Sara swallowed again and nodded. “You told me to get the story on the golf-course construction, about the delays and how the builder has been running overbudget—”
“That’s what I said. No argument there. But didn’t you even read the agenda? Right after you left, they discussed a new proposal to open up the old Durham Point Yacht Club again—”
“But I thought you—”
“Wait, let me finish.” Wyatt held up his hand, silencing her. “Apparently, during this part of the meeting—that you walked out on—a group from the Green Coalition broke in and tossed trash and bird feathers all over the board members. It was a real scene. The police came in to break it up and arrested a few of the protestors.”
And any part of that would have made a great photo for page one, Sara silently finished for him.
“Now, we’re stuck. The Chronicle will have the story tomorrow, and we’ll have . . .” He squinted at her article. “Golf-course budget problems.”
Sara suddenly felt as if she might cry. Lucy and Luke and even Emily might be impressed with her. But she wasn’t a real reporter. Not by a long shot.
“I’m sorry, Wyatt,” she managed. “It wasn’t on the agenda you gave me this morning. They must have added it at the last minute.”
“Of course they added it at the last minute. That’s just the point. They were trying to sneak it by the Green guys . . . and by us.” His voice rose on every word. Then he seemed to realize he’d been shouting. Sighing heavily, he sat down in his chair. He was silent for a moment, rearranging stacks of papers on his desk. Sara wondered if he was done chewing her out.
“What else are you working on today?” he asked suddenly.
“Um, let’s see . . .” Sara was so nervous, her mind went blank. “There’s a story about stiffer fines for unleashed dogs. . . .”
She was feeling more idiotic by the second. The leash-law story was even more trivial than the golf-course piece.
“All right. Hold on to that. Finish it tomorrow,” he suggested. “In the meantime, why don’t you proof this stuff for me?” He handed her a stack of copy.
“Sure.” Sara looked down at the copy and back at Wyatt. She felt totally deflated. In five minutes she’d gone from rising new reporter to resident proofreader.
“Isn’t there something we can do to get the story about the protest anyway?” she asked. “I could work on it, make some calls—”
“I put Jane on it. She’s trying to pull it together. She might get an interview with one of the protestors later, after his bail hearing.”
Sara cringed. She would have given anything to do that interview.
“Problem is, we run the risk of sounding sort of secondhand now. And no pictures,” he added. “It’s just not the way we want to do things.”
“Sure, I understand.” Sara nodded. “I’ll be more careful next time. I just didn’t realize.”
“Obviously,” Wyatt said. He picked up some copy from his in-box without looking at her, and Sara knew she’d been dismissed.
The rest of the afternoon dragged by. Sara did the proofreading and typed up some classified ads and public notices. She tried not to be distracted by the sound of Jane working on the big story she had missed, but it was hard not to listen in. Little by little, Jane pulled the pieces together using the phone and E-mail, interviewing board members, eye-witnesses, and even the officers who arrived at the scene.
A few minutes after three, Wyatt jumped up from his desk and yelled across the room, “Okay, Jane. They just called. Get down to the courthouse. They’re releasing one of the protestors. His attorney says he’ll talk to you.”
Sitting midway between the two of them, Sara suddenly felt invisible—and useless.
Jane jumped up from her chair, grabbed her coat and shoulder bag, and headed for the door.
“Make it quick. I need you to write the story right away. And try to get a picture of somebody,” Wyatt called after her.
“Got it. See you later.” As Jane flew through the door, she cast Sara a sympathetic glance.
Sara knew her colleague wasn’t trying to make her look bad. She was only doing her job. Jane could be trusted to come back with the story. And I can’t, Sara thought dismally.
THAT NIGHT WHEN SARA GOT HOME, SHE FOUND A MESSAGE FROM EMILY on her machine. “I’m just calling about tonight. I’m sorry but something came up, and I’m stuck in the office. Can we get together later in the week, maybe Saturday night? Let me know. I hope everything is going well, honey. Give me a call tomorrow if you can. Okay, bye.”
With all the distraction, Sara had forgotten that she and Emily were supposed to get together that night. Just as well, Sara thought. Though she knew Emily would have done her best to cheer her up, she didn’t feel like seeing anyone tonight.
She fixed dinner, then stretched out on the couch and wrote in her journal for a while, but even that familiar remedy didn’t improve her mood. Her writing sounded like one long whining session. She shut the leather-bound book, feeling even more upset with herself.
The windows in the living room rattled softly in the wind. The old house was drafty, and Sara pulled an afghan over herself. Outside, her street was quiet, as usual. The recent snowfall still covered the ground and clung to the telephone wires and trees.
She wasn’t used to the snow and cold. She wasn’t sure she wanted to get used to it. The winter had just begun. It would snow a lot more, to hear the locals tell it. What was she doing here? Maybe she should go home, back to Winston. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a reporter, even in a small town like this one. She hadn’t majored in journalism. Her major had been literature, and she wanted to write short stories or a novel. Maybe she ought to go back to waitressing or some other mindless job and try writing fiction in her spare time, the way she did when she worked at the diner. . . .
