But even as she spoke the words, Becky realized he had been right about one thing that he had said earlier.
Twelve months was going to be far too long.
The day had disappeared, Rick thought, looking at the darkening sky with a flash of regret.
This morning, when he came to the office, the sun was a shimmer of light in the east, the dark diminishing in the west. Now the bright orange globe hovered over the western horizon. In the east, the dark was now gaining.
While he was tied to his desk, dealing with reluctant employees, courting new advertisers, wrestling with his editor over the new plan for this magazine, the sun had stolen across the sky and he had spent an entire day inside.
Glowering, he walked to his vehicle, a battered and rusty Jeep. He patted its dented hood, as if commiserating with it. “Only eleven months and twenty days to go,” he murmured, “and we can be on the road again. Outside during the day, the way we should be.” He glanced around once more. The town looked complacent this time of evening. Most people were, he was sure, sitting at the dinner table, eating with their families.
Domestic bliss.
An oxymoron as far as he was concerned. When he and his mother lived with Colson, all he remembered of domesticity were large cold rooms that echoed as he walked to the wing of the house that his grandfather had set aside for Rick and his mother. He remembered sad music and the sounds of his mother’s muffled crying.
When she died, Rick’s life became a round of boarding schools during the year, and nannies and housekeepers over the summer months.
Colson remained a shadowy figure in Rick’s life. A figure to whom Rick spent most of his youth trying to gain access. And trying to please.
Rick did a monthly book review column for his grandfather’s magazine, one of Colson’s many enterprises, as a way of acknowledging Colson’s contribution to his education. Through it he enjoyed the chance to take a contrary view of some of the more popular literary works lauded by other critics.
But it was traveling that ignited a passion in him he didn’t feel for anyone or anything else. It provided a ready-made conduit for his articles, and the money they made him became a way to finance more trips. He usually found time to make semiannual duty trips back to Toronto to connect with his editor and, of course, to see his grandfather.
Going home always turned out to be a straightforward debriefing of what he had done, how he was doing. But in the past year Colson had been getting more involved in Rick’s life—putting increased pressure on him to join the family enterprise, inviting him to supper, with eligible young women in attendance.
This put Rick in a quandary. He felt he owed his grandfather, but at the same time didn’t think he had to mold his entire life around Colson’s whims. It came to an ugly head in a confrontation, which led Colson to offer Rick this ultimatum. Bring this small-town magazine Colson had bought on a whim to profitability in twelve months and Colson would leave him alone for the rest of his life. That was all Colson required of him and Rick had reluctantly accepted. It was only the thought that he wouldn’t have to listen to Colson’s tired lectures on Christian faith and Rick’s lack of it that made Rick accept this position.
Rick stopped at one of the few streetlights in town and glanced over at the café, the lights and the bustle within luring him on. He was hungry but didn’t feel like eating alone in the furnished apartment he had rented. At least at Terra’s Café the crowd would provide some semblance of company.
The café was surprisingly full this time of evening. Rick paused in the doorway, letting the clink of cutlery, the chatter of conversation wash over him. He nodded at the owner of a car dealership he had met yesterday on his trip with the sales team around town, smiled at one of the waitresses who hustled past him.
He glanced around the café looking for an empty table. As he walked farther inside he spotted one beside Becky Ellison.
Becky sat at her table, chin in hand, staring out the window, her laptop open in front of her. The overhead light caught flashes of gold in her blonde hair, burnished her skin glowing peach.
When she had bustled into the meeting room, that first morning, late, laden with papers, coffee and a muffin, he couldn’t help feel a frisson of energy and attraction. There was something beguiling about her that drew his eyes, his attention to her. He didn’t want to be as firm with her as he had, but the magazine staff had been working together for some time, making him the interloper.
Something that was made fairly clear to him the first time he and his editor spoke.
Antagonism radiated from her from the moment she raised her hazel eyes to his. And in most of the meetings since then the feeling only seemed to grow.
But tonight there were no other empty places, so with some resignation Rick walked over to the table beside hers and sat down.
Becky’s gaze was averted so she didn’t see him. She wore her blonde hair down today instead of pulled back in her usual clip. A half smile played over her lips as she absently toyed with her hair.
If it wasn’t for the fact that Rick knew Becky didn’t care much for him, he’d be more attracted than he was.
“Coffee?” The waitress came between his table and Becky’s and he looked up.
“No. Just a glass of water. And you can bring me the special.”
Her wide smile gave Rick’s ego a light boost.
The sound had broken Becky’s reverie. As if waking from a dream, she blinked, straightened up, then looked around.
Rick could tell the instant she saw him. Once again the smile faded and once again he was treated to a detachment that negated the little lift he’d gotten just seconds ago.
“Hey, there,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest, a defensive gesture, he had to admit. “Taking work home?”
Becky glanced at her computer and gently closed the top, a surprising flush coloring her cheeks. She looked as if he had caught her doing something illegal. “No. Just a writing project I’ve been spending my scant spare time on.” Her tone was careful, almost resentful.
