Above It All (Eureka, Colorado Book 4) (Contemporary Romance)

by Cindy Myers

  “I don’t agree, but we’ll table that discussion for now. There’s an even bigger story we should be looking into—one I guarantee will pull in readers, not just locally, but nationally. Maybe even internationally.”

  She didn’t like the sound of this. “What story is that?”

  He snatched up a press release from the stack on her desk—the latest missive from Cassie, about the Founders’ Pageant. Ellie had placed it there with the rest of yesterday’s mail, but Maggie hadn’t been desperate enough for something to do to read it yet. Now her eyes locked on the headline, in a bold, all-caps font across the top of the page that read BABY SHELLY TO STAR IN EUREKA FOUNDERS’ PAGEANT.

  “Baby Shelly!” Rick thumped the paper. “That’s our big story. She disappeared from the public eye ten years ago, and suddenly we find out she’s been living here for most of that time. All those legions of Baby Shelly fans who’ve been waiting all this time to find out what happened to her will go crazy for a story like that.”

  “Rick, no! If Shelly had wanted everyone to know about her past, she would have told someone before now.” She remembered the young woman’s anguish when Maggie had questioned her about Travis Rowell’s accusations.

  “Obviously, she told Cassie Wynock. Or someone else told Cassie.” Someone like Travis, but Maggie didn’t want to bring him into the picture. The idea that another reporter had scooped him would send Rick into a frenzy, even if that reporter might or might not work for a paper in another state.

  “Maybe her sister said something,” Maggie said. “It’s definitely not something Shelly ever talks about.”

  “And why doesn’t she talk about it? What has she been hiding from? That’s something you need to find out when you interview her.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You’re the reporter, remember? Besides, she’ll probably feel more comfortable talking to another woman. You’re good at getting people to open up about themselves.”

  Normally, Maggie would have savored this rare praise from her boss, but she wasn’t going to let herself get sidetracked by his flattery now. “Rick, Shelly is my friend. And I think she’s entitled to her privacy.” Not to mention, she’d already promised Shelly she wouldn’t write about her past. And no matter what Rick said, she had to keep her promise.

  “Would you say the same thing if your friend was accused of murder, or if she was a witness to a crime? Wouldn’t you be rushing to her doorstep to interview her then?”

  “This is completely different and you know it. Shelly hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “But she’s done something newsworthy.”

  “I don’t know if I agree with that.”

  “It’s not your decision to make,” he said. “Finding out that Baby Shelly is living right here in Eureka is big news, and we’re not going to miss out on the chance to scoop the national press with the story.”

  Maggie tried to keep her voice from shaking as she spoke. “If you want the story so badly, you talk to her,” she said. “I won’t.”

  Rick stopped and gave her an assessing look. “I thought when I hired you, you had more gumption than this.”

  “I’ve got plenty of gumption,” she said. “Gumption enough to respect Shelly’s wishes for privacy.”

  “How do you know what her wishes are if you haven’t even talked to her about this? You’re assuming she doesn’t want to talk to the press because she’s avoided doing so for ten years. But now that her story is out, did it ever occur to you that she might prefer talking to a friend, instead of the hordes of nameless reporters who are probably going to descend on this town once word spreads?”

  “Do you really think national news will make that big a deal out of something that happened twenty-five years ago?” she asked.

  “Maybe not, if she hadn’t hidden from the spotlight for the last decade. The very fact that she’d been so reclusive makes her mysterious and desirable. If you think otherwise, you’ve underestimated the public’s appetite for celebrity.”

  Maggie shook her head. “But it happened so long ago . . .”

  “Some stories never die. Look at D. B. Cooper. He jumped out of that plane over Oregon almost fifty years ago, but if he suddenly showed up today he’d be the headline in every paper and on every television news story in the country. If Jimmy Hoffa—or his corpse—turned up, you’d be reading about it for days.”

  Maggie suppressed a shudder. “I hardly think Shelly is in the same category as those two.”