The sound of the phone ringing broke into her thoughts. She didn’t want to speak to anyone, and she let the machine pick it up. It was probably her parents. They hadn’t really wanted her to come back here. If she spoke to them tonight, they had a good chance of persuading her to come home, she thought.
But instead she heard Luke. “Hi, Sara. It’s me. I guess you’re not around right now. I just called to say hello—”
Before he could hang up, she jumped up and grabbed the phone. “Hi, I’m here. Sort of.”
“Sort of? Is something wrong? You sound funny.”
“I’m just tired.” She paused, wondering if she should say more. “I had a bad day at work. I really screwed up.”
“You did? What happened?” Luke’s tone was interested and concerned, yet somehow, distant enough that she felt able to relate the story.
He listened without interrupting, then said, “Wyatt again.”
“Well, he’s my boss. And he’s making me totally miserable.”
“I know. He’s not my favorite person,” Luke said loyally.
“Or mine,” Sara said. “Still, I’m lucky he didn’t fire me on the spot. But it looks like I’m going to get grunt work from here on in. Unless he’s absolutely desperate.”
“Look, you made a mistake, but you’ve only been there a week. It’s not like people are born knowing these things. You just have to pay your dues for a while. It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to stick my head under the desk for the rest of the day.”
She could tell that Luke was trying hard not to laugh at her. “I know it seems bad tonight, but don’t get discouraged,” he said kindly. “Your boss will get over it. Tomorrow, he’ll be all excited about something else.”
“Yeah, I guess he will,” Sara agreed, realizing that Luke’s words had calmed her, partly because he didn’t gloss over the truth. She should have known that she wasn’t going to be the best reporter in the history of the Messenger from day one. There was a lot she had to learn. She only wished now her first lesson hadn’t been delivered in such a humiliating way.
She suddenly missed Luke
and wished they were together. His advice was solid and his sympathy, warming. But one of his strong hugs would have been nice right now, too.
“So, how is your week going?” she asked. “Better than mine, I hope.”
“That wouldn’t take much,” he said, making her laugh. “We’ve been working inside since the snow. Digger was here one day. We had him painting, and he did all right—a neat job. And I’ve been to school a few times, sitting in on classes. Adolescent psychology, fascinating stuff. If only I knew then what I know now.”
“I doubt much got past you. Like for instance?”
“Like how to ask a girl out on a date. So when can I see you? How’s Saturday night?” he said, with a touch of laughter in his voice.
“Saturday? Sure. Oh, wait. I might be seeing Emily. We were going to have dinner tonight, but she had to cancel. Would Friday be okay?”
“Friday’s fine,” he said agreeably. “An entire day sooner. Can’t complain about that.”
She thought of their last date, the closeness she’d felt, the way they’d kissed while walking through Newburyport. An entire day sooner would be fine with me, too, she thought.
“Great. I’m looking forward to it,” she said.
“Me, too. Good night, Sara. And don’t worry. You’ve got the right stuff. It’s all going to work out. Just give it some time.”
She smiled. “Thanks for saying that—and for listening to me.”
“It’s just true,” he replied quietly. “And don’t worry so much about what Wyatt Forbes thinks.”
“Okay, I’ll try not to,” she said. Then she said good night again and hung up the phone.
She really hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone tonight, but Luke had helped her put things in perspective. As she got undressed for bed, she didn’t feel nearly as bad about going in to work tomorrow.
What would I do without him? she wondered, as she slid under her covers.
LUCY HEARD CHARLIE UNLOCKING THE FRONT DOOR. SHE GLANCED UP at the kitchen clock. It was half past eleven. She knew he was exhausted from working all day and would be in no mood to hear her out. But there were things that had to be said. She’d been practicing in her head all night, waiting for him.
“You’re still up?” he said, as he walked into the kitchen. “You have to help me open up tomorrow. Did you forget?”
“I had some homework to do.” She looked up from her textbooks, which were spread out on the kitchen table. “I’ll be all right.”
“Homework, right.” He looked down at her books and shook his head. “I don’t know why you knock yourself out like this, Lucy. What are you trying to prove? I just don’t get it.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything. We’ve already been through this a hundred times. I want to finish my degree and go to nursing school. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”
He pulled open the refrigerator door and stared inside. “You’re fooling yourself. You’ll never finish. You’re just making life more difficult for everyone in this house until you give up.”
Lucy wanted to put her hands over her ears so that she couldn’t hear him, but she willed herself to sit back in her seat and not rise to his bait.
“I will finish. It may take me a while, but I’m going to do it,” she said quietly. “With or without your support, Charlie.”
“Oh, I’m supporting you, all right. Paying the bills around here, aren’t I? The mortgage, the cars, the insurance. I just wish I could come home and find the house in some kind of order or have some clean socks when I need them. This place is a wreck lately, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“The semester is ending. I have a lot of school work—papers due, tests to study for. . . .” She gestured at the pile of books on the table. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
“How could I not? It’s all you seem to do lately. School, school, school,” he complained. “What about this family? Aren’t we important to you?”
