Love Finds You in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin

by Pamela S. Meyers

  Meg lifted the book. At least the article underneath was still readable enough for Composing. “That was about writing articles. No one can do a layout for the first time without direction.”

  Lester pushed his chair back and stood, waving his lit cigarette like a conductor’s baton. “Well, I have to. Ask Emily to hold my calls.”

  Meg closed the door tightly behind her, praying the man didn’t torch the place. She let out a heavy sigh. If she hadn’t been helping Lester in secret, Mr. Zimmer would know his son’s limitations.

  “Sighing already? Not a good sign. I presume Lester’s working on the layout.” Jack came across the room. With dark circles underscoring his eyes, he didn’t look much better than Lester.

  “You know about Mr. Zimmer?”

  “He called last night. He’s adamant about Lester taking over.” He tossed a bundle of mail onto his desk.

  Meg moved to her chair and sat. “Lester sent me away after nearly setting the place on fire with his cigarette.” She wiped a speck of ash from her skirt. “Do you think Mr. Zimmer’s fever has affected his reasoning?”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “He mentioned the other day how proud he is that Les’s writing has improved. Why wouldn’t he have hope in his son’s abilities?”

  Despite his gentle tone, Meg felt the color drain from her face, and she looked away. “Being a good writer doesn’t make one a good editor.”

  “And the reverse is also true.”

  Jack picked up his phone, and Meg pulled out the folder containing Lester’s article. She could bang out a copy in twenty minutes as long as Jack stayed busy over there. She rolled a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter and typed the first line. Then her fingers froze. Wouldn’t move. She yanked out the paper and crumpled it into a ball.

  The telephone rang, and she tossed the wad into the waste can before she answered. “Meg Alden. How may I help you?”

  “Thelma got halfway here and went back home sick.” The usual happy-go-lucky Emily sounded flustered. “You know how many calls come in on Tuesdays. Everyone wants his or her bit of news on the front page. What should I do?”

  To Meg’s right, Jack sorted through the mail. “Send them to Mr. Wallace.”

  Emily giggled. “I thought you liked him.”

  “That’s why I suggested it. He needs the experience.”

  Jack had finally gotten a moment from all the phone inquiries to call his father. When Millie answered, he asked her to connect him to Dad.

  “He went to the doctor’s from home.” Millie let out a sigh. “His cough hasn’t improved, and I’m worried.”

  “I thought the appointment was yesterday.”

  “The doctor had to reschedule. I’ll have him call you.”

  His insides twisted into knots. “Thanks, Millie.” A soft click sounded. He slammed the receiver down and faced the window.

  God, if both Oscar and Dad are sick, I can’t be in two places at once. If You are there, I need Your help.

  “Jack, can you help me?”

  He swung around.

  Lester’s wild-eyed stare bore into him. “I laid out all the front-page stories and set them to the side, but now they’re mixed with ads and filler. I don’t know how Dad keeps everything organized.”

  “Okay, Lester.” Jack stood. “Let’s get you straightened out.”

  A half hour later, Meg looked up as Jack emerged from Mr. Zimmer’s office. He approached her, bringing the acrid smell of smoke with him.

  “What’s going on?” Meg kept her voice low.

  “I suggested he use last week’s paper as an example. Then we sifted through articles in the hold file, weighing the pros and cons.” He leaned down and whispered, “Lester’s very reluctant to use one he wrote on the meeting we attended. He says it’s because it’s old news by now, but I have a feeling his reason goes deeper than that. Can we talk?” He glanced around. “Maybe we should go elsewhere.”

  She stiffened. Jack didn’t have the authority to fire her, did he? “We can’t leave when everything is about to explode.”

  “Grab your coat and come with me.”

  At the back door, Jack held it open for her. Across the alley, men readying the new funeral parlor paused their hammering and looked over.

  She forced a chuckle. “Not very private.”

  “We’ll keep our voices low. You should be grateful Les doesn’t want to run that article you wrote.”

