CHAPTER 21 #2
Devon himself was a dynamo, she thought as she turned onto Main Street, paused to let a couple cross the road.
And he did it all with a smile, like work was normal and natural and expected, no big deal.
He made it fun, and just being around him made her feel lighter inside.
When she was eleven, she didn’t think her mom would have let her in the kitchen to load the dishwasher with their expensive plates and cups, let alone bike to a church and volunteer with a bunch of poor people.
She’d been coddled, she realized now. Coddled and pampered and protected from the real world.
Even his pastor was an all right guy. Rev’s “welcome back anytime” had felt genuine, and the Sunday sermon actually sounded interesting.
She didn’t go or anything, but he’d said he was planning to preach on soccer, something about how teamwork, controlling the ball, and making the goal had everything to do with a person’s faith walk.
If they’d done sermons like that when she was a kid, maybe she would have stayed alert and engaged in church instead of hightailing it the first chance she had.
This pastor was doing something right if he’d managed to get an eleven-year-old kid hooked on church.
Even if he did use words like “faith walk.”
She needed to go back and do an article about the place.
Her cell phone buzzed, and she answered as she pulled up to the newspaper office.
“Rebecca Chastain,” she answered, not bothering to look at the caller ID.
“It’s happened,” a dramatic voice came over the line. “You do have a Southern accent.”
Sarah. Rebecca almost cackled as she shifted the car into park.
“I do not have a Southern accent.” Rebecca gave an exaggerated huff, grinning.
“You totally do. ‘Rebecca Chastayyyyyn, how may I help yewwwww?’” Sarah mimicked her in a high falsetto, adding at least six syllables to the words.
“Knock it off, babe,” Rebecca countered in her best New York cabbie impression, and the women laughed.
“It’s good to hear your voice.” Sarah’s own was warm across the miles. “How’ve you been? You sound happy. I don’t think we’ve done much but text these last few weeks. It’s been crazy here.”
“Here, too! And I am happy, sort of.” Rebecca looked out her car window at the newspaper office, the “open” sign already turned around. Inside, she could see Millie bustling about, making coffee and straightening up, preparing for the busy day ahead.
“What do you do all day? Do you like it? Are you going to come back with all these hometown quirks?”
Rebecca found herself wanting to tell all about Devon, and the fishing hole she’d rediscovered, and her old friend Josh and his cute little son with the freckles and crazy hair, and the James Watkins stories, but it all sounded like the kind of stereotypical Southern living Sarah would tease her about endlessly.
“Would you believe I’ve been fishing? I connected with an old friend, and he and his son and I caught, like, five bass in the river the other day,” she summed up instead, and Sarah laughed heartily.
“I love it! Fishing! Please text me a picture of you and a worm. Better yet, post it on socials. Marisol and I had actual bets on whether you’d take up fishing or knitting.
Or, what’s that thing they do with the fruits and vegetables—preserving, or canning?
” Sarah teased. “Oh, Rebecca, I’ve missed you. ”
“I miss you too, Sarah.”
She did. Suddenly, the smells and sounds of New York came back in a rush, and she closed her eyes, remembering the last time she’d seen her friend, at their goodbye brunch at that French-fusion place in the Village.
Sarah and Marisol had done their best to act normal, like Rebecca hadn’t just been in the psych ward, like she was heading off on a new adventure and not some therapist-ordered respite in the middle of nowhere.
But at the end of their lunch, after Marisol had slipped off to the restroom, Sarah had pressed something into Rebecca’s hand.
She’d opened it to see a small yellow-crystal sun on a slim chain.
Rebecca had held it up, and it sparkled in the afternoon light, throwing prisms of color around the restaurant.
For hope, Sarah had told her then, hugging her hard and tight, like she was afraid Rebecca would disappear, never come back, gone for good.
Rebecca had hung the sun on her rearview mirror in the car, and she batted it now, remembering that day, remembering the feel of her friend’s arms around her neck, remembering the long walk back to her apartment, where she and Granny had packed the last of her things and said goodbye to the city.
“How are you really doing?” Sarah’s voice was quiet.
“Honestly, much better.”
“Really?” Sarah let out a shaky laugh. “I’ve been worried about you, girlfriend.”
“Scout’s honor. I’ve been taking my Prozac, laying low, exercising, and steering clear of all men. Even the cute ones.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Fishing Buddy sounds like an eligible man.”
Sarah’s tone was suggestive, and Rebecca snorted. “Seriously, I even turned down a date with a mega-gorgeous man. We’re talking better-looking than Peter.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You should be.” Rebecca pictured Erik, his warm smile, the way his button-down and slender tie hung just right on his trim physique. A little shiver threatened, and she tamped it down. No dating, she reminded herself. Not for a long, long time.
As they hung up, Rebecca realized that for the first time, she’d said Peter’s name like it was nothing.
For an instant, she pictured him. His dark hair, perfect teeth. His laugh. The oddest thought struck her then—Peter was like an illusion. Like a man she’d seen in a movie, or dreamed about. Not real at all. Just an idea. An idea she thought she’d been in love with.
An idea she’d almost died for. An involuntary shudder ran through her.
And giving the crystal yellow sun a last playful swing, she slid her leather bag onto her shoulder and headed into the office.
◆◆◆
The morning flew by in a flurry of activity, as usual: Dinah on sales calls, Millie dealing with customers, Tiff finishing her stories while tap-tapping her stilettos—strappy beige sandal stilettos, for the summertime, of course—and Rebecca herself, hair top-knotted and a red pen in her hand, marking up changes to the finished pieces.
The phone rang, and Rebecca grabbed it.
“I have two things to say to you this morning, Rebecca Chastain, and I don’t want any lip,” the woman’s gruff voice began, and Rebecca groaned inwardly.
