by June Faver
He huffed out a deep breath. He couldn’t mismanage the properties that he had inherited. If he was truly Rosie Bell Grady’s blood relative, he would stay and make sure that all of the businesses were prospering. He owed it to her and to her memory. He wanted to respect her desire to support the community by providing jobs for some of the residents.
Frank rose to a standing position, still gazing at the headstone. “I’ll do it, Aunt Rosie. I’ll make sure that all of your properties are well taken care of and that they thrive.”
* * *
Reggie Lee sank into the rose-colored plush recliner. It had been her mother’s. She raised the footrest and heaved a deep sigh, glad that the day was over.
Shannon was sprawled on the area rug; a coloring book and a cigar box filled with crayons had her full attention.
Her father cast an appraising glance at her over the rims of his glasses. He sat in the adjacent recliner, as he had for many years alongside her mother. He shook his paper and turned the page.
She closed her eyes, pretending she hadn’t noticed his concerned expression.
He cleared his throat.
Oh, brother! So much for ignoring him. She opened her eyes and turned to face him. “Yes, Dad. What words of wisdom do you have for me?”
“Brat!” He shook his paper again and gave her a mock glare. “I was just wondering how your new job at the paper was going. You look like you’re worn out.”
She emitted a loud sigh. “How very observant of you. I do feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. A big one.”
“Well, I hope you got a big fat raise to go with all the responsibilities.” He folded the section of the paper he had been perusing and set it on the side table. “You did talk money, didn’t you?”
“Please, Dad. Not now.” She blinked several times and pushed back in the recliner, going almost horizontal. Why hadn’t she thought to find out if a raise came with her promotion?
I’m such an idiot! Why didn’t I ask about money? Reggie felt like giving herself a head slap, except her dad was sending her his X-ray stare that could see straight through to her soul. She composed her features into a serene visage and closed her eyes. She heard the newspaper rustle again.
She tried to think of an offhand way to broach the subject of money. Couldn’t. She supposed she could just come out and ask the bookkeeper what her salary would be. But she was the boss, and she was supposed to be in charge. Surely a woman who had accepted the position of editor of the newspaper would find out what the job paid before accepting all that responsibility? She could just see the expression on the bookkeeper’s face if Reggie asked about her rate of pay.
Or she could just wait until Friday, the next scheduled payday. She exhaled heavily. I guess I can wait. Maybe the title is enough.
* * *
Henry Stafford could tell his beloved daughter was having some sort of trouble with her job. He hadn’t ever thought she could have moved up to the position of editor of the Gazette. He went out to the garage and turned on the light. No point in making Reggie upset. She needed to keep a clear head to deal with the guy who owned the building. That Frank boy who she’d complained about in high school.
He grabbed a soft lint-free cloth and lovingly ran it over the highly waxed finish of his 1969 Pontiac GTO. His pride and joy after his daughter and granddaughter. The finish was a deep-blue metallic flake, and he kept it spotless. The car’s name was Priscilla, and she was badass.
Most weekends he got together with his old friends and rolled out in Priscilla, looking cool. They called themselves the Rambling Cruisers Classic Car Club. But it was really just the boys getting together to talk cars and plan events. Sometimes they traveled in a caravan to other towns for classic car shows and contests where they vied for points.
He popped the hood and gazed at the highly polished chrome. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.
Henry knew that he had it all. He owned his home. He owned Stafford’s Mercantile, which had been in his family since his father first opened it in 1949. In time, he would pass it along to his only daughter, Regina Lee Stafford. Henry was pretty much satisfied with his life…but he had one unfulfilled desire. He wished he had taken a tire tool to Kenny Landers’s head for hurting his daughter. And Henry was dead sure he was not about to let it happen again.
He considered this Frank Bell, the boy who had made his little girl cry on many occasions when she was a teen. Henry was damned if he was going to let her shed one more tear over this bozo.
Henry hoped Reggie had landed the position of editor through her own merits, but if Frank Bell had anything to do with her promotion because he expected sexual favors, he had another damned think coming.
He knew the community needed the newspaper, but if it came down to a choice between his daughter’s happiness and security and the Gazette, he would choose Reggie Lee every time. Hell, Henry would take out a loan and find another location for the newspaper if he had to. Let Frank Bell figure out what to do with his building with no tenants.
Oh, yeah…he remembered the newspaper wasn’t paying any rent. His shoulders sagged.
He had been rubbing Priscilla’s fender so hard he had dulled the waxed finish. “Sorry, baby.”
* * *
Frank couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back, listening to the old house noises and thinking about Reggie Lee. Her beautiful face haunted him.
He was conflicted. Being back in Rambling brought back lots of memories, some sweet and some bitter. He recalled all the kind things his great-aunt had done for him, how she encouraged and supported him. He relived some of his past exploits with Evan and the rest of his boyhood pals. But the strongest memories were of his interactions with the enigmatic Reggie Lee Stafford.
It surprised him that she’d never realized how much he had liked her.
Guess I was too subtle for her. He scowled, recalling their verbal skirmishes. He wondered if things would have been different between them if she had known that he was covering his shyness and insecurity with rudeness and audacity.
