by Jess Vonn
“I’d be lying if I said I’ll be providing you with much big, breaking crime news,” he admitted.
“I guess that’s ultimately a good thing. After living in Chicago for four years, I’ve had my fill of sick, twisted crimes.”
He nodded in understanding. She wondered if he’d always been a small-town cop, or if he’d also had a taste of big city life.
“You know, I take that back,” Chief Conrad said. “We do see some action sometimes. Just this morning, a squirrel had the audacity to break into Mabel Murphy’s four-seasons room.”
Winnie laughed. It sounded like the kind of story that Esther Hoffman might call in. Luckily the grandmotherly woman had taken it pretty well yesterday when Winnie called and let her know she would not be driving out to her farm to take pictures of her oddly-striped summer squash. Only time would tell what Esther’s next news tip would be.
“Well, I’ll be sure to hold a spot on the front page for that one. If the squirrel will give me a quote, that is.”
Winnie asked him a few more questions about the Bloomsburo community, but before long, the council doors swung open once more. The squat councilwoman returned, her face flushed red and sweaty from exertion, and she brought with her two contrasting guests.
The first, an older man who, by the look of things, had just rolled out of bed.
His sandy white hair stuck up in odd spikes around his sunburned scalp. A printed, wrinkled button-up shirt stretched to fit over his protruding belly. Its buttons were askew, leaving a long tail on the bottom of one half of the shirt. His cargo shorts seemed like an odd option given his tall white athletic socks and his black Adidas sandals. Though the casual attire bore no resemblance to the suit and tie he wore in his official photo online, Winnie quickly identified the man as Mayor Ralph Simpson.
As strange as his frazzled, unprofessional entrance seemed, even stranger was the woman who accompanied him. Winnie couldn’t decide what was most striking about the woman, who looked about Winnie’s age: the white-blonde hair, the piercing blue eyes, the tall and athletic build, or the ample bust that unnaturally contrasted the firm leanness of the rest of her physique. She wore painted-on white leggings and a soft, silky neon pink halter top that perfectly matched the shade of her three-inch strappy heels.
“That’s Greta Johannsen,” the chief said, gesturing up to the blonde vision at the mayor’s side.
Of course that was her name, seeing how she looked like she emerged from some magical springs in the Alps like a goddess from one of Grimm’s fairytales.
“She’s the mayor of Broadsville,” Chief Conrad continued, referring to the neighboring town.
Winnie did a double take.
“You’re messing with me,” Winnie said in disbelief. She looked at the woman once more, a woman who wouldn’t look out of place on a runway. Winnie felt like a jerk for even having the thought, but the woman was not what you thought of when you thought small town politician. Her youth, style and beauty were quite frankly shocking.
“I’m telling the truth,” the chief maintained. “She was elected two years ago, when she was only twenty-three. Her dad is a very rich and very well-known figure in agribusiness after he patented some special strand of fertilizer. He made a gazillion bucks, and she pretty much gets what she wants around here.”
Cal.
Why would his name pop into her head right now? Why couldn’t she keep him off her mind for five solid minutes? But Winnie couldn’t help but think that if she happened to be a stunning and successful blonde who lived in the area and got whatever she wanted, she’d pick Cal.
Winnie experienced the typical process she went through when an alpha female neared. Nervousness mixed with a desire to be liked, mixed with a splash of inferiority and a touch of nausea. But she’d have to fight through it. This was another professional acquaintance. Granted, not one she’d work with nearly as often as Cal or Chief Conrad, but a colleague nonetheless. Winnie needed to give her the same warm reception she’d give anyone else.
The pair came closer, with the mayor focused up front, not registering Winnie’s presence in the room. Greta did, though, a sign of that distinctly female awareness that women seemed to have around one another. Winnie pulled up her big girl panties and offered Greta a warm smile.
In return, Greta offered only cool disapproval, her eyes flickering over Winnie from head to toe, quickly deeming her inconsequential.
