by Irene Hannon
“Sure.” Closing the door, the man moved into the room and took a seat beside Mark.
Mark spread the sheets out in front of Joe. “It appears that there’s an irregularity in the payroll entries. I haven’t gone into the detail journal yet—that’s on my agenda for next week—but this was too troublesome to leave until then. It’s always for the same amount—” Mark circled a number on the pad where he’d been doodling “—and it’s happened on a number of occasions over the past year. Can you explain it?”
The man shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. When he replied, his tone was cautious. “I’m aware of the discrepancy. But it might be better if you talk with Abby about it.”
“Okay.” A beat of silence passed as Mark regarded the man. “I can do that if you’d rather not discuss it.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be uncooperative. It’s just that…I think she’s in a better position to explain the situation. It’s nothing illegal. You’ll see that when you check the detail journal.”
Instead of replying, Mark gathered up the spreadsheets and slipped them into a file. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to get much out of the Gazette’s accountant. And he didn’t want to miss his plane. But now he was more curious than ever. If no impropriety was involved, why was the man uncomfortable?
“I’ll stop in and see Abby on my way out.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help with this.”
“No problem. You pointed me in the right direction.”
As Joe left the room, Mark switched off his computer, double-checked his flight time, then stood and strode toward Abby’s office, file in hand. She was on the phone when he appeared at her door, but she motioned him in.
“Okay. Thanks, Dale. Talk to you soon.” Abby replaced the receiver and looked up at Mark. “Heading out?”
“In a few minutes. But I found something a bit odd in the books, and when I asked Joe about it he referred me to you.”
“What is it?”
Mark withdrew the spreadsheets from the file and pointed out the payroll entries. “There’s a discrepancy of exactly the same amount on these particular weeks.”
After a quick glance at the reports, Abby looked back at Mark. “Have you checked the detail journal?”
“Not yet. That’s on the agenda for next week.”
She could stall, but it would be a useless delay tactic, Abby decided. She and Joe had figured Mark would uncover the inconsistency at some point, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t pursue it since it helped—rather than hurt—the Gazette. Instead he’d homed in on it faster than either had anticipated. And it was clear he wasn’t going to let it pass. Since she’d have to clarify it sooner or later, there was no sense delaying the inevitable.
“There’s a very simple explanation. The Gazette often operates on a razor-thin margin. If you haven’t already discovered that, you will when you examine the detail journal. In the weeks you’ve highlighted, our operating funds were so low that some expenses would have gone unpaid. To help us through the crunch, I instructed Joe not to issue me a paycheck those weeks. That accounts for the discrepancy you discovered.”
A full five seconds of silence ticked by. “Let me get this straight. You funneled your paycheck back into operating expenses?”
“Look, I know it’s unconventional, but it’s not illegal.” Mark was looking at her as if she had three heads, and a hot flush began to creep up her neck. “The paper needed the money more than I did at certain points. I just trusted that the Lord would see me through, and He did.”
For several moments Mark stared at the woman sitting behind the scarred desk that represented her family legacy. A legacy she’d worked hard to protect—even to the point of denying herself living expenses. Mark tried to think of one such example of selflessness and of faith in his circle of friends and came up empty.
But he did have some examples closer to home. His brother, who’d bypassed a high salary at Campbell Publishing for a far-lesser-paying job managing a Christian bookstore chain. And his father, who’d gambled everything to launch his company because he’d passionately believed in his dream and was willing to put his trust in the Lord.
Bobby Mitchell came to mind, too, for the second time in the past couple of weeks. His friend had given up the immediate pleasures that might have been afforded by his allowance and funneled almost every penny into his passion—his space fund, earmarked for a trip to space camp at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center. And up to the end he—like Abby—had believed that God was by his side.
His estimation of the woman across from him edged up another notch.
He looked again at the figure he’d circled on the paper he’d put in front of Abby, and all at once the amount registered, disconcerting him further. That was her weekly salary, he realized. And it was less than what they paid the receptionist at Campbell Publishing! Was this an indication of the salaries in general at the Gazette? But no. He’d seen the salary budget total. He knew how many people worked there. He could do the division. Other staff members were making more than Abby.
This was getting more confusing by the minute.
“Okay, let’s back up. I’ve seen the salary budget and this isn’t adding up. Why is yours so low? You’re the managing editor.”
Her flush deepened. She felt like an ant under a microscope as he loomed over her, so she stood and faced him across the work-worn desk. Even then, he had a distinct height advantage. “I’m not in this for the money. I never have been.” Her tone was quiet but resolute. “I lead a simple life and my wants are few. I care a lot about the Gazette and I don’t mind making a few sacrifices to keep it going.”
Shaking his head, Mark raked his fingers through his hair. “I appreciate your dedication, Abby, but it’s just a job. You deserve a living wage.”
A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “It’s not just a job! I know what’s gone into building this paper. The sacrifices, the passion, the determination, the courage. It’s important work that makes a difference. We’ve won lots of awards, and those are great. But look around this office at the letters from readers. Like that one behind you. That’s what makes this job important.”