He would never know, but there was a chance he could have a do-over, that he could set things straight between them.
And then what? He rubbed his hands over his face. He wasn’t exactly the settling-down-in-one-place kind of guy.
He wasn’t sure he had the capacity to stay in one place for any period of time. He blew out a breath. But if anyone could make him want to settle down, it was Reggie Lee. He envisioned himself walking with her, carrying Shannon as he held Reggie’s hand. The picture in his mind was a little frightening. It was a little too perfect.
He turned over and plumped his pillow. Not going to get to sleep this way. He sought another mental image. He pictured the vineyard. The fertile hillsides covered with different varieties of grapevines. He recalled the tasting room and the storage area, where casks of wine aged at the perfect temperature. The flower shop and the Dairy Queen seemed to be thriving. His only business liability was the red-brick building housing the Gazette. He would be paying taxes on the property with no income to offset his expenditures. Maybe it would be a tax write-off. Maybe not. Whatever the cost, it would be worth it if he could keep figuring out ways to work with his high school crush.
Reggie’s face appeared in his consciousness as he had last seen her. Relaxed and smiling. He had never thought he would see that expression directed at him. And she was excited about her new position and about working on the Victorian house.
He turned over again.
Not sure how this is going to play out. What if she paints the house pink?
He considered that possibility for a few seconds and then decided he could live with it…no matter what color she painted his house.
* * *
The next morning, Reggie Lee called the staff of the Gazette together for her first meeting as editor. Her stomach was aflutter, and her palms were sweati
ng. She rationalized that if these people were complete strangers, she might be able to handle it. But it was harder to suddenly rise from her previous post to assume a position of authority, to earn the respect of her former comrades who were staring at her with expressions reflecting varying shades of skepticism. Almost all of her employees were older than she and had more experience. They chattered among themselves, ignoring her when she took her place at the head of the conference table.
She cleared her throat, but they didn’t pay any attention to her.
Stan Merkel caught her eye and let out a shrill whistle. “Quiet down, everyone. The boss wants to talk.”
An ear-splitting hush filled the room. The silence seemed to press in on her eardrums. She tried to flash a smile as everyone turned to stare at her.
“Good morning.”
A few people mumbled greetings in return.
She tried to swallow, but her throat was unexpectedly dry. “I wanted to tell everyone how happy I am to be here. I know that many of you outrank me in terms of seniority and experience, but I hope I can bring my enthusiasm to this position. I know that you all have some ideas to make things run smoother, and I hope you will be willing to share your thoughts.”
Rhea McAllister waved her hand and, when Reggie Lee nodded at her, said, “I just want to know who is going to take over your Social Scene column. I think everyone knows who is most qualified to write it.” She glared at the others as though daring them to refute her words.
Reggie Lee swallowed hard. “As a matter of fact, I have made a decision. I would like to offer The Social Scene to Milton Mayweather. I feel that his ability as a photographer as well as a reporter will enable Jim to focus on broadening his range.” She smiled brightly at Jim Flores, the official photographer of the Gazette. Milton beamed from where he sat at the opposite end of the table. “As far as my other duties, I was hoping that you would take over the obituaries, Rhea.”
Rhea stood up and slammed her palms down on the table. “Well! This is just ridiculous. I should be covering The Social Scene. Anyone with an ounce of sense could see that.” She shoved her chair back, and it rolled to a stop against the wall. Rhea flounced out, slamming the door behind her so hard the glass panel rattled.
Another deafening silence ensued, followed by a cacophony of voices.
Reggie Lee held up her hand. “Is there anyone who would like to take on the obituaries?” She swept them with her gaze and saw a lot of averted eyes. “Oh, come on. Someone has to do it.”
“Ahem…”
She turned quickly to see Gayle, the receptionist, sheepishly raise her hand. “I sure would like to try it.”
“Gayle?” She tried not to look incredulous. “You want to write?”
Gayle nodded. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer. It would be my dream come true. Can you give me a chance?”
Reggie took a deep breath. “Sure. I appreciate your positive attitude. Is there anyone else who has something to offer? We need to attract new advertisers and increase our circulation. Any ideas?”
“Who are you going to get to write the Dear Irene column?” Wally Barnes asked. He had been staring out the window.
“That’s Rhea’s column, Wally.” Reggie Lee fisted her hands on her hips.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “She cleaned out her desk, and now she’s getting in her car.” He pointed to the window behind Reggie Lee.
She turned in time to see Rhea pull out of the parking lot, her tires spinning rocks and dirt as she sped away. A squeezing sensation in her stomach made her choose to drop into her chair. Otherwise she might have dropped to her knees. “That’s all. Let’s get back to work.”
The others scurried out of the conference room, exchanging glances.
Reggie Lee felt desolate and alone. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming or breaking down in tears. Great way to start my career as an editor.
Other than Gayle, Reggie Lee was now the only other female on the Gazette staff. There was no one on staff to write Dear Irene now. And the column was due tomorrow. Maybe one of the guys? No, too much testosterone.
