The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  “The Decker house is like that?”

  “Well, no.” I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. “It’s brick. Newer, I think. It wasn’t what I expected. Nor is the cottage.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, for one, there’s a rock garden out the front door. And wooden Adirondack chairs where I can already see myself sitting. Early morning, sipping on tea, reading under the pines—which are taller, Leigh, than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s like they go all the way up to the sky and beyond. There are hills and mountains and green valleys. After the drive up, I know why they call these the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

  “That’s it. I’m coming up during my vacation. I was thinking Paris again, but from the sound of your voice, Testament I have to see.”

  “Seriously. Every year you and I have sported off to some foreign location. Why haven’t we explored our own country? I couldn’t believe the beauty in the landscape as I drove up the coast of Georgia. My stay in Savannah wasn’t nearly long enough. We should go there sometime. Oh, and South Carolina and then North Carolina . . . the lush hills, the valleys . . .”

  “You’re starting to get all wordy on me. You know, the way you do when an article is about to be written?”

  “Maybe. When I get back and take over Dad’s job, I might start a whole new section of the magazine. Encourage Winter Park residents to stay in our country instead of spending all our money elsewhere.”

  “I like it.” We remained silent for a moment. “There’s something else, isn’t there? I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s there in your voice.”

  Leigh James knew me well.

  “Yeah, there’s something else. Not something, actually. Someone. But, honestly, girl. I’m so tired and I need to unpack. I’ll tell you all about him tomorrow.”

  “Him?”

  “Call you after work. Promise.”

  “Don’t leave me hanging . . .”

  I chuckled. “Tomorrow. I promise.”

  I ended the call with another sigh, then strained to sit up and peered over my shoulder. My Louis Vuitton luggage stood in the center of the room like abandoned children at a train station. “Time to explore the rest of the place,” I said.

  I stood and headed for the staircase between the bedroom and the bath. At the halfway landing, I opened an outside door to find a wide porch overlooking sloping acreage. At the farthest end, the windows of an old barn and a newer farmhouse seemed to peer back at me. Rustling in nearby shrubs caught my attention and I gasped. But two wagging tails told me my new furry friends remained content to hang out at the cottage.

  Or, perhaps, the cottage was their home and I, the unexpected guest.

  Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I ended up somewhere I didn’t belong.

  I waggled my fingers at them, but after a glance at me, they kept going.

  I sighed, stepped back inside and continued the climb, to another large sitting area flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A claw-foot mahogany desk faced a narrow floor-to-ceiling window centered on the far wall. The focal point, a four-poster rice bed draped with a crocheted coverlet, appeared to be authentically antique. Beyond, a second bathroom. This one with a medicine cabinet.

  I reached toward it.

  “Hello!” I heard Bobbie call from downstairs. “Yoo-hoo!”

  I bounded down the stairs as though I’d been caught trespassing. “Hi,” I said as I reached the landing.

  Bobbie stood next to my luggage. “Oh,” she said, peering at it. “I thought you’d be unpacked by now. Do you need help?”

  I felt warmth color my cheeks, hoping it had been okay that I’d ventured upstairs. “No. I took some time to make a few calls.” I pointed upward. “Any reason I can’t use the room upstairs?”

  Bobbie appeared shocked at my request. “Darlin’, the whole house is yours for the next six months.” She walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. “I’ve put some things in here for you until you have time to run to the store, but if you need anything else, let me know.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  “And over here,” she said, moving to the counter, “is the Keurig coffeemaker.” She pointed to a bamboo basket. “The little cups of coffee and tea are in this basket, but if you don’t like the selection, you let me know.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine. I’m happy to order more or buy them . . .”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” she said, coming out from behind the counter. “Now, do you want some help getting your luggage upstairs? Shame on that William for not taking them up for you.”

  “Ah . . . no. And, really, I think he was ready to go home or . . . something.” I swallowed. Squeezed my hands into tight fists. “So, William works for the paper?”

