A Place in Her Heart

by Carolyne Aarsen

  Becky flipped hers open to a page with a butterfly sticker in one corner and a reminder to pick up butter scribbled in purple pen on a stained and dog-eared page.

  “This is mine,” she muttered, closing it and slipping it between her papers and her chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Rick said, tapping the folder he held against his other hand. “I’m guessing Becky is short for Rebecca.”

  Good-looking and smart, Becky thought with a touch of her own cynicism. “You’ve got that right,” she said, flashing him a tight smile.

  And as she left his office, she blew out a sigh. One day down. Only three hundred and sixty-four to go.

  “You knew Rick Ethier was going to be taking over from Nelson, so why are you so angry?” Sam Ellison asked, crouching down beside another sapling.

  “I guess the reality was harder than the idea.” Becky dug her hands into the sun-warmed dirt of the new apple orchard. An early-evening breeze fanned away the warmth of the sun, and she could already feel the peace of the orchard easing away the tension of the day. “I mean I just found out before I went to camp. That hardly gave me time to get used to the idea.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Hand me the budding knife, please.”

  She pulled the small, but deadly sharp blade out of the toolbox her father carried with him and watched while he painstakingly cut a T shape in the bark of the young sapling. “I got the impression from Colson that he’s quite proud of his grandson,” Sam continued. “Rick’s travel articles are quite insightful.”

  “As are his nasty book reviews.” Becky couldn’t keep the disdainful tone out of her voice, netting her a light frown from her father. “I still don’t understand why such a prestigious magazine chose my book to review.”

  “That was a year ago, Becky.”

  “And since then, the publisher has been pretty hesitant about buying another book.”

  “Your editor is behind you.”

  “He’s been great, but if he can’t sell it to the marketing people who seem to have a copy of that nasty review branded on their brain tissues, I’m just spinning my wheels.” She leaned forward, yanking an isolated stalk of grass from the newly cultivated dirt. “I don’t know if Rick even realized it’s my book he slammed—a casualty of his cutting words. I’m left bleeding on the sidelines while he moves on, blithely unaware of what he had done.” With a dramatic flourish she raised her face to the sky and pressed her hand to her chest.

  “When you’re finished declaiming, you can hand me that whip, please. The Alberta Red.”

  “See, not even my own father appreciates my pain.” With a grin Becky plucked a tree branch out of the bucket of water. She carefully sliced the bud off it herself, taking a large piece of bark with it. Turning it over she plucked the pith away from the backside of the slice and handed it to her father.

  “Change isn’t always a bad thing, Becky. Life is always about adapting.” He inserted the slice in the cut, against the live flesh of the sapling, pulled the bark back over top and secured it with a rubber band. “Rick can bring in a new way of looking at things.”

  “He talks about finding a new direction for the magazine, but how can he when he doesn’t know the community it targets?”

  “That can be good. He’ll bring his own perspective and skills to the magazine. Like bringing new genetic material into the orchard and grafting it onto established and mature stock.”

  “Except he’s only here for a while, which makes me wonder if the ‘graft’ will take. He’s a wanderer, just like Trevor was.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over him?” Sam held out his hand. “Can I have that pine tar, please?”

  Becky handed him a small tin and a flat stick. “Hardly mooning. Trevor was a reminder to stay away from guys who can’t commit.” She curled her legs closer to herself and hugged them. “Anyway, Rick said he’s only going to be around a year. Maybe less. That’s hardly long enough to make a real difference. I’m sure he wants to go back to his traveling. Last I heard it was Malta. Before that Thailand.”

  Sam wrapped protective covering over the wound and gave Becky an indulgent smile. “Seems to me you know a fair bit of what is going on in Rick Ethier’s life.”

  Becky avoided his eyes. She could try to make some lame excuse about her knowledge of Rick’s comings and goings but she had never been a very good liar.

  “How in the world did you and Colson even connect?” Becky asked, handing her father his toolbox as he pushed himself to his feet.

  “Years ago, Colson lived in Calgary and had courted your grandmother. He decided the real money was back East, but she wouldn’t leave Holmes Crossing.” Sam gave Becky a hand up. “Maybe he is taking a short trip down memory lane, buying this magazine.”

  “And taking a very reluctant passenger with him. Rick.”

  “Well, you make sure to invite him out here sometime.”

  Becky sighed as she slipped her arm through her father’s. “Give me some time to get used to the idea that he’s even here in my home town. In my office.”

  The heat emanating from the dark plowed ground gave way to a soft coolness as they entered the older orchard.

  “I’m going to have to get rid of some of these trees,” her father mused, looking up at the gnarled branches. “Though I hate to.”

  “It’s biblical. ‘Every tree that does not bear fruit must be cut down and cast into the fire,’” Becky quoted, giving her father’s arm a jiggle as if to remind him.

  “God gives us lots of chances. I think I might let these trees go another year or two.” He reached up and touched one branch, the dearth of apples on it a silent testimony to their uselessness. “I can still take a few cuttings from them.”

  “You say that every year, Dad,” Becky said with a smile.

