by CF Frizzell
“We’re down to three weeks. Then it’s over. Selling a paper never happens in a month, so Dad obviously moved mountains.”
“Fucking idiots,” Coby muttered. “How can family or readers do that to you, someone they’ve known and loved for so long?” She wiped her hands on a towel and leaned on the breakfast bar. “Can’t you just let tonight go, stay here with us? You need a night off.”
“Thanks, but actually, tonight I’m working on my resume. Last night I helped Mike with his and wrote him three letters of reference. Pretty hard, especially considering everything else.”
Out of habit, she searched her bag for her cell. “Damn. Be right back.”
She found it on the nightstand, where she’d left it during her failed attempt at a nap, and headed back out. Coby’s lowered voice didn’t prevent Mel from overhearing the conversation that continued in her absence.
“I don’t care that she took off to God-knows-where. I don’t even care that she’s okay. I get one bizarre voice mail message? And her cell’s full, probably with Mel’s apologies, so I can’t get through. Jesus, I want to kick her ass.”
“Sweetie, we’re all relieved to hear she’s okay. Wherever she is. But you’re right. She should speak to Mel, at least. No doubt she sees herself as the catalyst in this mess and is trying to figure out the right thing to do.”
“Yeah? Well, I get more pissed off at her by the day. She should be here. Mel needs her. Does she even know Mel told her father to kiss off? I bet she has no clue what Mel’s going through now.”
Mel entered the room as Coby threw her dish towel into the sink with a frustrated “shit.”
“Hey, so, the happenings just keep coming,” she offered sarcastically, and accepted a bottle of water from Misty. “As if there needs to be more.”
“Now what?” Coby crossed her arms and leaned against the counter.
“I was on a rare high this afternoon because the piece on the Heights restart was going together smoothly, and then the real estate office called me by mistake, instead of Dad’s attorney. He got a nibble on the homestead, just two days on the market, and was giddy as a kid.”
Misty slumped onto a stool. “Wow. Already?”
“You know what’s really a kick in the teeth? Because it’s one of the first homes built in this damn town, I’m obliged to write about it.”
She headed for the door, thanking them for their hospitality, as she did every time she saw them, and reminding them not to wait up. She thanked God constantly, too, it seemed, that Misty and Coby were “family” in all the right ways.
“Where would I be without you guys?” she sighed as she drove to the office. Their unwavering support meant the world because these days she felt too much like an exiled captain on the Titanic. She issued a snide laugh through the windshield and snapped off a crisp salute. “Down with the ship, Dad!”
On top of having no home, a dying job, and no waking hours to look for replacements, the heartache threatened to break her. It dwarfed the horror she’d endured in college. Those weeks of introspection and depression, the sessions with two of her father’s psychologists, all paled in comparison to these mere seven days. The nausea, spontaneous tears, and exhausting expectations wreaked havoc on her concentration and made work doubly difficult, and breaks from the tedium simply allowed debilitating loneliness to regain control.
She locked herself in the office and put on the slippers she now kept beneath her desk. Always as comfortable as an old friend, like taking comfort in this job. Or has it been refuge all this time? Suddenly, words Shay whispered during their only dance—as they took turns sharing intimate thoughts—returned to her so clearly Mel looked toward her office door, then to the quiet evening outside. There’s no more hiding from the real world now. I made the right decision, Shay. Your turn.
*
At nine thirty the following Friday morning, Ida jingled through the Chronicle’s front door, and Mike joined her at Mel’s desk. The closing of another week without Shay and facing only two more with the Chronicle had Mel resorting to coffee to stay sociable and sharp, but despite the double espresso in this third cup, she was bone-tired of explaining, rationalizing, and just talking. Misty and Coby now walked on eggshells around her and tried to hide their aggravation with Shay’s silence.
