Chapter 43
Forty-Three
homage (n.): something that attests to the worth or influence of another
First thing Monday, I linger at Samuel Peabody III’s open door. After a moment, he stops pecking at his keyboard and looks up.
“Mornin’, Montgomery. What’s the good word?”
“Peace lily,” I say, approaching with the small glossy houseplant. My full, thriving one at home was ready to be divided.
Our editor in chief holds up a palm. “Halt right there. Said it before. Can’t abide anything so needy in here. I’ll just usher it to a slow, torturous death. And before you offer, your time is too valuable to be spent in here fussing over it.”
“That puts us on the same page, Sam. Because this one’s not for you. It’s for Noleen.”
Sam’s shoulders collapse, and his eyes go tender. “Well, that’s different then.” He removes his readers, swipes at a corner of one eye. “You’re a gem, Montgomery, if I haven’t mentioned it lately.”
“And if I haven’t mentioned it lately, thank you. For giving me a break. Or rather, a shove. Or three.”
He chuckles softly.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“Still sleeps a lot. But she’s also had some really good days lately. Rode along with me to the farm supply store yesterday.”
“That’s so good to hear.” I relocate a wonky stack of papers to make space for the plant. “I’ll have you know, this isn’t just any old plant. Peace lilies are super easygoing, and they’re amazing at filtering toxins from the air. Perfect for a bedroom.”
He smiles softly.
“Alright. I’ll let you get back to it, Sam. Oh, hey, if the two of you happen to feel adventurous on Thursday night, you should join us. Trivia night at the food carts. I’ll be there with my writing group.”
Sam’s unruly eyebrows shoot up. “Well, look at you, Lucy. A regular social gadabout. And a fine writer. They’re lucky to have you. We are lucky to have you.”
No, I think, a lump filling my throat as I take my usual seat in the dark-paneled lobby, once again ready to skipper my little ship here. I’m the lucky one.
***
The morning hums along like a kettle on the boil, with the kind of deadline pressure newspeople whine about but truthfully thrive on. Not only are we tasked with getting the paper out to the people, but making it excellent, truthful, and necessary.
It looks likely that my piece about the blanket-making partnership between the Heartwarmers and the sheriff’s office will make page one. All I know is, I’m obsessed with the accompanying photo, the one I took of Billie, Wyatt, and two deputies showing off their colorful fringed blankets.
I update the events calendar with details about this weekend’s Harvest Faire street festival. Handcrafted goods and local artisanal foods will abound. Last year I scored a pair of macramé plant hangers and a set of adorable crocheted coasters.
In my mind’s eye, I’m strolling the open-air market, skirting clumps of tourists, with an eye out for Wyatt on wheels. Weather permitting, he plans to resurrect the bike brigade just for this event.
I don’t notice Dot sneaking up on me.
“Oh girl, wait till you try the ginger chicken noodle soup. I promise you, this one’s a home run.”
Fiddlesticks. Woolgathering again. And on deadline day, of all days.
Truthfully I’ve come to the conclusion that the pungent flavors of Thai food don’t marry well with this archaic building’s baked-in smells of disintegrating newspaper stacks, ink cartridges, and (as I’m sure we can all agree) vintage taxidermy.
“Help yourself! It’s warming up in the kitchen.” Dot disappears down the hall, presumably to notify Meg and our new local business liaison, Lorelai, of the menu.
Cowbells jangle. I half-expect to see old Baxter when I look up, wearing that navy-blue VFW cap of his, delivering another last-second request. Those industrious veterans must be due for another event.
Instead, it’s a woman that enters. A couple full decades younger than Baxter, she’s clearly carrying some kind of weight on those petite hunched shoulders.
I eye the page in her hand that looks to be torn from a yellow legal pad. A full page. Oh dear. There’s no time to proof and format such a tome.
Still, I smile. “Good morning. Can I help you?”
“Thank you, yes, I hope so. You must be Lucy. I understand you print obituaries up to three hundred words at no cost. I’m afraid this one is considerably longer. I don’t mind paying the difference. I’d like it to run in this week’s Messenger.”
“I’m happy to take a look,” I say, unfolding the paper. “But unfortunately—”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Across the top of the page, written in shaky cursive, is a name that knocks the wind out of me.
Oh, Baxter.
I meet the woman’s eyes.
“My father passed ten days ago. I’m his daughter Meredith.”
“I . . . I didn’t know,” I say breathlessly.
Her chin quivers. “It was very peaceful.”
I position the tissue box between us. “I’ll sure miss him.”
Baxter’s daughter dabs at a tear. “Thank you. He’d been living with us since Mom passed.
And he spoke so highly of you. I know he can be a bit .
. .” A crooked smile. “Gruff. But I want you to know that it meant a great deal to him that the Messenger helped promote his events. For so many of the old guys, it’s all they have left. ”
I assure Meredith her father’s obituary will make it into this week’s edition. Although I can see I’ll have trouble with her handwriting.
Especially given my now-watery eyes.
“I have to apologize. It’s a little rough in places. I wouldn’t have attempted it so soon, but so many folks in town know my dad. We want to get the word out about his memorial service. If you see anything that needs to be cleaned up or improved, please, by all means, feel free.”
“It will be my great honor.” I watch her walk away.
“Oh, one more thing,” she says, turning back. “My father would want people to know that he knew the hope of heaven. Maybe add that?”
So much for classic story structure—beginning, middle, end. What had Mom said?
We begin, and we begin, and then we begin again.
My chest squeezes. Congratulations on your new beginning, Baxter.
“Meredith,” I say, “would you like to take some chicken soup home?”
While Dot skillfully fills a mason jar with soup, I hastily key in the story of Baxter Holt. Or at least as much of it as can be expressed in so few words. A story played out in the community where he was well-rooted—because a good protagonist never goes it alone.
The real story of Baxter Holt is likely only known to those closest to him. The little things that are in fact the biggest.
Stuff that never makes the paper.