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“Okay. We’ll know more after the third ultrasound in—” he checked his watch “—two hours.”
“The ultrasound is today? Why on earth are you here?” Abby scolded him.
“Well, when the tour got bumped to the afternoon, I figured I should hang around.”
“Cindy needs you more.” Abby turned to Mark. “Joe’s wife is having a complicated pregnancy. You can talk with him later. Bottom line, he’s prepared to offer whatever assistance you need. Other than that, he’ll stay out of your way and let you do your job.”
“I appreciate that. I don’t want to disrupt your operation any more than necessary.” Mark extended his hand, and Joe shook it.
“Now go,” Abby told Joe. “And I’ll keep you all in my prayers.”
The man gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
As Abby led the way back to her office, Mark fell in behind her. Until he examined the books, he couldn’t pass any judgments on Abby’s financial management. But he’d already gotten a good feel for her people skills, based on her interactions with the staff. He gave her high marks there.
In the thirty seconds it took to reach her office Abby tried in vain to shore up her flagging spirits. Until the tour today, she’d been blind to the building’s flaws, much as she’d overlooked the tattered hair, threadbare clothes and patched face of the Raggedy Ann doll she’d loved as a child. The Gazette offices had been her home for so long that she’d never realized how shabby they truly were.
But now she saw the facility through Mark’s eyes. Eyes that noticed the outdated computers, the worn and frayed spots in the carpet, the ancient metal desks. He wouldn’t see the heritage or the passion or the sweat that had gone into creating an award-winning newspaper. He would see just the worn-out physical assets. But there was so much more to the Gazette than that. The challenge would be to convince Mark Campbell of that.
Or not—if she wanted to sabotage his investigation, Abby suddenly realized. If she let him focus on the nuts and bolts, the material goods, he might not recommend an acquisition. The Gazette would be saved from Campbell Publishing.
Then where would that leave her? The sole remaining option was liquidation. And that would be even harder to swallow.
When they reached her small office, Abby scooted past the edge of the massive desk and took her seat, indicating a chair across from her to Mark.
“That’s quite a desk,” he commented as he lowered his long frame into the hard-backed chair.
“It was my great-grandfather’s.” Abby ran her fingers lightly over the scarred surface, her touch almost reverent. “I’m the fourth generation of my family to use it. It always reminds me what went into building this paper and what the Gazette stands for.”
“This is a family business, then.”
Tilting her head, she regarded him with surprise. “Yes. I thought you knew. Your father said he’d given you a background file on the Gazette.”
Hot color crept up Mark’s neck. “He did. I have it with me. I just haven’t had a chance to review it. That’s on my agenda for tonight.”
“I see.”
Too much, he suspected, as her perceptive eyes bored into his. Rarely had he found himself in a situation where he didn’t have the upper hand. And he didn’t like it. Not one little bit.
Sensing that offense was the best defense, he leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee with studied casualness. “So tell me something. How do you manage to make stories about church socials and little league baseball games and dances at the VFW hall interesting week after week?”
Abby had to make a concerted effort to keep her mouth from dropping open. Not only had he neglected to review the background file, he hadn’t read a single issue of the Gazette. The man hadn’t done a lick of research on his assignment! Struggling to control her temper, she picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“Molly? Would you pull copies for me from the archives for the last six months?”
Replacing the receiver, she turned her attention back to the man in whose hands the fate of the Gazette rested for better or for worse. And she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was the latter. “What makes you think that’s all we report on?”
An indifferent shrug preceded his verbal response. “What else would you write about?”
“You don’t win a Pulitzer prize writing about church socials, Mr. Campbell.”
“You won a Pulitzer Prize?” He stared at her.
“My grandfather did. For ‘uncommon courage in publishing stories that exposed hazardous working conditions at a quarry operation in rural Missouri, which led to management changes and life-saving improvements.’ That’s a direct quote from the citation that hangs in the reception area.”
So much for his offense.
A knock sounded, and Abby looked at the woman in the doorway. “Come in, Molly. Just put them here. Thank you.”
The older woman set a stack of newspapers on Abby’s desk, then departed.
“While you’re reading the background file, Mr. Campbell, you may want to browse through these, as well. It shouldn’t take you long to discover that the Gazette is about more than church socials and garden club news.”
