Page 9 of Hello, Summer
“That’s right.” Lorraine brightened. “It’s been so long since she set everything up, I’d forgotten. Am I being nosy if I ask what you’re working on?”
“Not at all. I thought I’d send out some emails to my contacts in the business. One of my former editors is now at theMiami Herald,another is in LA. And one of my college classmates is actually a bureau chief for Reuters, in London.”
“London!” Her grandmother sounded alarmed. “Surely you wouldn’t consider leaving the country. Or even taking a job all the way out on the West Coast.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too far away,” Lorraine said. “I mean, Washington, D.C., is one thing. Winnie and I were looking forward to visiting, once you got yourself settled in. I haven’t been to D.C. since Jimmy Carter’s inauguration.”
“I’ll consider any job I’m offered,” Conley said. “As long as the salary’s in the right range.”
“Why not stay here? Work at theBeacon?”
Conley laughed, but she stopped mid-chuckle when she noticed Lorraine’s serious demeanor. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. TheBeaconis a family enterprise; it always has been. It’s not just a business. It’s your heritage, Sarah Conley. I know you’vealways been ambitious for a career, but you’ve already done marvelous things, first over there in Greenville, then in Charlotte, and now at the Atlanta paper. You’ve more than proven yourself. Why not take all those skills, all that experience, and put it to work here, where you could really make a difference?”
Conley swallowed hard and thought about the best way to couch all the objections that immediately flooded her mind.
“G’mama, it’s not that easy. I need a job. A real job with a real paycheck. It’s sweet that you want me to work at theBeacon,but it would mean a huge pay cut. And I’ve got bills to pay.”
“I realize that,” Lorraine said quietly. “But think how much cheaper it is to live here in Silver Bay. And how much nicer. I wouldn’t expect you to live here, with me. You could get your own place quite cheaply. Or live at the Dunes. You’ve always loved the beach. Despite what your sister thinks, fifteen miles is not on the next continent.”
“No,” Conley said. “Even if I wanted to stay here and work at theBeacon, which I don’t, you’re overlooking the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“Grayson is the publisher and the managing editor of theBeacon.I love her, and I have a sneaking suspicion she loves me, at least a little, but I guarantee you, she doesnotwant me as an employee.”
Lorraine patted her carefully coiffed head and smiled. She was still a strikingly beautiful woman, Conley thought. Her wavy silver hair was arranged in a simple, flattering style. As always, she wore her signature shade of Dior lipstick, and her posture was, as always, perfect. She really didn’t look much different from the glamorous portrait that hung in the hallway portrait gallery, the one her grandfather had commissioned for Lorraine’s Mobile debut.
“Grayson has the title of publisher, it’s true. But as I mentioned last night, I’m the majority stockholder, and I’m still chairman of the board of Beacon Enterprises. So I assure you, Sarah, that if I want you to stay here and work at my paper, thatwillhappen.”
She snapped her long, tapered fingers. “And it will happen just like that.”
4
Hi, Sloane. Hope all is well with you and Michele. Not sure if you heard the news, butIntelligentsiaclosed up shop yesterday, which means I’m officially out of a job I hadn’t even started. I know things are tight everywhere, but if you happen to have an opening at theTribfor a hard-charging, pushy investigative reporter, I’m your girl. Obviously, relocation isn’t an issue. I’m attaching my updated résumé. Love to catch up and talk jobs at your convenience. All best, Conley.
She typed out variations on the same theme and shipped them out, to Sloane at theChicago Tribune,Epstein at theLos Angeles Times,Martin atThe Dallas Morning News,and Trudy at theSeattle Post-Intelligencer,checking each off her list of job possibilities.
Last on her list of queries wasThe New York Times.She wrote, revised, and re-revised the note, searching in vain for the right tone. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the clips or the street cred to apply for a job attheTimes.
The problem was with her connection there. His name was Pete Kazmaryk. They’d been coworkers at theAJCfor two years and an item for less than a year when he’d landed a job with theTimes.Pete wantedher to make the move with him, suggesting she apply for a job with theTimesor any of half a dozen media outlets in New York. But the timing had been off. She was in the middle of an investigation into a corrupt Atlanta city councilman and wanted to see the project through to completion. Pete had accused her of putting her career ahead of their relationship.
When she’d pointed out that he was doing the exact same thing, he’d gotten angry and defensive. So Pete had moved to Brooklyn, the Atlanta councilman was indicted, tried, and convicted of bribery, mail fraud, and embezzlement, and Conley had been named a finalist for a Pulitzer.
In the end, she’d lost a man she cared about, and somebody else—a reporter in Wyoming, for God’s sake—had won for a series on education inequity.
After a futile third attempt at writing a lighthearted note to her old lover, Conley closed her laptop and wandered into the kitchen.
Winnie sat at the dinette, a pencil poised over her crossword puzzle book. The radio was still on, the announcer talking in a hurried, high-pitched voice about a train derailment in Varnedoe, which was in Bronson County, the next county over from Griffin.
“There’s an ambulance on the scene, and the police have the perimeter roped off, because one of the railcars contained chemicals,” the announcer said excitedly. “Stay tuned to WSVR, and we’ll get you all the breaking news as it unfolds.”
“Who’s that?” Conley asked, pouring herself a mug of coffee and gesturing toward the radio.
“Buddy Bright,” Winnie said. “You don’t remember him? He’s been at that radio station a good while now.”