Reggie Lee hid out in her office until the rest of the staff had departed. When she checked Rhea’s desk, she discovered that the letters from readers asking for advice from dear old wise Irene were also missing. So there was nothing. No place from which to start.
Except square one.
* * *
Gayle was ecstatic. She was the only one.
Being assigned to write the obituaries might not have appealed to anyone else, but Gayle was thrilled to have any writing assignment.
Everyone else had broken into small groups, and they were murmuring among themselves. At the end of the day, Gayle had hung around a little while hoping to have a chance to chat with Reggie Lee Stafford…but she did not come out of her office. Disappointed, Gayle went home to curl up on her couch, her tablet in hand.
She read through the obituaries that Ms. Stafford had written. It seemed that she had taken the time to get to know a little bit about each and every deceased person and included some personal information for each.
Gayle’s brow furrowed. Reggie Lee would be a hard act to follow. But I can do this. She thought perhaps she could practice by writing obituaries for people she knew.
First, she killed off her kindergarten teacher, Miss Loraine Lewis, who had shamed her when she had not made it to the bathroom in a timely manner.
Miss Lily Liver passed away after experiencing a tragic accident in which she was electrocuted when her tendency for incontinence caused her to dribble over a live wire. She will be missed by her large collection of cats.
Gayle giggled and thought about her new responsibilities. I must be serious about this. She sighed, and then she killed off Beverly Watkins, the church organist.
Blabberlee Napkins, organist at her church, died tragically when she plopped her mammoth butt down on the bench in front of the church organ, which set off a 6.2-magnitude earthquake, causing the giant pipe organ to dislodge several large brass pipes, which fell on her head. Unfortunately, her abundant hairstyle did not save her. Alas, she is pumping her organ in the hereafter.
She tapped her pen against her cheek, considering who else she might metaphorically murder.
Oh, yeah… Red Carmichael… That guy at the car dealership who treated her like an idiot and had tried to sell her a lemon because he assumed she knew nothing about cars.
Reporting on the unfortunate demise of Dread Carmonger, who met his fate after selling an Edsel to Hellon Wheels, who works at the shooting range. Miss Wheels, a woman of action, decided to give Mr. Carmonger a demonstration of her marksmanship. Fortunately for Miss Wheels, many of Mr. Carmonger’s former clients were on the jury and declined to convict.
Gayle put her tablet on the coffee table and stepped out onto the porch. The sky was still light, but the moon was out. She leaned up against one of the posts supporting the porch and folded her arms across her chest. It was muggy, and she could smell something pleasantly floral, but the mugginess felt as though the air was sticking to her skin.
“Oh, hello.”
Gayle snapped out of her reverie and saw Paul Harmon standing on the sidewalk. “Um, hi, Mr. Harmon. I didn’t see you there.”
He waved shyly. “It’s Paul.”
“Oh, yes… Paul. What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Just taking a walk.”
She looked at him critically. “I didn’t know you lived around here, Paul.”
He shrugged again. “No, I live over on Rosebud Lane.”
Gayle spread her hands. “That was a long walk. Rosebud is on the other side of town and up on the hill.” She grimaced, not imagining why he would take such a long walk.
“Oh, I was…uh, I was looking for my dog.”
“Violet?”
“Yes, Vi
olet.” He nodded furiously. “Well, I’ll just be on my way, then. Here, Violet.” He whistled a bit as he walked away.
Gayle stood watching him. He was a tall, slim, studious-looking man. She recalled that he taught history at the middle school. Yes, he looked the part but also looked a little sad…maybe lonely… Probably because he missed his dog.
She wondered if he had a wife and maybe a few children. That should cheer him up. Or maybe he had a girlfriend.
Gayle went back inside, escaping the humidity, still thinking about Paul Harmon. Ready to get back to practicing her obituaries.
* * *
Frank slowed down and cruised by the Gazette offices. There was a light on inside. He spied Reggie Lee’s car sitting alone in the parking lot.
He circled the block and came to park next to her. The front door was locked. He used his key. Most of the lights were off, but he saw Reggie Lee sitting at one of the desks in the large office shared by most of the staff. She was staring at the monitor with her fingers idle on the keyboard.
“Reggie,” he called softly. No response. He moved closer, frowning. She looked like she was frozen to the keyboard. “Reggie Lee!” He said it louder this time.
She started, turning in her chair and emitting a yelp. “Oh my God! You scared me. What are you doing here at this time of night, Frank?”
“The question is, what are you doing here at this time of night?” He gazed down at her, wondering what had caused her to stay so late.
“Oh, well… I, uh…” She blushed. A crimson stain rose from her neck and painted her cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Reggie?” he asked softly, trying to sound matter-of-fact when he caught the concern in his own voice.
She sighed and shrugged. “I lost one of the regular columnists today. She slammed out of here because I assigned someone else to take over my old column, The Social Scene.” She pressed her lips together. “It was Dear Irene. She just walked out.”
He shook his head. “Who is that?”
“It’s the name of the column. Dear Irene has been several people over the years, but the current one walked off today.” She wrung her hands together. “I don’t know what to do.” She looked so distraught he almost gathered her in his arms.
