Читать книгу A Dream To Share - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 8

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.

Abby typed the last word on the hate-crimes editorial and hit Save. Then she turned her attention to an article about the new, contentious zoning regulation. But it was too late to start such a complicated piece, she decided. Mark’s unexpected visit to her office had reminded her it was well past quitting time. He’d been right; she needed to go home and eat. The feature could wait until tomorrow.

Gathering up the files he’d deposited on her desk, she tucked them in her bottom drawer and locked it. She’d been a bit abrupt with him, but his mere presence unnerved her, she reflected, reminding her that forces beyond her control were at work. Besides, he unnerved her in other ways, as well.

In fairness, however, this situation wasn’t Mark’s fault. He was making a concerted effort to do his job without upsetting the newsroom routine. Plus, instead of slacking off, as she’d expected, he’d been putting in the same hours as everyone else. Joe had had favorable things to say about his financial savvy. Even Molly, who’d looked upon his visit with almost as much trepidation as Abby, had commented that Mark seemed like a pleasant enough fellow.

True, he hadn’t done his homework prior to his arrival. But he’d made up for it since. As she’d passed the break room a couple of days ago she’d overheard him complimenting Steve on a story he’d written a few weeks before—meaning he’d read the back issues she’d given him.

None of which made her feel any better about the whole situation. Her opinion of Mark wasn’t what counted. The only thing that mattered was Mark’s opinion of the Gazette. Her fate—and the fate of the newspaper—rested in his hands.

Under different circumstances Abby supposed she might care a little more about what he thought of her personally. Even if she wasn’t quite sure of his work ethic or his values, she wasn’t immune to his dark good looks. It was always flattering to be noticed by a handsome man. But that was nothing more than wishful thinking. A man like Mark could have his pick of gorgeous women. And gorgeous was never a term that would be applied to her, even on her best days.

That’s why his comments tonight had surprised her. His concern about her long hours and eating habits had seemed genuine. Then again, perhaps he considered remarks like that small talk. In all likelihood, she’d read far more into it than he’d intended. In fact, she hoped she had.

Because if a man like Mark expressed a more personal interest in her, she’d be forced to discourage him. She’d witnessed the complications and heartache that had plagued her parents’ marriage. Watched as her mother battled frustration and depression while her father was consumed by guilt and worry as they’d tried without great success to meld radically different backgrounds.

There was no way she would ever risk stepping onto that minefield.

The numbers didn’t add up.

Mark cast an annoyed glance at his Rolex. In twenty minutes he needed to be out the door, heading back to St. Louis to catch his flight to Chicago. And he didn’t intend to miss it. But something wasn’t right.

During the preliminary review he’d completed in his first few days on the job Mark had red-circled a number of slight discrepancies that he intended to follow up on with Joe next week. But they’d been isolated occurrences. Nothing that had caused great concern.

The aberration in payroll entries was different. It was a pattern. A bit random but a pattern nonetheless. It bothered him enough that he wanted some kind of explanation before he left for the weekend.

Rather than go to Joe’s cubicle, where they’d have no privacy, he punched in the accountant’s extension and asked if the man could join him in the conference room. Two minutes later Joe appeared at the door.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to get out of here to catch a flight in St. Louis,” Mark explained. “I ran across something I can’t quite figure out and I hoped you could shed some light on it.”

“Sure.” Closing the door, the man moved into the room and took a seat beside Mark.

Mark spread the sheets out in front of Joe. “It appears that there’s an irregularity in the payroll entries. I haven’t gone into the detail journal yet—that’s on my agenda for next week—but this was too troublesome to leave until then. It’s always for the same amount—” Mark circled a number on the pad where he’d been doodling “—and it’s happened on a number of occasions over the past year. Can you explain it?”

The man shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. When he replied, his tone was cautious. “I’m aware of the discrepancy. But it might be better if you talk with Abby about it.”

“Okay.” A beat of silence passed as Mark regarded the man. “I can do that if you’d rather not discuss it.”

“Look, I’m not trying to be uncooperative. It’s just that…I think she’s in a better position to explain the situation. It’s nothing illegal. You’ll see that when you check the detail journal.”

Instead of replying, Mark gathered up the spreadsheets and slipped them into a file. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to get much out of the Gazette’s accountant. And he didn’t want to miss his plane. But now he was more curious than ever. If no impropriety was involved, why was the man uncomfortable?