Somehow, the dismissal strengthened Winnie’s resolve. She might feel social anxiety around a woman with Greta’s beauty and confidence, but she didn’t feel professional anxiety around her. She jotted down the very first sentence from the meeting in her reporter’s notebook: What is the Broadsville mayor doing at the Bloomsburo city council meeting, and why did she walk in late with Mayor Simpson?
Winnie knew she wouldn’t get the answer today, but she now had an agenda, even if the council didn’t.
The mayor finally made his way to the podium he should have been at seventeen minutes earlier.
“Well, uh, hmmm,” the man sputtered. “Sorry for the delay, but, well, when the constituency calls, the mayor must answer. Yes, indeed, I had a bit of an… umm… residential emergency this morning, but, uh, rest assured, it was resolved completely, and we have another happy Bloomsburo citizen.”
From his bio on the web, Winnie knew that Simpson had served as mayor of Bloomsburo for more than twenty years. If today’s weirdness indicated his typical behavior, she struggled to see how that was possible. Nonetheless, he grabbed the gravel and slammed it down.
“Let’s get started then.” Mayor Simpson looked out into the chamber, still empty except for Winnie, Chief Conrad, and now Greta Johannsen sitting with perfect posture in the very front row. Winnie instinctively sat up straighter.
When the mayor’s eyes finally met Winnie’s, his expression was hard to read. She merely smiled confidently in his direction, making sure he understood that she was not the type to get scared off.
For the next fifteen minutes, the council did a very poor job of pretending they knew what they were doing, rambling on about new restaurants in town and ideas for a dog park. When the gavel sounded again to end the meeting, they all looked fairly pleased with their performances, but Winnie knew an improvised show when she saw one.
Something was seriously wrong with the Bloomsburo city government, and she had a new mission to figure out exactly what it was.
Chapter 7
Having wrapped up her very first issue of the paper late on Tuesday evening, there was one lingering item on Winnie’s to-do list, and it filled her with dread. Winnie reluctantly sent Cal an email at the Chamber on Wednesday evening with some questions about the upcoming Bloomsburo Days special section. She couldn’t avoid the man forever.
Cal,
I am beginning my work on the Bloomsburo Days special section. Could you let me know how much involvement the Chamber typically has with its production? Do we compile it collaboratively?
Thanks in advance, Winnie Briggs
By the time she arrived at the office Thursday morning, a response awaited her, but it wasn’t from Cal.
Dear Miss Briggs,
Mr. Spencer says that the newspaper staff puts the section together, and then the Chamber reviews it when a full draft is available. Please let me know how I may be of assistance in the meantime.
Sincerely and with kind regards, Danny M. McDonald, Intern
What an odd response, Winnie mused. Not quite sure how to interpret the intern’s dispatch on behalf of “Mr. Spencer,” Winnie chose to ignore it. Later that afternoon, however, she found herself with some more questions about the section. She wrote Cal once more.
Cal,
Regarding the upcoming special section, do you sell the advertising, or does that happen through our sales department? Is there a standard ad size, or do they vary?
Thanks, Winnie Briggs
Exactly thirteen minutes later, the reply arrived.
Dear Miss Briggs,
<
br /> Mr. Spencer says that the Chamber coordinates the advertising. You’ll just need to reserve space for 18 advertisements, all three columns by five inches. Please do not hesitate to contact me with follow-up questions.
Sincerely and with kind regards, Danny M. McDonald, intern
What. The heck.
“Mr. Spencer” had a quite a bit to say despite his inability to push the ‘reply’ button on an email. Winnie set the issue aside for the day, needing to go cover the blood drive at the Presbyterian church, but when the exact same scenario replayed itself Friday morning with a third message to the elusive Chamber director and a third response from her dear friend Danny, she began to take it personally. She stomped up the hallway to Gloria’s desk at the front of the newspaper office to investigate the matter further.
“Does Cal Spencer write you emails?” she asked, her voice failing to hide her annoyance.
