by Irene Hannon
“Your social calendar must be a sight to behold.”
“How about you? Don’t you ever want to get out and have some fun?” Mark has asked.
“I have fun every day.”
Dumbfounded, Mark had needed a couple of seconds to regroup. “You call the nine-to-five routine followed by chores at home fun?”
“I like my job. And what could be better than coming home and sharing a meal with a wife and child who love you? By the way, I saw a face from the past a couple of days ago in one of our bookstores. Mrs. Mitchell. She asked me to give you her regards.”
The sudden dull shaft of pain in Mark’s gut had caught him off guard, and his grip on the phone had tightened. The mere mention of Mrs. Mitchell had brought back a kaleidoscope of jumbled memories and emotions, the good and the bad woven together in a tangled web. He’d stopped trying to sort through them long ago, instead burying them deep in his heart. Especially the ones about Bobby Mitchell. He didn’t want them resurrected now—or ever. The past was over and done.
But if that was true, why should events that had happened more than twenty years ago still have such power to disturb him?
Finding no answer to that question, Mark had ended his conversation with Rick, then tried to put it out of his mind. But it had stayed with him throughout the day and into the evening, despite the many distractions at the party.
It was odd, really. And unsettling. Until recent months, Mark had been just as content with his life as Rick seemed to be. But conversations like the one yesterday with his brother, or watching his father’s unwavering passion and energy for Campbell Publishing, or even simple things like observing a family in the park enjoying a picnic or flying a kite, had begun to affect him. Now when he went home to his professionally decorated loft condo, he was no longer impressed by the great view or the hip minimalist furnishings or the trendy address. Instead he was aware of the emptiness. Not just in the rooms but in his life.
Something was missing. That much he knew. The problem was, he had no clue what it was.
The intercom on his desk buzzed, and Mark took a deep breath as he punched the button, trying to dispel the dark mood that had descended on him. “Yes?”
“Your dad’s office just called again,” Lena reminded him.
“Let them know I’m on my way.”
At least a meeting with his dad would get his mind off his melancholy thoughts, Mark told himself as he left his office and strode down the long hallway, his steps silent on the plush dove-gray carpeting. His father’s secretary waved him in, and without pausing he crossed the threshold into the spacious executive office of Campbell Publishing.
Spencer was on the phone when he entered but motioned him into a seat across the desk.
“I understand, Charlie. Just do the best you can and keep me informed.” Leaning forward, his father set the phone back in its cradle. “Press broke at the printer in Cincinnati. The Register may not meet its delivery deadline.”
“That’s a shame.”
Casting a shrewd eye at his son, Spencer eased back in his chair, propped his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers. He’d mollycoddled his oldest son long enough, hoping and praying that he’d see the light. That one day he’d recognize he was wasting his life and his God-given talents and get his act together. That he’d care about something with a little more substance than what parties he was going to attend this weekend and which interior designer to hire for his condo.
For years his prayers had gone unanswered. But after his visit to Oak Hill a few days ago Spencer had been hit with an inspired idea. One he hoped would work—but one he was sure his son wasn’t going to like.
“I have an assignment for you. We’re thinking of acquiring a small regional paper in Missouri. I visited there last week. Seems like a good fit.”
“Do you want me to check out the books?”
“Among other things.”
Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Such as…?”
“I need you to do the on-site operational audit, as well. Observe the day-to-day functions of the paper. Get a feel for the place. See how it’s run, check out the management style, sit in on editorial meetings.” He held out a manila folder. “Here’s the background and contact information.”
The younger man ignored the folder. “I don’t know anything about the operational side of the business.”
“You’re thirty-four years old, Mark. It’s time you learned.”
“But it’s not my area of expertise.”
A few beats of silence ticked by. Then Spencer leaned forward, set the folder in front of Mark and crossed his arms on his desk as he pinned his oldest son with an intent look. “If you want to run this company someday, you need to understand the heart of this business as well as the numbers. That includes getting a few ink stains on your hands—figuratively speaking. I think you could learn a lot from the editor down there.”
Abby had impressed Spencer as an intelligent woman with firm principles and a deep passion for her work. Unlike Mark, who’d led a sheltered life, she struck him as a woman who knew what it was to struggle and wasn’t afraid to fight for what she believed in. If Mark needed a wake-up call, Abby Warner might be just the one to give it to him.
“Assuming the Oak Hill Gazette agrees to an investigation, why don’t you plan to leave next Monday?”
The firm set of his father’s jaw made Mark wary. “How long do you want me to stay?”
“As long as it takes. Twelve weeks minimum.”
Mark shot to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. “You want me to spend twelve weeks in some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere?”
“At least. And it’s in rural Missouri.”
“Same difference. Besides, if it’s a small operation it shouldn’t take that long to do due diligence.”
“This is a special case.”
“In what way?”
His father’s blue eyes turned steely. “You’ll just have to trust me on this, Mark.”
Raking his hand through his hair, Mark struggled to think of some excuse—any excuse—that might save him from banishment to the farm belt. But he couldn’t come up with anything he thought his father would buy.
