“You said the Dunes was a firetrap,” Conley pointed out. “The wiring, the roof…”
“I know. But if she sells Felicity Street, that’s a double lot on the best street in town. The contractor this morning told me flat out he’d buy it to build a spec mansion.”
“Conley!” Lillian poked her head in the doorway. “There’s a whole TV crew out front looking for you. If you and your sister aren’t too busy jib-jabbing in here maybe you could come out and talk to them.”
“Coming,” Conley said.
* * *
Selena explained her idea in the car on the way to Felicity Street. “I basically want you to humanize your newspaper story. I mean, it was great, but you distanced yourself from the subject matter. In your story, you were an observer, not a participant. I want you to stand in the living room and talk about how it felt, the moment the deputy kicked in the door—that’s okay, right? I mean, it’s your family house, right?”
“Whoa,” Conley said. “I don’t know that my grandmother wants to invite the whole world into her living room. That seems icky. And invasive.”
“But it puts the viewer right there, with you, in the moment,” Selena said. “I get chills thinking about it.”
“Maybe so, but my grandmother is a proper Southern lady, so no.”
Selena brushed back her fringe of dark shining bangs in frustration. “Well, that puts a crimp in my plans.”
“You’re welcome to shoot outside the house,” Conley said. “After all, I’m sure most of Silver Bay has driven past it today to take a look for themselves.”
She pulled the Subaru to the curb, and the network van pulled up behind them, outside G’mama’s house. The carnage looked even worse a day later. The velvety green expanse of lawn looked like a stock car dirt track with countless crisscross tire marks. The carefully tended borders of azaleas, camellias, and boxwoods had been knocked down by all the police cars and rescue vehicles. Worst of all, Conley thought, was the pair of deep trenches that ended in the collapsed front porch.
Selena clapped her hands in excitement. “You’re right. This is way better. My God, it looks like a tornado hit.”
They got out of the car.
“When were you thinking of doing your hair and makeup?” Selena asked.
“It’s done,” Conley said. “I’ve showered. My hair is clean, I’m wearing eyebrow pencil and lipstick, and my clothes all match. I’d call myself a fashion triumph.”
“Hang on a sec.” Selena went back to the van, where the camera operator was unloading his equipment, and came back with what looked like an airline-approved carry-on suitcase on wheels.
“Let’s go inside the house and, uh, freshen you up a little,” she said.
* * *
Conley took a final look at herself in the bedroom mirror. Her hair had been hot-rollered, back-combed, and sprayed. Selena had used an actual airbrush to apply a thick coating of foundation to her face, followed by face powder, blush, bronzer, and contouring. She was wearing four shades of eye shadow, eyeliner, eye pencil, lip liner, lipstick, and multiple coats of mascara.
“I didn’t wear this much makeup when I was my sister’s maid of honor,” she told the producer. “But I notice you didn’t cover up the bruises on my cheek.”
“We want viewers to really see your injuries,” Selena explained. “But I only brought the basics because I know you print gals are into minimalism. You’ll have to get used to it if you’re going to do this for a living.”
“Who said I’m doing this for a living?” Conley asked.
“Let’s talk after we’ve finished the shoot,” Selena said.
They positioned her in front of the collapsed porch, and Selena ran through her directions.
“Just relax and look directly into the camera. Give us a summary of what happened and how you felt. I’ll ask you a few questions, but the camera will be focused on you.”
Conley had done a few television interviews over the years, so she wasn’t unused to the glare of a camera, but being interviewed as a victim was a new and unwelcome experience.
“Tell us how you felt when you realized that the man who’d stalked and terrorized you after you’d spurned his advances was dead,” Selena prompted.
“I wasn’t happy. It was a horrible experience, but I never wanted him dead. I just wanted him to leave me alone. I guess I was mostly relieved.”
“Now, your newspaper has reported that the man who attacked you, Deputy Walter Poppell, had a juvenile record for sexual assault, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Conley said. “My colleague Michael Torpy talked to a law enforcement source who confirmed that after being charged with beating and assaulting a girl as a young teen, Poppell was sentenced to some kind of public service in a juvenile intervention center, and afterward, his record was expunged.”
“And yet he was hired by the Bronson County Sheriff’s Office as a deputy. Do you think the sheriff’s office should be held accountable for the actions of Deputy Poppell?”
It was a question Selena hadn’t asked her during her brief run-through.
Conley thought back to Merle Goggins’s concern for her well-being and his final words to her earlier that morning, when he’d clasped her hand and told her to take care of herself.
“No,” she said slowly. “Juvenile records are sealed in this state, and the sheriff assured me he had no knowledge of Poppell’s history. But I do think every person who ever looked the other way when a ‘boy’ like Poppell made a lewd comment or sexted pictures of a classmate should be accountable. Every coach who let an athlete play despite knowing he was a violent bully is accountable. And every parent who refused to acknowledge or discipline a child for those kinds of behaviors is accountable. I don’t think men like Walter Poppell are born like that. I think they mutate.”
* * *
Selena Kwan was hopping up and down in her excitement. “That was perfect! I knew it! I knew you’d be a natural in front of the camera.”
