Page 113 of In a Word, Yes

“Oh girl, wait till you try the ginger chicken noodle soup. I promise you, this one’s a home run.”

Fiddlesticks. Woolgathering again. And on deadline day, of all days.

Truthfully I’ve come to the conclusion that the pungent flavors of Thai food don’t marry well with this archaic building’s baked-in smells of disintegrating newspaper stacks, ink cartridges, and (as I’m sure we can all agree) vintage taxidermy.

“Help yourself! It’s warming up in the kitchen.” Dot disappears down the hall, presumably to notify Meg and our new local business liaison, Lorelai, of the menu.

Cowbells jangle. I half-expect to see old Baxter when I look up, wearing that navy-blue VFW cap of his, delivering another last-second request. Those industrious veterans must be due for another event.

Instead, it’s a woman that enters. A couple full decades younger than Baxter, she’s clearly carrying some kind of weight on those petite hunched shoulders.

I eye the page in her hand that looks to be torn from a yellow legal pad. Afullpage. Oh dear. There’s no time to proof and format such a tome.

Still, I smile. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Thank you, yes, I hope so. You must be Lucy. I understand you print obituaries up to three hundred words at no cost. I’m afraid this one is considerably longer. I don’t mind paying the difference. I’d like it to run in this week’sMessenger.”

“I’m happy to take a look,” I say, unfolding the paper. “But unfortunately—”

Oh.

Oh, no.

Across the top of the page, written in shaky cursive, is a name that knocks the wind out of me.

Oh, Baxter.

I meet the woman’s eyes.

“My father passed ten days ago. I’m his daughter Meredith.”

“I ... I didn’t know,” I say breathlessly.

Her chin quivers. “It was very peaceful.”

I position the tissue box between us. “I’ll sure miss him.”

Baxter’s daughter dabs at a tear. “Thank you. He’d been living with us since Mom passed. And he spoke so highly of you. I know he can be a bit...” A crooked smile. “Gruff. But I want you to know that it meant a great deal to him that theMessengerhelped promote his events. For so many of the old guys, it’s all they have left.”

I assure Meredith her father’s obituary will make it into this week’s edition. Although I can see I’ll have trouble with her handwriting.

Especially given my now-watery eyes.

“I have to apologize. It’s a little rough in places. I wouldn’t have attempted it so soon, but so many folks in town know my dad. We want to get the word out about his memorial service. If you see anything that needs to be cleaned up or improved, please, by all means, feel free.”

“It will be my great honor.” I watch her walk away.

“Oh, one more thing,” she says, turning back. “My father would want people to know that he knew the hope of heaven. Maybe add that?”

So much for classic story structure—beginning, middle, end. What had Mom said?

We begin, and we begin, and then we begin again.

My chest squeezes.Congratulations on your new beginning, Baxter.

“Meredith,” I say, “would you like to take some chicken soup home?”

While Dot skillfully fills a mason jar with soup, I hastily key in the story of Baxter Holt. Or at least as much of it as can be expressed in so few words. A story played out in the community where he was well-rooted—because a good protagonist never goes it alone.