“Give it up, Mark,” Spencer said as if reading his mind. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. Nor is it negotiable.”
Biting back a sharp retort, Mark glared at his father. “I’m not the best person for this job.”
“You’re the perfect person.” The phone rang again, and Spencer reached for the handset. “Check in with me every few days. I want to be kept informed of your progress…Spencer Campbell here.”
Their conversation was over. No, Mark corrected. This hadn’t been a conversation. It had been an executive order. Picking up the folder, he wandered back to his office in a daze and sank into his leather desk chair. He was being sent to Hicksville, ill equipped for everything except the numbers part of his assignment.
Although he tried to remain angry, Mark didn’t succeed. Nothing had much power to evoke—or sustain—emotion in him. Besides, he’d been coasting for years. He supposed his father had a right to expect him to earn his keep. And, as heir apparent, to learn more about the business than how to crunch numbers.
Still, spending three months in the heartland of Missouri seemed pretty extreme. He’d survive, of course. As for learning anything, he suspected the only thing he’d gain would be a greater appreciation for big-city living.
Chapter Two
Dr. Sam Martin strode into his office, took his place behind the solid oak desk he’d inherited from his predecessor and opened Abby’s file. After giving it a quick scan, he looked at his patient.
“Everything appears normal, Abby. I assume you’re sticking to your diet, exercising, taking your medication?”
“Yes.”
“Good. How are you sleeping?”
“Okay.” That was stretching the truth. With the Gazette’s problems weighing on her mind, she was lucky to manage five or six hours
a night. Less since Spencer Campbell had visited the week before.
One of Dr. Martin’s brows quirked up, and his next comment confirmed that he hadn’t missed the blue shadows under her eyes. “How’s the stress level?”
Startled, Abby stared at him. Had the Oak Hill grapevine tipped him off to the paper’s financial troubles?
The doctor leaned back and gave her an empathetic look. “I’ve heard rumors that the Gazette is having some problems.”
Cara must be his source of information, Abby speculated. Dr. Martin had just reconciled with his estranged wife, who’d moved to town and opened a restaurant at the Oak Hill Inn—and become fast friends with Marge Sullivan, the inn’s garrulous owner who knew everything about everybody in town.
“We’re having some financial issues,” she acknowledged.
“Fatigue and stress aren’t good for you, Abby. They’ll only exacerbate your condition. I’m sure Dr. Sullivan told you that, as well.”
“Yes, he did.” But what was she supposed to do? She was the editor. Dealing with problems was part of the job. “I’m working on some options.”
“Good. Until things settle down, I’d suggest you increase the frequency of your monitoring.”
“Okay.”
He closed her file. “I’ll see you again in six months. Call in the meantime if you have any problems.”
As Abby exited the office and stepped out into the August heat, she slowly exhaled. She hated doctor visits. Hated everything about the disease that had killed her mother at far too young an age and which she’d been diagnosed with just a few months ago.
Still, it could be worse, she tried to console herself as she slid behind the wheel of her car. And it might get worse unless she followed her doctors’ instructions. The diet, the exercise, the medication—that was all controllable. But Dr. Martin had homed in on the one thing in her life that wasn’t: stress. And neither of the options for the Gazette’s fate alleviated that.
Lord, help me get through this, she prayed as she drove down Main Street to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. Give me the courage to face whatever challenges lie ahead.
Marge Sullivan banged the gavel on the conference table and called the meeting to order. “Has anyone heard from Ali Mahmoud?”
The other Chamber members shook their heads.
“It’s not like him to be late,” Abby said.
“I know.” Marge propped a hand on her ample hip. “Maybe we should call the restaurant and…”
The door opened, cutting her off, and eight heads swiveled toward the black-haired man who entered. His swarthy skin seemed a couple of shades lighter than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Deep creases on his forehead and around his mouth made him look far older than his forty-six years.
“Sorry I’m late.” He paused on the threshold, grasping the door frame.
A knot formed in Abby’s stomach and she started to rise. “Ali, are you all right?”
“Yes. But the restaurant…that’s another story.”
“Come and sit down,” Marge urged. “Tell us what happened.”
As he took his place, Abby poured him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.” He gave her a wan smile and took a sip. “We had a fire just before dawn. In the kitchen.”
“How bad is it?” Marge asked, her eyes shadowed with concern.
“Not bad enough to shut us down. But if I hadn’t happened to go in extra early today to prepare for a private party…” He shook his head.
“What caused it?” Abby asked.
“Arson.”
Shocked silence greeted his response. Such crime was unheard of in Oak Hill.
“But who would do such a thing?” Abby asked when she could find her voice.
“That’s what Dale is trying to figure out.”
“And he will,” Marge declared.
In the year since he’d taken on the sheriff’s job Dale Lewis had earned the respect of the entire community. A hometown boy and former L.A. cop, he was sharp, thorough and tough when he had to be. Oak Hill was lucky to have him back, Abby reflected—a sentiment pretty much shared by everyone in town.
