by Neesa Hart
She let that pass. “As hard as it may be for you to believe, there are some people in this world who enjoy the quaintness of things like duck races.”
“For your information, I happen to be one of those people.”
Molly thought she detected a slightly bitter note in his voice, but she pressed on. “You just don’t think they’re worthy of print coverage.”
“I think that when everyone in the town attends the festival, a recap isn’t going to sell any papers—except maybe to the family of the scholarship winner. But I also think there are enough new people in Payne that covering the history of the event and its founder is both relevant and marketable.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, “but the point isn’t about circulation—”
“It’s always about circulation,” Sam replied.
Molly rolled her eyes. “We’re talking about you and this town—not the paper. Whether or not your way will sell more papers doesn’t change the fact that you, yourself, said you’re having trouble getting people to accept you.”
He seemed to think that over. “And you believe it’s because I changed the coverage of the duck races?”
“No, Sam,” she said with strained patience. “I think it’s because you handed down your decision without even discussing it with the editorial staff.”
“You’re probably right,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of patience with the whining that goes on in those meetings. It’s mostly counterproductive.”
“I don’t think they consider their creative input whining,” she replied sharply.
“Yours isn’t,” he concurred. “You actually seem to have thought through your proposals before you field them.”
“Thanks.”
If Sam noticed her sarcasm, he didn’t comment. “But except for Daniel Constega, the rest of them just like to complain.”
Molly closed her eyes in frustration. “That’s exactly what I mean, Sam.”
“What?”
She looked at him again. “You can’t simply denigrate people’s work styles because they don’t happen to be the same as yours. Carl didn’t run the paper the way you do. The writers are used to having a lot of input.”
“Which is why,” he pointed out, “the Sentinel has covered the duck races the same way every year for a decade.”
“People like it. Traditions have their place.”
He hesitated. “You’re probably right.”
Surprised, Molly studied him through narrowed eyes. “Are you agreeing with me?”
“It looks like it.”
“My God. We might have to declare a municipal holiday.”
He regarded her with a definite sparkle in his gray eyes. “Maybe we could call it ‘Duck Day.”’
“Don’t start that again,” she said tartly, still chafing with remembered frustration at his apparent snobbery.
“I’m not belittling the ducks—or the teenagers who race them.”
“Just because they don’t win something prestigious like a scholarship to Harvard doesn’t mean they don’t work hard and accomplish something significant.”
“I agree.”
“A lot of teenagers don’t have the sense of responsibility or commitment to spend an entire year working toward something.”
“True.”
She glared at him. “What are you trying to pull, Sam?”
“Pull?”
“You never agree with me. In all the weeks that you’ve been here, can you name one time when you’ve agreed with me?”
He nodded. “Actually, I agree with you more than you know.”
Exasperated, Molly blew an auburn curl off her forehead. “In public? Can you think of one time you’ve agreed with me in public?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “I can’t.”
“And now you’ve done it, what, four times since we sat down?”
“Are you complaining?”
“I feel like I’m in the twilight zone.”
“Because you’re determined to find something about me you can’t stand?”
“There’s plenty about you I can’t stand,” she assured him. “Want a list?”
That made him laugh. She had to remember to stop giving him reasons to laugh. Every time she heard that warm, rich chuckle, it made her stomach flip. “No, I’ll pass,” he said.
Too bad, Molly thought. She would probably benefit from the opportunity to remind herself of his flaws. As usual, she was tumbling fast down the rabbit hole of infatuation with a man who’d made his “strictly temporary” intentions very clear. They had a business arrangement, he’d said. A mutually beneficial partnership. If she had a brain in her head, she’d remember that. She took a fortifying breath. “Rats.”
He laughed again. “You’re dying to tell me, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been dying to tell you since you got here. I was actually kind of hoping you’d fire me this morning.”
“License to vent?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t you relish the opportunity if you were me?”
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “To be perfectly frank, I’ve been marveling at your self-control for weeks. I was sort of wondering when you were going to crack.”
Good Lord, she thought, was he actually teasing her? Until this morning, she’d have sworn that Sam Reed had been born with no sense of humor and was personality-challenged. “Friday,” she told him. “I cracked on Friday.”
A devilish smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess you did.”
Molly blew a stray curl off her forehead as she mentally chided herself for the way her heart accelerated at the sight of his dimple. “And since you did ask for my help in getting the people of Payne to accept you, then you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that you sound as if you think we’re beneath you.”
He frowned again. “That’s not true.”
“So, fine. You’d better figure out how to communicate that.”
“Would it help if I told you I arranged to match the Duck Foundation’s grant and give the scholarship winner an additional two thousand dollars?”
Her eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” He spread his hands on the table. “I have great admiration for any kid who’s willing to work that hard to get a college education—no matter what the accomplishment. It shows determination, responsibility and commitment. I think that should be rewarded.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?” she pressed.