Gloria seemed surprise by the random inquiry. Either that or she was startled by Winnie’s uncharacteristic crankiness.
“Uh, well, yes. We’re in touch a few times a week about something. He’s really good about responding to emails.”
“But does he actually write you or does Danny the Intern write you?”
“Who on earth is Danny the Intern?”
“You don’t even know about Danny the Intern?”
“I guess I don’t.”
Winnie sighed.
“What email address are you using to write Cal?” Winnie asked.
“Let’s see,” Gloria said, clicking around on her computer for a few seconds. “I use [email protected].”
The same one Winnie had been using.
Winnie scowled, and sulked back to her office, falling to provide Gloria with any more context. She didn’t want the woman thinking that town leaders were already actively avoiding her.
Especially since it might be true.
She plunked down in her office chair and crossed her arms over her chest, looking not unlike a pouty toddler. Which felt about right. Clearly Cal still hadn’t forgiven her for moving into the She Shed, which was ridiculous. Any frustration on his end should be directed to his mother, not Winnie, who had done nothing wrong.
She breathed out slowly and decided to forget it for the time being. She had an issue to put together before she could go home tonight.
Ugh. Her annoyance with Cal had momentarily distracted her from the fact that her sports stringer contracted strep throat, meaning Winnie would have to cover tonight’s Bloomsburo High School football game.
Winnie would cover a hundred stories about summer squashes with weird stripes if it got her out of writing even one sports story.
Her arms collapsed onto the desk in front of her, and her head followed suit, gently pounding into the nook of her arms over and over again, as if the action could change the fate of her day. That was how Gloria found her a few minutes later when she popped her head around the corner.
“Winnie?” she asked, her voice concerned, and with good reason given Winnie’s moody behavior this morning. “I hate to bother you, but Esther Hoffman’s on the line. Her great niece out in Montana recently won a blue ribbon for her steer at the county fair, and she wondered if you might want to do a story on it.”
Winnie silently wished, just for a moment, that she had an intern who could field the messages she didn’t want to deal with.
~-~-~-~-~-~-
Winnie ended up with exactly one hour to spare after she sent the weekend edition of the newspaper to the printer and before she needed to show up at the Friday night football game. Rushing home to change and get some food, she stepped up onto the porch and into the cozy cottage, feeling, as she always felt upon entering it, at peace.
The She Shed had become her oasis. She loved every inch of the space, which felt like a really comfortable combination of Rhonda’s cozy style and Winnie’s flair. If Cal’s every action (or lack of action) filled Winnie with angst and anxiety, his mother had the opposite effect. Her warmth, her humor, the maternal way she checked in on Winnie at odd times, often served as the one comfortable thing Winnie could count on in this new life in Bloomsburo.
She jumped up onto the comfy sea of throw pillows on her four-poster bed, pulled her phone out of her bag and wrote a quick text to Evie, her second saving grace in town.
Sure you can’t come with me to the football game tonight? I don’t think I can survive without you!! XO
Evie responded promptly, as usual.
Wish I could. Have all the kids tonight, husband’s out of town. I think that Thomas the Tank Engine on repeat may be worse than a football game. HELP! Working Sunday lunch shift if you need food. Good luck!
Yes, food. Winnie still hadn’t quite gotten her act together on that front yet, though she had managed to find Murphy’s Grocery for those meals she didn’t eat at Dewey’s. She hopped up and looked around the kitchen. The oven remained unused, but the microwave had already proven essential. Opening a cupboard, she surveyed the breakfast shelf lined with Pop-Tarts and granola bars, the lunch shelf lined with canned soup and crackers, and the dinner shelf lined with ramen noodle packs and microwaveable cups of mac and cheese.
She sighed. If a toddler could design a dream pantry, it would look like this. Winnie wanted to eat like a grown up, she really did, but she didn’t know how to cook. In Chicago, street vendors and Bree kept her alive (her friend possessed serious culinary skills, something that set her apart from Winnie’s own parents, who relied mostly on takeout and freezer meals when she was growing up.) Here in Bloomsburo she didn’t have access to 24-hour food trucks, nor did she find herself with enough free time to begin to learn how to feed herself like an adult.
