Cheri on Top

by Susan Donovan

J.J. entered the publisher’s office and took a seat across from Cheri’s desk. The painters had finished, and he had to admit the pale gray-blue color looked nice against the sturdy white of the woodwork, though the space now looked devoid of personality. Garland had labored in this room amid an avalanche of photos, personal mementos, and just plain junk from his half-century tenure. Now, with Cheri, the slate had been wiped clean. He wondered what she’d do with it.

  Which reminded him …

  “That was a great speech this morning, Madam

  Publisher,” he said.

  She shot him a scowl. Did she suspect he was messin’ with her? Still? It wasn’t so far-fetched a worry—she’d only been in Bigler a week. It was going to take some time, he knew.

  “I only speak the truth, Cheri,” he said. “You inspired the troops, and then you went right out and pounded the pavement for ads—you walked the walk. It’s all anyone’s been talking about around here today.”

  In addition to the scowl, she now lowered her chin and drummed her fingers on the desk. It was all J.J. could do not to laugh.

  “What are you implying?” she asked.

  “I’m not implying a damn thing. I’m telling you—you’re gonna make one hell of a publisher. It’s in your genes.”

  Cheri’s eyes briefly flashed toward her computer screen.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  She sighed, a few shiny, dark red strands of hair clinging to her cheek when she shook her head. “Just tired.” She gave him a brave smile. “So, what about Purnell? What do the doctors say?”

  “He’s stable, but still refusing any kind of treatment other than medicine for the pain. The doctors say it’s a combination of liver disease and congestive heart failure. Garland’s sitting with him, but it looks like the guy has just given up—he made the doctors draw up a do-not-resuscitate order.”

  Cheri rubbed her forehead and sighed. “What about his family? Doesn’t he have some kids and grandkids living close by?”

  J.J. raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “All of them live around here, but nobody seems to be in a hurry to get to his bedside.”

  “How sad,” Cheri said, stretching her arms over her head. This gave J.J. a nice view of her breasts moving beneath an otherwise perfectly businesslike blouse. Then again, the girl could make a burlap sack sexy—always could. “It’s a shame how families can fall apart like that,” she said with a yawn.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. The hesitation wasn’t lost on Cheri.

  She smiled at him. “Go ahead, Jefferson Jackson. Make your pithy observation.”

  “About what?”

  Cheri laughed, then groaned in frustration. “I’m a big ole hypocrite—that’s what you were going to tell me, right? That I got a lot of nerve commenting on other people’s screwed-up families when mine should have its own exhibit in the Dysfunctional Family Museum?”

  “Not my place,” J.J. said, smiling, tapping his fingers on the armrest.

  “Ha,” she said. “And no, I haven’t talked to Tanyalee yet and I haven’t spoken to Aunt Viv since I ran from her house and now I’ve got a headache bigger than all hell.”

  “You eat yet?”

  “Just a handful of nuts and a carrot stick I stole from Gladys.” J.J. watched Cheri close her eyes tight for an instant, then glance at the computer screen again. With a definitive smack of her fingers on the keyboard, she closed the spreadsheet she’d been viewing. “I’m about ready to keel over from hunger, actually.”

  “Can’t have that.” J.J. stood up and offered his hand to her. “How does Lenny’s sound?”

  Cheri grabbed her bag off the back of her chair, laughing. “My God! That place hasn’t been closed down by the health department? Do they still make those grilled pimento cheese and Wonder Bread sandwiches?”

  “Of course. And they still come with a side of barbecue slaw.”

  “Damn!”

  Grinning, J.J. placed his hand at the base of Cheri’s spine and waited for her to pass in front of him into the newsroom. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “And they’re still whipping up their world-famous fried pies and their—”

  Cheri spun around, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply. J.J.’s eyes widened in surprise, and though his first impulse was to grab the globes of her ass and throw her down and devour her, he decided he’d be smart to make sure the night copy editors weren’t getting a show.

  As soundlessly as he could, J.J. pulled Cheri back into her office and shut the door with his foot. He started chuckling beneath her kisses. “If I knew pimento cheese would send you over the edge like this, I’d have mentioned it earlier.”

