“It’s just a thought,” she explained.
“Do you have any proof?”
“Well…no…”
“When reporting the news, I expect my employees to keep their opinions out of their writing as much as possible,” Sid explained, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands behind his head. “To insinuate something like arson without any facts to back it up is irresponsible. The last thing I’d want is to start a rumor. Buckton has enough of those already.”
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said, feeling quite chastened.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for. This is how one learns.”
She nodded, believing that he would know best.
“So tell me,” Sid said. “Does this mean you want to become a reporter?”
“I don’t know yet,” Gwen answered honestly. “But I liked it. Sitting there, watching the fire and all the people, the commotion, writing everything down, it was exciting. I felt like I was doing something important.”
The newspaper publisher was silent for a moment, watching her. Then he got up from his chair, went over to the wall, and removed a framed photograph. He handed it to Gwen before sitting on the edge of his desk. “Believe it or not, that’s me,” Sid said, tapping the glass. “The third from the right.”
In the black-and-white picture, a row of young men, all with their collars unbuttoned and their ties hanging loosely around their necks, stood in front of an enormous printing press. Each held up a newspaper, smiling brightly.
“Did you know that I used to work in Chicago?” Sid asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
“It was a long time ago, around the year you were born, I suspect. Longer than I’d like to admit,” he explained with a wry smile. “I was hired by Harry Romanoff, the man who ran the American.” Pointing at the picture, he said, “That there is the edition in which I had my first byline. I was so damned proud. Bragged about it to everyone I knew.” Sid chuckled. “But in the end, I couldn’t hack it. I lasted three years before I came home.”
Gwen handed him the picture. “Were you disappointed?”
“At the time, sure,” he explained as he hung the photo back on the wall, “but it didn’t take long for me to realize that failing in the big city was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“How so?”
Sid spread his arms to the room. “Because I found this,” he explained. “Back when I was first brought on by the Bulletin, it was my job to write the obituaries. I threw myself into it, trying to make every person who died in Buckton seem as important as the king or queen of England. The years went by and I moved from one task to another, and before I knew it, I was running the place.” Smiling, he added, “And I’ve never regretted it. Not for a minute.”
Gwen could only hope that her own career would be as satisfying.
“Maybe you’ll be different,” Sid continued. “Maybe you’ll go back to Chicago and take the city by its…well, you won’t let it get the best of you like it did me.” He shrugged. “Or you could always…” he began, but his voice trailed off.
“I could what?” she asked.
The publisher shook his head. “Never mind. It’s nothing. In the end, whatever road you go down, it’ll be your choice to make.”
Sid went back behind his desk. He pulled a ledger out of the bottom drawer and said, “Let me write you a check.”
“For what?” Gwen asked.
The publisher laughed long and loud. “For your article,” he told her. “You weren’t doing it for free, were you?”
He scribbled out a check and then handed it to her. Gwen stared at it, hardly able to believe that it was real. It wasn’t much, only a couple of dollars, but she wouldn’t have cared if it had been made out for a few cents. All that mattered was that she’d been paid for writing. It was even better than when her story had been accepted by the magazine. Having something in the Bulletin felt real.
As Sid walked her back to the front door, Gwen saw that the newspaper was coming to life. A few employees had arrived, lights had been turned on, coffee was brewing, and typewriters were in use, the keys clacking as fast as gunfire. A telephone began to ring. Maybe it wasn’t so different from what she’d expected after all…
“Thank you,” she told Sid, holding up the check.
“If you write anything else while you’re home, let me take a look at it.” Then, just as Gwen was going out the door, he added, “You have real talent. Keep at it and you might have yourself something.”
Out on the sidewalk, Gwen could hardly contain her joy. She wanted to jump up and down and scream at the sky to celebrate all that she’d accomplished. She could have called Sandy, or gone to see her father at the bakery, or rushed home to share the good news with her mother. She could even have telephoned Kent. But when Gwen thought about who she wanted to talk to first, the answer surprised her.
She wanted to tell Hank.
At first, Gwen wasn’t sure how to get in touch with Hank. After all, it wasn’t as if she could go home or to the bakery to call, not with her mother and father around. In the end, she thought it best to use the telephone booth on the corner opposite the drugstore. She stepped inside the cramped space, hot from the summer sun, and closed the partition behind her. Then she looked up Hank’s number in the directory, dropped a coin in the slot, and dialed. Seconds later, it began to ring.
And ring and ring and ring…
But then, just as Gwen was about to give up, someone answered.
“Hello,” a man said, sounding slightly out of breath.
“Hank?” she asked tentatively, not sure if she recognized his voice, wondering if she might be talking to his father.
“Yeah,” he said a bit brusquely. “Who is this?”
“It’s Gwen.”
Instantly, his demeanor changed. “Hey! This is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to call,” Hank said, sounding genuinely pleased that it was her. “Sorry that it took me a while to answer, but I was working in the shop and there isn’t a line out there. I heard it ringing in the house and had to run to get it.”
“Are you busy?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
“I want to celebrate something. Would you be interested in joining me?”
