They faced off. The words, Go ahead, hovered unsaid on his lips.
She’d mentored him from his first day as a cocky intern here, made him who he was. Besides, Meg had way too much business savvy to fire one of her best investigative reporters on a whim.
Her lips curved in the merest hint of a smile. “Don’t try calling my bluff, Novak. You know I never make threats I won’t follow through on.”
That much she was right about. In his fifteen years at the paper, he’d never heard her order anything she didn’t make happen. But this was ridiculous.
A homemaking blogger, for crying out loud, when his job was uncovering the city’s hidden crime and deception! Still, he could knock over a simple interview like this in a day. A day’s travel either side, three days tops. If he couldn’t talk Meg out of sending him, he’d have to humor her and go along with it.
But not without putting up a fight first.
“I want a follow-up on Samantha Rose. And I want you to do it.” A perfectly manicured bony finger poked a folder across her wide desk. “Here’s the plane reservation, the rental car, and your booking at a bed and breakfast. The details have been emailed to you.”
He stepped closer to pick up the folder and leafed through the printed pages as she continued speaking.
“Take whatever angle you want. You can add some critical analysis. The power of the press. Why a modern woman wants to devote so much time to homemaking. The impossible images of perfection most lifestyle media portray.” Irony warped those steel tones. “Including our own lifestyle pages, by the way, so don’t be too critical.”
“Forget the story for a minute. There’s something wrong here.” Pausing, he checked the dates again on the bookings. “Your assistant made a mistake. I’m booked into this place for four weeks. Even four days is more than it needs. There’s no reason I can think of not to simply call the woman and do a phone interview.”
“It’s not a mistake.” She eyed him steadily. “That’s what I told her to book. And there’s every reason not to do a phone interview. I want you to go in person.”
“You’re demanding I fly right across the country and lose an entire month doing what’s little more than a filler piece, no matter how you try to dress it up?” Lowering the folder, he stared at her, head shaking, forehead creased.
“When did you last use your vacation time?” The shrewd glance over the top of her glasses said she already knew.
Jaw tight, he placed both hands on her wide desk, leaning over it. “You know I haven’t taken any time off for years. And I don’t need to start.”
“Don’t you? We have a difference of opinion on that.” Meg wasn’t backing down. Not one inch.
Time for a different approach.
Stepping back, dropping his tense shoulders, he forced his body language to become as conciliatory as he could manage. “With the paper facing tough times financially, why spend so much on one story to fill space in the lifestyle section? And why me?”
“Consider it a thirty-fifth birthday gift. I’m paying.” Her harsh features softened, and for a moment, she looked more human than he’d seen her. “I taught you to ask all those whys. Here’s why — you’re burning out, Daniel. I know the signs better than anyone. You need some time off.”
He dragged in a deep, careful breath to relax his tensed muscles. Conciliatory, remember? “No. No way am I burning out. My last few stories were better than ever.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “Were they? They were scoops, sure. I know beyond doubt everything you write is one-hundred-percent accurate and factual. But there’s something missing. It’s always been missing from your stories. The human element. Any sense of caring for something greater than the facts.”
“There is nothing greater than the facts. Getting to the truth and seeing justice done is all that matters.” Outrage rocked him, echoing in his voice. How could Meg, of all people, say differently? “That’s what good investigative journalism is all about. You taught me that, too. About the same time you taught me who, why, where, what, how.”
“Did I?” Regret further drooped her lips as she shook her head. “In that case, I owe you an apology. I don’t like what I’m seeing in you. You’re so tuned into dishonesty and deceit, it’s all you can see in people.”
Before he could reply, she held up a hand. “I know about your father and the effect that had on you. But not everyone is crooked.”
The old pain of discovering Dad’s hypocrisy clenched his gut. He stiffened. “Aren’t they? In my experience, once you scratch beneath their nice shiny surfaces, most people are.”