Mel knew she wasn’t entitled to such anger because she’d brought this on herself, but she simply didn’t know how to interpret Shay’s absence anymore. Frustration competed with shame as a growing part of her believed Shay was gone for good. She considered leaving town, that starting fresh somewhere, anywhere, would be best. However, seeing that parallel to Shay’s past only deepened her depression and pushed rational thought into a corner of her mind she avoided at all cost.
Mike rolled his chair closer, Ida settled into the guest chair, and both seemed eager to speak. Leaning forward on her arms, Mel looked from one to the other.
“What’s going on? I’m sorry, guys, but there’s no retracting the ‘Letter to Readers.’”
“Absolutely not,” Mike stated. “You took the high road, Mel. Classy.”
“I liked the part where you basically told people to open up,” Ida said, turning to the editorial page and the “good-bye” that had taken Mel days to write. “Today, residents need to ensure Tomson offers everyone the welcome, nurturing, and respect of a true hometown.”
“The beginning was best,” Mike said, “where you sorta say ‘suck it up and deal with change.’”
“The epilogue of my life, I suppose. Lessons learned.” She shrugged. “My point was fairness first, that when change is inevitable, it often doesn’t come easily, and it’s in everyone’s best interest to give it a fair, open-minded review.” She sat back and sighed. “No more hypocrisy.”
“And this is good, Mel,” he insisted, and read from Ida’s paper. “Whether building a shopping complex, having a youngster’s two moms join the PTA, or selling the local newspaper, changes often ask a lot of us. Our responses must be guided by fairness and foresight—not lust for superiority, not fear of the unfamiliar.” He sat back, beaming. “Excellent.”
It was a relief to hear that the most difficult piece she’d written in ages hit its mark, and the satisfaction lent Mel a pat on the back she sorely needed. She’d reached deeply to put all that in print. It had forced her to admit, to herself as much as the readership, that confronting change—not denying or ignoring it—was part of living life to its fullest and, if approached fairly, respectfully, would enhance the greater good.
It had been hard enough to generate the small boxed news blurb above the fold on page one, announcing the Chronicle’s imminent sale by her father, and Mel’s upcoming resignation. Telling readers that Tribune Publishing, Inc. planned to introduce a new Chronicle editor after next week’s final issue had phones ringing off the hook once the paper appeared yesterday morning. Readers protested, voiced disappointment, and offered her well-wishes, and Mel took a bit of comfort in their reaction.
“Anyone out there who’s glad about the Trib buying us or who’s happy you’re leaving must be hiding,” Ida said, “because I haven’t run into any.” Mel’s desk phone rang and Ida pointed at it. “Want me to hang here and take calls?”
“Thanks, but they’re slowing down.” She let it go to voice mail, no longer willing to hear it wasn’t Shay.
“Ida and I each have been nabbed on the street a few times already,” Mike said. “It is nice to hear readers are upset, you’ve got to admit.”
“They think it stinks that you’re not being allowed to stay on,” Ida said.
Mike snickered. “The Trib won’t waste any time shutting the doors.”
“That’s what you two are all pumped up about?”
Ida moved to the edge of her seat. “No, silly. It’s payday and there’s something we want to do.” Mel unlocked a side drawer and brought out their checks, but Ida pushed them back across the blotter. “We’ve made up our minds and you’re going to like it.”
Me
l frowned. “Really?” She hoped she would. Anything good was welcome these days.
“Really. We know things are getting awfully tight, financially, so we’re not taking any more money.” Mel opened her mouth to protest. “Before you start, it’s a done deal.”
Mike nodded. “I’ve picked up some freelance stuff that should work out fine.”
Mel sat back hard. “I don’t believe you two.”
“Let us do this,” Ida said. “This is our way of helping. Don’t argue.”
“No. It’s totally unfair to—”
“I said don’t argue.”
“We’ve got it all worked out, Mel,” Mike added.
“I-I don’t know what to say. Jesus, I don’t believe this is all happening. I hate it so much.”
Ida tapped the desk. “Hey,” she said playfully, “it’s not like what I earn covers my mortgage or anything.”
