by Melissa Tagg
“I’m confident I’m sticking around. Can’t speak for Colt.”
“Ha, don’t try to pretend you guys aren’t a package deal.”
She snickered and freed her arm from his. “I’ll say this—twelve months ago if you’d told me I’d be moving back to Maple Valley early this year, I’d have laughed in your face. Now, I couldn’t be happier, and it’s hard to picture myself anywhere else. But Colton has a dream of eventually expanding his nonprofit, and who knows what that could mean?”
Still hard to believe, sometimes, the same Colton he’d known back in LA—the one whose injuries had forced him out of the NFL, the one he’d had to pick up at a bar after a fight the week he’d announced his retirement—had now opened a transitional home for male teens aging out of the foster care system.
In fact, Colton was with one of the teens right now, a high school football player he’d started mentoring last year. Kate said they worked out at the community center every Saturday morning like clockwork.
“Duck number fourteen is in the lead now.” The mayor’s voice rasped as he walked and talked at the same time. “But seventy-six is right on his tail. As are forty-two, forty-eight, and ninety-one. But we all know how this goes. It can change as fast as the tide. Who will win this year? It’s anyone’s guess.”
“Man, how badly does he want to be a sports announcer?”
Kate waved at a friend. “Or a circus ringmaster. Or game show host. Oh, hey, look. Your paper’s covering this shindig.”
He followed her gaze down the river, its ripples marked by an almost pearl-white sun, to the bridge up ahead. On the other side stood Amelia Bentley with a long-lensed camera. She already had the camera to her eye, angling it down the river and back.
“You should’ve seen her last night, Kate. She was almost . . . desperate.”
“Amelia?”
His hot chocolate had turned bitter as he’d swallowed after she’d asked about the paper. And for five minutes he’d just stood there, practically mute, while she pitched all the reasons he shouldn’t sell. The jobs he could save. The legacy he could preserve.
“You don’t even have to stay in town, if you don’t want. I know enough about the day-to-day operations. Not that we don’t want you to stay. If you did stay, it could be awesome. It’d be fun—you’d see. Have you thought about staying?”
Stay. Stay. Stay. How many times had she said the word?
Every time had felt like a pinprick. Did she think he’d just walk away from his life in LA to oversee a paper that was hemorrhaging money?
“She asked if I’d hold on to the paper, at least through June. She thinks she can turn the numbers around by the end of the fiscal year.”
“Do you think she can?”
Across the river, Amelia lowered her camera, leaned over to say something to the guy standing next to her. “I think if irrational love for a small-town weekly was enough to keep its heart pumping, she’d be the one to do it. But is it actually financially possible? I have my doubts. I mean, maybe if they got a website, then they could bring in some extra ad revenue.”
And her idea for a centennial issue wasn’t a bad one. Might actually give them a nice subscriber boost.
“So what’d you tell her?”
He shrugged. “She got a phone call, and I was saved from answering.” Some guy named Owen. Was that the dude standing next to her now?
“So why don’t you stay?”
He turned. That word again.
“Stay. Not forever, but longer than a week a two. Shouldn’t that be one of the perks of being your own boss? Being able to take extended time off or work remotely? Take some time to make your decision.”
“There’s no decision, Kate. I’m selling. That money will be really helpful. Even with insurance, speech therapy for Charlie is expensive.”
“But you could probably get a better deal for the paper if you take some time, make some improvements, start that website.”
She had a minor point. He’d read the paperwork Hugh Banner had given him. The offer from Cranford Communications was lowball, no question about that.
“I can’t just take a break from real life, though.”
“Logan, this is real life. Real life isn’t just your career or your everyday stuff. It’s the surprises and opportunities and open doors you didn’t see coming. Last year taught me that. You remember. I thought I was going to be writing another movie or going to Africa to work for Mom’s foundation. Coming home felt like the hugest interruption—but it turned out maybe the interruption was part of some bigger plan all along.”
Of course by bigger plan she meant God’s plan. But he didn’t know how he felt about the idea of God and his plans these days. Not if life interruptions like Emma’s death could be considered part of “God’s plan.”
Or how about Charlie? Was it God’s plan she grow up without her mom—her adoptive mom and her birth mom? And was it God’s plan Emma’s little sister get pregnant at nineteen while on drugs? Oh, she’d promised she was sober all the way through her pregnancy, but he’d started wondering lately if that had been a lie. If maybe Waverly O’Hare’s addiction issues might’ve contributed to Charlie’s not talking.
“We’re getting closer. Eighty-four has captured the lead.” The mayor’s voice cut into his thoughts.
“Okay, I’ll stop,” Kate said. “I know that look.”
“What look?” He scoped out Charlie again, still smiling atop Dad’s shoulders. What was her duck number again? Sixty-five or sixty-six?
“The look that says I’m being pushy and you’re the older brother. You’re the one who’s supposed to dole out advice.”
An expectant hush fanned over the crowd as the bobbing ducks neared the bridge. “I don’t mind your advice, sis.”
