Page 32 of Hello, Summer
“No,” Conley said, trying to keep her cool. “I don’t know anything about local politics. You’ve got a reporter; let him write the story. How is this kid Michael going to feel if you hand the biggest story of the year off to your sister, who just shows up—what’s that word you used yesterday? Somebody who parachutes in from out of town and assumes she knows best?”
“You let me worry about my staff,” Grayson said heatedly. “You don’t give a shit about this paper or this town. Or this family. You never have.”
“That’s enough,” Lorraine said suddenly. “It’s quite enough.”
She grabbed each sibling by the hand, the way she’d done when they were young children, bickering over whose turn it was to ride in the front seat or battling over the remote control.
“I won’t have this fighting,” she said, her voice steely. “We are family, and I, by God, will not have the two of you at each other’s throats like this.” Lorraine released their hands. “Now. Sarah? Grayson was absolutely out of line with some of her remarks. Especially that dig about Charlie Robinette. I feel certain that what your sister meant to say was that she couldn’t imagine anyone who could do a finer job of writing up a story about this tragic accident. I’m sure she feels that it would be an honor to have a Hawkins byline in our family newspaper again. Isn’t that right, Grayson?”
Grayson picked at the cuticle on her right thumb until it started to bleed. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Something like that.”
“Good,” G’mama said. “So that’s settled. “Sarah will write a first-person piece about Symmes Robinette’s death for next week’s paper.”
“What?” Conley started to object, but her grandmother quickly shushed her.
“You’ve been bored and restless practically since the minute you got back home. This will give you something constructive to do with your time.”
“But I’ve never covered Florida politics—”
“Then you’d better get started doing your research,” G’mama said. She picked a slice of lime from her drink and nibbled at the rind.
Conley knew she’d been beaten. So much for her plan to loll on the beach and sip fruity umbrella drinks. “Okay,” she said, putting her drink down. “If you need me, I’ll be upstairs in my room, looking up Symmes Robinette in theCongressional Record.”
“And, Grayson?” Lorraine said, turning to her other grandchild.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’ll pay Sarah $1,000. But that includes the main story and whatever sidebars you two decide are necessary.”
“A thousand!” Grayson exclaimed. “That’s a full week’s payroll for me. What if my other reporters find out I’m paying my sister that kind of money?”
“They won’t,” Lorraine said serenely. “Your sister knows how to be discreet.”
“Okay, but she’s gotta do the police blotter too,” Grayson said, as she headed for the door.
“One last tiny detail,” Lorraine called after her. “From now on, I want Sarah to do rewrites on Rowena’s column. We may not be able tofire her, but at the very least, we can make Hello, Summer literate and accurate.”
Conley was standing by the wide french doors that separated the porch from the living room. “What? No, absolutely not. I can’t be babysitting that old lady.”
“Rowena won’t stand for that,” Grayson said. “You know what she’s like.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to make it sound like a great opportunity,” Lorraine said. She held out her glass and jiggled the half-melted ice cubes. “But before you go, dear, fix me another sunsetter, would you? That last one tasted awfully light on the vodka.”
12
Winnie stood at the huge, old, cast-iron kitchen sink peeling shrimp, with Opie directly underfoot while Lorraine sat at the kitchen table working a crossword puzzle. The turquoise transistor radio was perched on the windowsill, and they were listening to the news on NPR.
“Hey, shug,” G’mama said when Conley walked into the kitchen with her laptop. She pointed at the radio. “Buddy Bright just announced that Symmes Robinette was killed in an accident in his home district. But ‘no further details are available.’”
“That was fast,” Conley said. “Hey, do we not have Wi-Fi here? I’ve been upstairs trying to get online.”
“No Wi-Fi, no cable television, no dishwasher,” Winnie grumbled. She pointed at the rust-tinged water trickling from the kitchen faucet. “Might as well be living in a covered wagon out here.”
“I meant to ask you what’s going on with the water after I showered this morning,” Conley said. “There’s hardly any water pressure upstairs, and what water there is looks kinda weird.”
“It’s an old house with old pipes,” Lorraine said. “You’ve gotten spoiled living in Atlanta.”
“You want some supper?” Winnie asked, ignoring her employer. “I was just fixing to holler up at you.” She placed a plate with slicedhard-boiled eggs, shredded iceberg lettuce, and a mound of shrimp in the center of the table, then spooned pale coral remoulade sauce over the salad.