  Cheri laughed, too, leaving sweet little kisses all over his cheeks, chin, and forehead. Eventually, she peeled herself off his neck. “Sorry—I’ve been dying to do that all damn day.”

  J.J. rested his ass on the edge of Cheri’s desk and pulled her between his legs. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  She tipped her head and smiled shyly, her gaze wandering over his face. Eventually, she raised her hand to bury her fingers in his hair, and J.J. held his breath, as if he were afraid the slightest movement would chase her away. It was nothing less than a miracle, this loving touch of hers. It felt like he’d been waiting for it forever, as long as he’d been waiting for her to tell him she still loved him … or loved him at all.

  J.J. watched in fascinataion as Cheri’s thoughts wandered and her golden eyes darkened.

  “Tell me, darlin’,” he said.

  Her gaze locked with his and he swore he saw fear there. “Please don’t say anything to Granddaddy, not yet, but…”

  J.J. straightened. Whatever Cheri was about to tell him had nothing to do with love or even grilled cheese.

  “I think I need to show the Bugle books to Turner.”

  J.J. abruptly stood up, which caused Cheri to stumble backward. He grabbed her hips. “It’s that bad?”

  She nodded her head and bit her bottom lip. “I’m seeing a pattern. Year after year, the expense vouchers Purnell’s been signing off on don’t make sense. I swear there’s a shitload of money missing, and the pattern stretches back at least five years, probably longer.”

  J.J. pulled his head back in surprise. “Someone’s skimming off the top? Are you sure?”

  “No,” Cheri said as she pulled away and began to pace, her arms crossing over her chest. “That’s the thing—it’s been done ingeniously, year after year. Nothing’s obvious. It could be possible to miss during an audit.”

  “I don’t follow,” J.J. said.

  “Okay.” Cheri nodded. “Let’s say I’m standing in a room and I don’t see anyone come in behind me, but I can see their shadow on the wall and I can smell their cologne, so I know they’re there. It can be the same way with numbers.” She turned to him, her brow creased in concentration. “Does that make any sense?”

  “I guess,” J.J. said.

  “Here’s the thing,” she continued. “On multiple occasions, expenditures can’t be verified. There were huge payouts for a color capacity printer tower that was never delivered. Consultants I can’t track down. Increases in our newsprint costs that are way out of line when compared to other newspapers in the region.”

  “So what do we need before we can go to the authorities? What can I do to help?”

  Cheri laughed, letting her arms swing down at her sides. “Nothing. I just have to keep plugging away, and ideally, I should be looking at records going back another twenty years or so, but I don’t want Purnell to know what I’m up to.”

  J.J. pushed up from the edge of the desk and went to her. “How much money are we talking?”

  “Depending on how long it goes back, maybe a million or more.”

  J.J.’s stomach clenched. “Shee-it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But if Purnell’s been stealing boatloads of money from the paper, what’s he done with it? The guy lives like a pauper, and nobody in his family
’s doing so hot, either.”

  Cheri looked up at him, the corners of her mouth pulled tight. “I know. His house is a pigsty. But let me put it this way—somebody’s up to something, and maybe it would be best if nobody knew I want every record I can get my hands on—not Purnell, not Gladys, not even Granddaddy. So, yes, there is something you can do for me. You can get me the old records.”

  J.J. felt his eyes go big. “I’ll go to the warehouse and see what I can find. But you can’t possibly believe—”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” she said, cutting him off. “But those are the only three people involved in accounting and bookkeeping around here since, well, forever.”

  J.J. tipped his head. “Except your daddy, right? He was publisher for six months back in the mid-eighties, before he…”

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. J.J. knew better than to bring up Loyal and Melanie Newberry, even in passing. Back when they were kids, the subject would turn Cheri to cold, hard rock in a flash—and understandably so. Her parents were young and healthy when they were found asphyxiated in an Outer Banks beach house on their second honeymoon, a faulty gas stove eventually to blame.

