Читать книгу A Dream To Share - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 6

Dr. Sam Martin strode into his office, took his place behind the solid oak desk he’d inherited from his predecessor and opened Abby’s file. After giving it a quick scan, he looked at his patient.

“Everything appears normal, Abby. I assume you’re sticking to your diet, exercising, taking your medication?”

“Yes.”

“Good. How are you sleeping?”

“Okay.” That was stretching the truth. With the Gazette’s problems weighing on her mind, she was lucky to manage five or six hours a night. Less since Spencer Campbell had visited the week before.

One of Dr. Martin’s brows quirked up, and his next comment confirmed that he hadn’t missed the blue shadows under her eyes. “How’s the stress level?”

Startled, Abby stared at him. Had the Oak Hill grapevine tipped him off to the paper’s financial troubles?

The doctor leaned back and gave her an empathetic look. “I’ve heard rumors that the Gazette is having some problems.”

Cara must be his source of information, Abby speculated. Dr. Martin had just reconciled with his estranged wife, who’d moved to town and opened a restaurant at the Oak Hill Inn—and become fast friends with Marge Sullivan, the inn’s garrulous owner who knew everything about everybody in town.

“We’re having some financial issues,” she acknowledged.

“Fatigue and stress aren’t good for you, Abby. They’ll only exacerbate your condition. I’m sure Dr. Sullivan told you that, as well.”

“Yes, he did.” But what was she supposed to do? She was the editor. Dealing with problems was part of the job. “I’m working on some options.”

“Good. Until things settle down, I’d suggest you increase the frequency of your monitoring.”

“Okay.”

He closed her file. “I’ll see you again in six months. Call in the meantime if you have any problems.”

As Abby exited the office and stepped out into the August heat, she slowly exhaled. She hated doctor visits. Hated everything about the disease that had killed her mother at far too young an age and which she’d been diagnosed with just a few months ago.

Still, it could be worse, she tried to console herself as she slid behind the wheel of her car. And it might get worse unless she followed her doctors’ instructions. The diet, the exercise, the medication—that was all controllable. But Dr. Martin had homed in on the one thing in her life that wasn’t: stress. And neither of the options for the Gazette’s fate alleviated that.

Lord, help me get through this, she prayed as she drove down Main Street to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. Give me the courage to face whatever challenges lie ahead.

Marge Sullivan banged the gavel on the conference table and called the meeting to order. “Has anyone heard from Ali Mahmoud?”

The other Chamber members shook their heads.

“It’s not like him to be late,” Abby said.

“I know.” Marge propped a hand on her ample hip. “Maybe we should call the restaurant and…”

The door opened, cutting her off, and eight heads swiveled toward the black-haired man who entered. His swarthy skin seemed a couple of shades lighter than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Deep creases on his forehead and around his mouth made him look far older than his forty-six years.

“Sorry I’m late.” He paused on the threshold, grasping the door frame.

A knot formed in Abby’s stomach and she started to rise. “Ali, are you all right?”

“Yes. But the restaurant…that’s another story.”

“Come and sit down,” Marge urged. “Tell us what happened.”

As he took his place, Abby poured him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.” He gave her a wan smile and took a sip. “We had a fire just before dawn. In the kitchen.”

“How bad is it?” Marge asked, her eyes shadowed with concern.

“Not bad enough to shut us down. But if I hadn’t happened to go in extra early today to prepare for a private party…” He shook his head.

“What caused it?” Abby asked.

“Arson.”

Shocked silence greeted his response. Such crime was unheard of in Oak Hill.

“But who would do such a thing?” Abby asked when she could find her voice.

“That’s what Dale is trying to figure out.”

“And he will,” Marge declared.

In the year since he’d taken on the sheriff’s job Dale Lewis had earned the respect of the entire community. A hometown boy and former L.A. cop, he was sharp, thorough and tough when he had to be. Oak Hill was lucky to have him back, Abby reflected—a sentiment pretty much shared by everyone in town.

“I hope so. Because…well, there was more to it than just a fire.”

“What do you mean?” Marge asked.

“Whoever did this spray painted a message on the back door. Something very…unflattering about Allah. Then it said, ‘Go back where you came from.’”

An ominous chill ran down Abby’s spine. The fire had been a hate crime. Though Abby had read a great deal about such malicious attacks since 9/11, it had never occurred to her that such a despicable crime could come to Oak Hill.

“What did Dale say?” Abby asked.

“That he’d seen a lot of cases like this in L.A. And that it wasn’t always easy to track down the perpetrators. But he promised to do his best.”

“Well, if there’s anything we can do to help, you just let us know,” Marge said, before proceeding with the meeting.