Now that she’d called them to his attention, the dozen or so framed letters on the walls registered. Turning, he scanned the one over his shoulder, noting in his peripheral vision a photo of a dark-haired minister on a tiny table in the corner. Forcing himself to focus on the letter, he realized that it was a thank-you note of some sort.
“That letter is from a man we featured in a story about prescription drug costs and government assistance. You can do a story like that and just quote statistics. A lot of papers do. But we put a face on the numbers.” Abby’s voice rang with passion and conviction. “Jon Borcic is seventy-six years old. He was eligible for state assistance with prescriptions, but when his request got bogged down in red tape he went without food to buy his wife medicine. Thanks to that article, the agency cleaned up its act. And people like Jon don’t have to go hungry anymore in order to care for the ones they love.”
Her voice choked, and she stopped long enough to take a deep breath. “So, no, Mark, this isn’t just a job. That’s why I do everything I can to keep the paper going. Including passing up a paycheck once in a while.”
Once again, Mark found himself speechless in the presence of the petite dynamo across from him. And thinking how unfair it was that Abby had to carry the full weight of such a burden on her slight shoulders. He’d made a few discreet inquiries and he knew she wasn’t married. But the minister in the photo he’d just noticed must be important to her. Why didn’t he help? His gaze flickered to the framed image.
“My brother. And ministry pays even less than journalism.”
As she answered his unspoken question, he shifted his attention back to her. Now he could add mind reading to her many talents.
“But he supports me in other ways,” she added.
Prayer, Mark supposed. But a lot of good that did.
It didn’t buy medicine for a sick wife. Or keep a paper solvent. Or stop a young boy from dying.
His skepticism must have been reflected on his face, because Abby tilted her head and shot him a speculative look. Rather than give her a chance to comment, he tried the offensive maneuver again. It hadn’t worked last time, but he didn’t have any other brilliant ideas.
“Too bad he didn’t go into the family business with you,” Mark said.
“He had a different calling. My dad groomed me for the job instead.”
“Didn’t you ever resent that? What if you’d wanted to do your own thing instead of living up to someone else’s expectations?”
Her look of surprise was genuine. “I never thought of doing anything else. I love journalism. I considered it an honor and a trust, being the keeper of a family tradition.”
Rattled by his sudden envy of her obvious contentment, Mark checked his watch again. The discussion had wandered far afield from the purpose of his visit, and he had to be out the door in two minutes.
“I need to run.” He gathered up the spreadsheets, then slid them back into the file.
“Big weekend plans?”
He didn’t miss the slight irony in her tone. His impression of her might be shifting, but he had a feeling that she still thought of him as a lightweight. For some reason, that rankled him. His shoulders stiffened, and when he spoke his voice was terse. “As a matter of fact, yes. I assume you’ll be spending the weekend cuddled up with your computer here at the Gazette?”
It was a cheap shot, and he regretted it the instant the words left his lips. His remorse intensified when a flash of pain ricocheted across her eyes.
“Hey, look, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for and—”
She cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. You’d better go or you’ll miss your flight. Have a safe trip.”
With that she lifted her phone, punched in a number and turned away.
As Mark headed back to the conference room to retrieve his briefcase and overnight bag, he felt off balance. Why in the world had he been unkind just now? For all he knew, Abby could be involved in a serious relationship. Yet the look on her face suggested that there wasn’t anyone special in her life. And that this was a source of sadness for her.
He couldn’t take back the words, no matter how sorry he was. Nor was he going to let the incident ruin his weekend. He’d worry about making amends when he got back. For the next two days his social calendar was full, and he intended to enjoy every minute of his weekend in Chicago.
Even if his heart suddenly wasn’t in it.
Chapter Five
The liquor was flowing, the caviar was plentiful and a gorgeous blonde was draped on his arm. It was a perfect Saturday night.
So why wasn’t he having fun?
Mark didn’t have to puzzle over the answer for long. For some reason, he hadn’t been able to leave thoughts of Oak Hill behind when he’d left yesterday. Or, to be more accurate, he hadn’t been able to leave thoughts of Abby Warner behind.
Even his father had noticed his preoccupation when the two had met that morning for breakfast. After he’d given Spencer a brief progress report on his financial review, the older man had asked about his impression of Abby. Mark had sidestepped the question by saying that he hadn’t seen that much of her and quickly directed the conversation back to financial matters.
But he hadn’t missed the speculative gleam in his father’s eyes.
The blonde tugged on his hand, gave him an inviting smile and urged him toward the balcony of the condo. Mark complied, eager for a distraction. Besides, the music was too loud inside.
“Pretty view,” the lady on his arm cooed as they moved across the terrace toward the railing. Candles flickered on wrought-iron tables, casting a romantic glow over the scene. From the forty-first-floor balcony, the lights of Chicago put on a glamorous, dazzling display, and a cool lake breeze chased away the close air in the condo, which had been redolent with cigar smoke.
“Yeah.” Mark drew in a deep, cleansing breath as they reached the railing.