  Bobbie crossed her arms. “More than just working. With Shel spending less time there, he’s taking on more than his fair share. And he’s doing a fine job keeping things running, chasing down stories, getting them written, and then editing the work of our sports reporter, Alma.”

  “Alma?”

  “She’s a firecracker.” Bobbie stepped over to the door and placed her hand on the doorknob. “You’ll get along fine with her, I’m sure.” She lowered her voice a notch. “Not the all-around best writer, you see, but she knows her football from her soccer.”

  I slipped my hands behind me, linking my fingers and straightening my back and wondering if Bobbie knew the real reason why Gram had sent me here. And then figuring probably so. “My job, for now, will be to do . . . what?”

  Bobbie looked at me quizzically. “I would have thought your father and Shelton had gone over all that.”

  “Well, they did, but I don’t, in all honesty, remember anything about working with your grandson. I have to admit, I’m not used to working with another reporter and I thought I’d do more with the magazine.”

  The older woman grinned. “You will, from what I understand.” She waved a hand. “I try not to get as involved as I used to. William will help you with whatever you need to do on that.” She touched my arm. “Oh, I’m sure the two of you will get along famously. He’ll probably start you off doing some work on the paper until you get used to the way of things around here.”

  “The way of things?”

  “We’re a small community, Ashlynne, but don’t let that fool you. We’re hoppin’.”

  “I’m sure you are, but . . .”

  She turned the knob, stopping me from speaking further. “I’ll let you get unpacked. And I bet you could use some rest. Now, Shelton and I don’t usually eat another meal after one like what we had down at the house, and we turn in early most Sunday nights. But if you need anything, our phone number is on a piece of paper under a magnet on the refrigerator.”

  I looked toward the kitchen. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. But—”

  “You’re going to have a good time here, Ashlynne. I know you will.” She jerked the door open and stepped out to where the dogs waited for her. “Oh, you little darlins,” she said to them. “Y’all need to come on down to the house and get out of the awful afternoon heat.” She closed the door behind her without another word, leaving me to only blink in response.

  6

  After a satisfying night of sleep, I woke with one question on my mind: what time did work begin at a small town newspaper? A quick look at my iPhone told me daylight had more than broken. It was nearly 7:30.

  For my first day on the job, I chose a pair of Vince Camuto houndstooth ankle pants, a white ruched, three-quarter-sleeved dress tee, and my favorite pair of Salvatore Ferragamo peep-toe pumps. I slipped a couple of bangles onto both wrists and selected white pearl earrings and a necklace of black and white pearls. A look in the mirror brought a smile. I looked completely approachable; indeed, like the kind of person another person might have for a friend. Maybe even . . . what was her name? Alma? The sportswriter. Yes. Bobbie said “Alma.” I knew absolutely nothing about sports in general, but if I asked her to teach me,
maybe I’d make a new friend. I could tell Dad all about our time together and he’d see how well I was doing at the newly required goal in my professional life: becoming approachable to everyone.

  I made a cup of tea and, while it brewed, I threw my phone into my purse. I kicked myself that on my first morning in Testament I’d not managed to wake up in time for quiet reading and prayer. The coffeemaker sighed, letting me know it was ready. I added milk and a packet of raw sugar—God bless Bobbie Decker—and scooted out the door.

  River rock crunched beneath my shoes. My heels sank between them, causing me to wobble to my car. When I had managed to reach the Jag, I slid in, started it, and slammed the door, nearly in one movement. The clock registered 8:30.

  I wasn’t sure what time I should be at work, but I felt fairly confident I was late. I sighed with the realization that I also didn’t know where to go. No doubt Will Decker had avoided that piece of information on purpose.

  I entered the name of the paper in my GPS and waited for the satellites hovering out there somewhere to locate the address.

  And me.

