CHAPTER 9
Rebecca
“With a master’s in journalism from New York University and a bachelor’s from Syracuse, now all the way from New York City to run the Dahlia Weekly, please help me welcome Ms. Rebecca Chastain!”
Obligatory applause followed the gravelly voiced Rotary Club president’s introduction, and Rebecca rose from the round breakfast table in the Baptist church fellowship hall to make her way to the front of the room, stand before a neat brown podium.
Stay confident. Reigning in her nerves, she shook the older man’s hand, then turned to smile at the room, the aroma of bacon and diner-style coffee so thick she could almost taste it.
She searched the faces. Thirty-two of Dahlia’s best and brightest business and community leaders there before her, and not one of them seemed remotely interested in what she had to say. She felt like the new kid in school.
She cleared her throat, gave her warmest grin, and tried her best to calm the shaking her hands wanted to do. She clutched the edge of the podium.
“Thank you so much for having me, and on behalf of the Dahlia Weekly, I am grateful for your support of our newspaper institution and its critical role in this community.”
Her pat speech lasted fourteen minutes—the history of the paper, the new price increases, the focus on bigger and more important hard news over some of those mindless features that used to eat up the front page.
Only she didn’t call them mindless. “Lighter” was the euphemism, and she inwardly applauded her tact.
Everyone had loved Ron Stone, who’d been the editor since the eighties, but after he’d passed away and they’d hired that string of new editors, the paper had dwindled to a bunch of nothing, in Rebecca’s private opinion.
The last editor had taken what was already bland and ho-hummed it to a state of near irrelevance.
She only hoped this crowd would see her efforts for what they were: a true attempt to save the paper.
“You, in the gray? Mr. Collins, is it?” She gestured to the balding man on the far left with his hand raised. She was pretty sure he was Reynolds Collins, president of Dahlia First Bank.
“I appreciate what you are saying, Ms. Chastain,” he began in a slow drawl dripping with a healthy dose of fatherly patronization that made her wince, “and I’m sure it costs a lot of money to run your operation, but why take sections people love and cut them down to practically nothing?
Like the high school sports section. My boys didn’t get their picture in the paper once this spring.
I don’t know about the Big Apple, but that means a lot to us here in Dahlia.
This town, and this Rotary Club, has a vested interest in what’s going on at that paper. ”
She heard murmurs of agreement, and her heart thudded. Keep it together—they’re not the enemy. They don’t want to run you out of town. They only want a strong paper.
“You’re right—it does cost a lot to run a paper.” She made her voice as warm as she could. “We felt a six-page school sports section was a lot, so we’re trying two pages, tightening photos, until we can grow advertising and circulation to the point where it’s sustainable to run a bigger section.”
A neatly coiffed woman in a beige pantsuit lifted a finger.
“Marge Dawkins, president of the Dahlia Historical Society. I understand charging for lengthy obituaries. They can get tedious, and perhaps not as well read as other sections.” Her husky voice was gentle.
“But I do question the wisdom of charging for birth announcements, which are short and, well, far more interesting. The last thing new parents need after an expensive birth is to have to shell out twenty-five dollars to have a new member of this town get proper recognition.”
Rebecca’s smile in return was genuine. “I understand. And I know this is hard for everyone. We will continue offering a basic listing, for free, of everyone who has died and been born, as a courtesy to this community. But as you said, standard obituaries are long, and baby pictures take a lot of room. In this business, space is money.”
A man waved an arm. “Will you accept news suggestions?”
“Definitely. Call or email me,” Rebecca said, and pointed to the short stack of business cards on the front table. “My contact information, including deadlines, is on that card.”
Polite applause filled the room and she made her way to her seat, trying her best to still her nerves and be approachable, stay poised.
After, filing out with the others, she stopped to snag a banana from the breakfast table.
“Thanks for speaking with us,” a voice said, and she turned to see a sandy-haired man in a button-down and khakis, his hand out for a shake.
He looked familiar, really familiar. She found herself smiling almost on reflex, and grateful her talk had at least resonated with someone.
“Can I offer some friendly advice? Just be careful.”
“Careful?” Rebecca raised her eyebrows as she shook his hand, took a half step back.
His palm felt almost too warm against hers, and calloused. She tried to place where they’d met before, though in this town, with so many people related, it could merely be that she’d met his brother or father.