She inched closer, her cloying perfume polluting the fresh air. “A bit chilly, though. But then, it is September as of yesterday.”
As her curves brushed against his body, Mark recognized his cue. He was supposed to put his arm around her, tuck her next to his side, make some remark about keeping her warm—and see what happened next.
Any other time, that would have been an appealing prospect. But tonight the notion left a bad taste in his mouth. He was tired of meaningless dates. He couldn’t even remember the blonde’s name. Nor did he care. All she’d talked about since they’d been introduced was her trip to France, her new Porsche and the emerald ring her parents had given her for her birthday.
When he’d inquired what she did for a living, she’d laughed and said something about playing at PR at her daddy’s firm. Then she’d launched into a monologue about her role on the decorations committee for some black-tie gala and the designer gown she was going to wear to the event.
The inane chatter had grated on Mark’s nerves, and he’d found himself comparing her to Abby. Maybe Abby didn’t have the clothes or the car or the jewelry that his companion enjoyed. But she had qualities this woman couldn’t buy with all her—or her father’s—money. Depth. Dimension. Intensity. And he suspected she also had more character and integrity in her little finger than this woman had in her whole body.
Abruptly, Mark took a step back. The blonde grasped the railing to steady herself, tottering on her spiked heels.
“Look, I’m sorry to cut out, but it’s been a long day and I need to call it a night.”
His excuse was lame and they both knew it. It was only eleven-thirty. Though the light was dim, he could tell by the bright spots of color on her cheeks that she wasn’t used to rejection.
“Can I get you anything before I go?” His halfhearted attempt to make amends fell flat.
With a look that could flash-freeze a silo full of the Missouri corn he’d passed on his way to the airport, she huffed, stalked past him and reentered the room without a backward glance.
Instead of being disappointed, Mark was relieved. He felt almost as if he’d been saved somehow. From what, he wasn’t sure. In any case, he realized he hadn’t lied to her after all. It had been a long day and he did want to call it a night. He knew his friends would comment on his early departure. They were already ribbing him about his sojourn in the boondocks, teasing him about becoming a country bumpkin. This would only add fuel to the fire.
Until now, he’d laughed at their jibes and joined in as they made fun of the unsophisticated hayseeds in the heartland. But the humor in their barbs was starting to wear thin. Maybe because he’d met a few of those “hayseeds” and was more impressed by them than he was by his sophisticated friends.
The throbbing music assaulted his ears as he eased back into the packed room and wove through the noisy crowd to the exit. When the door closed behind him, blessedly muffling the noise inside, he strode to the elevator, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the party as possible.
And as he pressed the button in the elevator and began his descent back to solid ground, he found himself wondering what Abby was doing on this Saturday night.
Abby punched her pillow and squinted at the clock. Midnight. With a frustrated sigh, she flopped onto her back and shoved the sheet aside, brushing damp tendrils of hair off her forehead. Her bedroom was the only room in the house that was air-conditioned—and sparingly, at that. The window unit was old, and she was hoping to coax another season out of it. Even so, she’d left it on all day today, ducking in to cool off between her Saturday chores. The early September heat had been relentless.
But that wasn’t the cause of her wakefulness.
Nor, for once, could she blame worries about the Gazette for keeping slumber at bay.
Her insomnia was all Mark Campbell’s fault.
For some reason, his parting taunt about cuddling
up with her computer had stuck with her. Not that she was holding a grudge about it. She’d seen the immediate flash of regret on his face and she’d accepted his apology. No, it was the accuracy of his statement that dogged her. The facts spoke for themselves. On Saturday night, she’d gone to bed at nine-thirty. Her social life was nonexistent.
Mark, on the other hand, was probably with some gorgeous blonde right now at a glamorous party. And for reasons she didn’t care to examine, that bothered her.
But what bothered her even more, she realized in surprise, was the restless, discontented look she’d glimpsed in his eyes on the few occasions when they’d spoken in the past week. For all his wealth and position and jet-set life, Mark Campbell didn’t seem happy. Though why she should care about his emotional state was beyond her.
Giving up any pretense of trying to sleep, Abby adjusted the pillow behind her and sat up. She needed to switch gears, focus on some other topic. Flipping on the bedside light, she picked up the worn Bible from her nightstand, letting the familiar, comforting weight of it rest in her hands for a few seconds before opening it.
Often during these past difficult months, when confusion and despair and a sense of failure had weighed her down, Abby had turned to scripture for consolation and reassurance. Reading the words of solace never failed to bolster her spirits. And as she skimmed over favorite passages from the gospels, flipping from section to section, they didn’t fail her tonight.
“Let not your heart be troubled. Trust in God still, and trust in me.”
“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.”
“Ask and it shall be given to you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened to you.”
Closing her eyes, Abby let the words resonate in her mind as she composed her own prayer.
Lord, I want to follow Your plan for my life and I always thought I knew what that plan was: to carry on the tradition of truth that’s been a hallmark of the Gazette. You know the sacrifices I’ve made, including the biggest one of all. In giving all my energy to the paper, there’s been none left over to create the kind of home and family I’d love to have.