“In that case, I’ll say one more thing: You’re burnt out, Logan. We all see it. You’ve got circles under your eyes, you’ve forgotten how to shave—”
“You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself, you know that?”
“Stick around for a while. We can help with Charlie. You could remember what it feels like to have a hobby. Go fishing. You used to love that. Or get out your guitar—”
“I don’t play anymore.” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended.
But Kate didn’t seem to notice. “Besides, you might have fun playing newspaper publisher for a while. Write some articles, flirt with the cute editor—”
“Kate.”
“Come on, admit she’s pretty.”
Maybe she was—something about those speckled eyes—but he’d shave his head before admitting it to Kate. She wrote romantic stories for a living, after all. She’d start playing matchmaker so fast he might as well write his vows already.
“Logan?” She’d stopped, the rest of the crowd continuing to move around her. “You’ll do the right thing. Whatever you decide about the paper and selling and staying or not staying. You’ll do the right thing. You always do.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? This time he honestly didn’t know what the right thing was.
“And number sixty-six has taken a solid lead with only feet to go!”
Kate’s eyes widened. “That’s Charlie’s, isn’t it?”
Up ahead, Charlie was waving her arms from atop Dad’s shoulders. Minutes later, they stood on the Peach Street Bridge, Charlie holding a wet duck and Logan holding Charlie. Dad grinning and Kate clapping. And somehow he heard the whisper in his heart even over the crowd.
Stay.
“Can I get a picture for next week’s paper?”
Amelia. With her camera and her notebook and that hopeful expectation in her eyes. She lifted her camera, and Charlie held up her duck with a smile that could’ve melted the last of the ice in the river.
Sometimes it really stunk, being the only one in the office with both the gall and an arm small enough to battle the press machine. Amelia flexed her hand as she felt around inside the machine for jammed newsprint, inky fum
es clouding around her from her perch on the stepstool. Great way to start off the week.
And Mae wasn’t helping.
“This is exactly why you should be talking with my niece, Amelia. I can guarantee you USA Today doesn’t have her fixing jammed machines.”
It was at least the fiftieth time Mae had brought up her niece—a “real journalist.” Apparently, she worked at USA Today’s Chicago outlet. “You really want to get rid of me that badly, Mae?”
“I’m just saying, if you love the newspaper business so much, then why would you not take advantage of a connection at a major paper? Plus, Belle’s part of this young startup thing on the side, which you, of all people, would love, and she’s in town this weekend—”
Amelia huffed a strand of hair from her face. “Thank you, Mae, but I’m staying.” If she wasn’t willing to move an hour away to work for the Communicator, she certainly had no desire to traipse off to Chicago.
“Sorry about this,” Ledge rasped behind her as the door signaled Mae’s sulky retreat. Amelia had only recently learned the reason for the press operator’s soft, throaty voice—the result of damage to his vocal chords in a house fire when he was a kid. It didn’t match his frame—bulky enough for a spot on a football team’s defensive line.
“Not your fault this equipment is older than dirt.” Freddie had wanted to replace the pressroom’s machines last year after the flood, but a flimsy insurance policy had left him cash-poor and forced into making lousy repairs instead. There, her fingers latched on to the source of the jam, and she yanked.
“Try it now, Ledge.”
“Get your hand out of there first.”
She hopped off the stepstool and backed away. Ledge hit the button to start up the machine.
It gurgled to life, rumbling enough to rattle the window in between the pressroom and newsroom. But a couple chugs later, the clunking started again, and then the flashing light alerted them to another jam.
As if the mangled paper shooting from its mouth wasn’t sign enough.
Ledge released a sigh and switched off the press. “I don’t know, Amelia. We might have to buckle down and call a repairman this time.”
“Oh no. I have fixed this baby so many times. No way are we paying someone else to come in and do what I’m perfectly capable of myself.” Never mind that she’d probably ruin her shirt in the process. She’d already accidentally smeared ink down her arm.
She climbed onto the stool again, buried her hand inside the machine again, and felt around for more bits of paper and the rod that always insisted on coming loose. The pressroom door whomped behind her. Owen, probably, coming to check on their progress. With production day tomorrow and the paper due to hit doorsteps on Wednesday, Monday afternoons were always busy.
But it wasn’t Owen’s voice that caused her to jerk, bumping her shoulder against the top of the machine. “Having trouble?”
She yanked her arm free and turned. Logan? He held a stack of folders under one arm, wore a gray, unbuttoned plaid flannel coat—looked like something he’d borrowed from his dad—over an untucked Oxford and tie, along with a pinched smile that told her he was trying to hold his amusement in check. Even from the stepstool, she had barely an inch on him. “Just . . . ah . . . a paper jam.”
“You know, I fixed that thing about a thousand times back when I worked here. If you need help . . .”
She swiped the back of her hand over her forehead. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.” She turned back to the machine, trying to pretend the heat in her cheeks was from the effort of fighting the press and not the man standing behind her.
Please, it was thirty-five degrees outside, and this building was as drafty as an old garage.
