Page 6 of Hello, Summer
As she rounded the square, she noted Holy Redeemer, the Episcopal church, on one corner and First Baptist directly across the street. On the opposite side of the square stood the Silver Bay Presbyterian Church where her own family worshipped.
As always when she was in her hometown, Conley marveled at the number of churches. Who filled all these pews on Sunday mornings?
Halfway around the square, she made a right turn and drove two more blocks. When she pulled up to the house at 38 Felicity Street, she felt herself slowly exhaling. The porch light was on, and the polished brass coach lanterns that flanked the lipstick-red front door flickered a welcome. Before she could get out of the Subaru, Lorraine was standing in the doorway in her pink satin quilted bathrobe, impatiently waving her inside.
Conley perched on the edge of the sofa in the den, careful not to drip tomato soup onto the pale aqua silk damask upholstery.
“This is great,” she said, gesturing at her now-empty bowl. “When did you start cooking?”
“I haven’t,” Lorraine said. “Winnie made it Saturday. Used up the rest of the canned tomatoes from last summer’s garden. Now can we please talk about what’s going on with your new job?”
“There is no new job,” Conley said. “I was about to cut the cake at my going-away party today when my darling sister texted me a link to aWall Street Journalstory telling me thatIntelligentsiahad ceased publication.”
“Just like that? And you weren’t notified?” Lorraine looked aghast.
“Exactly. I finally managed to get Fred Ward—he’s the managing editor—to return my calls. He said the news caught everybody unawares. Something about a venture capitalist who decided not to invest.”
“Assholes.” Lorraine took another sip from the cut-glass tumbler of Knob Creek.
Conley smiled despite herself. Her grandmother delighted in trying to shock the world by peppering sentences with the salty words sheclaimed she’d learned at Agnes Scott, the “girls’ college” she’d attended in Atlanta.
“My editor at theAJCoffered to put out some feelers. He’s got pretty good connections.”
Her grandmother tilted her head and studied Conley’s face. “You don’t look very hopeful.”
“I’ll go through the motions, but the thing is, there really aren’t any jobs. Papers aren’t hiring these days—they’re laying people off, buying out any reporter over the age of twelve. You of all people should know that, G’mama.”
“Print is dead? Is that what you’re saying?” Lorraine clinked the ice cubes in her mostly empty glass.
“I sure as hell hope it’s not completely dead,” Conley said wearily. “What does Grayson say about things at theBeacon?”
“You know your sister. She’s a total pessimist. With her, the glass isn’t just half-empty, it’s cracked and ready for the trash heap.” Lorraine stared down into her glass. “She thinks we should sell theBeacon.There’s a chain out of Kansas City, they’ve been sniffing around for the past year or so.”
“Not the Massey Group, I hope,” Conley said, suddenly alarmed. “Tell me she isn’t thinking of selling to those bottom-feeders.”
“They flew here in their private jet,” Lorraine said. “Wined and dined us at the nicest restaurant in Pensacola. Grayson seems very smitten with them.”
“Grayson is easily impressed,” Conley said. “Show her a Mercedes and a Rolex watch and she’ll follow you anywhere.”
“That’s not very nice,” Lorraine said mildly.
“But it’s true. And you know it. She can’t sell the paper unless you agree, right?”
“I’m still majority stockholder, yes. And you have a say in the matter too, you know.”
“Not as much say as Grayson,” Conley pointed out.
Lorraine patted her hand over her mouth, stifling a yawn. “It’s too late to think about things like this. I know you must be exhausted. And it’s way past my bedtime.”
Conley smiled. “Who are you kidding? It’s not even midnight. We both know you’re part werewolf.” She stood up and reached out a hand to help her grandmother up. But Lorraine shook off the offer, grasped the carved wooden arms of the chair, and slowly rose without assistance.
“Oh, I don’t stay up like I did when I was younger,” Lorraine said. “You go on upstairs now. I need to straighten up the kitchen. Winnie will have a cat fit if everything isn’t put back just so.”
Conley dragged her suitcase up the stairs past the gold-framed oil paintings, family portraits, and a group of landscapes done by a long-forgotten relative, that threatened to blot out the familiar green-and-white-flowered wallpaper. At the end of the long, narrow hallway, the door to her old bedroom was slightly ajar. She nudged it open with her foot and reached for the light switch.
The familiar sights and scents of her childhood flooded back. There was the bulletin board, with magazine photos of the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. The mahogany dressing table held a bowl of dusty potpourri and a long-forgotten assortment of ill-advised cosmetics and an almost-full bottle of Chanel No. 5 given her by an old flame from her college days.
The room was spotlessly clean. Winnie had seen to that. But it was musty from disuse.
