that I count myself the most grounded of the bunch.
Is there even such a thing as a normal writer?
Is Stephen King normal? Beatrix Potter? And what about Steph Stoneback?
We’ll find out soon enough.
Not that I ever seriously considered working on the article last night.
Too busy puppy guarding my precious self-care night, which ended up turning into something altogether different.
But that’s alright. Deadlines fuel me, especially when they loom menacingly overhead like Bigfoot, so close I can smell their nasty breath.
Besides, I’ve already outlined the piece. I just, well, haven’t been able to find my way in. What I need is a killer opening. Some kind of hook . . .
But first, salt. A nonnegotiable. Fortunately, I’ve brought something crunchy today.
Beside the keyboard, I lay out my interview notes and a plastic sandwich bag stuffed with cheesy pretzel mix. Okay. No more dillydallyin’. Let’s go, Montgomery.
Mentally, I revisit my interview from yesterday. And although I spent most of an hour face-to-face with Lieutenant Wyatt Hayes, for some reason the first image that pops up in my mind’s eye is a shaggy black dog wearing a goofy grin. I skim my notes.
Moby . . . rescue . . . meth lab in Seattle. “It’s just me and Moby.”
Next I skip down to the part where Wyatt spoke about his personal mission—battling burnout and hopelessness within his squad.
And the picture that takes shape in my mind from all he shared is of an outdoorsy boy racing off-road bikes through the wild forests of the Pacific Northwest, growing up under a stoic father deeply engaged in police work and a mom who taught art to high schoolers.
Now this same man is implementing a sheriff’s bike brigade in small-town Oregon.
And apparently writing the occasional stanza of poetry.
Which actually makes sense. Wyatt is both strong and tender, possessing a calling to serve and protect—but not in some abstract, disconnected way. The man is relational.
Exhibit A: He keeps a photo of his dopey-eyed rescue pup in his office.
Exhibit B: When it comes to his deputies, he’s got a bleeding heart.
But also some kind of hurt in his past that I’m not privy to. I’ve got a growing hunch about this.
Warmth and gratitude dilate inside my chest. This is the man charged with overseeing law and order in my sweet town. What more could a community want?
Now, to convey this—the competence and upstanding nature of Lieutenant Hayes—without betraying his confidence. You know, Lucy, I’m not sure all of this should go in the article.
I am the girl entrusted with Nana’s 1940s typewriter.
That solid, timeless symbol of communication employed by the admirable women who went before me.
Issuing dispatches, one key, one letter, one word at a time.
What was that quote Wyatt shared last night?
If I hope neither to fail miserably nor to succeed more miserably, I’d do well to bring God into a situation like this, where discernment is everything. Holy discernment.
Let’s go, Lord.
I toss a cheese-coated almond into my mouth and begin to type.
***
Once I’ve emailed the article to Sam, it’s time to reward myself with a social call to Dot’s new desk. She’s bound to get a kick out of the ginormous Prime box I was confronted with yesterday—so big that my neighbors couldn’t access their mailboxes.
“The thing was six feet long and nearly as tall,” I tell her, spreading my arms one way and then the other.
“What in the world?”
“Whoever delivered it scrawled the word Why? in black Sharpie.”
“You’re killin’ me! Well, what was it?”
“A huge corduroy pouf beanbag chair thingy, the size of a small planet. For Chase.”
“Goodness! I bet he loves it.”
“Oh, he does. Even though it takes up half his room. He even typed my mother a thank-you letter on the old Smith Corona.”
When Dot grins, her dimples form deep pinpricks in the dough of her cheeks.
“Yep.” And then quietly and more to myself, I say, “Evidently beanbags never go out of style.” Maybe another time I’ll confess to Dot my altercation with the one at Sweet Reads and my awkward exit from the writers group.
The absurdity of it all brings an inner smile. Next time—that is, if there is a next time—I’ll know to arrive early. And carry tissues.
“And then this morning it was two boxes. Mom must be tracking our weather, because she sent an assortment of fuzzy socks for me and a Tennessee Titans beanie for Chase. What do you think it all means?”
“The holy grail! I love fuzzy socks!”
“Me too.”
“Gramazon strikes again! She’s firing love torpedoes, kiddo.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
Dot gathers her things. “Is everything okay between you two? You’re on good terms?”
I follow her into her office, carrying her ten-key. “We’re always on good terms. We just . . . avoid talking about certain things.”
Dot hesitates a nanosecond longer than needed. “Sounds to me like she’s reaching out. It’s sweet.”
I give several of the plants on Dot’s windowsill a half-turn for even sunlight and consider this possibility. “You may be right.”
“But . . . the Titans?”
“Eh. Chase couldn’t care less about football. He’ll wear it regardless of—”
“Montgomery!” Apparently I will never not be rattled, at least a little, by my editor’s booming voice, especially when combined with his great looming presence filling Dot’s doorframe. “I was just reviewing your piece on Lieutenant Hayes. It’s . . .”
My body goes rigid. Here it comes. I knew it. “It’s not what you had in mind,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ll—”
Sam’s leathered face visibly softens. “If you’ll allow me to finish?”
“Sorry.”
“I was going to say . . . a breath of fresh air.”
Dot elbows me.
“But you buried the lede!” He juts his chin toward his office. “C’mere. Lemme show you.” I follow him, and he drops heavily into his chair, which squawks like a Canada goose. “Right here.” He points to his computer screen. “Paragraph four.” Sam reads aloud:
Public safety rides on regular dialogue between law enforcement and the community, and this is often more easily achieved on two wheels, according to newly appointed head of the Charity Falls Sheriff’s substation Lieutenant Wyatt Hayes.
“Lead with that,” he says.
“Will do.”
“Otherwise, Montgomery . . . terrific piece.”
***
At quitting time, I pull the office door closed, throw my fists in the air, and mouth a silent “Woot!” to no one.
Even so, the thought of going straight home to an empty house hollows me out.
I’m not due to pick up Chase from after-school care at Parks and Rec for another forty-five minutes.
The library beckons. You know what? I’m going to comply.
May as well see if the hold I placed on a memoir Dot recommended has arrived.
I do hope it provides writing inspiration.
Overhead, the clouds are doing the boot-scootin’ boogie from one end of the sky to the other, driven by a tenacious wind that chills my ears. Despite this, I heel, toe, do-si-do down the sidewalk. And then again.
What is it about the smell of a library?
Short of clean mountain air, there’s isn’t a purer, more revivifying scent.
I complete my borrow at the checkout kiosk, once again lamenting the loss of the good ol’ days when you had to speak to an actual person, and a fellow booklover at that, while checking out.
So instead I wave a thank-you to the librarian—today it’s Flora, the one with a pretty candy-pink stripe in her hair—but she’s too engrossed in doing something on her rolling computer station to notice.
Outside, I hitch my canvas bag higher on my shoulder. Yellow leaves rain sideways and stumble across the lawn. Evidently the birds have already called it a day. Now it’s my turn.
Which ushers back that hollow sensation.
Because the flip side of having a great day is a bitter reality: I have no one to share it with.
I plunk myself down on the cold concrete bench. And I sit with this ache for a bit.
What time is it in Nashville?