  Becky’s maternal great-grandfather started this orchard when he first immigrated from Holland. It was a gamble to expect to create an oasis in the clay soil of the north. But the river flat soil proved fertile and when the rains didn’t come, they pulled water from the river that flowed only a few hundred yards beyond them.

  The orchard had gone through three generations and various changes. Becky’s mother, Cora, inherited the orchard. When Cora Bruinsma married Sam Ellison, he slowly worked his way into the family business, helping to cultivate the orchard and keeping the magazine going at the same time.

  Becky grew up with her time split between the hustle and bustle of the magazine and the peace of the orchard. Her first love was writing, but her home was her sanctuary. Her plan had been to stay at home until she had her second book published and a contract for another. Only then would she feel she had the financial wherewithal to buy a place of her own and move out.

  Which hadn’t happened yet.

  And if she didn’t get working on this next book, wasn’t likely to happen for at least another year.

  “Going West. Becky speaking.” Becky tucked the phone under her ear, she pushed the sleeves of her sweater up and drew the copy of the article she had been working on toward her. Sneaking a quick glance at her watch—2:15 p.m. She had fifteen minutes yet.

  “Becky? This is Gladys Hemple. I do the cooking and preserves column.”

  “What can I do for you, Gladys?” Becky’s pencil flicked over the paper, striking out, putting in question marks.

  Gladys didn’t reply right away. Becky heard a faint sniff, then…

  “You know I get a lot of compliments on the column,” Gladys said, her voice suspiciously thick. “Lots of people say they read it all the time.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Becky frowned when she heard another, louder sniff over the phone.

  “I’ve been asked not to do it anymore.” Another sniff. “By some man named Rick who says he’s the new publisher.”

  Becky laid her pencil down, her full attention now on her caller. “What exactly did he say, Gladys?”

  “That he’s changing the focus of the magazine and that what I do didn’t mesh
with the vision. Or something like that.” Gladys paused and Becky heard her blowing her nose. “Becky, I’ve been doing that column for the past twenty-five years and I was never late. Not even once. What did I do wrong?”

  Becky clutched the phone in her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gladys, I’m sure there’s been some mistake. I’ll go talk to Mr. Ethier.”

  “Could you do that, please? I’ve just finished taking pictures of the chocolate cake for this week’s recipe. I hate to see it all wasted.”

  “You just get those pictures sent to me. I’ll deal with Rick.”

  And bring that cake over here.

  Becky’s stomach growled at the thought of Gladys Hemple’s chocolate cake. She hadn’t eaten or taken a break since she’d grabbed a couple of bites out of the stale muffin she’d found while scavenging through her desk for a pen that worked. That had been eight-thirty.

  In fifteen minutes she had a meeting with Rick and she still had a couple of articles to go over. Becky had re-edited half of the articles already slated for the next issue to nudge them in the direction Rick wanted to take this magazine. The extra workload had meant she’d missed her bible study and had to cancel another library board meeting.

  The phone rang again.

  Becky stifled her resentment and put a smile on her face. “Going West. Becky speaking.”

  “This is Alanna Thompson.”

  Becky closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingers, and sent up a prayer for patience and peace. Alanna wasn’t known for her reticence. And noting the restrained fury in Alanna’s voice, Becky was pretty sure she knew the reason she was calling.

  “How can I help you, Alanna?”

  “What in the world is going on there? I just got a phone call from some guy named Rick Ethier. He just told me he’s returning the four articles that the magazine bought. Who is this guy?”

  Becky blew out her breath, suddenly aware of the tension in her shoulders. Which columns to cut and which articles to send back should have been her call. Not Rick’s. At least he could have waited until their meeting this afternoon to consult with her.

  “Rick is our new publisher.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “With a new publisher comes a new direction,” Becky offered, struggling not to let her own anger seep into her voice. “Rick obviously has a different idea of how he sees Going West than Nelson did.”

  And from the sounds of things Rick’s vision didn’t include baking or horses, cowboys and farmers.

  “You know how much time I spent on those? How many horse trainers I interviewed? All the pictures I took? I got some great stuff with Duncan Tiemstra and his team of horses as well. A great local angle. And none of this was on spec. You told me the magazine would buy them all.” Alanna’s fury grew with each sentence she threw at Becky. “I got some great material together.”

  “You’ll be released to submit them elsewhere,” Becky said, her frustration growing. “And of course, there’s our kill fee.”

  “There had better be.”

  “Look, I’m sorry.” A faint nagging pain started at one temple, threatening to take over her whole head. Alanna’s yelling only intensified her frustration with Rick. And her headache. If she didn’t get something to eat pretty soon, she was sure it was going to become a full-blown migraine. “I’m sorry about this, Alanna,” Becky said, trying to keep her voice quiet. Soothing. “You’ve done great work for us in the past and I appreciate all the hard work you’ve put into all your articles. Good luck selling the articles somewhere else.”

  The harsh click in her ear told Becky how soothing her words had been.

  Becky shoved her hands through her hair and grabbed the back of her neck. It felt as tight as a guitar string.

  And in five minutes she had to face Rick Ethier.

