“I—I didn’t realize…” She would have paid a thousand dollars right now to disappear into the federal witness protection program.
She should have recognized him. Rob Merrick. Of course. Heaven knew she’d watched him aplenty when, as a high-school freshman, she and her friends sat moon-eyed in the bleachers while the hunky senior won every tennis match on his way to State. He was a Bobby Sherman look-alike back then, and it seemed as if his photo had been in the Beacon every other week. Now she knew why.
Looking at him with this new information, his chiseled jaw and muscled forearms were suddenly all-too-familiar. But his hair was dark and straight now, and it touched his collar. A little surprising given that he worked for the straitlaced Robert Merrick Sr.—and Myrtle Dressler.
And he was no regular “sports guy.” He was the boss’s son. No, worse. As far as she was concerned, he was the boss. The Beacon’s masthead clearly listed him as Managing Editor, directly under Robert Merrick Sr.’s Publisher designation.
First day on the job and she was toast. Burned-to-a-crisp toast.
* * *
It was all Rob could do to hold in the laughter that came every time he thought of the look on the new reporter’s face when he’d told her his name. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone blush such a deep shade of scarlet. Poor girl.
It probably wasn’t very nice of him to let her suffer that way. He would make it up to her before the day was over, but right now, he could almost hear her discomfort on the other side of the divider, and he was enjoying it too much. Whoop-dee-doo. Laughter threatened again, and he distracted himself by going through his notes for the football feature one more time.
Satisfied he’d accurately quoted everyone he’d interviewed, he checked his watch. Ten fifteen. An idea struck and he popped his head over the partition. “Hey, it’s past time for that coffee break now. Come on. I’ll show you where the break room is.”
She didn’t look up from the stack of news releases she was shuffling through. “Thanks, but I don’t care for anything right now.”
He rolled his desk chair out of the way and leaned over the divider. “You’re not still sore at me, are you?”
She looked up at him, those hazel eyes of hers narrowing. “Of course not. Why would I be ‘sore’ at you just because you humiliated, embarrassed, and patronized me? Not to mention, deceived me.”
Uh-oh. “Okay…I’m going to take that as sarcasm and assume that you are, indeed, still sore at me.”
“Indeed? Wow. Nice vocabulary.”
He wanted to laugh, but he wasn’t sure that would go over so hot right now.
“And another thing,” she said, obviously going for broke. “Would you please explain the whole Robert Merrick III thing to me, because that’s just guaranteed to trip people up.”
“Oh, so we’re back to whoop-dee-doo again? Listen, I’m sorry. But I thought you knew who I was.”
She ignored that. “Why is your dad ‘Senior,’ but you’re the third?”
He propped his forearms on the top of the partition and regarded her. “Have you been talking to Myrtle?”
“No… Why?”
“Because she gives us a hard time about that too.”
“Well, I looked it up, and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Looked it up?”
“Emily Post.” She tapped a blue book on her research shelf.
He laughed. “Ah, the Pocket Book of Etiquette. You have been talking to Myrtle. Or my dad.”
“No, I haven’t. I swear. It’s in the book.”
“So I hear.” He sighed. “Apparently Mrs. Post ascribes to the convention of the names and numerals—”
“Post-nominals.”
“Whatever you call them. Talk about vocabulary,” he muttered. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, Emily Post—and Dad and Myrtle—say that when the original ‘Senior’ dies, everybody moves up a notch; therefore, when my granddad died, my dad became Robert Merrick Senior.”
“That’s right. Making you ‘Junior.’ And if your son is Robert Merrick, he’s the third. Until you die, and then he’s ‘Junior.’ ”
He curbed a smile. This girl was adorable—but he wasn’t about to let her know he thought so. Not yet anyway. “I don’t have a son, and I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.”
“I’m being hypothetical.”
“Fine. But I don’t want to be a junior. I’ve been Robert Merrick III my whole life, and I’m not going to change my Social Security card and driver’s license and bank account every time a Robert Merrick drops dead.”
“That’s terrible!”
“I’m being hypothetical,” he deadpanned. “And there are plenty of sources that say I can keep my Roman numerals if I choose.”
“Name one.”
“Listen, I feel bad about that coffee.” He looked pointedly at the mug on her desk. “Let me treat you to a fresh cup, okay?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I might even be able to rustle up a couple of cookies. Myrtle usually bakes for Thursdays.”
She fell for it. “What’s so special about Thursdays?”
Nice parry, Merrick. Well done. “Boy, do you ever have a lot to learn about the newspaper business. Thursdays are celebration days because the newspaper has been put to bed, mailed, and delivered.”
“It was awfully nice of you to let me start work on a celebration day.”
He grinned, suddenly not so annoyed at Myrtle for filling the cubicle next to his. Michelle seemed to have forgotten she was mad at him. He wouldn’t tell her that not only did he have nothing to do with her starting work today, but he hadn’t wanted to hire her in the first place.
“Let’s go find a cookie, then.” He flipped off the lamp on his desk and came around to her cubicle.