She stared at him, too tired to defend herself again. She sighed and shook her head. How could she be a perfect housekeeper when she worked in the diner almost as many hours as he did and took care of the children and went to school?
“Looks like I’m the one who has to do all the work in this marriage,” he said in a self-righteous tone.
Lucy fought back a stab of white-hot anger. They’d had this same argument so many times, she just couldn’t stand hearing it anymore.
“This is hopeless,” she said suddenly. “Absolutely hopeless.”
He sniffed and glanced down at the table. “Trying to go to school, you mean?”
“No, not school. Our relationship. Our marriage, Charlie. It’s hopeless. I can’t do this anymore.”
Charlie shook his head and touched his ear, as if he thought something was wrong with his hearing. “What do you mean, you can’t do this anymore? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lucy took a breath. She felt tears well up in her eyes but forced herself not to cry.
“We’re always fighting, always at each other. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
“Oh, well, how do you want to live? You want to split up? Is that what you’re saying? If you would just quit school . . .”
His voice sounded half-angry and half-scared, she thought. The scared part gave her a bit of hope and courage.
“We were on this road long before I went back to school. Things have been bad between us for a long time, and you know it,” she insisted. “We need to get some help. We need to see a counselor to help us work things out.”
“Oh, a counselor.” He waved his hand at her. “What’s some counselor going to tell you? I don’t want to sit and tell some stranger all my personal problems.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a stranger. Reverend Ben could give us marriage counseling.”
“He could, huh? It sounds like you’ve already spoken to him about it. Have you been talking about me to Reverend Ben?” he demanded.
Lucy met his angry stare, but soon looked away. She could easily lie and avoid more of his anger, she realized. He would never know. But she didn’t want to. It was time to have this out.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to him a few times. Ever since I decided I wanted to go back to college, and you wouldn’t let me. He suggested we go to see him together. He thinks it will help.”
“I can’t believe this.” Charlie shook his head, looking even angrier. “I can’t believe you’ve been complaining about me to Reverend Ben for months now, and you never said a word.”
“Not complaining, Charlie. Talking things through. I’ve needed some advice, someone to talk to,” she insisted. She took a deep breath and blew her nose. “I’m at the end of my rope. That’s all I know. Will you see him with me—or not?”
Charlie stared at her. “What happens if I say no? Then what?”
Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“You’d never leave me. Where would you live? Where would you work?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I guess, if the time came, I’d just have to figure it out.”
“But you couldn’t. Not by yourself, that’s just the thing. And what about the boys? I know you. You’d pull the moon out of the sky if it would make those kids happy. It would crush them if we split up, and you’d never do that to them,” he said, sounding as if he’d suddenly looked down and found the winning card in his hand.
It was true. She couldn’t stand the idea of hurting the boys. But they weren’t babies anymore. Charlie Junior was ten and Jamie was eight, and Lucy was starting to wonder if it was any better for them to hear their parents arguing every minute. That couldn’t be good either, she reasoned.
And what about her own happiness, her own sense of well-being? She had always put that last on the list, if at all. But lately she was beginning to see that it counted. It counted a lot. She deserved to be happy. She deserved better than this, at least.
“Listen, Charlie. I’m just not going to argue
with you anymore. You don’t even have to answer me right now. Think it over. I’m not packing my bags and running off anywhere. I’m willing to try to make things better. But I want us to see Reverend Ben. That’s what I want. You think about it, and let me know what you want to do.”
Her tone was quiet but firm. Charlie met her gaze. He seemed unsteady on his feet, like a prizefighter in a late round, she thought. His eyes looked red rimmed and bloodshot.
“I want to go to bed, that’s what I want to do,” he said flatly. “Are you coming?”
“No. I have more work to do.” She picked up her highlighting pen and looked down at her textbook again. As if I’ll be able to concentrate now.
“Suit yourself. Don’t forget to turn the lights off,” he said in a tired voice.
Lucy listened as he walked through the dark house and climbed the stairs. She felt scared all of a sudden, as if she had turned a corner and made a choice that was irreversible.
She looked down at her textbook and the words blurred. Then she clasped her hands together and squeezed her eyes shut.
Dear Lord, I don’t know what came over me tonight. I just had to be honest with Charlie about the way I feel. Please help us see our way through this mess. It doesn’t look that good. I’m not sure I should have pushed him like that. But I can’t see how things can get better if we go on this way. Please help me to do the right thing, Lord. Please help me and my family.
CHAPTER NINE
BY THE TIME SARA RETURNED TO WORK ON THURSDAY, SHE had resigned herself to the possibility that Wyatt would never trust her to cover another important story for the rest of her life. Time to pay your dues, she told herself, recalling Luke’s words.
Sipping her morning coffee, she polished up some short articles, including a report on the village’s new leash law. When she handed the copy in, Wyatt handed her piles of proofreading and, after that, other grunt work. Meanwhile, Jane and Ed were rushing in and out, talking on the phone, clacking away at their keyboards, as they gathered the day’s news.
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