“No. Generosity tends to make people hostile.”
His eyes took on a sad look that made Molly wonder who had burned Sam for his generous nature. “That’s an interesting way of looking at the world,” she said.
“People are suspicious of generosity. They think you want something in return.”
“Probably because most people do.”
He shrugged. “It may be better to give than receive, but receiving takes humility. People don’t like it.”
Molly studied him closely. “How did you come by that conclusion, Sam?”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Long story. I’ll tell you later.” The sad look disappeared from his eyes. Molly felt she’d just let a rare opportunity slip from her fingers. “So do you think my reputation is too far gone for me to redeem myself with the citizens of Payne?”
“I don’t think—”
“The paper could hold a ceremony. We could crown the scholarship winner the duck king or something.” Tiny lines appeared at the corner of his eyes. Molly was beginning to recognize them as the sure indicator that Sam was up to mischief. She watched him for a moment, intrigued. There had been something in his gaze just a moment ago, and he’d chased it away with this teasing look. Interesting, she thought, I wonder why I’ve taken so long to observe how many layers there are to this man.
“The duck king?” she finally prompted. “With an entire duck court. We’d give out duck calls. We’d wear duck shoes.”
“Sam—”
“Local restaurants could ser
ve duck-related foods.”
“Duck-related foods?”
“Duck à l’orange. Duck soup. Roast duck.” She glared at him. “Cheese and quackers.”
His expression was so serious, it took her a moment to catch the pun. Despite herself, Molly laughed. She wadded up her napkin and tossed it at him. “You’re impossible.”
He caught the napkin in one hand. “So I’ve heard.” Sam pinned her with a close look.
Molly returned the look. “And speaking of impossible, why did you wait until today to let me in on your plans for the transportation story?”
“You saw what happened at the meeting—”
“Everyone was shocked that you and I could be in the same room without killing one another.”
His mouth kicked up at the corners. “You didn’t let me finish.”
She scowled. “Well, they were.”
“You and I might be legendary around the Sentinel office, but I don’t think most of Payne is talking about the fact that we’ve been hashing it out in editorial meetings.”
“I think you seriously underestimate the power of small-town gossip.”
“Maybe, but what I was going to say was that you have a reputation for being Carl’s go-to reporter. If there’s a serious story to be written, you’re on it.”
“Because I’m the best writer he has,” she pointed out.
“Yes,” Sam concurred.
Molly experienced a rush of endorphins at his affirmation. She was starting to feel like an adolescent and she hated it. “And,” Sam continued, “if Cobell had known or suspected that I had you looking into the project, he wouldn’t have been as forthcoming with information.”
That, she admitted, was probably true. “You insinuated to the mayor that you’d cooperate with his PR campaign to sell the project.”
“I insinuated,” he told her. “I didn’t actually promise him anything.”
“Maybe, but he’s expecting—”
“I couldn’t care less what he’s expecting.” He cradled his hands together and leaned toward her. “I’ve let Cobell get comfortable with me for a reason. Now it’s time to start shaking him up a little. My brother, Ben, says that if you want to know about a person’s character, just shake them up and see what comes out.”
Molly smiled. “Good advice.”
“And now that I have Cobell where I want him—which is pretty far out on a limb—I’m ready to start shaking the tree a little.”
“That makes sense.”
“And the opportunity to explore stories like this are exactly the reason I want to help Carl save the Sentinel. If we can make the paper profitable with a few innovations—”
“Like advice columns and coupons?” she said dryly.
“You may not like them, but yes, features like that are consistently profitable in smaller market publications.”
“The Sentinel is a serious paper.”
“And it’s going to be seriously out of business if we can’t increase the readership.”
“I know,” she insisted. “It’s just that I can’t believe there isn’t a better way to do it than diluting the paper’s journalistic edge.”
“Have you been listening to anything I’ve said over the past few weeks?”
“Of course—”
He held up a hand. “I have no intention of taking the edge off the Sentinel’s content.”
“But—” At his knowing look, she swallowed her instincts and said reluctantly, “Go ahead.”
“Just because I’ve introduced a few regular features doesn’t mean the paper won’t have plenty of room for solid journalism. I’ve been waiting for the right story.”
“Like the transportation project.”
“The time is right,” he said. “I didn’t want to alert Cobell that I was going to look into this, but in retrospect, I could have handled things differently.”
“Carl ran an open forum,” she told him. “We’re not used to being in the dark. It makes us feel that you don’t trust us.”
“Maybe I just wanted to know how hard I could push before you pushed back.”
“Are you apologizing to me?” she asked, slightly incredulous.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” he muttered. Molly searched his expression, but found nothing. Their waitress chose that moment to deliver their food. “Hey, Molly,” she said as she set the plates down. “Everything going okay?”
Molly had known Amanda Freeman since she’d talked Stingy Eddy into giving Amanda her job as a waitress.