“You don’t want to tighten your belt so much you cut off the blood flow and lose the whole thing.
Take it from me,” he said kindly. “I run a building company, and I’ve seen that happen on houses.
You put in cheap tiles, cheap siding, and cheap carpet, scrimp on labor and cut too many corners, and pretty soon you wind up with a house not even worth the land it’s on. ”
Rebecca considered the analogy. “Well, I’ll definitely take your words to heart, but there’s a difference between cheap and short.”
“Not in this town. You cut out too many things and you’re gonna find people don’t even want to read it anymore. Just my opinion.” He shrugged, and she peered at him closer. He definitely reminded her of someone, but who? “Anyway, I’m Joshua Jamison. Jamison Contracting.”
His name jumped out at her. Jamison. The letter-writer. Her eyes glinted.
“You turned in a letter-to-the-editor Saturday.”
A small smile hinted. “I’m one of those readers. And I mean no offense.”
“None taken,” she said like she meant it, then gave him a sideways look.
“You know, Mr. Jamison, I remember that field trip photo. We have thirteen grades in Dahlia School, not to mention James Watkins Elementary on the edge of town, plus the preschool. Running field trip photos for all of them isn’t easy. ”
Why wouldn’t people understand the paper was a sinking ship, and she was trying her best to get it back on track? She let her hand trail into her purse, fingered the small bottle of Prozac.
He nodded. “I understand. I’m sure it’s not newsworthy on a big scale, someplace else.
But here in Dahlia, it’s news to us. And it’s tradition.
You walk a fine line, and I don’t envy you your job, but you’ve gotta weigh pictures of people’s kids over, say, that national news roundup you started.
They can get that on the Internet. Put yourself in our shoes a moment. ”
She let out a breath. “I’ll try.”
She was trying. But the last editors had left her with a colossal mess, and she needed to fix that before the paper could make any kind of strides whatsoever.
He smiled, again that something familiar nagging at her.
“Give it time. Get involved. You’ll see what I mean.” He turned to go, then paused. “Oh, and that letter wasn’t meant for publication. It was just for you. To be helpful.”
“I’m happy to print it, Mr. Jamison.” Her voice was even, but inside her heart did a happy dance. She would love not to run it. She’d been in the business a long time, but the embarrassment of being publicly called out never got easy.
“Josh. And no, I’d rather you didn’t. Just pray on it.” He gave a half-wave, walked off.
She peeled the banana and took a bite, puzzling over his words. And frowning, she stepped out into the bright morning sun and decided Dahlia was quite possibly the strangest place she’d ever lived.
◆◆◆
Back at the office, Rebecca had put out two sales fires and had finished giving a new article assignment to Tiff when the little bell over the door tinkled.
She looked up to see two suited men walk in and survey the flurry of activity—including her ad rep on the ground with a pile of paperwork and her shoes off.
Her stomach dropped. Stuart Hansler and Buck McCafferty. The owners.
Rebecca plastered on a smile. “What a pleasant surprise! Staff, I hope you remember Mr. Hansler and Mr. McCafferty, our owners.”
Tiff wiggled her fingers, and Dinah waved cheerfully. Millie stood and, to Rebecca’s shock, gave both men a big hug.
“It’s been a long time! How’s that newest grandbaby of yours, Miss Millie?” Buck McCafferty’s smile was open, sincere.
“Almost two now,” Millie said with the biggest grin Rebecca had seen since she’d met the prim-faced woman. “Potty training,” she stage-whispered, and the men chuckled.
“Mine turned three last week. What a love.” Buck patted her shoulder. “You keep up the good work, and make sure to hug that baby’s neck next time you see her.”
“Sure will.” Rebecca couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Millie was downright blushing.
The men turned to Rebecca, shook hands all around.
Stuart Hansler jammed a thumb out, motioning to the conference room. “Got a minute?”
“Always.” Her heart was pounding. It felt like New York all over again. She half expected Ed to walk in, cock his head, and say, “Sorry, sister,” like he did last time. She gritted her teeth and followed them into the cramped wood-paneled room.
Stuart shut the door behind them, swiveled the blinds shut. Once they were settled at the round oak table, he laid some papers in front of her, sat back, and crossed his arms.
Financials.