“Mrs. Pauling?” Rebecca asked politely.
“Of course,” Lib Pauling snapped. “Now, I know you’re getting ready to put out this week’s paper, and I want to make sure we’re not going to have any of those ridiculous stories about the new banks and Dahlia’s economy.
I’ll have you know my precious son-in-law is the president of one of those banks, and you’re talking about real people when you write that garbage.
And two,” Lib paused for a deep breath, Rebecca waiting as patiently as she could muster.
“That story on those two hikers who got lost in the state park, the one whose mama was born here? That was most excellent. Ron Stone would have been proud.”
Rebecca blinked. Lib Pauling had actually told her the mythically perfect former Dahlia Weekly editor would have liked her article? Been proud? That was a first.
“Well, I appreciate that, Mrs—”
“Don’t thank me.” Maybe it was Rebecca’s imagination, but Lib’s voice sounded a tad less clipped than before. Softer, somehow. Then she barked, “Keep it up,” and hung up.
Rebecca sat a moment, staring at the receiver in her hand. Lib Pauling was truly one of the most confusing women she’d ever met.
“Was that Mrs. Pauling?” Millie asked as she rose from her seat, the creak loud above the din of the newsroom.
“Yeah.” Rebecca shook her head. “That one’s hot and cold.”
Millie crossed the room, filled a cup from the coffee station. “She was a lot nicer before she lost her husband a few years ago. Went through quite a spell for a time. She used to come in here and scream at the last editor all the time before he finally barred her from the office.”
Lib, a widow? Still, Rebecca couldn’t help herself.
“This is the nicer version?”
Millie shrugged, tried to disguise a smirk as she headed back to her desk. “In a manner of speaking.”
The bell above the door tinkled, and in walked Josh Jamison, checkbook in hand.
“Well, hey there!” she said with a smile, standing to greet him.
He wore jeans and a green T shirt, the logo for Jamison Contracting front and center, and a pencil was tucked behind his ear.
As they hugged, she saw Dinah stop what she was doing and stare up at him, a little curve on her lips.
Tiff grinned from over her shoulder, then turned back to her computer.
“Ran out for some more supplies, thought I’d swing by and pay my ad bill.” He handed a check to Millie, gave her a wink before he turned back to Rebecca. “That was some time on Friday. I don’t think JJ talked about anything else all weekend.”
Rebecca laughed. “I don’t blame him. It really was fun.”
“I think we’ll probably be there again this week. You going?”
Part of her wanted to beg off, make up some excuse. The other part wondered what she was afraid of. Going a couple times didn’t commit her to going forever. And there was the article to do.
“I think so.”
“Well, good! See you then, if I don’t see you before.” His grin was boyish, made him look ten years younger, and she realized she hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d come in. “Bye, ladies.”
He waved a general goodbye at the office, turned to go. But as he got to the door, it opened.
In stepped Erik Wennerman.
Instantly, Josh’s demeanor changed. He pulled up short, stiffened.
“Jamison.” Erik’s smile was poised, and he stood aside, let Josh slide past.
She couldn’t see the expression on his face, but the muttered “Wennerman” said it all. Josh was out the door and into his truck, gone.
She stared after him, the mood of the newsroom suddenly turned on end, like everything had gone quiet. Too quiet.
Erik approached her desk. He looked good as usual. Today he wore a burgundy and white striped shirt, and the tie was loosened, the collar unbuttoned. The slim khakis fit nicely, and today he wore a large silver watch. He carried a few folders.
It was the first time since she’d seen him last week, when he’d asked her out.
Her tongue felt dry in her mouth. She forced a smile.
Act natural. Just because he’d asked her out didn’t mean she needed to act like a teenager.
They needed the business, anyway, and she couldn’t afford to push him away.
“Got a minute?”
“Absolutely.” Her voice sounded warm to her ears, like she dealt with this every day of her life. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Millie watching them.
“Brought you some more of our latest plans, thought maybe you could steer me on the timing.” He opened the folders on her desk, his hand faintly brushing hers as he pointed to one of the papers.
“Retire in style,” the one on top proclaimed in extra-large print, with a picture of a smiling older couple, each holding a tennis racquet, taking much of the space below.
The company logo and contact information was at the bottom.
He looked at her under dark, thick lashes. “Think maybe you can run a little business announcement in the paper when we launch these ads? I’m thinking next week.” She hesitated, and he rushed on, “We’re thinking of doing two color full-pagers next week, really make a big splash.”
She nodded quickly. “Sure. It’ll have to be short, but we can do that.”
He sat back, grinned. “I really appreciate that. Maybe you can let me take you out to lunch on Wednesday, celebrate the opening of our Aberville facility.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it as quickly and stood, smiling. End of conversation.
“I’m not free Wednesday, but if you come by later in the week, we can go over the details of the ad, line up this month’s schedule.”
“Perfect.” And he was out the door, the purr of his sleek Audi loud and powerful.
Rebecca went to the coffee machine, poured another cup.
“I don’t like him,” Millie said to no one and everyone, lips pressed into a thin line.
Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh. “Why in the world not?”
“He’s a ‘player,’” the secretary pronounced, like she’d eaten bad fish and wished she could spit it out.
“Well, he’s helping to keep this newspaper afloat.”
“Hmpf. At what cost? Besides, it’s doing better.”
“I’m not sure that’s quite the point.”
Millie looked like she wanted to say much more, but she didn’t respond, just turned back to her classifieds. The others said nothing, Tiff lost in a story, Dinah on the phone.
Rebecca took a seat, staring at the Wennerman folder, the yellow sun on the company logo nothing at all like the one dangling from the rearview mirror in her car.