As Mark eyed the stack, Abby thought back to a conversation she’d had with Spencer Campbell a few days ago, when the older man had asked her to make sure Mark got a thorough grounding in the operational side of the business. Now she understood why. The publishing heir might know numbers, but he didn’t have his father’s hands-on knowledge of publishing—a deficiency the older man seemed determined to remedy. Whether his son liked it or not. And given Mark’s expression right now and his general lack of enthusiasm, she figured it was the latter.
When Mark looked back at Abby, he didn’t have a clue how to interpret her enigmatic expression. All he knew for sure was that this assignment was not starting out well. He was supposed to be the one in charge. Instead he felt like a chastised little boy who’d neglected to do his homework. Okay, so maybe he should have looked at the background file before now. And he supposed the remark about church socials might have been out of line. Well, he’d use the evening to get up to speed. Besides, what else was there to do in this tiny backwater town?
With a sudden move, he rose and reached for the papers. “Thanks for the tour.”
For a second Abby seemed taken aback by his abruptness. Those big green eyes widened in surprise, and a flash of uncertainty flickered across her face. It was apparent that she didn’t like being thrown off balance any more than he did. Good, Mark decided. She needed to understand that two could play this game.
“No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. What time should I expect you?”
There was a challenge in her question. And in her eyes. It was obvious she’d already pegged him as a slacker, Mark deduced. He wasn’t about to reinforce that opinion.
“About seven o’clock. You did say you get here early, didn’t you?” he countered.
“Yes. Seven will be fine. Here’s a key to the office, in case you want to put in any extra hours.”
Her slight smirk as she handed it over told him he’d walked right into her trap. And as he exited her office, he had the distinct feeling that Abby Warner had won round one.
The thing was, he hadn’t realized until too late that he’d even stepped into the ring.
Chapter Four
Abby Warner didn’t have a college degree.
Mark stared at her bio in the file his father had given him and reread the information to ensure he hadn’t missed something. No, there it was in black and white. She’d left college one semester short of getting her journalism degree.
So how had she managed to put him on the defensive? Him, with his impressive MBA and CPA credentials? Nothing in the file had offered him a clue.
With a resigned sigh, he reached for the paper on top of the imposing stack of back issues, took a fortifying sip of the strong coffee the innkeeper had provided and began to read.
Two hours later and halfway through the stack, he leaned back and massaged the stiff muscles in his neck. His almost-untouched coffee had been pushed, unneeded, to the side as he’d become engrossed in the Gazette.
Instead of the garden club news and bingo results he’d expected, he’d found meaty stories on farm subsidies, corruption in city government, the use of inferior materials in the construction of a strip mall, a drug ring at an area high school—the same topics covered by big-city newspapers. And the articles were thoughtful, informative and unbiased. The physical assets of the Gazette might be second-rate, but the reporting was first-class.
Now he understood why his father was interested in the paper. And why Abby had been insulted when he’d impugned the Gazette’s content earlier in the day.
As he rose to stretch the kinks from his back, a knock sounded. Opening the door, he found his landlady on the other side. Though Marge Sullivan was well past middle age, her gray hair was cut in a trendy style and her hot-pink velour sweatsuit looked as if it had come from a hip teen shop. She was definitely not what he’d expected when he’d pulled up in front of the ornate Victorian house.
“I just wanted to see if you needed anything else before I call it a night,” she told him.
Surprised, he automatically lifted his hand to check his watch. Nine-thirty.
“We turn in early here in the sticks.” At the twinkle in her eye, his neck grew warm and he jammed the offending hand in his pocket. “So do you have everything you need?” She peeked around him to give the room a discreet inspection.
“Yes, thanks.”
Her attention was still on the room behind him, her expression assessing. “Why don’t I get rid of some of those froufrou pillows tomorrow? You don’t look like the ruffled-pillow type. And I can ditch those turn-of-the-century books and potpourri on the coffee table to give you a little more room to work. The doilies on the chairs can go, too.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.” His hopeful tone, however, belied his words. For a man used to minimalist decor, the frilly Victorian ornamentation was cloying.
She gave a hearty chuckle. “Honey, Victoriana makes me want to throw up. It’s way too cluttered for my taste. But that’s what folks seem to expect at a historic house like this. I’m a Frank Lloyd Wright fan, myself.”