Molly had met her at the bus station while researching a story on the financial hardships of single mothers and befriended her. At the time, Amanda had been taking odd jobs, but was on the verge of turning to prostitution to feed her young daughter. With Molly’s encouragement, she’d gotten help to kick her drug habit and was now making a productive living for herself and her child. “Sure, Mandy,” Molly told her. She indicated Sam with a wave of her hand. “Have you met Sam Reed?”
Mandy wiped her hands on her apron, then extended one to Sam. “You the guy who’s taken over the paper?”
“I’m helping Carl Morgan make some adjustments to the Sentinel,” Sam clarified.
Mandy looked at Molly. “This the fella from the ad?”
Molly cringed. “Yes.”
Mandy gave her a speculative look, then glanced at Sam. A broad smile accompanied the knowing wink she shot Molly’s way. “I see,” she said carefully. She placed their glasses on the table, then looked at Sam again. “Anything else?” she asked propping her tray on her hip.
He glanced at Molly, then shook his head. “No, thanks. I think that’ll do it.”
“Okay. I’ll be back to check on you in a minute.” She tapped Molly’s shoulder as she headed back to the kitchen. “You go, girl,” she whispered.
Molly groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, God.”
Sam picked up his spoon and twirled it between his fingers. “That wasn’t so bad,” he told her.
“Speak for yourself.”
Sam laughed. “Believe me, if you could have heard my sister this morning, you’d know I’ve taken my share of hits over this.”
Molly gave him an apologetic look. “I really am sorry, Sam. I never meant for this to happen.”
He shrugged, but didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his attention back to the story. “No matter what mistakes I have made in handling this, I do think the time is right.” He pinned her with a knowing look. “And I want you to write the story.”
“I won’t promise not to make Fred Cobell angry with the Sentinel, or with you.”
He grinned at her. “I wouldn’t expect such a promise, Molly.”
She thought for a minute. “You know, Sam, now that I think about it, one of the reasons you’ve been successful with Cobell is the same reason you’ve had trouble getting the staff to buy into your plans for the paper.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Cobell is attracted to the fact that you’re from the Boston financial world. The fact that you’re Edward Reed’s son doesn’t hurt either.”
“I can see that. But if you’re serious about making Cobell nervous, then I think now is the time for your coming-out party.”
“Now?” Molly waved a hand in annoyance. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Sam. You say you don’t understand why you’re having trouble getting people to trust you, but you’re planning to leave town instead of attending the festival next weekend. And without even going, you’ve already made up your mind about the event coverage.”
“I have my reasons.”
Molly stubbornly held his gaze. “It doesn’t look good,” she told him. “It makes you seem like a snob.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that, and I think you’re right. I should go.”
His easy concession made her suspicious. “Just like that? You changed your mind?”
“Sure. Half the battle to save the Sentinel is changing Payne’s perceptions of what they wa
nt in a paper and its publisher. I asked you to help me with that. This is your advice, and I’m going to take it.”
“You’re smarter than I thought,” she told him. Sam laughed. “I promise not to take that personally.”
“I meant it personally.”
His grin didn’t falter. Molly resisted the urge to press a palm against her stomach, where butterflies had been congregating all morning. Sam continued, “Besides, I’ve never attended a duck race. It might be entertaining.”
“It’s a small-town festival,” she told him. “Most people find it charming.”
“I imagine they do.” He grinned at her. “I’m looking forward to experiencing it with you.”
She stilled, sensing she’d just walked into a trap. “With me?”
“Of course. It’s the biggest event of the year. You said so yourself. Besides, you will have all day to convince me that the duck races deserve front-page coverage.”
“All day?” she hedged.
“You will have my undivided attention for your cause.”
“And everyone in town will see us together,” she guessed.
“Even better,” Sam assured her.
He’d trapped her neatly. Sam was smart enough to know that the entire population of Payne, Massachusetts, and its neighboring townships would be at the festival that weekend. If he and Molly appeared together, it would fuel the speculation she’d already started with the personal ad.
And the legendary Flynn “pluck” wasn’t the only thing Aunt Ida extolled. Flynns also took their licks and faced the consequences of their actions. Molly faced the grim reality that she’d just decided to plunge headfirst into the Payne gossip mill and nodded. “Okay, Sam, I’ll do it.” At his look of triumph, she added, “but only for the ducks.”
Chapter Four
“Okay, Molly.” Cindy pressed a cup of iced coffee into her hand at 4:30 that afternoon in her office. “I’m dying here.”
Molly cringed. This was the part of her bargain with Sam that she’d feared. But at least she got to face her friends at the paper before she had to tell her family. It was a chance to brush up on her technique before she got the inquisition from her sisters. The stack of pink messages on her desk from the Flynn clan had not escaped her attention. “He…let me keep my job,” she told Cindy carefully.