Page 39 of In a Word, Yes
Bernard uncrosses his legs, shifts toward me. His voice is tender. “My dear, if the quote is meaningful for you, then you are a writer if ever there was one.”
A tidal wave of feeling swells in my throat. It’s too much. I need to get out of here. Like, right this second. I swallow hard, then make a show of checking the time.
“Excuse me, please,” I say, hoisting myself out of the beanbag.Yikes. Anyone got a crane?“I need to ... go. Thank you, Ian.” I rush to gather my things, and I paint on a smile. “It’s been great to meet you all.”
I’m halfway out the door when Savannah catches up to me, holding out a bag with a butter stain leaking through the side.
“Day-olds,” she says, hugging me goodbye. “Please take them. Otherwise they’re going in the trash.”
I may still be better at giving than receiving, but you’ll never catch me turning down free baked goods.
Especially after today.
Thirteen
sagacity(n.): acute discernment
“Montgomery, I just checked my email,” Sam grouses on Friday morning. “Ya know, I’m one helluva editor. But for the life of me, I cannot edit a blank page.”
“It’s coming, Sam,” I say. “It’s ... close.”
Geez.My article on Lieutenant Hayes—Wyatt—isn’t even delinquent until two o’clock. It’s almost as if my editor in chief lacks faith in me.
Go figure.
“I need it by eleven.”
“Oh. I thought you said—”
“I know what I said. Turns out sooner is better. Noleen has an appointment, so I’ll be incommunicado this afternoon.” He signals me to follow him into Dot’s office.
“Dot,” he says in a way that brooks no argument, “you’ll be switching stations with Lucy. She needs this spot to bang out an article.”
Next Sam galumphs toward Brad’s office, bellowing all the way. “Vickery! What’s this loquacious rant of yours about the new intersection? This isn’t an article, it’s a polemic. We can’t print this folderol!”
His tirade continues to carry from down the hall. “Was the city unavailable for comment?Did it never occur to you that the roadwork isn’t done until the porta potties are gone?This isn’t balanced reporting, it’s thinly veiled snark. And, by the way, did you never hear of spell-check?”
Sometimes Sam’s air of authority is more of a gale.
I dig for my notebook. See,thisis what I should have been doing last night instead of attending the inaugural meeting of Charity Falls’ most eclectic group of townies ever. Not that I count myself the most grounded of the bunch. Is there even such a thing as a normal writer? Is Stephen King normal? Beatrix Potter? And what about Steph Stoneback?
We’ll find out soon enough.
Not that I ever seriously considered working on the article last night. Too busy puppy guarding my precious self-care night, which ended up turning into something altogether different. But that’s alright. Deadlines fuel me, especially when they loom menacingly overhead like Bigfoot, so close I can smell their nasty breath.
Besides, I’ve already outlined the piece. I just, well, haven’t been able to find my way in. What I need is a killer opening. Some kind of hook...
But first, salt. A nonnegotiable. Fortunately, I’ve brought something crunchy today.
Beside the keyboard, I lay out my interview notes and a plastic sandwich bag stuffed with cheesy pretzel mix.Okay. No more dillydallyin’. Let’s go, Montgomery.
Mentally, I revisit my interview from yesterday. And although I spent most of an hour face-to-face with Lieutenant Wyatt Hayes,for some reason the first image that pops up in my mind’s eye is a shaggy black dog wearing a goofy grin. I skim my notes.
Moby ... rescue ... meth lab in Seattle. “It’s just me and Moby.”
Next I skip down to the part where Wyatt spoke about his personal mission—battling burnout and hopelessness within his squad.
And the picture that takes shape in my mind from all he shared is of an outdoorsy boy racing off-road bikes through the wild forests of the Pacific Northwest, growing up under a stoic father deeply engaged in police work and a mom who taught art to high schoolers. Now this same man is implementing a sheriff’s bike brigade in small-town Oregon.