“And I’m ahead on my rent, so I’m good, too,” Mike said. “Plus, this freelance job at Gronlund’s will bring in some major bucks. He wants a whole promo package for the ranch.”
Mel sent him a wary look. “The hotshot news photographer we’re so proud of isn’t selling out for PR work, is he?”
“Hell, no. You know my thing is running around like a crazy guy, getting off on the variety, the deadlines. It’s in my blood, Mel. Like the Chronicle is in yo—” He caught himself. “Sorry.”
“Well…” Mel leaned back, wondering where to begin. “What you’ve offered is beyond generous. I don’t want to accept the offer, but honestly, it would give the Chronicle a real shot in the arm right now. Staying at twenty pages won’t be a problem after all, and that’s…” She took a breath as emotion rose to the surface. “The Chronicle will go out looking good. Thank you.”
Ida stood. “Glad that’s settled. Now, I’ve got work to do.” She patted Mel’s hand. “Chin up, kiddo.”
She bustled out the door, and Mel watched her through the window. “I’d forgotten how much fun this job used to be.”
“We could have one last hurrah as a staff, Mel.” He edged forward. “Guys at the Heights told me this morning they heard Chandler talking about tearing down the old railroad depot so Della can put up a restaurant.”
“I wondered when she’d get around to that property. Damn, Mike. That’s a great old building.”
“Neither of us may be around to see Ed tackle the site,” he said, “but we can break the story. Folks will remember our Chronicle as a feisty paper.” The gleam in his eye almost made Mel forget their days were numbered. “Those shots of dynamiting at the Heights last week were the best we ever ran, Mel, dirt and rock going sky-high. Nothing like letting everyone see and feel that the Heights is back—on the right track now, thanks to us. I’m saving that front page for next year’s photo contest.”
“Leave it to Della. She must be ecstatic to be getting the Chronicle out of her hair.”
He sighed dreamily. “Wouldn’t you love to have a tenth of her money? She didn’t flinch when Ed was ordered to redo all that excavation.”
“She didn’t, did she?” As proud as she was of the Chronicle’s effort, it pained her to think Slattery would now be free to run roughshod through town without a watchdog. “You know, things will only stay on the up-and-up around here for so long. Angie will probably do only a few months, so he’ll be back.”
“Well, at least Peters will go away for a long time, Mel. Madden’s got an airtight case against that sicko for your fire. Nasty stuff, arson of an occupied dwelling.”
“I’m thankful they wrapped that case so quickly, and hopefully, the trial will go as fast. Testifying will hurt like hell, and…I’m tired of hurting.”
Mike nodded companionably and sat back. “So, still nothing from her?”
Mel shook her head. “And I wish I could just be angry about it, but I can’t blame her for having had enough of me and my mess. There’s just so much I need to say.”
Mike leaned on the edge of her desk. “Mel. I don’t believe Shay would—or could—do this. I think you need to hang in there.”
“Thank you, Mike.” She reached to the far side of her desk and gripped his arm. “No matter where we end up when the Tribune takes over, I don’t ever want us to lose touch.”
He put his hand over hers. “Hey, I’m the number one man in your life. I won’t give that up.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Mel’s Tuesday morning visits to the town assessor’s office hardly compared to today’s, as she fought a numbing trepidation in collecting the latest real estate transactions. She opened the voluminous antique ledger and the clerk suddenly set her palm atop Mel’s hand.
“I’m just so sad about all you’re going through, Mel.”
“Thank you, Patsy.”
“Lord, it was hard, reading your letter in the paper. Those suits from the Tribune were here Friday, going through our books. Can’t you stop them?”
“It’s not my call, I’m afraid. Dad’s made up his mind. But thank you for the support. It means a lot.”
“Well, he’s the stupidest man in the world and I don’t mind saying so. We’re all different in our own ways, and it’s just plain cruel what he’s done to you. Everyone coming in here, at the market, the post office, Lord, everywhere I go, someone has something to say about it. I mean, I’m sorry folks are so into your private business, but they’re really unhappy. You’re one of us. He hasn’t been for years.”