“I hope so. Because…well, there was more to it than just a fire.”
“What do you mean?” Marge asked.
“Whoever did this spray painted a message on the back door. Something very…unflattering about Allah. Then it said, ‘Go back where you came from.’”
An ominous chill ran down Abby’s spine. The fire had been a hate crime. Though Abby had read a great deal about such malicious attacks since 9/11, it had never occurred to her that such a despicable crime could come to Oak Hill.
“What did Dale say?” Abby asked.
“That he’d seen a lot of cases like this in L.A. And that it wasn’t always easy to track down the perpetrators. But he promised to do his best.”
“Well, if there’s anything we can do to help, you just let us know,” Marge said, before proceeding with the meeting.
An hour later, when the gathering broke up, Abby stopped to speak with Ali. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your trouble. Hate crimes are bad enough no matter who the victim is, but you were born and raised in the United States. You’re as American as I am. Despite what the message said, this is where you came from.”
“Things like this happened when I lived in Detroit, too. But not on this scale. Just snide comments, pranks, that sort of thing.”
“How can people behave that way?”
“Foreigners often meet with difficulties when they try to assimilate into a community. That’s just the way things are.” His tone was weary and resigned.
“You’ve been in Oak Hill for five years. And you’re not a foreigner.”
“I look like one. This kind of thing is hard to fight, Abby. Changing preconceived ideas, softening people’s hearts…it’s a difficult task.”
That was true. Still, prejudice in any form had always rankled Abby. She supposed it was a gene she’d inherited, considering that her grandfather had written bold editorials about race relations in the United States long before the national consciousness had been sensitized to the issue.
All at once an idea began to take shape in her mind. “It may be difficult, but it’s not impossible. Sometimes people just need a nudge.”
“Or a shove.” Ali summoned up a smile and placed his hand on Abby’s arm. “In any case, I know I have many friends here who have welcomed me and my family to the community. This is just an aberration.” He lowered his hand and checked his watch. “Now I have to run.”
“Be careful, Ali.”
He acknowledged her comment with a wave, and as he disappeared through the door Abby’s expression grew pensive. Maybe she couldn’t catch the perpetrator. That was Dale’s job. But at least she could do her part to soften a few hearts.
Abby tried to ignore her ringing phone. Her attention was focused on the computer screen in front of her, her mind forming the words more rapidly than she could type them as she composed an editorial about hate crimes. She should have forwarded her phone calls to Molly, the Gazette’s administrative assistant/receptionist. But she’d been so fired up when she’d returned from the Chamber meeting that she’d headed straight for her keyboard.
As the phone continued to ring, guilt prickled Abby’s conscience. A reporter never let a ringing phone go unanswered. That was a cardinal rule of journalism. Who knew when a hot tip might be coming in?
With an annoyed huff, she reached for the phone without breaking the rhythm of her typing. “Oak Hill Gazette. Abby speaking.”
“Abby Warner?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mark Campbell from Campbell Publishing. I believe you were expecting my call. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to discuss my visit.”
That got her attention. And broke the train of thought she’d been trying to hold on to. Aggravated, she swung away from her computer screen and closed her eyes. A dreaded doctor’s visit, a hate crime in their town a
nd now this. Lord, how much do you want me to take in one day?
“Ms. Warner? Are you still there?” Impatience nipped at the edges of the man’s resonant baritone voice.
“Yes. Sorry. I was in the middle of something.”
“Would you like to call me back at a more convenient time?”
Yes. Like never, she wanted to say. But the finance board had already agreed to a review by Campbell Publishing. She had to deal with this.
“No. This is fine.” She tried to be cordial. But even to her own ears her tone sounded downright arctic.
“Okay. I’d like to begin Monday, unless that’s a problem.”
From his tone, Mark Campbell didn’t seem to be any more enthusiastic about his assignment than she was, Abby realized in surprise.
“That’s fine with me.”
“I’ll make the arrangements, then. Can you recommend a place to stay?”
“The only lodging in town is the Oak Hill Inn. It’s a B and B.”
“You mean one of those places where you have to share a bathroom down the hall with other guests?”
From his appalled inflection, it was clear that Mark Campbell considered such an arrangement uncivilized—and well beneath him. He’d probably never darkened the door of a B and B in his life. As an heir to a publishing empire, he was no doubt more accustomed to five-star hotels.
“No, the Oak Hill Inn is a bit more progressive than that. Every room has its own bath. They even have running water.”
“Fine.” The stiffness in his voice told her that her barb had hit home. “Do they have high-speed Internet access?”
She couldn’t quite contain her chuckle. “Sorry. This isn’t a big city, Mr. Campbell. If you want high-speed in your room, you’ll have to stay closer to Rolla.”
“How far away is that?”
“Thirty-five miles.” When he sighed, she spoke again. “However, you’re more than welcome to use the Net at our office.”
“I suppose that will have to do. Just give me the contact information for the inn.” Once she’d complied, he didn’t linger on the phone. “I’ll see you on Monday. What time would be good?”