  And now, as Cheri’s spine went rigid and her face lost all expression, J.J. knew nothing had changed for her.

  “Yes, my father was publisher from February to September 1987.” With that, Cheri retrieved her bag from the floor—where she’d tossed it during the throes of kissing him, an event that now felt like a lifetime ago.

  “Cheri—”

  “It’s okay, J.J.,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “It’s an important point, actually. When I get the old records I’ll focus on that stretch. Maybe I’ll see a change in the way business was done or some indication my father knew there was a problem. Thanks for pointing that out.”

  She turned away and headed for the door.

  “So, no grilled cheese?”

  Cheri looked over her shoulder. “I’m suddenly too wiped out to eat. See you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he said. “Publishers get the weekends off around here.”

  She offered him a tired smile. “Not this one—not until I sort out this mess.”

  Chapter 18

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  Cheri sat up in bed, noting right away how the painfully bright light streamed through the window and how her stomach had clenched in on itself with hunger. And what about that bizarre dream she’d been having? She could swear she heard someone calling out to her clear as could be. The smell of blueberry muffins still wafted through her nostrils.

  “Cheri! It’s Granddaddy and Aunt Viv! We brought you some breakfast!”

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and clutched at her aching head. She heard the deep rumble of her grandfather’s laughter coming from the living room.

  “Plus dinner and supper and snacks and more damn furniture than this place can hold,” he said.

  “Oh, hell, no,” Cheri mumbled to herself, wondering what ungodly time of day it was and how Viv could possibly think she was welcome out here after that debacle at the supper table. Forget the books—her priority for the weekend should be buying a big-assed lock for the front door.

  She scrambled to find a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, deciding to skip the bra. Who cared?

  “Tater Wayne and some helpers are here, too!” Viv announced.

  Cheri grabbed a bra. “Coming!”

  After a quick pit stop in the bathroom, she stumbled down the hall and into the living room. Cheri shielded her eyes from the light pouring through the front door, and the first thing her vision focused on was a refrigerator sitting in the middle of the living room floor.

  “What the—”

  “Now come on in here and have a seat,” Viv said from the kitchen.

  “Mornin,’” Granddaddy said, holding out a Styrofoam cup of what Cheri prayed was real, steaming hot coffee.

  She shuffled over to the old oak table and took the cup from Granddaddy. “Thank you so much,” she said, pulling back the plastic lip of the lid and taking a sip. Suddenly, a knife and fork, salt and papper, and a paper plate were set down before her. On the plate was a hard-boiled egg, a blueberry muffin, and a banana.

  “Nothing fancy, but at least it’ll get you going today,” Viv said, leaning down and leaving a kiss on the top of Cheri’s head.

  “Thank you, really, both of you,” she said just before she bit into the still-warm baked confection. She moaned in pleasure as the sugary delicacy hit her taste buds. How could she stay mad at Viv when she made these awesome muffins for her? With the crumbly tops?

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. Here’s y’all’s pat of butter.”

  And butter!

  “Thank you so much, Aunt Viv,” Cheri said. “This is delicious!”

  “Well, now, once Tater gets the fridge hooked up, you’ll be set for a while.” Viv began unpacking covered dishes from a half-dozen brown paper sacks lined up on the drainboard. “I fixed y’all a little bit of everything—a chicken and rice casserole, baked spaghetti, some beef noodles with gravy, and a meat loaf. Oh, and my sweet potato casserole.”

  Granddaddy rolled his eyes and whispered, “Just in case the Union Army marches through.”

  Cheri laughed as she crammed another bite of the muffin in her mouth.

  “Where y’all want this?” Tater Wayne stood in the doorway holding a chest of drawers.

  “Put that one in the back room,” Viv ordered. “The bigger one goes in the front bedroom for Cheri. She needs a lot of storage for her delicates.”

  “You got it,” Tater said. “Oh, Cheri, we nearly ran over that damn squirrel just now, standing there hollerin’ like it was guarding the driveway or sumthin’.”

  Cheri spun around in her chair. “Did you hit her?”