Meg huffed. “You don’t think the fact that you’ve spent all your adult life investigating crime and fraud has anything to do with that? And this is exactly why I’m giving you a month off. You need to reset your internal lie detector by spending time with normal, honest people. Tell me, who do you trust? Anyone?” Her quirked eyebrow told him she didn’t expect the list would be long.
It wasn’t. Despite the way it played right into her argument, he couldn’t and wouldn’t lie.
“You. That’s it.” He shrugged, focused on her desk. “After the way you mentored me, I can’t imagine you’d stab me in the back. Though this” — he waved the papers — “sure looks like it.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “Come on, Novak. You know me better than that. If I ever decide to stab you in the back, you’ll know. There won’t be any ‘looks like’ about it. Besides, the city’s fraudsters and conmen aren’t going to disappear if you take four weeks off.” She dismissed his concerns with an airy wave of the hand. Easy to say when it wasn’t her career on the line. “And yes, I did mentor you. You’re the closest thing to a son I have.”
Slowly, he nodded. She had him now. He’d never known his mother, and though no one could call Meg motherly, he did respect and admire her.
Smiling wryly, he spread his hands. “I know. If anyone else but you had suggested this, I’d already have challenged them to go ahead and fire me, and be back at my desk. It’s the craziest suggestion I’ve ever heard, but I’m still here listening.”
“So keep listening, kid.” Genuine affection warmed her face. “I’m not sure I want to see you turn out like me. Hard-boiled and cynical. Living for nothing but the next scoop, on an endless search for truth and justice.”
“Dedication to the truth made you the best there is.” He’d never heard her speak such heresy, contradicting the journalistic code she taught.
“The best in a very dirty game. Are you sure that’s what you want?” She gazed at the copy of today’s newspaper on her desk, brow furrowed, lips pensive. “A long time ago, I hit a fork in the road. I had to choose — marriage or my job. I’ve loved this newspaper, and I’m not saying I made the wrong choice. For the last forty years, I’ve been convinced I made the right one. But lately, I’ve been wondering. What if I’d chosen marriage instead…?” The choices she hadn’t made clouded her gray eyes.
He regarded her steadily. She was losing it. “What ifs are for fiction writers, not journalists. This is the life I want. I’m not pining for anything different.”
Meg lifted one hand to the chest of her man-styled gray suit. “That’s what worries me. You’ve made the decision without ever considering an alternative. I’m giving you the chance at a fork in the road now. You have a week to tidy up loose ends here. Then I want you on your flight to Spokane. Take time out. Start the book you want to write. Think about what you really need from your life. And email me the story on Samantha Rose. Make it a good one.”
In other words, discussion over. And he’d been well and truly steamrollered. Arms flexing, he stalked from her office. A boss who’d lost her edge. She’d be ordering him to write about unicorns and fairy dust, next.
And a month in a hick lakeside town with nothing to do but write a fluff piece on some homemaking blogger.
Probably his worst nightmare.
Chapter 1
“So tell me, Sam, what’s it like
to be famous?”
Liz, the grandmotherly neighbor who’d helped so much in the six weeks since she’d arrived at the lake rental, peered at Samantha Rose over the top of her iced tea.
Biting her lip, Sam shook her head. “I never wanted this to happen. I’d take the blog down if I could.”
Guilt chewed at her stomach. She’d end up with indigestion if the fuss about her website didn’t disappear as fast as it started. Who would have guessed that tongue-in-cheek titled Perfectly Proverbs 31 would go viral after a single mention in a national paper?
Not her, that’s for sure.
Few women could be further from the Proverbs 31 ideal. But so far, only her sister grasped the name’s irony.
“No! It’s so pretty,” Liz protested. “And people seem to like seeing the recipes and the food and your photos of the garden. Why not let it give them pleasure?”
How could she get Liz to understand her distress over the blog being seen and read by so many women? “Because it’s not really the truth. No one but my sister was supposed to see it.” Her hands lifted to massage her aching temples. “I only started it to show her the girls were well and happy with me. Steph’s never left them with anyone else for more than a couple of days since their father died, let alone an entire summer. Any mama would worry.”