  Meg stared at her shoes. “He wrote it. I edited it.”

  “He must have gotten the information from someone else, since he didn’t attend the meeting.” Jack crossed his arms and stood stone-still, his face expressionless. “Why did you turn down my suggestion that we collaborate and then use Lester as a front to write your own article?”

  She folded her arms around herself and stared at the ground. “It was childish and unprofessional. I apologize.”

  “I understand that you want to be a reporter. But, Meg, writing other people’s work without getting credit isn’t going to get you ahead. And it isn’t honest.”

  She grimaced. What he must think of her? She wanted to disappear. “I was upset and wanted to show Mr. Zimmer that I could do better than you. Are you going to tell him, or should I?”

  “I have a feeling—”

  The door flew open, and Emily stuck her head out. “They’re taking Mr. Zimmer to County Hospital in Wightman’s ambulance. He’s burst his appendix.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Meg followed Jack inside and detoured into the restroom. Mr. Zimmer could die from a burst appendix. She slouched against the closed door and jammed a fist into her mouth.

  What had she become, going behind Mr. Zimmer’s back and justifying it as helping Lester when it was for her own gain. Why? All for a moment’s satisfaction at seeing her words published even though no one knew? Since her first day, Mr. Zimmer had treated her with kindness, and she’d betrayed him.

  “God, forgive me.”

  She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. The least they could do for Mr. Zimmer was get the paper out on time. Drawing in a breath, she opened the door and headed toward the buzz of conversation.

  “I’m taking Mom to the hospital. The paper is all yours.” Lester flew past, tie waving and suit coat over his arm. He stopped at the closet and grabbed his flight coat then flung the door open. A loud slam reverberated through the office as he left.

  No one moved.

  Jack’s gaze flicked from one person to the next. “We need to keep Mr. Zimmer in our prayers. He asked me to be available if Lester needed help, so I’ll complete the layout. Please don’t leave for the day without checking with me.”

  Meg crumpled into her seat. “Town Talk” had already been turned in. Except for want-ads, she had nothing to contribute. Her phone rang and she answered, surprised to hear Jack’s voice.

  “I need your help.”

  Curious, she picked up a notepad and slipped into Mr. Zimmer’s office. Two stacks of folders rested on the desk in front of Jack. He handed her the ghosted article on the protesters. “Lester didn’t do half bad with the layout, but there are some holes. I want to run this.”

  Meg’s mouth fell open. “I don’t understand.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “There’s no time for a rewrite. Besides, I couldn’t improve upon it. It may not be up-to-the-minute news, but it’s good to let those protesters know that people are watching. This doesn’t change what I said before. We’re in a unique circumstance.”

  She nodded, hating the wave of excitement racing up her spine. “Are you going to tell Mr. Zimmer who wrote the piece?”

  “Later. Telling him now might do more harm than good. It goes below the fold, left side.” His brows knit together. “Looks like you got what you wanted.”

  “I don’t want it. Not this way. Put an ad there instead.”

  “We’re obligated to print news that’s relevant. This is relevant, given the current contest.”

  An ache filled M
eg’s gut. “I suppose.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll add tonight’s basketball score, and then we’ll be set except for Oscar’s editorial.” He handed her a folder. “Here are his ideas. Work them into a column without diverting from his position. I’ll include a statement saying the article was composed from his notes.”

  She took the file with a shaking hand. How had she moved so quickly to editorial writing? “I’d love to.”

  “You may not when you see the topic.”

  Meg opened the folder and skimmed the first handwritten page. A bitter taste filled her mouth.

  “I need it before you leave tonight.”

  She closed the folder. “You should ask someone else.”

  “Who? Lester is gone, and even if he weren’t, it’s over his head. Hank does okay with sports scores, but his forte is selling advertising.” Jack held her gaze in a hard stare. “We have to filter out our personal feelings in this business. Best you decide if you have what it takes before moving.”

