CHAPTER 35
Rebecca
Rebecca awoke Monday in a mood as dark as the skies and slipped out of the house before Granny was awake. “Off to work early—text and let me know if Devon shows at camp,” she scrawled on a slip of paper, taped it to the coffeemaker for Granny.
It had been a weekend of frustration on all levels—she’d texted Josh, but he hadn’t replied. Rev hadn’t called her back about Devon, either. To top it off, she’d made the mistake of swinging by the office Sunday to grab some paperwork and ended up opening the bank statement.
Looking at the balance again this morning had turned her mood even darker.
Despite her best efforts, the paper wasn’t rebounding as fast as she’d hoped.
Circulation had grown three percent in the last month, and between the Wennerman ad deal and a new real estate section Dinah started, ad sales were better than they’d been in two years.
But it hadn’t been long enough to make a difference where it counted.
Between the low balance and the nearly maxed-out credit card, they were walking on eggshells.
A few more months remained until the December 1 deadline. She didn’t see how they could turn it around in time.
And who knew if the Wennerman deal would even continue after what had happened Saturday?
She navigated the streets of Dahlia in silence, peering at the quaint houses and still-closed businesses as rain blanketed the town.
The wind was starting to pick up, causing the traffic lights to sway gently as she pulled up to the red light.
Waiting at the light, she slid her phone from her purse, opened the Notes app, and typed “call weather service, get Dahlia angle.” The hurricane was still in the ocean, and from what she’d seen on national news, it would probably only impact the coast before it shifted north, but it still deserved a story.
It was only seven as she arrived at the Dahlia Weekly, climbed the steps, and locked the office door behind her.
She hoped to have at least a good hour to finish crafting her story on Tamika.
She closed her eyes a moment, picturing the girl, how she’d crossed her thin arms across her electric-blue tank top as she’d told her story.
How her big brown eyes had gazed back at Rebecca, steady and trusting, as she let the secrets spill.
She wondered how many more secrets Tamika kept, what else she’d seen in her short life.
So many secrets. And Devon—what secrets was he keeping? She pictured him there in that empty-looking house with that awful uncle, pitiful and sick and alone. What other pain was he hiding?
She glanced at the framed front page to the left of her desk, the one with the first summer camp story.
She’d hung it there to help remind her of what she was trying to do with the paper, and with Dahlia—use the paper to bring new awareness about the real issues facing the community—poverty and homelessness, gangs and the economy.
But looking at it, she found she couldn’t even think about the camp or about Dahlia without thinking of the one person who’d inspired the series in the first place: Devon.
She remembered the sad little house on Baker Street.
Remembered the look on Devon’s uncle’s face, the undisguised hostility.
Even Granny had felt it. She shivered and looked at her watch.
Another hour and a half before Granny made it to camp and gave her an update.
Granny’d promised to call her friend at social services, too, have them check things out.
Just in case. Surely they’d know how to get past someone like Devon’s uncle.
Instincts, Josh had said Friday. And right now, her instincts were telling her something was wrong. Really wrong. She wished she could talk to Josh about it.
Instead, she slid the memory card from her camera and began to import the photos from the gala, then scrolled through, culling the ones she intended to run in the paper.
Her heart did a flip-flop as she zoomed in to crop a dressed-to-the-nines couple on the dance floor and noticed Josh Jamison in the background of the shot. He had his head thrown back and he was laughing, joy all over his face.
You’re just friends, Rebecca. Only, if they really were just friends, that didn’t explain why Josh had left the gala in such a hurry, and why he hadn’t replied to her text.
“Where’d you go?” she’d finally sent before she and Granny drove home from the gala.
But all she’d gotten was silence. By Sunday her concern had turned to downright irritation.
Stupid high school games. Josh should know better than to think she was involved with Erik Wennerman, of all people.
Though she hadn’t exactly had the most adult reaction when she’d spotted him and Lissa together, before she’d realized it was Lissa and not some other pretty woman who’d caught his heart.
Still, she’d managed to at least maintain her composure, not storm off like some petulant baby without even giving her a chance to explain.
Besides, it wasn’t her fault Erik had found her outside, wasn’t her fault he’d backed her into a corner and tried to pull her in for a dance.
Most definitely wasn’t her fault he’d kissed her.