Conley thought she’d never felt as unnatural in her entire life. She’d been nervous and sweaty and felt like a stranger in her own skin.
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Believe me. That was great. Part of the reason I came down here today was to see for myself, but now I have. Here’s the situation. One of my reporters is going out on maternity leave. The slot is yours if you want it. Great timing, right? And you’d be back in Atlanta.”
“I don’t know. Can I think about it?”
“What’s to think about?” Selena asked. “I have half a dozen other candidates right now—seasoned, on-camera talent who’d give their left boob for this slot. We’d give you a three-month trial, reporting, producing, lots of enterprise stuff, which I can see is right in your wheelhouse.”
“I’m flattered, really,” Conley said, “but I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now.”
“Somebody else made you an offer already?” Selena asked. “I can pretty much guarantee that our offer will be much more than you’d ever make at any print outlet in the country.”
“I did get a lot of phone messages this morning, after the story was picked up,” Conley said, “but it’s not really about the money.”
The producer shook her head. “People always say it’s not about the money, but it actually is about the money. Every time.”
“Maybe I’m the exception,” Conley said.
The camera operator was waiting in the van.
“Well, give it some thought, then,” Selena said. “But I’ll need to know in the next week or so.”
63
Conley walked back inside the silent house. Already, she thought, the scent of disuse and decay had begun to settle like a thin layer of dust. Or maybe that was her. She walked around the kitchen and living and dining rooms, letting her fingers trail across the lemon-scented mahogany, the polished silver candlesticks, and the gilt-framed family portraits.
Upstairs, she sat on the bed in her old room, looking out the window at the
treetops. She went to the bookcase in the corner of the room and picked out her childhood favorites—Little Women, because, like Jo, she intended to be a writer one day; her favorite Maud Hart Lovelace Betsy-Tacy books, because Betsy wanted to be a writer too; and Anne of Green Gables, because she’d always loved Anne Shirley’s fierceness and ambition.
There was nothing else she needed from this room now, Conley thought. G’mama had told her that the contents of this beloved family home had just been things—things that could easily be replaced. But these books had been what Anne Shirley would call her “boon companions.”
She tucked the books in an old canvas tote bag and walked down the hall to her father’s room again. This time, after switching on the light, she went inside and sat down on a heavy wooden packing crate. She waited for the familiar tightness in her chest. But it never came. This was just a room now. She felt lighter. Skelly had been right. He’d been right about a lot of things.
* * *
Conley called Roger Sistrunk from the phone on her desk.
“About damn time,” he said as soon as he picked up. “You playing hard to get all of a sudden? We’ve all been trying to reach you. Me, Tia, even Kevin. Calling, texting, emailing, but nothing.”
“Sorry. My phone was destroyed in the, uh, incident yesterday. What’s up?”
“Wanted to make sure you’re really okay,” he said, his tone gruff. “That was a hell of a story you filed last night. Really powerful stuff.”
“Thanks. Not an experience I ever want to repeat.”
“Hey,” he said abruptly. “The thing is, we’ve got an opening on the national desk, and before we post it officially, I thought I’d give you first shot.”
“On the national desk? I’ve only ever worked city-side.”
Michael Torpy spun around on his desk chair. The kid had no shame about eavesdropping.
“We know that, but these stories you’ve been writing in that little one-stoplight town, you’ve shown me you’re more than ready.”
She stared pointedly at Michael until he finally turned back around.
“I’ll have you know Silver Bay has three stoplights. When would you want me to start?” she asked.
“Right away. You can pack up today and be back at your old desk here in Atlanta tomorrow.”
“And the pay?”
“Awww,” Roger protested. “Are you gonna try to jack me up for a raise after all we’ve been through together?”
“As a matter of fact…” Conley started to say. Her gaze traveled past Michael and landed on Grayson’s office. The door was open, and she glimpsed her sister, gesturing dramatically. She was talking to someone. Conley half stood and saw that Rowena Meigs was seated on the chair opposite Grayson, with Tuffy perched in her lap.
From her standing position, she saw that Michael was working on the Beacon’s website, adding photos he’d shot earlier in the day of a beauty pageant at the local nursing home and a Little League baseball game.
“Conley!” Lillian yelled from across the other side of the newsroom. “Damn it, Conley, I got two more calls waiting on you. Get yourself a phone, you hear? I don’t have time to be messing with your personal business.”
“Hawkins?” Sistrunk was still talking. “You there?”
“I’m still here, Roger. But on second thought, never mind.”
“Never mind the raise? Okay, if you’re gonna be a prima donna, maybe I can squeeze another fifty bucks a week out of the budget.”
“Never mind the job, Roger,” she said. “I love you for offering it, and I will always appreciate everything you taught me, but I think, for now, I could do more good someplace else.”
“Damn it! You’re taking a job with the network, aren’t you? I knew it. Listen to me, Hawkins. You’d hate TV…”
* * *
She walked over to Lillian’s desk and picked up her messages. “A messenger came by while you were on the phone and left a package for you,” Lillian said.
“Where is it?”
“It’s outside. You been pissing off a lot of people in this town lately. I’m not fixing to get blown up by one of them pipe bombs,” Lillian said.
