Page 5 of In a Word, Yes

I sigh inwardly. If I could wish away my son’s over-the-top aversion to any single food group, it would be tacos.

“Ooh, trivia nights are starting back up over at the food carts,” Dot sing-songs.

As activities go, this ranks somewhere on my list of things that would require a personality transplant. Too fraught with opportunities for public embarrassment. Besides, I don’t exactly keep up on pop culture the way Dot does.

Suddenly Sam’s rusty-old-tuba voice blares through every desk phone. “Confab, everyone. My office.”

Brad performs an exaggerated eye roll, scarfs the heel of his apple bread, and chases it with a coffee swig. “Day’s not over yet,” he says, brushing crumbs from his neatly trimmed goatee. I have to smile. Brad Vickery is twice divorced. Dot Stubblefield, an empty nester. And Meg Malone appears committedly single, a lone eagle.

Chances are good I’m the only one here whose day is far from over.

Even if what the rest of the day holds is repotting my jungly dieffenbachia, boiling macaroni, and joining Chase to knock out the next installment on his fastidiously charted tree diagram of everyStar Trekepisode since the dawn of television.

The editor in chief’s office smells like old saddles and cigars. Sam doesn’t stop pecking away at his keyboard until we’re all assembled around the ancient hulk of his desk. Seated, I once again take pains to avoid eye contact with the open-snouted, fang-toothed head of a black bear staring down at me from the wall above Sam.

Taxidermy is so not my vibe.

Sam slips off his wire-rimmed readers and chucks them atop a disorderly stack of paperwork. “Here’s the whole shootin’ match,” he says, lacing his fingers and leaning forward. “I’m down by two freelancers for the next couple ’a months. Now, I’ll do what I can to pick up the slack, but with Noleen’s surgery coming up, I can only shoulder so much.”

I stiffen, an invisible dart pricking my conscience. Poor Sam. So many unknowns with his wife’s cancer. His voice contains even more gravel than usual. Did Meg just flick an accusatory look my way? True, I didn’t land this job based solely on my mad data-entry skills. Desperate for work, I’d also trumpeted my almost-degree in journalism.

But then he says, “So I’ll need you all to keep your ears to theground,” and my shoulders begin to relax. “Put some feelers out. We could sure use another go-to correspondent. Two would be better. Meanwhile, Brad, you’ll cover the city hall beat until Floyd returns in November.” Brad opens his mouth to argue, but Sam cuts him off with, “And for goodness’ sake, make it shine. Lucy hasn’t got time for rewrites.”

I nod along with the others and push my glasses farther up my nose. This isn’t directed at me after all. But there it is, the briefest brush of Sam’s gaze on me. And in it, a flash of disappointment. At least, that’s what I think I see.

Oh, come on.Do I look like the savior type? No one here could possibly believe that.

Dot’s apple bread sits like a stone in my stomach. I hate it when I can’t make everyone happy.

It cost me nearly everything to learn that people-pleasing isn’t kindness. It’s selling your boundaries hoping someone will call it love.

“Puts me in a real pickle with the McPhersons,” Sam continues, “at a time when what they need from me is another round of belt-tightening. Much as I hate to saddle you all with worry...” He levels an apologetic gaze at us. “I need to say it. This little ship of ours is listing dangerously.”

I swallow hard. What a grave image. My coworkers and I sit motionless. While at one time theMessengerwas locally owned, it’s now part of a family-owned regional chain of small weekly gazettes, which, frankly, is the only reason it’s still afloat. And I happen to know Sam’s been summoned to meet with the McPherson Group soon because I booked his flight to Kalispell, Montana.

“Now, on another note,” he says, switching to a tone a degree or two more upbeat, “what I’m about to share next is a little, shall we say”—here he quirks one shaggy white eyebrow—“backstairs.” When he reclines, his old desk chair creaks a complaint. “I just got a call from Steph Stoneback’s agent—no,scratch that—herpublicity manager.” Disdain drips from the last two words.

My head snaps up.Come again?A high-voltage hum seems to fill the room. Dust motes flash like sparks in a shaft of late-day light.

Sam couldn’t possibly have said—

Meg breaks the stillness, leaning forward. “Not ... you don’t meantheSteph Stoneback. The one churning out all those sappy suspense novels?”

Sam hikes his eyebrows meaningfully. Then he screws up his face.

“You gotta be kidding,” she says.

Dot and I exchange a side-glance. When I tell you Dot is a peach, I offer an apt metaphor. My coworker drips with juicy sweetness. Her pert, heart-shaped face, auburn pigtail stubs, and remarkable lack of wrinkles belie the fact that she’s raised three children to adulthood. At the moment, though, her features have gone slack, and no doubt my expression mirrors hers. She and I have shared many a gush over the latest Steph Stoneback bestseller. Not to mention the movie versions ofYukon ThunderandDelta Deception. Has there ever been a swoonier fictional hero than Gage Remington? Dot would assign this an emphatic no.

I plead the Fifth.

Clearly Sam, aka Samuel PeabodyIII, aka Lou Grant—the private nickname my parents love to use when we discuss my boss—doesn’t share our sentiments. Apparently Grant was some pudgy old bellyacher from the Jurassic Era of sitcoms, and my folks find the comparison a real knee-slapper. Like most of their archaic cultural references, this one, too, is lost on me. Just let the old folks have their fun, as I see it.

“Seems the illustrious author will be in town next month to do some background work,” Sam says. “She’s looking to get the whole central Oregon wilderness experience—whitewater rafting, rock climbing, fly-fishing, and what have you. Figures shemight fly under the radar here.” He pauses to insert one of his trademark derisive chortles. “Nevertheless, herpeoplealerted the press. They’re giving us an exclusive.”

Dot snatches a folder off Sam’s desk and begins fanning herself feverishly. A current zips through my veins. Steph Stoneback in Charity Falls? Surreal.

Brad runs a hand down his face and lets fly a swear word. He moves his ever-present toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth and forms a wolfish grin. I suppose he’s thinking this ought to help him sell ad space. I hate knowing that any bonuses will more likely go toward green fees or cryptocurrency speculation than catching up on his child support.