  “Naw, but I can put a twenty-two-caliber greeting card right between its eyes if you like.”

  “No!” Cheri was horrified, but realized everyone was looking at her funny. “I don’t mind the squirrel much. Thanks, though.” She hid her face in her coffee cup.

  “Suit yerself,” Tater said, carrying the bureau down the hall. Cheri took a moment to assess the growing assortment of household items piling up in the living room. There were several cans of interior semigloss paint, a few secondhand tables, lamps, and a space-age lime green sofa that was so out-of-date it would be considered retro chic in Tampa.

  Viv sighed loudly. “I told Garland that couch was enough to make a person queasy but he said you’d like it.”

  Granddaddy winked at Cheri.

  “Everything’s lovely,” she said. “I truly do appreciate you taking care of me like this.”

  “Least we could do,” Viv said. “We couldn’t just let you stay out here without a pot to piss in or a light to aim by.”

  Granddaddy sighed loudly and began to turn around in his chair but Viv smacked his shoulder. “Oh, hold your peace, Garland. I promised I wouldn’t say a thing about Cheri up and moving out like she did, so I won’t, and I won’t mention the party, either.”

  Cheri blinked. “What party?”

  Granddaddy’s face had gone scarlet. “Vivienne, I have half a mind to—”

  “Garland’s turning eighty in two weeks, and we thought maybe—”

  Granddaddy smacked his palm on the old oak table.

  Viv waved her hand at him and pressed on. “We thought we’d combine the two monumental occasions into one big shindig!”

  Cheri felt the half-eaten muffin fall from her grasp to the paper plate. Try as she might, she couldn’t prevent the visual from setting up shop in her brain again—Aunt Viv, in her polka-dot bikini, rubbing up against her jazz musician boyfriend, while firing up a Jamaican-sized spliff.

  If that wasn’t horrifying enough, she was beginning to suspect one of those “monumental occasions” had something to do with her.

  “It was just an idea,” Granddaddy said, rolling his eyes. “We thought we could jointly celebrate my birthday and you taking over the helm at
the Bugle.”

  Cheri swallowed a crumb that had become stuck in her increasingly dry throat.

  “And,” Viv said, her face lit with excitement, “since the lake house is getting all spruced up, we were thinking we could have the party out here. The water will be warm enough for swimming. Tater Wayne can bring his mobile barbecue pit, the one shaped like a hog. And we can…”

  Cheri spaced out for a moment, letting the bizarre scene unfold without her. This visit was invasion of privacy jumbled up with too much food, overbearing love, passive-aggressive good intentions, and genuine desire to smooth over old hurts. It was all very Newberry.

  Suddenly, Cheri’s eyes shot to the blue and white checks over the kitchen sink, and the only thing that made any sense—the only right thing to do—was to hug Aunt Viv.

  She rose from her chair, went toward Viv, and pulled her aunt’s short, stocky body close to her, which stopped the party planning in mid-sentence. Cheri inhaled the familiar Jean Naté-and-vodka elixir and looked again at the curtains. A worker had tried to take them down and toss them yesterday, but she’d stopped him, and Cheri had washed them out by hand and hung them to dry. Now, as they rippled in the breeze, her eyes began to tear up.

  Cheri realized that for whatever reason, she’d woken up without her usual defenses that morning, and it felt like something had softened inside her, like some kind of internal fist had relaxed and opened. She held Viv tighter and let the tears flow and the memories rush through her—raw, alive, and bittersweet …

  The brush of her mother’s lips on her forehead. Her father’s voice—a mix of molasses and mischief—as he read to her before bed. The taste of corn on the cob and rhubarb pie at a summer supper. The cries of the loons and the songs of crickets.

  And suddenly she knew that her beginnings hadn’t just disappeared from the face of the earth, as hard as she’d tried to convince herself otherwise. The truth was a lot of it remained in the people and places she came from. This old cottage, surely. The elderly great-aunt and a grandfather, still right here in her kitchen, loving her the best they knew how. A sweet boy who’d become a man who fit her. The Bigler Bugle. A best friend who supported her no matter what.