As if on a reflex, she glanced out the kitchen window to check the twins. Both fine. If two adorable blonde five-year-olds hanging upside down in an apple tree, throwing tiny unripe fruit for their huge Newfoundland dog, Bear, to catch counted as fine.
It did to her.
She’d deliberately not posted pictures of them tree climbing. Or those pics Liz snapped of them bobbing happily in the shallow water when she managed to overturn the canoe. PTL for life jackets was the best she could say about that.
Steph would have to wait till she came back from Bolivia to see those photos.
The girls were having such fun. She couldn’t believe she should stop them climbing, as long as they stayed on the lower branches as she’d told them. If they fell, the soft grass beneath the tree would cushion their fall.
Still, she did have to stop them pulling off apples. She’d rented the cottage for the summer from Liz’s grown-up granddaughter, Maddie, so Sam had a responsibility to ensure they didn’t damage anything.
Brow crinkled, she stood, ready to call them in.
Following her gaze, Liz smiled. “Let them be. The fruit on that tree has never been good for more than vinegar, anyway.”
The older woman had an uncanny knack of guessing her thoughts. Sam subsided into her chair as her neighbor continued.
“I’m not so worried about any mischief those two get up to as I am about you. You haven’t seemed properly happy since that newspaper mentioned you.” Eyes bright as a bird’s behind her thick glasses, Liz studied her. “I’m sure you’ve lost weight. You know, we need to trust the Lord has a plan and a purpose for everything. He must have a reason for this, too.”
“I have no idea what His reason could be.” Sam rolled her eyes. “Any of the homemaking bloggers I design sites for would be ecstatic to get a result like this. But I only intended to let Steph get on with her work, knowing I’m feeding the girls more than the pizza and Cocoa Krispies I live on back in Seattle.” She loosed a rueful chuckle. “Fat chance of that. No pizza places here in Sunset Point.”
Liz laughed. “No. Though Maddie and I have tried to make up for that.”
“And you’ve both done great. I haven’t missed pizza once.” Sam smiled her gratitude at the kindly older woman. Liz cooked amazing food, and Maddie inherited her gift. “Whenever Steph can get online, she checks the blog to see what new meals I’ve posted.”
“Well, surely, reassuring her is a good enough reason.” Her neighbor’s bright tone, designed to comfort, didn’t quite convince Sam.
“I hope so. But it doesn’t stop me feeling like a fraud when other women believe I’m a good homemaker.” She took a gulp of her iced tea, hoping to dislodge the lump of misery in her throat.
“What does your sister say?”
“She appreciates seeing for herself the girls are eating well and happy.” Thinking of the thirty-minute-older twin sister she adored lightened Sam’s distress a little. She could ride out a few weeks of instant fame if it helped Steph. “I’ve had a couple of emails. She’s so fired up by being out in the field again doing real archaeology. Plus, she’s set up a Bible study group in the village they’re staying in and has even learned to cook the local foods. We’re so very different.”
Despite her pride in all her sister achieved, she didn’t quite manage to prevent a sigh escaping.
Mom and Steph were natural homemakers and mothers. They effortlessly shared their love for the Lord and were always beautifully groomed. They could probably teach the mommy bloggers she made websites for stuff they didn’t know.
As for her, she lived in jeans and T-shirts, failed Mom’s patient attempts to teach her any household skills, then topped it off by being the only girl to flunk the compulsory Homemaking 101 class in junior high.
Even the guys did better than her. She’d had the rock-hard rock biscuits and bleeding fingers from attempts at sewing to prove it. Not to mention the ridicule from the teacher.
Mom never let her disappointment show, but she did always sigh at the mess whenever she visited. And that was after Sam cleaned up.
Then there were those puzzled glances. As if Mom was trying to figure out how she produced identical twins who were complete opposites. Steph so like her, and Sam… just not.
Her sister wasn’t just born first — Steph was born better than her at everything.
Concern puckered Liz’s brow.
Oh no. Had she said her thoughts out loud?