She’d had the exact same reaction to Logan at the bridge on Saturday, when he’d held his daughter with the pride of an Olympic athlete’s parent. And then Sunday when she’d spotted him in church with his family, way up front in the Walker pew. Had almost considered sticking around after church just to say hi. Almost. Would’ve been the first time in two years she didn’t slip out during the last song.
She wasn’t even sure why she still attended, really. Maybe just a stubborn hope that one of these days she’d be able to scrounge up some trust in the God who’d let her down.
Or who she’d let down. Could never quite decide which.
Aha. Her fingers brushed over a crinkled paper. She gave a hard pull, then felt around to make sure there weren’t any more scraps jamming the inside. She slipped her arm free, bringing the paper with it. “Victory.”
Logan had rounded to Ledge’s side of the machine, and she could feel his eyes on her as she jumped down from the stepstool. “Try it again, Ledge.”
This time when he turned on the machine, it chortled into a steady rhythm right away. “Yeah, baby.”
She balled up the ruined paper and chucked it at the garbage can. Rim shot.
“Proud of yourself, are you?”
She turned back to Logan. “Well, we’ll get the Shopper printed on time.” The tab-sized advertiser they printed every Monday afternoon was their one actual moneymaker. “So yeah, fairly proud.”
“Can I tell you something?”
“That you’re impressed with my mechanical skills?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “That there’s a panel on the side of the press. You have to use a screwdriver to open it, but if you do, you can actually see what you’re doing rather than feeling around blindly.”
What she wouldn’t give for the kind of poker face that would make him think she already knew this. Just happened to like squeezing her arm down the tight opening to feel for the jam.
“If not for the fact that Ledge didn’t know it either, I’d feel totally idiotic right about now.” Except, why was Ledge looking at her like that—all contrite? “You knew?”
He rubbed one hand over his bald head. “You’re just so proud every time you fix it. You always hear it jam from the newsroom, come running back like it’s on fire and you’ve got the only bucket of water.” He shrugged.
And Logan just stood there, not even trying to hide his amusement anymore.
“Well, I still fixed it.”
“That you did.” His overly consoling tone might’ve been irritating if not for what might actually be a hint of impressed sincerity joining the humor in his expression.
And if not for the nerves that refused to settle. Pull it together. You’re thirty, not thirteen.
It was all those articles and speeches of his she’d read. She’d let his words build him up too much in her mind. Couldn’t separate the real deal from the writer up on a pedestal in her mind.
Didn’t help that he somehow managed to look both rugged and polished at the same time. The shadow on his cheeks, the tie, that funny plaid coat.
The press machine’s chugging snapped her to attention.
She was staring at him, wasn’t she? “Uh, well, so . . . you’re here.”
“I’m here. Maybe we could talk in the newsroom?”
“Right. The newsroom. Of course. The press, it’s loud.” The words, they jammed. Worse than the decrepit machinery.
The newsroom was empty. Owen must’ve gone off to cover something or another. Maybe for the best. Things had been strained all morning. She’d apologized so many times for Friday night, but it didn’t erase the awkwardness.
They were barely through the doorway when Logan stopped. “I’m not going to sell the paper.”
She tripped over Owen’s chair, caught herself on the counter. “What?”
“I mean, I probably am going to sell.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
She sent Owen’s chair rolling back to his desk with her foot and leaned against the counter. “You’re confusing me, Logan Walker. You’re not going to sell but you are.”
“Just not right away. And there’s more.”
“There’s more.”
He stood next to her now, looking down, like he still wasn’t sure about
what he was going to say. He licked his lips, fingered the folder still tucked under his arm, flicking its corner up and down. “I think I might stick around for a while.”
“You’re going to stick around?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“Only when I’m not entirely clear what you’re saying.”
He took a breath, stopped fiddling with the folder, and leaned his hip against the counter to face her straight on. “If you don’t mind, if it’s not intruding, I’m going to . . . help out, I guess. I still plan to sell . . . I need to sell. But I think I could do some good around here. Get a website going, help you with that centennial issue. It’s partially selfish—the better shape the paper’s in, the better price I’ll get. But . . . well . . .”
She tried to ignore that last part. Latched on instead to the first part. He was staying. He was going to help.
“How long?”
“At least a month. Although after the way my partner reamed me out when I called him this morning, I’m tempted to stretch it into two. Besides, there’s this speech therapist I really want Charlie to see, and the soonest I can get her in is three weeks from now. So I’ve got even more reason to stick around.”
Two whole months? If he wasn’t her new boss, she just might kiss him.
And oh, if that thought didn’t make her stomach somersault. Then, in a move that surprised her and sent all her nerves fluttering to attention, he reached one hand out to brush his thumb over her cheek. “You’ve got ink . . .”
From her fight with the press, of course.
His thumb came away smudged. “So I was thinking as my first official act as publisher, I’d buy everyone coffee.”
She had to blink and step back in order to actually hear him. “Brown-nosing?”
He glanced at her. “Or I’m just not ready yet to see Freddie’s empty office.”
His honesty shook her even more than his touch. “I’ll come with. I know everybody’s drink of choice.”