  Meg stood. “You’ll have it in an hour.”

  At her desk she sifted through the familiar scrawls. She had no idea her boss felt so strongly, and worse, so must Jack, or he would have chosen something else.

  She rolled paper into the typewriter. Jack probably didn’t think she could do this. Well, she could. After all, they weren’t her words. Her fingers moved over the keys as she typed the opening sentence.

  We live in unstable times and have had to adjust to many changes, including more women in the workplace than ever before. That does well for some organizations, but not the news business.…

  By the time Meg handed Jack the article, they were the only two people in the office. As he read, the creases around his eyes deepened. “Good job. I knew you could do it justice.”

  Struggling against the way his grin made her light-headed, she shrugged and stared at her lap. “I almost didn’t write it because I disagreed. Then I realized that I am paid to type the words. It doesn’t mean I have to feel the same way.”

  Jack stuck the article inside the thickening folder. “I think we can end the day on this good note.”

  The phone rang, and he pressed the earpiece to his ear. “Jack Wallace.”

  At his scowl, an uneasy feeling came over Meg. She didn’t think she could take more bad news.

  “I see,” Jack said. “Glad they got all the infection out. How long?” His jaw pulsed. “That’s quite awhile. Can I count on you, Les?” He pursed his lips. “Just a few weekly articles. We can handle the rest.”

  He hung up and rubbed his temples. “Oscar is fine, but he won’t be back to work for at least two months. Pray that my dad is okay. I can’t be in two places at once.”

  Meg started to reach across the desk for his hand but then pulled back. “We’ll just have to take it one day at a time. I’m here to help.”

  After a hot bath, Meg donned her flannel robe and stepped toward the darkened staircase in search of the soup Mom had promised her.

  Several steps down, her foot rammed into something hard.

  She fell forward and grabbed for the banister, but her fingertips only grazed the smooth wood as she tumbled to the landing. Pain sliced through her left arm.

  “Meg! Are you okay?” Mom sat beside her.

  Meg pushed to an upright position. The pain worsened. She winced and rubbed her arm, fighting tears. Several steps up, Laura’s clarinet case lay on its side. Her sister had really done it this time. “I think my arm is broken.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dad knelt next to Meg. “Laura, get down here now!” Deep lines formed on his forehead as he gently touched Meg’s arm.

  She yelped, and he snapped his hand away.

  Laura appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?”

  Dad spoke through clenched teeth. “You left your music case on the stairs. It’s by God’s grace your sister only hurt her arm.” He stood and headed to the phone. “I’ll call Dr. Jeffers.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t leave it there on purpose.” Laura scrambled down the stairs and sat on the step next to Meg.

  “Of course you didn’t leave the case there on purpose, Laura,” Mom said. “But it was careless. And after the many times you’ve been asked to not clutter the stairs too.” She gripped Meg’s right elbow. “Come on, Meg. Let’s get you to a chair.”

  Meg struggled to her feet. “I need to be at work tomorrow. How can I type?”

  Dad rushed up, his mustache twitching. “The doctor wants us to come to his office. If it’s broken, he can cast it there.”

  After some debate about whether Meg should dress, it was decided that she would wear her robe. Mom threw a coat over Meg’s shoulders, and they sat in the backseat while Dad drove the four blocks to Dr. Jeffers’s office. An hour later, they returned home, with Meg’s arm in a cast. Against her parents’ protests, she insisted on calling Jack.

  He answered with a sleepy voice.

  “Jack, it’s Meg. I’m sorry to call so late. Did I wake you?”

  “I fell asleep on the davenport. Everything okay?”

  “I just broke my arm.” She bit her trembling lower lip.

  “Holy cow. How’d that happen?”

  “I tripped over something on the stairs. I have five or six weeks in this cast.” She sat in a nearby chair. “What are we going to do?”

  “It must be painful.”

