Page 92 of Hello, Summer
“Why’s that?”
She waggled her eyebrows. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. No, really. This story is starting to take off in ways I’d never imagined.”
“You’re not even gonna give me a hint, are you?”
“Nope. Now about my lunch?”
33
When Conley got back to theBeaconoffice, Lillian was at her usual post in the reception area. The radio was on, and she was listening to Buddy Bright, who was talking excitedly about the county commission zoning meeting. Conley reached over and turned the volume down.
“I’ve had about enough of that guy,” she groused. “When does he sleep?”
“I go to church with a lady who works at the Waffle House out on the county road,” Lillian said. “Melissa told me that Buddy Bright’s in there all the time, at all hours of the night. Guess he really is a night owl.”
Conley sat back down at her desk and was trying to craft a lede for the story that would be combined with Rowena’s exclusive when Michael Torpy burst into the tiny newsroom, holding his cell phone in one hand and a grease-stained paper sack in the other. He wore faded blue jeans, a rumpled short-sleeved shirt that had seen better days, and unlaced Converse high-top sneakers. As always, the earbuds for his iPhone dangled from around his neck.
“I got Charlie Robinette to give me a statement,” he announced, grinning. “He confirmed that he’s running for his father’s unexpired term. And,” he added, “I videoed the interview, just in case.”
He rolled his desk chair up alongside hers. “Take a look.” He tapped the photo icon on his iPhone and held it out for Conley to watch.
Charlie Robinette was already assuming the mantle of a mature politician. His neatly barbered hair showed a few strategically placed gray hairs at the temples. Conley cynically wondered if he’d had his barber tint his hair just for the occasion. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with a loosely knotted red, white, and blue tie, the shirtsleeves rolled up, as though notifying the voting public that he was ready to get down to work in Washington.
He looked steadily into the camera. “All my life, I’ve looked up to my dad as a role model. And I modeled my life plan after his, graduating from the same university and law school, practicing law in the family firm, and working summers during college as a congressional aide in his office. Dad and I had many late-night discussions on the topic of public service and the best way to serve his constituents and address the changing needs of the district.”
“Uh, so, does that mean your dad was grooming you as his successor?” Michael asked off-camera.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “That’s why I’d begun having conversations with some of Dad’s closest political advisers over the past year. My father made it clear to me, even before his recent illness, that he believed I would be the best candidate to represent the Thirty-fifth District. Of course, we’d hoped I wouldn’t have to announce before his retirement, but cancer has a way of cheating the best-laid plans.”
Michael’s voice could be heard off-camera. “Can we back up? You’re saying he knew the cancer diagnosis was terminal? But kept that diagnosis secret?”
Robinette’s smooth, tanned face flushed. “We felt it was a private, family matter. Dad felt well enough to be in Washington, attending to the people’s business in Congress, right up until the end of his life.”
“Did you know your mother intended to run for your father’s seat?”
Robinette’s expression was blank. “No. She didn’t discuss her decision with me or with anyone else in his close circle of associates as far as I know.”
“Won’t this strain relations in your family?” Torpy asked.
Robinette shrugged. “My mother is her own woman. Clearly, I think my father’s decision that I should run for his seat, should he not be able to complete his term, is one that should be respected.”
“So no family feud?” Torpy asked.
Robinette cracked a smile, displaying beautiful, white teeth. “Thanksgiving could get a little awkward, but we’re a political family. My dad always cooked two turkeys on the holiday—one on the smoker, the other in the oven—so that my mom could make her famous giblet gravy from the pan drippings. We’re used to finding ways of compromising.”
The video ended, and Conley jumped up and flung her arms around the young reporter, whose face blushed as bright as his auburn hair. “Mike! That was brilliant! Exactly what we needed,” she said.
“What’s exactly what we needed?” Grayson walked through the front door just in time to hear Conley praising the paper’s junior staff member.
“Mike not only got Charlie Robinette on the record as saying he’s running—against his own mother—he got it on video,” Conley said, still beaming with pride.
“Good work, Mike,” Grayson said. “You’ll write the piece about Charlie’s announcement. Give me about twenty inches. Get some reaction comments from a couple of Symmes’s party cronies, and see if there are any Democrats sniffing around and testing the waters to oppose the GOP candidate. Conley, you’ll do the story you suggested, wrapping Rowena’s story into yours. Write it as a second-day piece, since the accident happened last week. Thirty-five inches, max.”
Conley nodded, then turned to Lillian. “Grayson tells me you usually send out the digital news updates. We’re aiming to send out a big updated story about Robinette’s death—and the fact that both Charlie and Vanessa have announced they’re running—by five o’clock today. You can handle that, right?”
Lillian did a double take. “I send out the emails with the election results and football scores, but we haven’t won a game in a while. And I’ve never messed with video.”
Michael opened his paper sack and began inhaling a chili dog. He paused mid-bite. “I can help you with that, Lillian.”