A smile played at the corners of Mark’s mouth—the first natural one since his arrival in Oak Hill. “Then how, may I ask, did you end up with this—” he made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hand “—edifice?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “That’s a kind word for it. More like a money pit, truth be told. Do you know how much it costs to paint all that gingerbread trim outside? Anyway, to answer your question, I inherited it from an aunt a few years back. I was living in Boston and had hit some hard times. I figured I’d move down here and give this a shot. All in all, it’s been a good thing.”
“Boston to Oak Hill…that must have been quite a change,” he sympathized.
“Life is all about transitions.” She gave a philosophical shrug. “In my experience, you can always find something good in them if you have a positive attitude. I came here determined to like it, to become part of the community, and I did. It’s a nice town, and the people are the salt of the earth.”
She gave the room another sweeping perusal and wrinkled her nose. “The one thing I haven’t reconciled myself to is the decor. Trust me, I’ll be happy to de-Victorianize your room as much as possible. I don’t mind in the least, since you’ll be with me a while. And that reminds me…when would you like breakfast?”
The B and B was a mere five minutes from the Gazette office, but he’d still have to eat way too early to expect anyone to fix breakfast. “Since I told the editor I’d be in about seven, I’ll just grab a bite at the café on Main Street.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’m up with the chickens, anyway. How about six-thirty? I can do sausages and eggs and biscuits, maybe some muffins.”
The thought of that much food early in the morning made him queasy. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not much of a breakfast eater, anyway.”
“Well, I don’t eat all that stuff myself, either. But most guests seems to expect it. If you ask me, it’s a heart attack on a plate. Let’s see…how about a simple omelet and English muffin? Or a whole-wheat waffle with fresh fruit?”
“Either one sounds great.”
“I’ll surprise you, then. And I’ll have you out of here in plenty of time to get to the Gazette by seven. But don’t you let Abby guilt you into putting in long hours just because she does. That woman works way too hard. Needs a little more fun in her life, if you ask me. I know she’s upset about this whole acquisition thing, but to tell the truth, it could be just what the doctor ordered. All that stress is taking a toll on her.”
It appeared he’d found an ally in the innkeeper, Mark realized with relief. That was refreshing after the wary reception he’d gotten from the staff at the Gazette. He smiled at her. “It’s nice to know I have one friend in town, Ms. Sullivan.”
“Call me Marge. And don’t be too hard on Abby. It’s a big responsibility to be the keeper of four generations of heritage. But she’s a reasonable person, and I’m betting that once she reconciles herself to this and gets to know you, she’ll give you a fair chance.”
As Marge bid him good-night and shut the door, Mark mulled over her last comment. Would Abby give him a fair chance? They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, that was for sure. Not that it should matter. His stay in Oak Hill would be brief. He had a job to do and Abby’s opinion of him was irrelevant. He shouldn’t even care what she thought about him.
But for some odd reason, he did.
After consulting his watch, Mark slipped the balance sheet back into the file and added it the stack on the table in front of him. In his first three and a half days he’d made tremendous progress on the financial audit at the Gazette. By tomorrow, when he left to spend the weekend in Chicago, he expected to have a preliminary review completed. There was much detail work that remained to be done, but it wasn’t bad for a first week’s effort, he thought in satisfaction.
He’d also established a routine. Starting on Tuesday, he’d arrived between seven and seven-thirty each day—which was far less difficult than he’d expected, since he went to bed at ten o’clock every night for lack of anything else to do. He kept his nose to the grindstone throughout the day, clocking out with everyone else—except Abby—at five o’clock.
The evenings had been a little more difficult to fill. He’d asked Marge about a local gym, but since there wasn’t one she’d offered to let him use her late uncle’s NordicTrack in the basement. That ate up an hour. Then he went to Gus’s, the local diner—a place he’d quickly nicknamed Grease’s—for dinner. Marge had taken pity on him after a couple of days and offered to fix his evening meal, but her tofu stew and lentil salad wasn’t a whole lot more palatable than the fried menu at Gus’s. There was a Middle Eastern place, too, but he wasn’t a great fan of that type of cuisine. The dining room in the Oak Hill Inn sounded promising—with a Cordon Bleu chef, no less—but it was only open Thursday through Saturday.