Which she certainly would have informed Josh of had he given her half a moment.
Forget him. She narrowed her eyes at her computer screen. She needed to think about work and her Tamika story, not silly romance drama. She was too old for that nonsense.
She brewed a pot of coffee, and when she sat down at her computer again, a mug before her and the door sign now turned from closed to open, the words came.
By the time Millie, Tiff, and Dinah arrived, she’d knocked out the first draft of the Tamika story and was well into editing the gala photos.
She hadn’t heard about Devon yet from Granny, but she would soon enough.
For now, she’d focus on work and let faith handle the rest.
“That storm’s gonna be a big’un,” Millie said as the wind blew the door wide open with a crash against the racks of extra newspapers. “Weatherman said a Category Two.”
Dinah closed her umbrella and flopped into her desk chair. “Channel Six said it could be bad. Boss, think we might close up early so I can board the house?”
Rebecca gave them a look. “Dahlia’s what, a three-hour drive from the coast? Are you all really worried we’ll see the effects of a hurricane?”
“The flooding’s the real concern,” Millie said, heading for the coffee maker. “You ought to talk to the weather service, see what they say.”
“Waiting on a callback,” Rebecca said. “But the press release looked pretty tame. A watch for the coast and Lowcountry, that’s it.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Millie said.
Tiff swiveled her chair toward her boss.
“Ma’am, I mean, Miss Rebecca?” Tiff’s cheeks pinked, then settled. “Can I run something by you?”
“Of course.”
“I, well, I’m done with the final erosion story, with those fixes you wanted. But, well, I took a chance.”
“On the erosion story?”
“No.” Tiff’s cheeks pinked again. This girl would be a horrible poker player.
“I mean, I did a story you didn’t assign.
You can throw it out entirely if you don’t like it,” she rushed on, waving her hands for emphasis, “and I don’t mind at all, but I had some free time Saturday and decided to go for it. ”
Rebecca’s interest piqued. What could Tiff Steadman be so interested in that she’d give up her own Saturday to write about? Rebecca could feel Millie and Dinah’s eyes on her.
“Just read it, okay?” Tiff said, pressed a button on the keyboard, and a moment later pages were coming out of the printer.
Tiff excused herself to the restroom, and Rebecca grabbed the pages, leaned back in her chair for a read.
“Behind the Business: Stories of the People Who Drive Dahlia’s Commerce,” Rebecca read silently, and she gritted her teeth. Gracious—the girl had gone ahead, despite Rebecca’s “no,” and done it after all! She kept reading, not sure whether she was angry or impressed.
Chuck Smathers, owner of Smathers Grocery and Convenience
By Tiff Steadman
Editor’s note: This week, we begin a new series profiling some of this town’s business owners, who have seen the community grow and change both economically and socially over the last decades. All of the owners featured in this series were born and raised in Dahlia.
The man behind Dahlia’s oldest grocery store has seen a lot over the years. Growing up bagging eggs and cornmeal at his Grandpappy’s knee, Chuck Smathers still remembers a time when the store didn’t sell milk because it came from the milkman, not the grocery store.
“We didn’t want to step on their toes,” Smathers said. “Dahlia’s family, and while it would have been good business to get in on the milk market, some things just aren’t right.”
Rebecca marked the copy here and there with red ink, not noticing when Tiff returned to her chair. When she’d finished reading, Rebecca looked up, surprised to see Tiff was there, eyes wide and holding her breath.
“I know you said not to, but I couldn’t let it go,” Tiff blurted in a small voice. “And if it’s bad, fine, no hard feelings. I just—”
“It’s actually good,” Rebecca said honestly. “Really good.”
“Really?” Tiff’s face broke into a grin, and Rebecca found herself smiling back.
“Really. Tiff, you were right. There’s a fine line between story and advertorial when you do business features.
I mean, you don’t want to give away advertising disguised as journalism.
But at least with this one, you nailed it.
” Rebecca passed the sheaf of papers to Tiff.
“Make these changes. I’ll try to find room for it in this week’s paper. ”
Tiff clapped her hands like a kid, then realized what she was doing and stopped, composed herself. She grinned up at Rebecca.
“Thanks, Boss. Oh, and there’s more!”
“More?”