“You know, we’re not to compare ourselves to others. You do worthwhile things, too. You’re looking after the girls. You run your own business. You’ve fitted right into the community here.” Her neighbor flashed an impish grin. “You’re even cooking a bit better since you asked me to start teaching you.”
Sam laughed. “I hope so. It would be hard to be worse. I have to try, at least.”
She wanted to learn. Really, she did.
If good intentions counted, she’d live a calm, ordered life in an immaculate home, cooking delicious and healthy meals. Like Mom, Steph, and the real mommy bloggers did.
“So you can eat more than pizza when you go home?” Liz asked, chuckling.
Her tiny one-room apartment hardly counted as a home, though she did love Seattle. “Maybe. It’s mostly because if I can learn to cook, I might feel less of a fraud. Everyone but Steph and I’m guessing Mom thinks it’s me making the food on the blog. It’s not sitting easy on my conscience that I can’t.”
Liz leaned over to pat her hand, but said nothing, so Sam kept talking.
“And I do trust God knows best.” She scrunched her face. “It’s just… this has been the craziest two weeks of my life. You’re the one who should be famous, not me.”
Two weeks since that national newspaper linked to the huckleberry pie recipe she’d posted, along with a cuter-than-a-bug picture of the girls grinning big purple smiles as they ate it.
Liz’s recipe.
Liz’s pie, baked in her big country kitchen next door, not by Sam in the equally lovely and well-equipped kitchen of this cottage.
Her neighbor smiled. “I don’t mind at all.” She touched her shiny gold wedding band, then chuckled. “After all, I have my Hiram. What would I do with all these men proposing to me instead of you?”
A groan escaped Sam, and she rested her iced tea glass against her heated forehead. “I don’t know what to do with them, either. I’m just thankful none of them have turned up here in person. Good thing I registered the website at my Seattle address.”
Liz might get a chuckle from her unwanted fame and the daily crop of new emails, but it was harder for her to see it as a joke. All it did was reinforce her sense of being a fake. Not to mention raising un
pleasant echoes of that junior high homemaking teacher ridiculing her failures and telling her no man would want to marry a girl who couldn’t cook and keep house.
It appeared Mrs. Murphy was right.
Sam never imagined so many men would propose to a complete stranger, just because they thought she could bake a good pie.
“Any new ones today? Let’s look!” Excited as a child, Liz pointed to the open laptop and took another sip of her sweet tea.
With exaggerated reluctance, Sam pulled it over, angled the screen so they both could see, and clicked on the webmail she’d set up expecting only Steph to use.
“Ad.” Delete. “Spam.” Delete again. “Oh, you might be interested in this one. An offer from Bloomingdales to stock the pies in their gourmet food department.” She glanced at Liz. “That could be a nice additional income earner for you or Maddie.”
Liz grinned. “Not you, then?”
“Not likely!” Shaking her head, Sam laughed. “You’ve seen my pitiful attempts at baking.”
For her, they were unforgettable. Her first try using Liz’s recipe had the delightfully chewy texture of cardboard, as well as being an unappetizing shade of gray.
Her second try fell apart into a crumbled mess, though at least it tasted more or less okay. Probably less rather than more. If she’d aimed at baking apple crumble instead of pie, she might have even been pleased with how it turned out.
“You’ll get better with practice. We have plenty of summer left for more lessons. Or you could move here. Maddie would love to have someone renting the cottage year-round.”
Sam rolled her eyes, doubting her dear friend’s well-meant reassurance. “Much as I’d love to move here, even twenty years might not be enough. Maybe teaching me to cook pie is beyond even your ability.”
Waving an admonishing finger, Liz shook her head. “Have more faith, girl. I don’t know who else might want to bake those pies, but I’ll ask around. Certainly not me or Maddie. Since that mention in the newspaper, she’s busier with the store and her accommodation bookings. I’m sure she won’t have time for more baking. And I’m not interested in making extra money. I bake for the pleasure of eating and sharing good food. I’d hate for something I love to become a chore, which it would if I had to bake twenty pies a day.”
Come to the Lake Page 13