  “A little,” she hedged. “The doctor said the discomfort should ebb in a couple days.”

  “Which arm?”

  “My left, but I need both to type.”

  “You can handwrite your work and someone else can type it.”

  She grinned despite the pain. “That’s brilliant. I’ll be there in the morning.”

  “Stay home until the pain stops. We’ve got all the articles ready for Composing. I’ll have Emily take whatever want-ads come in.”

  “Maybe Ginny can help.” Had she really said that?

  “Ginny got the Burlington job. We’ll get by.”

  “I’ll be in. Maybe not on time, but I will.”

  Meg hung up and padded toward the stairs.

  “I heated some milk for you.” Mom approached her, carrying a cup of the tepid liquid on a small tray.

  Meg offered a closed-lip smile. As many times as she’d said she loathed warm milk, it was always Mom’s remedy. A few moments later, having forced down the liquid, Meg lay on her bed with her throbbing arm resting across her chest. She blinked back tears. “God, how am I supposed to trust You when every time I turn around, something bad happens?”

  Jack flicked on the bedside lamp and studied the clock. Three thirty. How could he sleep when people at work were dropping like clay pigeons? He threw back the covers, and his bare feet hit the cold floor. In the kitchen, he got strong coffee going in the dripolator then sat at the table with his Bible. The book fell open to Proverbs 3:5–6. He read the words, and the same question plagued him now more than ever. How could he acknowledge God in all his ways?

  It wasn’t only the staff’s health issues troubling him. Was his intention to have Meg write articles without Oscar’s consent really okay? Was it any different than her secretly helping Lester? But if he didn’t use Meg, the paper wouldn’t print. Was her accident a sign that he needed to find another approach to get the paper out? Could he trust God in this like the words said?

  The coffee finished dripping. He grabbed a cup from the cupboard and stared at the pink flowers bordering its rim. He should shop for a more masculine design. But with Dad’s health issues, how much longer would he be here?

  He filled the cup, and then with the coffee’s nutty aroma tickling his nose, he bowed his head. “God, I’m trying hard to trust You despite everything, but it’s difficult. If You want me to understand, I need Your help.”

  An hour later, Jack arrived at work and started some coffee with the old percolator and hot plate kept in Composing. At this rate, he’d have his daily caffeine quota by seven.

  If no one
else called in, he should have Emily, Hank, and Gus and Leo in Composing. Thelma was questionable. He took a file from Oscar’s desk with the names and numbers of the two women who came in to type on deadline day. He’d call them later to check on their availability over the next several weeks.

  Satisfied that things were under control, he checked the advertisement folder Hank had left late yesterday. Several grocery-store ads and one for a new restaurant. Feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he relaxed a bit. More revenue. For that, they could always add an extra page.

  Meg’s eyes fluttered open, and she pulled the covers over her face. It was too bright for so early in the morning. Why hadn’t her alarm gone off? Downstairs, Mom’s cuckoo clock chirped the time. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

  Eight!

  She flung back the covers with her free arm then moved to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Pain shot through her limbs, her torso, her shoulders. She plopped onto the pillow. Wasn’t it enough that she’d broken her arm?

  The door opened, and Mom stepped in, her face all smiles and flour smudges. “I thought I heard you stir. How did you sleep?”

  “Okay, but I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus.”

  Mom sat on the edge of the bed. “I figured that would happen. We use muscles we didn’t know existed to brace for a fall. Are you hungry?”

  Meg shook her head. “Don’t you need to be at work?”

  “I called and told them I wouldn’t be in. You can’t be alone.”

  “I don’t plan to stay home. We’re shorthanded at work.”

  “Didn’t you say Jack said not to come in?”

  She looked away. “Lester’s with his dad, Thelma has the flu, and—”

  “—you’re missing out on your chance to show Mr. Zimmer what you can do.”

  Meg pressed her lips together.

  “How do you plan to type?”

  “Jack suggested I write out my assignments and have someone else type them.”