  “No, she’s better. Because her story isn’t of some lawbreaker or suspected lawbreaker. The Baby Shelly story is all about a cute little toddler rescued from the grave. Reading about it makes people smile all over again. In the midst of all the bad news, a story like this reaffirms people’s belief in the goodness of their fellow man and that miracles do happen. Think about that and maybe you’ll get over your squeamishness—you’re not invading a friend’s privacy, you’re giving people a reason to feel hopeful and happy in the midst of all the tragedy in the world.”

  “You should have been a car salesman, Rick.” He almost—almost—had her believing he was right.

  “I’m not a car salesman, I’m a journalist. And if you want to be one, too, you’ll call Shelly and schedule an interview. Tell her what I just told you—that she has a better chance of telling her story the way she wants it if she talks to you. And if she gives you an exclusive, we’ll help her fend off the rest of the press.”

  She wanted to put her hands over her ears and close her eyes to shut him out. Because he was starting to make sense, and she knew she was going to have to at least approach Shelly about this story—or give up on a job that, most of the time, she loved. “I’ll talk to Shelly,” she said. “But if she says no, I won’t pressure her.”

  “If she says no, come back to me and I’ll help you build an argument to persuade her to open up to you.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to her in the first place?” she asked, her voice rising dangerously close to a wail.

  “Because that wouldn’t make you a better reporter.” He looked smug. “Let me know what she says. Meeting adjourned.” He strode back into his office and shut the door behind him.

  She glared at the closed door, wishing she could think of some scathing comeback that would leave her pride intact. But she’d never been good with quick retorts. And then there was the fact that Rick was right. She had a degree in English, not journalism. She could write, but Rick had had to teach her how to construct a compelling news story. She should probably be more grateful to him, but, then again, there weren’t exactly any other candidates standing in line for a job with such low pay and lousy hours. So she figured they both benefited about equally from her taking this position.

  The front door opened and Ellie entered, a large coffee in one hand, a stack of mail in the other. A large woman with a mass of black, curly hair and a penchant for brightly colored loose shirts and lots of jangly silver jewelry, she was a recent—and welcome—addition to the Miner’s staff. “Hey, Maggie,” she said, setting the coffee on the edge of her desk and flipping through the mail. “Two obituaries for you today.”

  Considering Eureka’s already small population, two deaths in one week was noteworthy. “Who died?” Maggie asked.

  “Old Rolly Peterson—Mack Peterson’s dad? Out at the Lazy J?”

  Maggie shook her head. Though she’d been in town over a year now and knew most people, at least by reputation, this one didn’t ring a bell. “I don’t guess I knew him.”

  “Well, he doesn’t make it to town much. Rolly was, let’s see . . .” She scanned the printout in her hand. “Ninety-eight. Died at home in his sleep. What a way to go.”

  Maggie took the sheet of paper. One of her jobs was to rewrite the obituaries into an interesting profile of the deceased, with a picture if she could find one in the files or obtain one from the family. “Who’s the other one?”

  “Mavis Gilroy. She moved away last year. She was eighty-six. She o
wned the house Olivia and D. J. Gruber live in now.”

  Maggie collected this printout as well. Though she’d never met Mrs. Gilroy, she knew the house well. That was the thing she liked about small towns—the connections. Everything and everyone was related in some way, woven together by threads of friendship or genetics or location, into a tapestry that could be either comforting or smothering, depending on your point of view.

  Yet, even with this closeness, people still kept secrets. Had anyone—even her best friends—known that Shelly was the toddler who’d held the attention of practically the whole world for five days a quarter century ago?

  She picked up her purse and draped it over the shoulder. “I’m going for coffee,” she said. “I’ll be back in half an hour or so.”

  “Sure.” Ellie settled behind her desk. “If Rick asks, I’ll tell him you’re working on a story.”

  “Thanks.”