“Sure. What’s the occasion?”
Gwen smiled. She knew it was cheeky to keep it from him, but she wanted to hold on to her secret for a little while longer. “I can’t tell you,” she explained. “It’s a surprise. Let’s just say that I have some good news to share.”
“I don’t get a hint?” Hank asked.
“And ruin the suspense?” she teased with a soft laugh.
“Okay, okay. I get it,” he said. “Where do you want to go?”
“How about I treat us to ice cream at Mercer’s Malt Shop?”
Gwen had thought Hank would argue with her, insisting that he be the one to pay, but instead he was silent; the pause lasted so long she began to wonder if their connection hadn’t been lost. But finally he asked, “You want to stay in Buckton?”
“Is that all right?”
Another pause. “Sure…yeah, that’s fine…” he said, by the end sounding more like himself. “Give me twenty minutes to get cleaned up and I’ll meet you in front of the movie theater.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Gwen said, then hung up.
Back outside the phone booth, she raised her face to the sun. Today was wonderful. She had taken a chance writing about the Morgans’ fire and submitting her piece to the newspaper, but it had paid off. She was going to be published. On top of that, she’d been paid for it.
Things were definitely looking up.
And now she was going to see Hank again…
Just then, Gwen realized she was taking a chance that someone in town would see the two of them together. Word could get back to her parents. There was no reason to think they wouldn’t be upset with her. But she didn’t care.
This was a time for celebration.
> And who knows what other surprises might lie ahead…
Chapter Fourteen
HANK ABSENTLY DRUMMED his fingers across the top of the truck’s steering wheel as he looked over at the malt shop for what felt like the twentieth time. Even though Buckton’s streets were mostly empty, he felt conspicuous, like he was parked beneath a billboard or up on a stage.
He didn’t want to be in town. He wanted to drive away, fast.
But he stayed for Gwen.
Hearing her voice on the telephone had sent a charge racing through him. Ever since Hank had watched her drive away after their afternoon together, all he’d thought about was her: the curve of her smile, the smell of her perfume, the sweet sound of her voice. Being unable to focus made it hard to work. That very morning, he had flubbed the same piece of wood so many times that he’d finally thrown it away. His father had been sleeping off another night of drinking, so her call had been a welcome surprise. That Gwen had wanted to get together had been even better. Hank had figured he’d pick her up and take her for a drive in the countryside, somewhere they could be alone and talk.
He hadn’t expected her to want to stay in Buckton.
Ever since Pete’s death, whenever he’d come to town, it had been uncomfortable. Everyone stared. A few pointed. The boldest walked up and gave him a piece of their mind. Once, in the grocery store, Hank had been slapped; Grace Gesell had done it, an older woman he knew from church. He reckoned that he deserved it, though not in the way most folks believed, and so he took their abuse without complaint. But that didn’t mean he liked it. After a while, it became easier to stay away, to do his business in places like Mansfield. Hank couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d last driven downtown.
What’s taking her so long?
Having Gwen at his side made it worse. It was one thing for him to take abuse for what happened to his brother, but the last thing he wanted was for her to see it. That burden was his alone. Besides, it would ruin her good mood.
When Hank had pulled up outside the movie theater, Gwen had been a bundle of excitement. He’d tried to match her happiness, but he doubted that he’d been very convincing.
“This is my treat,” Gwen had said once he’d parked in front of Mercer’s Malt Shop.
Hank had wanted to argue, to insist on buying, but he also hadn’t wanted to get out of the truck. He’d been trying to protect her.
Gwen had opened her door, then looked back at him in surprise when she’d realized he wasn’t joining her. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Just get me a chocolate.”
She had paused, a frown on her otherwise beautiful face, but then gone inside.
Now, sitting behind the wheel, Hank felt like a fool. His growing attraction to Gwen didn’t change the fact that she was involved with, if not actually engaged to, another man. While he was thrilled to spend more time with her, it was pointless to get his hopes up. Even if Kent Brookings didn’t exist, if Hank could somehow start a relationship with Gwen, then he would have no choice but to tell her the truth about himself. He would have to confess a secret he’d sworn to take to the grave.
Could I do that? Could I be completely honest with her?
The sudden honk of a horn startled him.
Hank turned to look out his window and found Jed Ringer staring at him, sitting in his own car as it idled in the middle of the street. He had two of his flunkies with him, men Hank recognized from the baseball game.
As if I didn’t feel uneasy enough being in town…
“What in the hell are you doin’ here?” Jed asked with a sneer. It pleased Hank to see that the troublemaker’s face was still bruised and battered from their brawl, one of his eyes swollen and purple. It made him look uglier than ever.
“None of your damn business,” Hank answered.
“Don’t you talk to him that way,” the goon closest to the passenger-side door snapped. A thin, wiry man, he reminded Hank of a yippy little dog snarling behind a fence, thinking that he was far bigger and tougher than he was.
“Shut up, Clint,” the middle crony said. “Jed don’t need your help.”