Writing project. Obviously not work, or she would have said so. Formless thoughts tumbled through his head.
“What kind of writing project?” he asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
“A book.”
“That takes a lot of time.”
“Exactly. Trouble is, I can’t seem to find the time.”
Rick grinned. “One thing I learned is that you don’t find time to write. You make time and then defend it. You’ll never get a book written by ‘finding’ time.”
“I have written one book already,” Becky said, her voice taking on a defensive note.
“Really? What kind?”
She lifted her chin in a defensive gesture. “Fiction.”
Rick could only look at her as his thoughts coalesced. Becky. Rebecca.
And suddenly he remembered exactly who she was.
“You wrote a book called Echoes.”
She nodded.
“I did a review of one of your books, didn’t I? For my grandfather’s magazine?”
Becky’s only response was to look away, but he knew he was right. He remembered now.
“I gather the review wasn’t favorable.” He couldn’t remember the details of what he had written. The editor of his grandfather’s magazine liked Rick’s reviews because he wasn’t afraid to go against the grain and pronounce a currently popular literary novel prose without purpose.
Obviously, he had done just that with Becky’s book.
“‘Wasn’t favorable’?” she repeated, fixing him with a steady gaze. “Try unnecessarily cutting. Or sarcastic.” She looked like she was about to say something more, but she pressed her lips together.
Rick let her words wash over him as he had done with other authors and authors’ fans. He refused to take her seriously, his opinion was his own opinion, and as he tried to explain again and again, it was one opinion. If writers couldn’t take criticism, th
ey had better try something else.
“So it’s not because I’m some Eastern interloper that you tend to be slightly ticked off at me.”
Becky angled her head to one side, as if studying him. “That, too.”
Rick leaned forward and cocked her a wry grin. “Get used to it, sweetie. I’m around for a while.”
She held his gaze, her eyes steady. “Don’t call me ‘sweetie,’” she said quietly. “It’s insincere.”
Was it?
Maybe she wasn’t a “sweetie,” per se—her tawny eyes and crooked grin negated that image—but there was definitely something about her that appealed. In spite of her off-putting attitude. “Maybe I’m teasing,” he said.
“Maybe you should be nice.”
“You could teach me.” The comment sounded lame, but he couldn’t think of anything snappier to say.
“Well, you know the saying, if you can’t say something nice, become a reporter.”
He couldn’t stop his burst of laughter. “You are in the right job.”
The waitress came just then with his order. “Here you go, sweetie. I hope you enjoy.” She gave him a broad smile and he wondered if she had overheard what he had said to Becky. Then she gave him a wink and he knew she had.
But before he could apologize for his comment, Becky was packing up, and to his surprise, Rick felt a twinge of disappointment. It had been a while since he’d spent any time with a pretty woman. An even longer time with one who didn’t seem to be afraid to challenge him.
“The muse desert you?” he asked, unwrapping his utensils.
“She’s been a bit flighty lately.” Becky slipped her laptop into a knapsack.
“You’re so fond of mottoes, surely you know that for writers, when the going gets tough…” Rick let the sentence trail off.
“The tough writers huddle under their desk chewing the cuffs of their sleeves,” Becky finished off for him.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed again.
She slipped her knapsack over her shoulder and pulled her hair loose from the straps, shooting him an oblique smile as she did so. With a muttered “See you tomorrow,” she left.
As she wended her way through the tables, someone called out her name and she responded, her smile genuine now. She stopped at one table to chat someone up, waved at another person across the café and joked with Terra DeWindt, the owner of Terra’s Café, while she paid her bill.
Then with a laugh and the tinkle of the door’s bell, she was gone.
Rick turned back to his food, feeling curiously deflated, as if the day had lost even more light. He finished his supper quickly, then left for his apartment and his own brand of domestic bliss.
“I don’t know if I like the emphasis in this article.” Rick pushed the paper across his desk toward Becky and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. He wore a black cotton shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His usual blue jeans. The subdued morning light highlighted the blond of his hair, shadowed the faint dimple in his cheek. He looked more like the cowboy she had written about in the article, than a publisher of a magazine.
Becky glanced down at the article, wishing for a moment that Rick Ethier weren’t so physically appealing. Not because she was attracted to him, mind you, but because the women in the office were starting to annoy her. And it was starting to interfere with her own objectives. She needed people on her side if she was going to maintain a toehold of control over this magazine.
Just this morning she had to listen to Trixie wax eloquent about those eyes, that careless hair. The way he, “well, you know, Becky, kind of strolls. Like he’s in charge of his world.” Which he was, of course.
Trouble was, it was also her world.
“It’s a fairly basic profile. What’s the problem?”
Rick rocked a couple of times in his chair, then leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. You’ve got an article about this guy, Duncan Tiemstra who lives in Holmes Crossing who is getting by, not making tons of money, yet you write it like he’s the happiest man alive.”
“It’s what he told me.”
“That he’s the happiest man alive?”
“That he loves his work. That it wasn’t a job as much as a vocation. And that he’s thankful for the support he gets from his wife.”