  Maggie walked the block and a half toward the Last Dollar, past Lucille’s junk and antique store, Lacy’s, where a sign on the door informed her that the mayor was attending an auction in Telluride and would be back at noon. Outside the hardware store, she nodded to Josh Miller, who was emerging from his apartment upstairs. She wondered how his romance with Jameso’s sister, Sharon, was progressing. Marriage to a controlling husband had left Sharon wary of rushing into a new relationship, but Josh appeared patient enough to wait for her. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait much longer; the last few times Maggie had seen the two together, they’d looked pretty cozy.

  She waved to other people as she passed, acquaintances and friends, threads in the tapestry she was weaving around herself here in Eureka. Coming from the big city and a small family, she’d found it surprisingly easy to fit into the weft and warp of the community. People accepted her—as longtime Eureka fixture Jake Murphy’s daughter, as Jameso’s girlfriend, then wife, and as herself, Maggie Stevens, another orphan seeking shelter who’d found her place in a community that was more than a little off the beaten path.

  Danielle was on the front porch of the Last Dollar, watering the troughs of red and white geraniums under the windows. She swept a lock of dark hair out of her eyes and smiled up at Maggie. “Hey there,” she said. “Are you here for an early lunch or a late breakfast?”

  “Coffee,” Maggie said.

  Danielle followed her into the restaurant, which was empty except for one table of tourists, who were finishing breakfast. She collected a thick white mug and the coffeepot and led Maggie to a booth by the window. “Do you want anything to go with your coffee?” she asked. “Pie, or a piece of cake? I think we’ve got a couple of slices of buttermilk pecan coffee cake left.”

  “It sounds delicious, but I’d better not. But . . . do you have time to have coffee with me?”

  Danielle glanced around the almost empty room. “Sure. Just a sec.”

  She returned a moment later with a second steaming mug and a small pitcher of cream. “You want this, right?” she said, and slid the pitcher toward Maggie, then took a seat across from her. “How are you doing?”

  Danielle was one of those people who asked this question not as a polite greeting, but because she really cared. She looked into Maggie’s eyes, as if searching for a clue as to her friend’s mood and health. But Maggie didn’t know how to answer the question this morning—not honestly.

  She poured cream into the mug and stared at the swirls of white in the dark liquid. “Do you think it’s human nature to never be satisfied with what we have?” she asked. “Is it a way of keeping us striving to do better, or is it just a big flaw in our character?”

  “What are you unhappy about?” Danielle sipped her coffee and studied Maggie over the rim of the cup.

  Buying time to think of a good answer, Maggie glanced around the café. The tourists were gathering their belongings and preparing to leave.

  “Don’t worry,” Danielle said. “I can keep a secret. Well, except from Janelle, but she doesn’t tell anyone anything.”

  “I’ve just been feeling a little . . . unsettled lately,” Maggie said. “I mean, I must be about the luckiest woman in the world. I came to town with pretty much nothing and now I have a wonderful husband and a perfect baby girl, a beautiful place to live and a job I enjoy—yet, apparently, that isn’t enough.”

  “No one can be deliriously happy all the time,” Danielle said. “The perfect baby is cutting a tooth or suddenly decides she hates strained carrots; the wonderful husband wakes up grumpy; you have a boring or frustrating day on the job.” She shrugged. “All those little things get to you, like sand in your shoes.”

  “You never look like you’re out of sorts or having a bad day. You’re always so serene.”

  Danielle laughed. “I have my days—ask Janelle. But I try not to take my moods out on my customers. It’s bad for business.”

  “This is more than just a bad day.” Maggie sipped her coffee, trying to find the words to describe the turmoil in her head. “I pick fights with Jameso, about stupid stuff. I hate that he spends so much time at the Dirty Sally, yet I know he enjoys the work. And why should I ask him to give up something he loves, when he never says a word when I have to work late covering a town council meeting, or spend Saturdays taking pictures at some festival?”

  “You’re newlyweds. I think part of the process in the early days of a relationship is seeing how far you can push each other. Does he really love me enough to put up with this? How about this?”

  Maggie blinked. The intuitive logic of those words hit her low in the gut. “You really think that’s it?”

