“It was amazing.” Phoebe Adams sat cross-legged on the king-size bed and flourished one hand in the air. “I just went over to the food bank to get a basic who-what-where-when article about their move to larger quarters. Then I met Anita Peters and I knew we had to print her story.”
It didn’t matter that Phoebe was talking to the back of the editor of the Weekly Sentinel. She was psyched.
Gavin Cross turned in the doorway of the walk-in closet and held up two ties. “The blue striped or the yellow paisley with my gray suit?”
“Blue striped,” said Phoebe. “She was sent in to streamline and modernize their data base and their distribution system. But get this . . .”
Gavin tossed the blue tie on the bed next to her and went back into the closet.
“Anita was raised just a couple of towns from here and had been homeless as a child. She was forced to drop out of high school and earned her GED sitting in the back of her mother’s food truck. Which just goes to show you—”
A pair of dress shoes sailed past her and landed on the duvet next to the ties.
“Anyway, one of the lunch regulars noticed her and was so impressed he pulled some strings to get her a scholarship to college. And from that one man’s help, she was able to earn an MA in supply-chain and distribution management and now she travels throughout New England helping local food banks make policy and streamline day-to-day operational changes that could completely overhaul the ability to feed the hungry throughout the region, perhaps the nation. How’s that for a story?”
“Fine.” Gavin rolled his suitcase out of the closet and opened it on the bed.
“I’m going to make sure it gets column space in next week’s edition. It will be an inspiration for the whole community. Right here under our noses. Who knew?”
Phoebe flopped back on the mattress. This was the kind of article she was born to write. Unsung locals doing good for the community. The kind of article that inspired readers to think, to volunteer, to make a difference.
“I’m sure once everyone learns Anita’s story, the donations for the new building will pour in and the whole community will be the better for it.”
Gavin carried out two pairs of khakis and several shirts on hangers.
Phoebe rolled to her side and braced on one elbow. “As always, I admire your sartorial elegance, but this is the New England Association of Independent Newspapers. The other guys will be sitting around all weekend in T-shirts with coffee stains.”
He looked down at her and smiled. He was tall and blond with a patrician nose that reminded her of his father, Simeon Cross, who had published the paper until the day he died and who had been Phoebe’s mentor and inspiration. Just looking at Gavin gave her a little rush of satisfaction. Soon she would be Mrs. Gavin Cross and together they would—
“I’m going to take a couple of days after the symposium to check out the operations of some of the other weeklies.”
“Oh?”
“Since I have to go anyway, I might as well pick their brains on site. You can handle things while I’m gone?” He glanced at his watch.
“Of course.” She’d been handling “things” since Simeon had fallen ill. “Oh, I almost forgot, Alan in design called today; the photo processor is acting up again. I told him to call the guy who usually fixes it, but we’re going to have to bite the bullet and get new equipment soon.”
“Call him back and tell him not to do anything until I get back.”
Phoebe sighed. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you? We could work the whole group, see who’s got equipment they want to unload, and I could introduce you to the editors you haven’t met.” Editors he should already know but didn’t, since he’d only been to one other symposium since taking over the paper three years ago.
Gavin pulled out a drawer of the built-in dresser and frowned at the contents. “No reason for us both to go. Besides, I need you to touch base with Ed Begland at Cross County Insurance. Strong-arm him if you have to. We need a big repeat advertiser. Not all this space wasted with two-by-ones congratulating some favorite high school grad.”
“Hey, those ads help pay the rent.”
“The Sentinel owns the building.”
“Pay our taxes, then.”
Gavin sighed. “Phoebe, could you please focus on bringing some money to the paper?”
“You’re just cranky because you have to drive three hours at rush hour to get to the hotel.”
“I couldn’t get away earlier, as you well know.” Gavin went into the bathroom, came back with his shaving kit and toiletry bag. He’d be the most well-groomed editor at the Manchester Airport Hampton Inn.
He’d been on his office phone all afternoon. He hadn’t said who it was, but Phoebe guessed it had to do with finances. These days, he was obsessed with overhead and income. Sure, they were always floating right above red alert, but they had been for years, long before Simeon died and Gavin had inherited his father’s legacy. Simeon had worked indefatigably to keep the paper up and running. They’d won awards. He’d published a quality newspaper the whole county could be proud of.
Simeon was a true journalist. He’d given her a start when she was even too young to drive, had nurtured her and taught her more than most reporters learned in a lifetime. He’d depended on her to help Gavin get acclimated and to keep the paper running.