Rick acknowledged this with a quick nod. “That may be, but you don’t bring up any of the negatives. And don’t tell me he didn’t talk about any.”
“Of course he did. He works long hours. And works hard. Has to deal with bankers, rank horses, cows that get sick. He just doesn’t have to deal with ornery bosses.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Nice. Nice. Be nice.
“I’m going to take that last comment as a generality.” Rick got up from his desk and stood by the window, his hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans. “But none of what you just told me made it into the article.”
“That wasn’t the point of the article.”
Rick turned to her, a dour smile on his face. “And that’s my point. You took your own preconceptions to the story and only used facts that worked with what you wanted to show. I know that Duncan is a local, but your bias seems to be showing.”
Becky didn’t have time for this and wondered that he did. She was behind on her own work and phone calls. She knew he was busy consulting with his marketing and focus group on the redesign.
“So what do you want me to do? Rewrite it?” She bit back the anger that was starting up again.
“No. I’d just like to see a bit more balance in what you’re doing.”
“In keeping with the vision of the magazine,” she finished with a light sigh. She wasn’t going to concede immediately.
“The vision is more business oriented. As well, I’m also trying to shape this magazine into a more honest view of life in this part of the country.”
“Oh, you made that very clear.” Becky stopped. Took a breath. “But business isn’t all grimness and focus. There are people who enjoy what they do. I wanted to show that in this article.”
“The glass is half-full.”
Becky frowned, then caught his inference. “Okay. So I’m an optimist. You say it’s half-empty. Neither of us is wrong. It just depends on what you want to focus on.” She felt, more than heard, the hardness creeping into her voice and tried to inject a note of humor. “And if you were our art director, you would say we would need a different glass.”
Rick frowned. He didn’t get it, obviously. “Water management aside, I’d also like to see the article shorter if possible.”
“Design will have problems with that.”
“We need the space for ads.”
“It’s a magazine, not a shopping network.”
“But ads pay the bills and our salaries.”
Becky bit back a comment. In the short time Rick had been here, she realized one thing. Money talked to this man. Loud and clear.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Anything else you want to discuss?”
“I’m calling a meeting tomorrow to go over the results of our market survey.”
Becky pulled out her Day-Timer and flipped it open to the date. “Sorry. I’ve got a practice with the children’s choir.”
“How about after?”
“After, I’m supposed to be meeting with the banner committee to discuss the new designs for the Thanksgiving service in the fall.”
Rick drummed his fingers against his thigh. “How about the next night?”
Becky flipped the page and shook her head as she glanced up at Rick.
“If it’s another church thing, don’t tell me,” he said, holding his hand up, palm out. “I don’t care if you’re baking cookies with the Ladies Aid, cancel it. This is important.”
Becky stifled a flare of resentment. “So is my meeting.”
“Find someone else to do it. This is your job.” Rick picked up a folder and flipped it open. “While we’re talking about your job, I
also want to comment on the lack of letters to the editor.”
“People here are generally low-key. If they like something, they don’t say anything. If you want a reaction, you have to stir up the nest.”
“Not something you’re prone to doing.” He tilted her a half smile that, in spite of their momentary antagonism, slipped past her defenses and kindled a faint warmth.
“I think I’ve done a good job.”
“But I don’t want good,” Rick said, holding her gaze. “What I want from you is your best.”
Becky frowned, uncomfortable with this new tack. Did he think she was doing a mediocre job? “And that’s what you’ll get,” she said. She gathered up her papers and left without another look back, a self-doubt niggling at her confidence.
As she walked down the hall, she reread the article. Had she been overly positive? Had she done a mediocre job?
She thought of Duncan’s smile as he talked about his work. Oh sure, he made some negative comments. She recognized the griping. Her brothers talked the same way when they had a particularly unpleasant chore. Yet underneath the words, she knew there was a love of a challenge. A pride in his work and the place he owned with his wife, Miriam.
“Hey, Becky, eyes up.” Cliff caught her by the shoulders, avoiding a collision. He angled his chin toward Rick’s office. “Had your bi-hourly meeting with the boss?”
Becky resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cliff didn’t need to see her own frustration. Rick was ruffling all kinds of feathers, but in public she needed to stand behind him. “We had to discuss an article he wants me to look over.” Among other things.
Cliff drew her aside and lowered his voice. “Becky, you got to help me. This Rick guy is driving us nuts. He wants us to redo the layout for the next issue. Unless we work twenty-four seven, it’s not going to get to the printer on time. Can you make him see sense?”
Becky took a deep breath, fighting her own annoyances. She had to present a united front, that much she realized.
“You know what’s at stake here, Cliff. We’re in transition.” She had to face the reality herself. As well, for the sake of unity in the office, she had to at least publicly toe the same line as Rick, though she disagreed with him in private. “It’s sort of like sharks. We don’t move, we die. And if moving means putting in more hours until we know where this magazine is going, I guess you might have to put off your Netflix binge watching.” She flashed him a smile, hoping to soften her comment.
A Place in Her Heart Page 3