  My car rolled down the hilly driveway, past the Deckers’ home and along the same path it had taken the day before, until I reached the highway. The GPS continued to search. Instinct told me to turn right, toward Testament, and so I did, driving past the same stretches of land from the day before. A glance in my rearview mirror and my eyes widened. The hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains filled the narrow reflection.

  I came to a stop sign just as the automated voice said, “Turn right, then turn left.”

  “Thank you for joining me this morning,” I mumbled.

  The way was familiar, even after only one trip from Testament to the Deckers’. I drove past service stations, drugstores, a new grocery store on the right, and a dilapidated car repair shop on the left.

  “Turn left, then keep right for three miles.”

  I passed through the sleepy town of Testament, noting the looming courthouse in the middle of town where well-dressed men and women climbed narrow marble steps to massive front doors. Heading to work, to pay their fines and taxes, to serve on a jury, I supposed.

  I continued along until I heard the automated voice say, “In one hundred feet, turn right. Destination on right.”

  The Testament Tribune offices were located in a small building with cream-colored siding and two glass doors centered on its face. On either side of the doors stood newspaper receptacles with The Testament Tribune scrolled across their fronts with one T used for the three words. I parked in front, in one of six spaces, all of them empty but mine.

  Parking outside in the North Carolina elements was a far cry from the parking garage on Park Avenue. The “Reserved for A. Rothschild” painted on the cement wall above parking space No. 22. The short elevator ride down to the atrium just outside the offices of Parks & Avenues.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I missed home.

  Then, regaining my resolve, I got out of the car, picked up my cup of tea, my purse, and the black Burberry briefcase I’d left overnight on the floorboard behind the driver’s seat. Inside it was a slimline laptop, two legal pads, one TOPS reporter’s notebook, several pens, and a framed photograph I’d brought from my Winter Park office—Leigh and me at Disney. No one could say I wasn’t prepared for my new job. And, between the briefcase, my purse, the cup of tea, and my sporty outfit, I figured I made an impressive image walking toward the door . . .

  . . . which Will Decker swung out of as I neared it. “Where have you been?” he stormed. “Do you know what time we get started around here on Mondays?”

  My shoulders squared as my chin grew rigid. “I didn’t even know where around here was until five minutes ago,” I shot back. “Do you know that no one—and that includes you, Mr. New Boss—even bothered to tell me where the newspaper office was located?” I sighed in exasperation.

  “Well, now you know,” he said, turning on his booted heel and pulling the door open for me. “After you, Your Highness.”

  I managed to squelch the desire to roll my eyes. I would not let him get to me on my first day of work. At least not any more than he already had. I would not. I would succeed.

  I would.

  I stepped into the building’s cool interior with Will following. In the small front room, what appeared to be fairly updated wallpaper graced the top half of the walls. On the lower portion, 1980s faux- wood paneling mimicked wainscoting and extended to the floor. Thick-framed nature prints and myriad award plaques dominated the main wall in front of me. And two wingback chairs sandwiched an octagon-shaped end table I could swear my grandmother had in her home back when I was a child. Or maybe one like it.

  “To your left,” Will said from behind me, the words enveloped by a sigh.

  I walked through a doorway and into a long, boring hall. Stepping aside, I said, “I’ll follow you since I don’t know where I’m going.”

  Will breezed past me, the lingering scent of Hugo Boss aftershave floating behind him. I gave a half-smile at the irony. If I knew Will Decker even a little already—and I’d wager I did—he’d deduced that I knew one thing above all else—fashion and fragrance. Choosing Hugo Boss to wear on our first day working together was his dig at making sure I remembered who was who in this small-town operation.

  “I’m sure our little newspaper is nothing compared to where you’ve worked previously, but a daily newspaper is about news, not about dolled-up offices.” He threw the words over his shoulder and kept going past several rooms I hardly had time to look into. He reached a door near the end of the hallway and finally turned toward me, extending his hand as though escorting a patron to a seat at the opera. “After you.”