Conley found a manila envelope leaning against the brick planter box by the front door. It felt too light to be a pipe bomb, so she slit the flap open with her thumbnail and shook the contents out. It was a plastic transponder. There was no note, but she didn’t need one.
* * *
Rowena sailed past Conley’s desk, slowing only to glare at her before exiting the building.
“What’s up with Rowena?” Conley asked, sitting in the doorway of Grayson’s office. “She shot me some major stink eye out there.”
“She came in mad at me because she finally figured out you’ve been rewriting her column so that it’s actually lucid, and then I went and pissed her off even more when I told her no more dictating to Lillian or handing in typewritten columns. I told her she either learns how to use a computer or she hits the bricks.”
“Dayyyyumm, Gray. All of a sudden, you’re a hard-core badass.”
“Not badass. Just fed up. How did the television shoot go?”
Conley sat on the chair across from the desk. “Okay. But it was weird to be talking about myself on camera.”
“I guess you’d better get used to it,” Grayson said gloomily. “Michael says he’s sure they offered you a job.”
“Michael needs to learn to be a little more discreet with his eavesdropping,” Conley said.
“They did offer you a job, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.”
Grayson shrugged. “Congratulations, I guess.”
“I told her I’d think about it,” Conley said.
“And?”
“After they finished the shoot out front, I walked all over the house. I sat in my old bedroom and picked out a few of my favorite books. And then I walked down the hall to Dad’s room and went inside.”
Grayson looked puzzled. “There’s no furniture or books in there. G’mama cleared it out years ago.”
“I know. There are some old files from the bank, and I guess some of Pops’s files.”
“Are you upset? That we’re probably going to have to demolish the house?”
Conley shook her head. “No. I hadn’t been in Dad’s room since the night he died.”
“Ohhhh.” Gray sighed the word. “I forgot. You found him, right?”
“Yeah.” She looked down at her hands and then back up at her sister. “The thing is, Gray, I never told you. G’mama knew, of course, but I never told anybody, until Skelly. And I didn’t really tell him. He mostly guessed.”
“Told me what?”
“It wasn’t a heart attack, Gray. Dad … killed himself. He took an overdose of pills.”
Grayson nodded. “That makes sense.”
“That’s it?” Conley exclaimed. “You’re not shocked or appalled or, I don’t know, horrified?”
“No. Maybe I should be, but I’m not. It was selfish of me, but at the time, I was maybe a little relieved.”
“Jesus, Gray!”
“He’d been so sad, so lonely, for so long. You were closer to Dad than I was. You were always his baby. By the time he died, Tony and I were just starting our life together, and you were at a new job. I secretly always wondered if maybe he’d finally given up on waiting for Mom to come home, but I guess I really didn’t want to know the truth.”
“And I wished I didn’t know it,” Conley admitted.
“That’s why you hardly ever came home, right?” Gray asked.
Conley nodded. “I’ve dreaded it,” she whispered. “Being in that house, just down the hall from where I found him. And then this stuff with Symmes Robinette happened. I had to go back to that same damn funeral home and even the same church. I swear, Gray, sitting in that pew Saturday, I thought I was going to hyperventilate. Even Michael noticed I was acting weird.”
Grayson walked over and knelt on the floor by her. “Honey, why didn’t you say somet
hing? Why didn’t you tell me about Dad? I’m your sister. You should have told me.”
“I thought it was my fault. I knew how depressed he was, but I went off and took a job out of town and told myself it would be all right. I’ve felt so guilty. Maybe if I’d been around more, I could have done something, been there for him.”
“No.” Grayson was emphatic. “You couldn’t. No matter how much we loved Dad, we couldn’t save him. Nobody could.”
“How can you know that?”
“How can you not and stay sane? Here’s the truth, Conley. Dad’s gone. It’s okay to grieve for him, but you and I have got to move on. I don’t want to be like G’mama, hanging on to a landline, hoping that someday my daughter will magically call home and ask for forgiveness.”
“How do you do that?” Conley asked. “How am I supposed to move on when I still wake up in the middle of the night, hearing his voice?”
“You don’t do it by running away,” Grayson said.
“I’m not.”
Grayson looked dubious.
“I don’t want to work for the network. At least not full-time. And I don’t want to go back to work for the Atlanta paper either. I’ve done that already.”
“Soooo?”
“I was thinking,” Conley said slowly. “What if we can find a way to make the Beacon solvent again?”
“How would we accomplish that? The last week has been an amazing morale booster for all of us, but less than a hundred new subscribers and a handful of new advertisers aren’t gonna cut it.”
“We’ve gotta look for new ways to do community journalism,” Conley said. “Maybe we look for investors—not to buy us out but to partner with us. There are grants too. I’ve read about several foundations that are funding small-scale investigative journalism projects. And if we can hang on to our boy genius out there, maybe he can help us figure out how to monetize our social media.”
“That all sounds really promising,” Grayson said, “but I don’t want you thinking you have to give up your career to save the Beacon out of some misguided sense of guilt. There’s been enough of that in this family.”
Hello, Summer Page 45