One of us?
“Again, thank you, but lots of people aren’t upset at all. One look at the Chronicle tells you there are quite a few in my father’s camp.”
“Yeah, well, the paper has shrunk a lot, I know, but it would bounce back, given the chance. I believe that. Now that the Heights work is moving again, the idiots who blamed you will smarten up—and the fools who think like your father, well, they’ll come around, too. And if they don’t, you don’t need them anyway.” She grumbled indignantly. “It’s all over town, how he forced you out. A decent person doesn’t do such a terrible thing, care so little for his daughter and his family roots. Pretty easy to see how unlike us he is, so they’ll change their tune.”
Mel figured Patsy was right, but held little hope things would change that much, fast enough to improve her situation.
“Mel,” Patsy said with renewed vigor, “do you know that last week, Eli Winston had three of us customers there for half an hour while he paced behind his meat case, working himself into a tizzy about all this? But good Lord, if that man isn’t wise in his old age. He made the best point.” She tapped her pen on the counter. “Like he said, deep down, people in territory like this have always respected someone who stands up for herself. Folks have been standing their ground here for generations, like my grandfather and yours, you know? And when it comes down to love, family, and homestead, they relate to that.”
Mel took a steadying breath. Patsy’s pep talk wasn’t helping. The willpower Mel had mustered just to get into the shower this morning was washing away, along with her cheerful façade. “Oh, I’m sure, eventually, Tomson will see the light, Patsy, but my father’s not changing his mind, and the Chronicle’s his to do with as he pleases.” She took Patsy’s hand in both of hers. “I haven’t decided what’s up with me yet, things have been so crazy, but please know I think you’re a love. Thank you so much for all your help over the years, your friendship. I’m really going to miss you.”
Patsy squeezed Mel’s hand before pulling away to grab a tissue. “Now, knock that off or the waterworks will start.”
Mel opened the ledger to the current date. She was surprised when Patsy covered the page with her splayed hand.
“No matter how discouraged you get, Mel, remember you’re better than this and you’ll pull through.” She offered a sympathetic pat before returning to her desk.
Smothering a sigh, Mel ran her finger down the recent listings until a new one made her breath catch. Patsy knew. The sale of the Baker homestead to some corporate trust processed through county land
court late yesterday morning.
It’s gone.
Mel stood, weakened, as memories and visions of people, things, events that would never recur drained from her system. She lowered her head, and felt Patsy stuff a tissue into her hand.
“It’s been my experience, Mel, that when a trust like that buys a residence, it’s a corporate move just so the high and mighty can write off a second home. Some legal firm did this. I’m so sorry, honey.” She went to the front of the counter and draped an arm around Mel’s shoulders. “Notification came through around lunch yesterday. I didn’t have the heart to call you.”
Mel mustered a smile and hugged her, but had to get away. Every day, reality struck a bit harder, and, more than ever, she ached at the loss of Shay’s companionship.
The five-minute drive in the compact security of her Subaru ended too soon, and Mel regretted not having walked. The fresh air would’ve helped clear her mind, but she’d reserved that energy to tackle the work ahead. One week at a time. Discipline pushed her through the week’s production with hardly a flare of interest. Next week it’s all over.
*
Thursday night, with Coby and Misty at the Exchange, Mel took advantage of the private time and sought refuge in a long, steamy shower to ease her tension, and the pain in her heart and mind, fully intending to escape into early, much-needed sleep. God, how did I make it through the week? And will I survive this final one? Damn it, Shay Maguire. Was I a fool to love you? After all that’s happened, you just vanish and leave me with…with what?
A towel wrapped around her, she forced down the lump in her throat and clicked on the nightstand lamp. A soft knock on her open door startled her.
“Dear God!”
Shay stepped into the dim light, hands in her pockets, and an uncharacteristic air of vulnerability about her that only enhanced her appeal. Mel swallowed hard. If you’ve finally found the nerve to say good-bye, thanks a lot. And make it quick.