That was her legacy. And one she was immensely proud of.
Gavin zipped his suitcase and slid it to the floor. “You going to stay here tonight?”
“No, I’d better get home. I still have a lot of packing up if I’m moving in here on Friday.”
He kissed her, too quickly it seemed to her, but he hated running late.
“I’ll lock up before I go.”
“Great,” he called, already on his way out the door. “And get those ads sold while I’m gone.” The door clicked shut and she was alone on the spacious bed.
Ads. Sometimes it seemed as if she spent more time canvassing for ads, drumming up new subscribers, and keeping ancient equipment running smoothly, while making sure that everyone was paid, than actually reporting.
Seemed? There was no “seemed” about it. Her writing had taken a back seat to all her other duties as managing editor of the paper.
She pulled the elastic band from her ponytail and shook her hair free. Then she lay back, rested her forearm across her forehead, and thought about a young Anita Peters, tucked away in a back corner of the food truck, her history book open, while the sting of chopped onions blurred her vision. And now that young girl was responsible for so many.
Phoebe couldn’t help but make a comparison to herself. She’d never been homeless, thank heaven, and she may not feed the hungry, but she was a conduit for the people who did. She had found her place in the world, where she could do what she was called to do—make a difference.
That’s what local news was all about. Not broadcasting breaking headlines between commercials, not sending a podcast into the ether sphere. Those were good for others. But not for Phoebe. For her, it was go deep, stay local. Local news touched the people closest to it, could make them aware, change their lives, keep them grounded, and get things done at a grass-roots level.
And Phoebe facilitated that. She took a long, satisfied breath and sat up.
She’d start writing the article tomorrow morning . . . right after she met with Ed Begland about a recurring ad . . . and checked with Marty Cohen about the last order of newsprint that came in short . . . and dropped by town hall to see if they had pulled the files on a hit-and-run case from last month that needed a follow-up article. And she would call Alan and tell him to definitely call the repair technician; they needed working machinery.
And then . . . she would write her article about Anita Peters.
Thursday morning, Phoebe was hunched over her computer keyboard in the newsroom, fingers flying over the keys. It had been days since she’d interviewed Anita Peters and she was just now writing the article. No worries. It just had to be in good enough shape to present to the editorial meeting at noon. She glanced at the corner of the screen. Eleven forty.
She’d missed breakfast and was about to miss lunch, and between her growling stomach and the general din of the newsroom, she was having a hard time concentrating. It was amazing, the amount of noise the four full-time and just as many part-time staffers of the Weekly Sentinel could make while working with laptop keyboards, cell phones, and the occasional blue pencil.
When Phoebe was a kid and dreaming of becoming a journalist, she’d watched in awe those old-time newspaper rooms portrayed in the movies: Cary Grant shouting into the black candlestick phone as reporters rushed in and out of the room, slamming doors in their pursuit of a “scoop,” while old Royal typewriters clacked in the background. It was funny, but thrilling.
Later, as she sat alert through All the President’s Men, she dreamed of one day being Bob Woodward. Not as portrayed by Robert Redford, but as portrayed by Phoebe Adams, investigative reporter.
But lately she hadn’t felt much like a reporter, and today she just felt overworked from all the non-writing duties she’d accumulated since Simeon’s demise. The only time she was really fired up was when she was out in the field gathering stories or sitting in the newsroom with Mitch and Nancy, the two other “old-timers,” composing at their desks or rushing out to check a fact. Everyone rushing toward deadline.
Willa Davis stopped at her desk and glanced over Phoebe’s shoulder at the computer screen. Willa was the feature writer and circulation manager and Phoebe’s best friend.
“You hear from Gavin yet?”
Phoebe nodded, without looking up. “Last night. He’s on his way back this morning. He said if he’s late, start the meeting without him.”
“Uh-huh.”
That made Phoebe look up. “What do you mean, ‘uh-huh’?”
Willa just fisted her hands on her hips and gave Phoebe what they all called the “Willa wither” look.
“I know, I know, but he’s been really busy networking. It must have been a productive weekend.”
“I’ll say. Considering it’s Thursday.”
“He’ll be here. He’s probably having trouble getting away. You know how these newspaper people love to talk shop.”
“For six days?”
“He’s been checking other papers’ operating systems and looking for used equipment. Maybe he’s come up with a brilliant idea for making us all rich.” Phoebe glanced at the corner of her screen. Eleven forty-seven. He was cutting it close.
And so was she. She typed faster.