After dinner, he’d been at loose ends. His wanderings had taken him by the Gazette office on a couple of occasions, and in both instances a light had been burning. Abby had still been there. But he was beginning to think that maybe her long hours weren’t so much a reflection of the fact that she was a workaholic as that there wasn’t anything else to do in town.
Once back at the B and B for the night, he’d fallen into the habit of catching a little CNN, then reading books from the inn’s library. He was already halfway through a two-year-old bestseller that he’d always wanted to read but never managed to squeeze into his busy social schedule. He couldn’t wait to get back to Chicago for the weekend.
That was why he’d stayed late today at the newspaper. In order to catch a flight that got him home at a reasonable hour, he needed to leave the Gazette by two o’clock tomorrow for the two-hour drive back to St. Louis. He’d worked through lunch and was now wrapping up at—he consulted his watch again—seven-fifteen.
It wasn’t that he was trying to impress anyone with his conscientiousness. After all, the rest of the staff had left two hours ago. He and Abby were the sole occupants of the office. And he didn’t care what she thought. Putting in a full week just seemed like the right thing to do. Even if he’d never worried about that back in Chicago.
Previously, he’d returned the financial files to Joe for safekeeping. But with the accountant long gone, he’d have to give them to Abby, he realized. And he didn’t think she’d be pleased about that intrusion, not after doing her best to avoid him all week.
For a man who was used to women hovering around him, Abby’s lack of interest was a new experience. Not that he cared, of course. She wasn’t his type.
Exiting the conference room that had become his temporary home, he headed toward Abby’s office, his steps soundless on the worn carpeting. As he approached, he could see from her profile that she was focused on her computer screen. She’d pulled her hair back with some kind of scrunchy elastic thing and, to his surprise, she was wearing glasses.
When he drew closer he noted the slight frown of concentration on her brow as she keyed in words. The remains of a snack-pack of peanut-butter crackers and a half-empty mug of tea, the limp bag beside it sitting in a brown stain on a paper towel, lay on the desk. As he watched, she turned slightly to sift through the chaotic jumble of papers next to her monitor. She retrieved one, scanned it, then lay it aside and went back to typing, reminding Mark of a studious schoolgirl.
It took a discreet tap on her door to catch her attention, and she jumped, gasping as one hand fluttered to her chest. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I stayed late because I have to leave a little early tomorrow to catch my flight to Chicago. Joe’s gone, and I figured you’d want to lock up these financial reports.” He shifted the files in his arms.
“Oh. Yes, thanks. You can leave them here. I’ll put them away when I finish.”
She didn’t ask how things were going, he noted. In all likelihood, she didn’t want to know. He stepped closer and laid the files on her desk. “Dinner?” He nodded to the wrapper on her desk.
“Snack. I’ll eat when I get home.”
“When will that be?” Now why had he asked her that? Her schedule was none of his concern. Nor were her eating habits.
A flicker of surprise sparked in her green eyes. “I’m not sure. We’re losing one of our reporters, and I’m picking up some of the slack.”
For some reason, her comment made him feel guilty. As if it was his presence causing her to work harder than usual and playing havoc with her eating habits. And it wasn’t as if she could afford to lose weight. She was already a bit too thin, in his opinion.
“Well, be sure to eat whenever you get home.”
“I don’t skip meals,” she responded in a careful, measured tone, and he was struck by some emotion in her eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. “I’m very conscientious about that. Have a nice evening.”
With that, she turned back to the computer.
Feeling dismissed, Mark exited. But instead of being irritated by her curt send-off, he was troubled by that look in her eyes. It had almost been resignation. Or weariness. As if she was constantly being reminded to eat. Was there someone in her life who was on her case about her weight? A husband, perhaps?
That thought jolted him. She used her maiden name, but many married women did. Just because she wasn’t his type didn’t mean she wasn’t someone else’s, he mused as he collected his briefcase and headed toward the exit. Maybe he’d make a few discreet inquiries. Motivated by nothing more than idle curiosity, he assured himself.
But that didn’t ring quite true. If he didn’t care whether she was married, how could he explain the shock he’d experienced when the possibility had occurred to him?
Mark didn’t know the answer to that question.
And he wasn’t sure he wanted to find it.