  Another shrug. “Hey, I’m just an amateur. I’m guessing, but it makes sense to me. When Janelle and I first moved in together, I went through a phase where I was a huge slob. I knew she was a neat freak and it was like I couldn’t wait to push all her buttons, leaving clothes and shoes all over the place, not cleaning up the kitchen after I cooked.” She made a face. “I was awful.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She cleaned up after me for a while, then one day she sat me down and we had ‘the talk.’ ”

  “The talk?”

  She nodded. “She told me I wasn’t going to scare her away with all my messes, but that she wasn’t my personal maid, either, so I had better shape up, or we would be seeing a counselor—and wouldn’t I be embarrassed to have to tell a professional we were fighting over how many pairs of shoes I left in the living room and whether or not I left the lid off the flour bin?”

  “Smart woman.”

  “Yep. I always tell her she’s the brains and I’m the beauty.” She made a show of patting her hair.

  Maggie laughed. “Maybe that does explain why I’ve been out of sorts with Jameso lately, but I’ve been annoyed with Rick, too.”

  Danielle pursed her lips. “Well . . . you probably aren’t the first person Rick has annoyed. He can be a little, um, forceful, until you get to know him and realize his bark is worse than his bite.”

  “I’ve gotten really good at ignoring his tantrums, but this is more than that. We’ve been butting heads on what makes a good news story and what doesn’t. One of the things I’ve liked about working for the Miner is that I get to know most of everything that goes on in town. I’ve met a lot of people and I’ve been on the front line for everything from births to funerals—and everything in between. But I’ve always felt we were working together. Some of the stories Rick wants me to do lately put me in the position of adversary.”

  “Any particular story?” Danielle asked.

  “He wanted to do a write-up about Gerald Pershing’s disappearance.” She gripped the mug of coffee more tightly, knuckles whitening. “There’s no way to do that without implying that someone in town did away with the man. And it’s all speculation, anyway. That’s not good reporting—I don’t have to have a journalism degree to know that.”

  “And Rick knows it, too,” Danielle said. “That feels like an idea he’ll get over soon enough.”

  “Maybe. But that’s not th
e story that has me really upset. He wants me to interview Shelly Frazier.”

  “About the fact that she’s Baby Shelly.”

  “You knew?” Had she been wrong about Shelly’s desire to keep her past a secret? Maybe to most people in town it was old news. Only Maggie had been in the dark.

  “Cassie brought one of her new posters by this morning,” Danielle said. She nodded toward the front window and the sign pasted there, which advertised the Founders’ Pageant, “Starring Shelly Frazier, beloved ‘Baby Shelly,’ celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of her rescue from a Texas cave.”

  “I wonder what Shelly thinks of that poster?” Maggie asked. “Have you seen her?”

  Danielle shook her head. “I took our deposit to the bank this morning and they said she’d taken a personal day. They had one of the posters in their window, too, so everyone was talking about it.”

  “I feel terrible for her. It must be awful to have everyone talking about you that way.”

  “It’s so amazing to think she’s been living here all this time and we never knew.” Danielle rested her chin in her hand, her expression dreamy. “She and I are the same age. I remember watching the coverage of her rescue when I was five. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but I remember my mother kept hugging me and crying. We bought a card to send to the family. Of course, they must have received thousands of cards and letters—too many to read. But it was important to my mother to send it. She felt such a connection to Shelly’s mother, because she had a little girl the same age.”

  “I think pretty much every mother felt that connection,” Maggie said. She thought of her own daughter, at home now with Jameso. With all the abandoned mines in the area, it wasn’t far-fetched to imagine that Angela could fall into one. Last year, during the Founders’ Pageant, Olivia Gruber’s son, Lucas, had fallen down one of the shafts in the French Mistress Mine, the old gold mine Jake had left to Maggie. Lucas had only spent a few hours down there, but afterward, Maggie had paid a man to build a better gate to safely close off the mine opening.

  “I’m guessing her sister has something to do with the story coming out now,” Danielle said. “Her and that reporter fellow she hangs out with.”