Willa was still standing there when the newsroom door squeaked open. Phoebe had been meaning to get it fixed. Though it didn’t seem to bother anyone but Phoebe.
Gavin Cross stood just inside the newsroom, his hand still on the doorknob, about as far as he ever got these days.
She was surprised by how relieved she felt. Of course he would be back in time for the meeting; he was the editor in chief. She flashed him a smile.
He didn’t smile back, so Phoebe went back to typing.
“Could I have everyone’s attention.”
A statement, not a question. And at the most inconvenient time possible. What was so important it couldn’t wait the ten minutes for the regularly scheduled editorial meeting?
Conversation quieted but everyone in the Sentinel’s newsroom continued to work. Multitasking was a necessary skill for survival in the newspaper business.
Gavin raised his voice. “I have some bad news.”
Phoebe’s fingers slowed as her mind ricocheted from a hurricane barreling toward the New England coast to the death of someone they all knew and loved.
“I’m closing the Sentinel.”
Phoebe’s fingers froze on the keyboard. Around the room all motion stopped, six Sentinel employees captured mid-movement—perched on the edge of a desk, gesturing to a colleague, reaching for a file drawer. All caught in time—death-of-a-newspaper time.
Then slowly their heads turned until all eyes zeroed in on Gavin.
He should have staggered back from the force of their disbelief. But Gavin merely lifted his chin and looked past them to the window.
He’s shutting down the paper. For a nanosecond Phoebe thought he must have lost his mind. Or she had. He couldn’t do that.
“No.” The denial escaped her lips almost as if the word had been there all along, waiting for the inevitable. “No.” It couldn’t be true. Why would he do such a thing after all their hard work? And after he’d just come back from the symposium. Something must have happened there.
“You all know that the Sentinel has been struggling for years,” Gavin continued. “We’ve tried, but times are changing and local newspapers are no longer relevant.”
Not relevant? Of course it was relevant. Phoebe tried to catch his eye. To warn him to stop. To meet her outside and explain. Like why he hadn’t consulted her before springing this on everyone. But he was focused on the mid-distance, something she realized he did when he wasn’t going to budge on an issue—or because he couldn’t face her?
“We’ve run out of money. Today is the Sentinel’s last day.”
She sprang from her chair, as if she could bodily stop him from continuing.
“You’ll be paid for this week. You have until tonight to clean out your desks. After that the offices will be closed and everything will be sold. This hasn’t been an easy decision.”
Not an easy decision? Phoebe hadn’t even known he was considering it.
“I want to thank you for your commitment to the Sentinel.” Gavin backed out of the room and firmly shut the door.
“You son of a—!” Mitch Rueben, who had been at the paper for forty years, turned his anger on Phoebe. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” Phoebe said. “No.” She dropped into her desk chair, her eyes settling on Anita Peters’s typed name.
She gradually became aware of Willa, her face mere feet away, her eyes questioning.
Phoebe shook her head. Shook it again. Shook it until she thought it might fall off. “I didn’t know. I can’t believe it. Something must have happened this weekend.”
“Something that he didn’t tell you about?”
“He didn’t say anything.” She searched her brain to try to find some clue, some hint, of what he’d been thinking. But her brain was blank.
“You’re telling me you had no idea he was planning this?” Willa asked. “What do the two of you talk about?”
“I don’t know. Stuff. Actually, between the paper and the wedding, we don’t have all that much time to talk. At night we’re tired and it’s pretty much dinner, sex, and Netflix.”
Willa shook her head.
Phoebe pulled Willa closer, lowered her voice. “TheSentinel isn’t out of money. We’ve been running on a shoestring for years. I’ve personally been out selling ads. The bills are mostly paid on time. The readership is up . . . a little. Things can’t be that bad. Why would he do this? How could I not know what he was thinking?”
Willa eased herself down on the armrest of Phoebe’s chair, slipped her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “Maybe you were too busy trying to save this paper and our jobs to notice.” Willa squeezed Phoebe’s shoulder. “Gavin was just not as committed to the Sentinel as you were.”
“It’s just that he was still feeling his way.”
“After three years? Face it, Phoebe, you’ve been running this paper since the day he arrived to take over. Even before that.”
“But he—”
“It’s not your fault. We know you did your best.”
“My best? If I’d done my best, we would still have a newspaper.”
Well, she would do something now. She pushed to her feet, dislodging Willa from the arm as her desk chair shot out from under her.
“What are you going to do?” Willa asked anxiously.
“Make him change his mind.”
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