  The room yelled storage room instead of office. Assorted metal filing cabinets jammed between mismatched desks. Dinosaur PCs, new laptops, and stacks upon stacks of newspapers, memos, pictures in frames, and whatnots. The desk to my right and against the back wall had obviously been claimed. Will’s cowboy hat rested atop a wire mesh in-and-out box beside a Chicago Star coffee mug and a partially used legal pad.

  Will pointed to the desk directly across from his. “You may as well take this one,” he said. “No one uses it.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Then what’s the stuff all over it?”

  “Spillover,” he said. He transferred as much as he could to his chair. “We’ll get you settled in here, I’ll introduce you around, and then we have an assignment to get to.”

  I winced as the pile leaned, then looked at the ceiling and blinked several times. The surrounding clutter left me claustrophobic. My office back home may be small, but it was uncluttered. I could work in it and keep my thoughts straight.

  I took a deep breath, looked straight ahead, and placed my purse on the scarred wooden desk, the briefcase in an old slat-back swivel office chair, and my cup of half-consumed tea on the desk.

  A woman entered from the other end of the room and called over the four desks between us. “Is this her? Are you Ashlynne? Because if you are, girl, I’m Alma.”

  Like the Deckers’ home and cottage, Alma was not what I’d expected. For one, I’d pictured late twenties, petite, and with an athletic build. Long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. And, of course, she would be wearing sporty shorts and a tee that read Testament Tigers. Or something like that.

  Instead, Alma was a tall, thickly built—and I’d venture not a toned muscle in sight—African American with soft black curls tousled around a pretty face. She wore simple slacks and a polyester short-sleeved top with a horizontal stripe. Basically stylish, but not a good look for a woman of her size. Not that I would tell her so.

  Certainly not on our first meeting.

  In easy strides, Alma crossed the room with her hand extended. I met her halfway and slipped my hand into hers. I plastered a smile on my face, more determined than ever. “Yes, I’m Ashlynne.”

  “And she was late,” Will said behind me. “On a Monday.”

  Alma leaned in, bringing
her red-painted lips close to my ear. “That boy giving you a hard time already? ’Cause I can take him down.”

  I suppressed a giggle. “He’s not a problem,” I lied.

  A young man with shaggy brown hair and a full beard lumbered in. He wore jeans that appeared a size too big and a wrinkled polo shirt. “Hey,” he drawled. “I’m Garrison.” He didn’t bother to shake my hand.

  “Garrison is our layout guy,” William said. “And an amazing graphic artist.”

  “Nice to meet you, Garrison,” I said, just as static-laced chatter came from over my right shoulder. A police scanner I hadn’t previously noticed sat atop one of the four-drawer metal filing cabinets beside Will. He smiled and glanced over at Garrison. “Can you believe that? Some woman called the PD because she can’t find an electrical outlet in her new home.”

  “Can you tell who it was?”

  “The woman who moved up from South Florida . . . what’s her name?”

  “Migdalia something or another . . . ,” Alma supplied. “I hate to say this, being a Christian and all, but have you actually had a conversation with that woman? She’s dumber than dirt.”

  I stood in the middle of the room, the conversation spinning around me. “And she called because she can’t find an electrical outlet?” I asked. “Is she mentally well? I mean, what kind of person can’t find an electrical outlet?”

  “Some of these houses around here are pretty old,” William said. “That means some of the rooms don’t have electrical outlets.”

  “Isn’t there a law that says there has to be an outlet?” I asked.

  “Maybe that’s why she called the police,” Garrison said with a grin.

  An unexpected chuckle rose out of me, followed by a momentary but silent hallelujah. Not three minutes in the office, and though outside my comfort zone, already I felt like part of the group. I was doing it!

  “All right, everyone,” William called out. “Let’s get to work.” He centered his attention on me. “We’ve lost time. I’ll have to give you the grand tour later. You ready to ride?”