An hour later, when the gathering broke up, Abby stopped to speak with Ali. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your trouble. Hate crimes are bad enough no matter who the victim is, but you were born and raised in the United States. You’re as American as I am. Despite what the message said, this is where you came from.”

“Things like this happened when I lived in Detroit, too. But not on this scale. Just snide comments, pranks, that sort of thing.”

“How can people behave that way?”

“Foreigners often meet with difficulties when they try to assimilate into a community. That’s just the way things are.” His tone was weary and resigned.

“You’ve been in Oak Hill for five years. And you’re not a foreigner.”

“I look like one. This kind of thing is hard to fight, Abby. Changing preconceived ideas, softening people’s hearts…it’s a difficult task.”

That was true. Still, prejudice in any form had always rankled Abby. She supposed it was a gene she’d inherited, considering that her grandfather had written bold editorials about race relations in the United States long before the national consciousness had been sensitized to the issue.

All at once an idea began to take shape in her mind. “It may be difficult, but it’s not impossible. Sometimes people just need a nudge.”

“Or a shove.” Ali summoned up a smile and placed his hand on Abby’s arm. “In any case, I know I have many friends here who have welcomed me and my family to the community. This is just an aberration.” He lowered his hand and checked his watch. “Now I have to run.”

“Be careful, Ali.”

He acknowledged her comment with a wave, and as he disappeared through the door Abby’s expression grew pensive. Maybe she couldn’t catch the perpetrator. That was Dale’s job. But at least she could do her part to soften a few hearts.

Abby tried to ignore her ringing phone. Her attention was focused on the computer screen in front of her, her mind forming the words more rapidly than she could type them as she composed an editorial about hate crimes. She should have forwarded her phone calls to Molly, the Gazette’s administrative assistant/receptionist. But she’d been so fired up when she’d returned from the Chamber meeting that she’d headed straight for her keyboard.

As the phone continued to ring, guilt prickled Abby’s conscience. A reporter never let a ringing phone go unanswered. That was a cardinal rule of journalism. Who knew when a hot tip might be coming in?

With an annoyed huff, she reached for the phone without breaking the rhythm of her typing. “Oak Hill Gazette. Abby speaking.”

“Abby Warner?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mark Campbell from Campbell Publishing. I believe you were expecting my call. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to discuss my visit.”

That got her attention. And broke the train of thought she’d been trying to hold on to. Aggravated, she swung away from her computer screen and closed her eyes. A dreaded doctor’s visit, a hate crime in their town and now this. Lord, how much do you want me to take in one day?

“Ms. Warner? Are you still there?” Impatience nipped at the edges of the man’s resonant baritone voice.

“Yes. Sorry. I was in the middle of something.”

“Would you like to call me back at a more convenient time?”

Yes. Like never, she wanted to say. But the finance board had already agreed to a review by Campbell Publishing. She had to deal with this.

“No. This is fine.” She tried to be cordial. But even to her own ears her tone sounded downright arctic.

“Okay. I’d like to begin Monday, unless that’s a problem.”

From his tone, Mark Campbell didn’t seem to be any more enthusiastic about his assignment than she was, Abby realized in surprise.

“That’s fine with me.”

“I’ll make the arrangements, then. Can you recommend a place to stay?”

“The only lodging in town is the Oak Hill Inn. It’s a B and B.”

“You mean one of those places where you have to share a bathroom down the hall with other guests?”

From his appalled inflection, it was clear that Mark Campbell considered such an arrangement uncivilized—and well beneath him. He’d probably never darkened the door of a B and B in his life. As an heir to a publishing empire, he was no doubt more accustomed to five-star hotels.

“No, the Oak Hill Inn is a bit more progressive than that. Every room has its own bath. They even have running water.”

“Fine.” The stiffness in his voice told her that her barb had hit home. “Do they have high-speed Internet access?”

She couldn’t quite contain her chuckle. “Sorry. This isn’t a big city, Mr. Campbell. If you want high-speed in your room, you’ll have to stay closer to Rolla.”

“How far away is that?”

“Thirty-five miles.” When he sighed, she spoke again. “However, you’re more than welcome to use the Net at our office.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Just give me the contact information for the inn.” Once she’d complied, he didn’t linger on the phone. “I’ll see you on Monday. What time would be good?”

“I’m always here by seven. I’ll see you then.”

“In the morning?”

“Well, I hardly think we’d be starting work at seven in the evening. Though I’m often here then, too.”

“Okay. Fine. I can do seven.”

As she hung up, Abby leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. Mark Campbell seemed to be looking forward to this whole process about as much as she was. But that appeared to be about the only thing they had in common. Spencer Campbell’s son came across as a snob who was accustomed to a cushy life. He exhibited none of the fire and passion for the business that his father had.

Of course, she really shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he was just having a bad day. As she was.

And she didn’t think tomorrow was going to get much better.