“You ain’t the boss a me, Sam! Don’t go thinkin’ that—”
“Quiet, the both of you!” Jed barked, instantly silencing his fawning menagerie. Turning his attention back to Hank, he said, “You ain’t wanted ’round here, murderer.”
Even though Hank had been uncomfortable about being in Buckton from the moment Gwen had suggested he join her for ice cream, the last thing he would have done was leave because Jed Ringer wanted him to.
“You man enough to make me go on your own,” Hank began, unable to resist baiting the other man, “or do you need your girlfriends’ help?”
Jed’s face flushed an angry crimson. “No,” he said as he popped open his door, pushing it wider. “I’m gonna enjoy this by myself.”
But before he could set foot on the pavement, another horn sounded. All four men looked to see a police car in the street behind Jed’s sedan; the officer wanted him to get moving. None of them had a good reputation, including Hank, so if there was trouble now, they’d likely all be hauled off to jail.
Hank didn’t want to cause a scene, especially in front of Gwen; too late, he realized that it had been stupid to antagonize Jed.
So he was plenty relieved when Jed eased back behind the wheel.
Putting his car in gear, the tough stared daggers at Hank. “The next time you see me, there’s gonna be trouble,” he said, then drove away.
Seconds later, Gwen finally came out of the malt shop holding two ice cream cones, none the wiser about what had just happened.
Even as he put the truck in gear, Hank was grateful for that.
“So are you ever going to tell me what your big surprise is?”
Gwen looked at Hank. He was turned in his seat, away from the sidewalk and toward her, licking at his ice cream cone. Ever since he’d picked her up in front of the movie theater, he had seemed a bit out of sorts, distracted. She’d been surprised he hadn’t argued about her offering to pay, and then when he’d chosen to stay in the truck rather than go inside the malt shop. He hadn’t said much as he’d driven them to a more secluded spot, away from Main Street, parking in the shade on the east side of the park. She was sure it was nothing, convinced that she was imagining it, but before she told Hank what had happened, she was determined to make him smile.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she teased.
Hank shrugged.
“You’re eating it,” Gwen said, nodding toward his ice cream.
He smiled, just a little, causing her heart to beat faster. “Most days, ice cream would be more than enough to get me out of my workshop, but I got the impression that you were talking about something bigger.”
Gwen laughed, the sound filling the truck’s cab and spilling out the open windows. “You’re right,” she said. “And it’s amazing!”
She told him everything, beginning with the fire that had destroyed the Morgans’ house. She struggled to explain how horrible it had been to sit helplessly and watch people she genuinely cared for lose everything they owned, even as she scribbled down the details of what she saw. Then how she’d stayed up all night writing, submitted her article to Sid Keaton, and ended with it being purchased for publication in the Bulletin. Occasionally she had to pause to keep from getting melted ice cream all over herself. Gwen admitted to Hank that she’d been nervous, worried that she wasn’t good enough, but that in the end her hard work had paid off. The only thing she didn’t tell him about was her disastrous phone call with Kent.
“That’s great, Gwen!” Hank told her when she’d finished. From the tone of his voice, she knew that he meant it. “I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks. I knew you’d understand.”
“So are you going to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Sid said that if you wrote something else he’d take a look at it,” Hank explained. “You should take him up on the o
ffer.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What would I write about?”
“Didn’t you tell me on the way back from Mansfield that everything around you is a story waiting to be told? If that’s true, it shouldn’t be all that hard.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Gwen said, momentarily warming to the idea before a sliver of doubt crept in. “But what if he doesn’t like that one?”
Hank shrugged. “Then you write another. If this is what you really want to do, then failure’s going to be a part of it every bit as often as success. Maybe more. It sure is in woodworking. But if you can handle getting knocked down from time to time, if it makes you want to get back up and try again, you’ll earn your success.”
Gwen found Hank’s confidence infectious. Listening to him erased her doubts. To Hank, the only way she could fail would be if she quit trying. She wasn’t used to someone having that kind of faith in her.
“You make it sound easy,” she told him.
“I know it isn’t,” Hank replied. “Far from it. But if you’ve come this far, it’d be a shame not to see how far the road goes.”
“I just worry that I’m not good enough,” she admitted.
“Who doesn’t?”
“I doubt you do.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” Hank answered. “No matter how many times someone like Freddie tells me they love my work, there’s always the fear lurking in the back of my mind that the next piece I make will be a failure, that it will sit unsold.” He nodded at her. “Most artists I know feel the same.”
“I don’t see myself that way,” Gwen insisted.
“You should. As a matter of fact, if I was a betting man, I’d be willing to wager that you’ll end up being a lot more famous than I ever will.”
Gwen smiled. She wasn’t happy because Hank believed she would one day be a well-known and respected writer. She was grinning because he had once again been kind and considerate, had complimented her and offered encouragement, far different from how she’d expected him to be. She thought about taking his hand, a touch to express how she was feeling, but then thought better of it. She wasn’t sure of herself and worried she might send the wrong message, even if she had no idea what the right message would be.
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