He led her through the office, giving an abbreviated version of the guided tour that someone should have given her before sticking her all alone in a cubicle.
“Mrs. Dressler said I’d be covering school-board and city-council meetings?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
Her face flushed pink again. Pink was a very good color on her.
“Sorry. I’m feeling a little…” She shrugged. “It’s just that I don’t know who I answer to, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I–I’ve never been a reporter before, and that’s what I told Myrtle when I interviewed for the job. But I feel like I’ve been tossed into the ocean and told to do the backstroke when I barely know how to dog-paddle.”
Nice metaphor. The woman was obviously a writer. “And things will really pick up tomorrow.”
She made a face. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Or would you rather spend another day typing the same news release over and over?”
More pink cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.” He opened a door and motioned for her to go through. “This is the break room.”
She lifted the empty carafe. “But no coffee?”
“Oh. I guess I sort of…drank the last cup.”
“That wasn’t very nice.” But she smiled when she said it.
“Here…I’ll show you how to make more.”
“I think I know how to make coffee.”
“Be my guest. I’ll be over here eating cookies.”
He took two cookies from Myrtle’s gilt-edged plate, put them on a napkin, and placed them into the microwave oven. He turned the dial to twenty seconds. The oven rumbled to life.
Michelle whirled to face him, sloshing water from the coffee carafe. “What in the world is that racket?”
“It’s a microwave oven.” He grinned. “You’ve never seen one?”
“Is that like that radar range I saw at the State Fair?” She took a step backward. “Those things are dangerous, aren’t they? I read somewhere that you can get radiation poisoning from them.”
“It’s perfectly safe. Watch and learn.” The noise stopped and he p
ulled the cookies from the microwave’s glass tray, warm and fragrant.
“Wow! Amazing.” But she kept her distance, watching him from across the room.
He offered her a cookie. She accepted one and took a bite. “Mmm. Delicious. Like it just came out of the oven.”
“It did just come out of the oven. Our Selectrics and adding machines may be as old as dirt, but when it comes to the break room, the Bristol Beacon is state-of-the-art all the way.”
“Speaking of which, I shouldn’t have spoken so soon about making coffee.” She pointed back to the stove. “I’ve never seen a percolator like that. Where do you put the grounds?”
“I wondered if you’d figure it out,” he said. “It’s a prototype for a new coffee maker that’ll be on the market soon. My dad knows a guy who knows a guy. It’s pretty slick, actually. Here, let me show you.”
He filled the carafe with water and poured it into the reservoir.
“But—that’s cold water. Don’t you have to heat it up first?”
“That’s the beauty of it. The coffee brews right into the pot, ready to drink.”
“That, I’ve got to see.”
“Well, it takes awhile to heat up. Why don’t you warm up a couple more cookies while we’re waiting?” he said, spooning coffee grinds into the basket.
“I don’t know how to run that thing.” She eyed the microwave as if it might start shooting flames at any moment.
“It’s easy. Just put the cookies on a napkin, pop them in, and turn the dial.”
Michelle mumbled something unintelligible as she ratcheted the dial, but he heard the microwave come to life again.
The coffeemaker started sputtering, and he motioned her over. “You want to see this work? Come here.”
She bent her knees until she was eye-level with the counter and watched as the first thin stream of coffee dripped into the pot. “How does it do that with cold water?”
He took advantage of the awe in her voice. “It’s complicated. You see, there’s an electric element inside that heats the cold water right in the machine. That heat creates pressure and siphons the heated water up through a tube, where the hot water sprays over the coffee grinds, then drips through into the pot.”
“It smells like coffee.” Closing her eyes, she breathed in the steam. He did the same, but when he inhaled through his nose it wasn’t coffee he smelled. Something was burning.
He turned to see smoke seeping out from the door of the microwave. He crossed the room in two strides, depressed the oven’s latch, and yanked open the door. “How far did you turn that knob?”
“Obviously too far.”
Two charred lumps of coal sat on the tray. The napkin had turned to ash. “Obviously.”
Pungent gray smoke filled the room and hung in the air. Michelle covered her mouth with one hand and fanned with the other, her eyes huge and watery. “What do we do?”
“Open the window!” He went to the room’s one small window and tried in vain to raise the sash.
She got on the other side and braced her feet. “One, two, push!”
He squinted at her through the fog. “What happened to three?”
“Okay, on three. One, two, three.” She heaved on three.
He was waiting for push.
Finally they got the window open a crack. Michelle went to the door and swung it back and forth, using it as a giant fan.
“Robert!” Through the haze of smoke his father appeared, glaring. “What on earth happened in here?”
Michelle stepped in front of him. “It’s my fault, sir. I…must have turned the knob too far on that machine.
“What machine?” Mr. Merrick cast about the room.
“The microwave oven, Dad.”
“Well, get it cleaned up before somebody sends the fire department over.” He threw Michelle a disgusted look then turned it on Rob. “Robert…I’ll see you in my office.”
Rob didn’t dare look at Michelle. And now it was his turn to blush.