Oh, and she didn’t own any pots or pans, which complicated things further. She did have one spatula, though, and she felt pretty proud of it. The bright orange handle gave way to a flexible rubber top, white with red and yellow stars all over it. She knew it would come in handy one day, doing whatever it is that spatulas do in the kitchen. In the meantime it just looked cute.
Just as she was about to prepare a microwavable cup of noodles, a knock on the door and Rhonda’s kind voice floated from the porch.
“You home, Winnie?”
“Come on in!” she yelled, struggling to get the plastic seal off the tiny plastic cup.
Rhonda walked in, a mason jar of wild flowers in her hand. Today her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and Winnie couldn’t help but admire the long strawberry-blond curls streaked with silver. So rarely did a woman in her fifties keep her hair that long, but it suited Rhonda perfectly.
“For you!” she said, giving Winnie a kiss on her cheek and setting the bouquet in the middle of her small table.
“These are gorgeous. I still can’t get over your gardens,” Winnie said. She recently learned that Rhonda had worked most of her life as a tea maker and herbalist, hence the gorgeous landscaping that separated Rhonda’s house from the cottage. She hoped to gather up enough courage to ask Rhonda for a tour of her massive, solar powered green house that filled the side yard. “I have a black thumb.”
“Oh, there’s no such thing as a black thumb. There’s only a lack of practice.”
Winnie hadn’t known Rhonda for long, but she already knew that the woman specialized in helping people take a positive spin on their weaknesses.
Rhonda’s eyes quickly flickered over Winnie’s sad meal-in-a-cup, and though they didn’t linger there long, they expressed displeasure at Winnie’s pathetic meal.
“The flowers were only an excuse to come over here,” Rhonda said warmly. “I have an invitation to issue.”
Winnie’s stomach twirled.
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. Every Sunday evening my kids and their families come over and we do a big family-style dinner. I want you to come as my guest and meet everyone.”
Emotional reactions flooded Winnie so quickly and so forcefully that she lost track of the order of their arrival. Desire for a cozy famil
y meal. The distant-yet-familiar heartache about her own lack of family. Embarrassment that the sad state of her pantry had led to what could only be a pity invite. Curiosity at what the inside of Rhonda’s home looked like and about her daughters’ personalities. And then of course, that now familiar fearful/excited combo that she felt any time the prospect of seeing Cal came to mind, which made it obvious what her answer had to be.
“I couldn’t,” she said, the most truthful answer she could offer without revealing too much. Even if Cal weren’t a factor, even if the man hadn’t been actively avoiding contact with her for the better part of a week, and even if she didn’t know in her heart of hearts that he would be livid over her appearance at a family meal, she couldn’t ask that of Rhonda. The woman had already been so warm and generous. Winnie couldn’t take advantage of it. She had to put up boundaries, even if Rhonda refused to.
“You must. I insist! It would bring me so much happiness,” Rhonda said, grabbing Winnie’s hand with her own. Oh, she was a hard woman to refuse.
“It’s such a kind offer, and I enjoy your company so much, but it just doesn’t feel right. That family time is sacred.”
“I agree, which is why I want you to be there with us.”
It was difficult to wrap her head around, the idea of these big family gatherings, where adult siblings came together in their parents’ home. Her brother Johnny would have been 17 by now—a heart-wrenching calculation that she never lost track of. It was unfathomable to her, given that his life was cut short in boyhood. She’d never had the chance to see him grow into a man, but she knew instinctively that she would have adored the grown-up version of her silly and impulsive baby brother.
Winnie just shook her head no.
Rhonda sighed.
“Well, have it your way,” she said, looking once more at the sad Styrofoam cup of instant noodles on the counter. “But know that I’ll keep asking until I break you down.”