  She wondered if she had time to run across the street to Terra’s Café and grab a bite to eat. Better not. Instead, she pulled open her desk drawer and pulled out the grease-stained bag. She shook out the rest of the muffin into her hand and popped it into her mouth. Two days old, but it was a much-needed snack.

  She gathered up her papers and slipped them all into her portfolio, along with her Day-Timer. A paper covered with scribbles fluttered to the floor and she bent to pick it up. Notes for her most recent book.

  Since Rick had come, she hadn’t had a spare minute to work on it. And if the past few days were any indication of the work Rick required to change the magazine’s direction, she wouldn’t have any time until Rick left.

  In twelve months.

  Dear Lord, am I ever going to get anywhere with my writing? The prayer was a cry of despair. She looked over at her crowded bookshelf. Her own book sat tucked away amongst all the others. But one book does not a career make, and if she wanted to live her dream, she needed at the least a multibook contract.

  All her life she had wanted to be a fiction writer. But she had loans to repay and she had to live. So she took the job her father offered and for three years she had poured her heart and soul into that first book in her infrequent spare time.

  When she received the call that this, her first book, had been bought, she broke down and cried like a baby. Then she celebrated.

  Though her parents were overjoyed for her, her mother had given her the best advice. Advice, she was sure, countless other authors had received.

  “Don’t quit your day job.”

  So she stayed on with Going West, editing and writing nonfiction during the day, writing fiction in the evening, begrudging each minute away from her work as she put together her next book.

  Then came Rick’s review, the sales figures just behind that, and her publisher started stalling on a contract for her option book. And now, she didn’t have the time to work on it.

  Becky pushed herself away from her desk. Enough wallowing. She had other things to discuss with Rick.

  Such as maintaining her “day job.”

  Chapter 2

  Becky strode down the hallway to Rick’s office but was stopped when she faced the closed door. One of the many changes that had swept through this office since Rick took over. She knocked lightly.

  “Come in.”

  To her surprise, Rick wasn’t elbow-deep in the computer printouts that dominated his desk, but instead stood by the window, looking out over the town.

  “I love the view from this office,” Becky said with forced cheer. She was going to be nice. Going to be a good example of Christian love. “Though it always makes me want to quit what I’m doing and head out for a walk.”

  Rick shrugged. “I suppose it could, if you were the impulsive type.”

  In spite of her good intentions Becky felt her back bristle.

  Nice. Nice. I’m going to be nice.

  “So what did you want to discuss today?” she asked, sitting in her usual chair in one corner of Nelson’s office.

  She wanted to give him a chance to talk before she brought up her own grievances.

  “I’ve been working on clearing up the deadwood.” Rick dropped into his chair, massaging his temple with his forefinger. “This magazine is practically in the Dark Ages.”

  “Considering that we don’t use a Gutenberg press to put out the paper, that seems a bit extreme,” Becky said, tempering her comment with a smile.

  Rick gave her a level glance but Becky held her ground. She had promised to be nice, but he didn’t need to be so cutting.

  “Just because Going West has a glossy cover doesn’t mean it’s keeping up.” Rick pushed himself ahead, pulling a pencil out of the holder on a now-tidy desk. “We’ve got to move forward.”

  “From the phone calls I’ve been getting, that means leaving behind people like Gladys Hemple and Alanna Thompson.”

  Rick shrugged again. “Alanna was a terrible writer. Overly emotional and bombastic. Gladys, an anachronism.”

  “I would think that would be my call to make.” Her words came out clipped. Tight.
>
  “Would you have cut them?”

  Becky held his gaze, trying to distance herself from the harshness of Rick’s words, so close to what he had said about her own writing.

  “I don’t know. I guess it would have depended on this ‘vision’ we are going to talk about right now.”

  “They don’t fit. I would have told you to cut them anyhow.”

  Becky held his gaze, realizing that she was dealing with a far different sort of publisher than Nelson and his easygoing approach.

  “And who or what are we going to replace them with?”

  “I’ve got a guy lined up to do a weekly column. Gavin Stoddard.”

  Becky struggled to keep smiling. To stay positive as her brain scrambled for words that weren’t confrontational. “Gavin has a rather cynical take on Holmes Crossing. What would he do a column on?”

  “He’s on the local chamber of commerce. He has a thriving business in an area that’s expanding. He’s exactly the kind of person that can give some helpful advice to other businesses.”

  “So that’s your focus? Business?”

  Rick leaned forward. “In order to increase advertising revenue, we have to make the magazine appealing to the business sector of our readership.”

  “But more ads means fewer features. That would make it…” She stopped just short of saying “boring.” Too confrontational.

  “Make it what?”

  She waved the comment aside. “I would like to get back to Alanna and Gladys. Please let me know before you do something like that again, so we can discuss this together.” She held her ground, knowing that she was right. “It makes my job difficult otherwise. I’m still editor and I prefer that we work together.”

  Rick swayed in his chair, his finely shaped mouth curved into a humorless smile. “Do you think that can happen?” he asked.

  Becky accepted the challenge in his gaze even as she thought of the book she couldn’t finish. She needed this job for now, but she wasn’t going to get pushed around.

  “I think it can. As long as we keep talking.”