Chapter 3
Michelle wrung out the dishrag again and swabbed down the microwave oven. Cookie-scorcher was more like it. Or firebomb. She could have burned down the whole building! She might have found the whole escapade funny if she wasn’t so afraid she’d lose her job over it. All she could think about now was how she would explain to her father why she couldn’t pay her rent.
She took her time cleaning up, not wanting to interrupt whatever discussion Mr. Merrick Senior and Merrick “the third” were having.
She was only paying seventy-five dollars a month to rent the third story of the Victorian home behind the United Methodist Church. The house had served as the parsonage until a few years ago. When she’d discovered the apartment was available, even her parents had agreed that it made more sense to rent in town than waste gas driving into town and back every day. But if she couldn’t manage to pay her own rent, she knew Mom would love an excuse to get her back home.
And Dad would love nothing more than to say “I told you so.” She could almost hear him now. “I have plenty of work for you on the farm. Why you ever came up with the harebrained idea of working in town, I’ll never know.”
She actually felt kind of sorry for Rob. His father was an intimidating figure. But Rob had to be at least twenty-three or twenty-four. She doubted anyone had twisted his arm to come back to the old hometown and go to work for dear old dad. Maybe Merrick III needed to get a backbone.
He was probably still living under his father’s roof. At least she’d had the good sense not to move back home when she dropped out of college.
She remembered hearing back in high school that Mrs. Merrick had died when Rob was just little. At the time, she’d thought it the worst fate possible, losing your mom like that. Rob was an only child too, with no brothers or sisters to help him through. From what she remembered of him, he’d grown up more than a bit spoiled, but she had to admit that college had only improved his good looks. Kathy and Carol would go ape when she told them who her new office mate was. Well, office mate for one day, anyway.
She rinsed the dishrag and draped it over the sink to dry. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself to face the music and went to find the publisher’s office. If she could have walked any slower without standing still, she would have. But finally there was no stalling. She needed to find out whether she still had a job after nearly incinerating the newspaper office.
She walked out into the office and was mortified to realize that the horrid burnt smell wasn’t confined to the break room—it had seeped into the newsroom too.
Myrtle was on the phone at the reception desk, and behind her Michelle could see Mr. Merrick in his office. The venetian blinds covering the window between his office and the reception desk were tilted just enough that she could see his dour expression.
He must have seen her too, because he rose and came to the doorway, beckoning her with a curl of his index finger. Still on the phone, Myrtle gave her a look that said, “Good luck, sister. You’ll need it.”
Before she was even through the door she started apologizing. “Mr. Merrick, I am so sorry. It was an accident, but I had no business operating that thing. I should have let Rob—Mr. Merrick…the other Mr. Merrick, I mean—run it. But, well, he asked me and I—”
“Miss Penn, are you always this talkative?”
She thought for a minute. It was a trick question. But she heard her father’s voice in her head. Honesty is the best policy. “Yes, sir. I’m afraid that’s one of my faults. But I’m working on it, and I think I’m getting a little better at—”
“If you’re finished, Miss Penn.”
“Sorry.” She clamped her mouth shut and winced.
“Have a seat, please.” He indicated the chair in front of his desk.
She took it and waited while he straightened a sheaf of papers.
He looked at the ceiling as if trying to decide what to do with her. Finally, he leaned forward and leveled his gaze at her. “I accept some of the blame for
your little incident in the break room this morning. I should have seen to it that someone showed you how to operate the equipment. Robert said—” He cleared his throat. “Well, never mind what Robert said. Suffice it to say that I’m going to pretend this never happened. We’ll start fresh from here.”
“Thank you, sir. I—” She caught herself. “Thank you.”
“I understand you were not properly introduced around?”
“I—I guess not, sir.”
“I think you’ve met everyone who’s here today. Thursdays are down days after we get the paper to bed. But I promise tomorrow you’ll be given a proper introduction to your coworkers.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You may dispense with that ‘sir’ business. Just address me as Mr. Merrick.”
“Yes, sir—Mr. Merrick.”
She thought she detected a ghost of a smile in his eyes, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Now get back to work. Myrtle can give you some news releases that need typing and show you how to clean off the layout banks for the next issue. I’ll have Robert figure out your reporting assignments for next week too.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She bit back the “sir” that was on the tip of her tongue.
He pivoted in his chair and began typing. Was he finished with her? Or was he typing something for her?
After an awkward moment, he looked up. “That will be all. Please close the door when you leave.”
“Oh.” She pushed her chair back. “Sorry.”
She went to the door, but before she could open it, his voice came behind her. “One last thing, Miss Penn.”
She turned expectantly, grasping the heavy doorknob.
Mr. Merrick cleared his throat loudly. “If you value this job, you’ll keep your relationship with my son strictly professional.”
Chapter 4
Rob parked his Pinto behind the newspaper office and checked his hair in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car. He recognized Michelle Penn’s ’65 Delta 88 two spaces over and smiled. For the first time since he’d started working for his father nine months ago, he actually looked forward to coming in to work.
Silver Bells Page 2