“I’ll stop in and see Abby on my way out.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help with this.”

“No problem. You pointed me in the right direction.”

As Joe left the room, Mark switched off his computer, double-checked his flight time, then stood and strode toward Abby’s office, file in hand. She was on the phone when he appeared at her door, but she motioned him in.

“Okay. Thanks, Dale. Talk to you soon.” Abby replaced the receiver and looked up at Mark. “Heading out?”

“In a few minutes. But I found something a bit odd in the books, and when I asked Joe about it he referred me to you.”

“What is it?”

Mark withdrew the spreadsheets from the file and pointed out the payroll entries. “There’s a discrepancy of exactly the same amount on these particular weeks.”

After a quick glance at the reports, Abby looked back at Mark. “Have you checked the detail journal?”

“Not yet. That’s on the agenda for next week.”

She could stall, but it would be a useless delay tactic, Abby decided. She and Joe had figured Mark would uncover the inconsistency at some point, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t pursue it since it helped—rather than hurt—the Gazette. Instead he’d homed in on it faster than either had anticipated. And it was clear he wasn’t going to let it pass. Since she’d have to clarify it sooner or later, there was no sense delaying the inevitable.

“There’s a very simple explanation. The Gazette often operates on a razor-thin margin. If you haven’t already discovered that, you will when you examine the detail journal. In the weeks you’ve highlighted, our operating funds were so low that some expenses would have gone unpaid. To help us through the crunch, I instructed Joe not to issue me a paycheck those weeks. That accounts for the discrepancy you discovered.”

A full five seconds of silence ticked by. “Let me get this straight. You funneled your paycheck back into operating expenses?”

“Look, I know it’s unconventional, but it’s not illegal.” Mark was looking at her as if she had three heads, and a hot flush began to creep up her neck. “The paper needed the money more than I did at certain points. I just trusted that the Lord would see me through, and He did.”

For several moments Mark stared at the woman sitting behind the scarred desk that represented her family legacy. A legacy she’d worked hard to protect—even to the point of denying herself living expenses. Mark tried to think of one such example of selflessness and of faith in his circle of friends and came up empty.

But he did have some examples closer to home. His brother, who’d bypassed a high salary at Campbell Publishing for a far-lesser-paying job managing a Christian bookstore chain. And his father, who’d gambled everything to launch his company because he’d passionately believed in his dream and was willing to put his trust in the Lord.

Bobby Mitchell came to mind, too, for the second time in the past couple of weeks. His friend had given up the immediate pleasures that might have been afforded by his allowance and funneled almost every penny into his passion—his space fund, earmarked for a trip to space camp at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center. And up to the end he—like Abby—had believed that God was by his side.

His estimation of the woman across from him edged up another notch.

He looked again at the figure he’d circled on the paper he’d put in front of Abby, and all at once the amount registered, disconcerting him further. That was her weekly salary, he realized. And it was less than what they paid the receptionist at Campbell Publishing! Was this an indication of the salaries in general at the Gazette? But no. He’d seen the salary budget total. He knew how many people worked there. He could do the division. Other staff members were making more than Abby.

This was getting more confusing by the minute.

“Okay, let’s back up. I’ve seen the salary budget and this isn’t adding up. Why is yours so low? You’re the managing editor.”

Her flush deepened. She felt like an ant under a microscope as he loomed over her, so she stood and faced him across the work-worn desk. Even then, he had a distinct height advantage. “I’m not in this for the money. I never have been.” Her tone was quiet but resolute. “I lead a simple life and my wants are few. I care a lot about the Gazette and I don’t mind making a few sacrifices to keep it going.”

Shaking his head, Mark raked his fingers through his hair. “I appreciate your dedication, Abby, but it’s just a job. You deserve a living wage.”

A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “It’s not just a job! I know what’s gone into building this paper. The sacrifices, the passion, the determination, the courage. It’s important work that makes a difference. We’ve won lots of awards, and those are great. But look around this office at the letters from readers. Like that one behind you. That’s what makes this job important.”

Now that she’d called them to his attention, the dozen or so framed letters on the walls registered. Turning, he scanned the one over his shoulder, noting in his peripheral vision a photo of a dark-haired minister on a tiny table in the corner. Forcing himself to focus on the letter, he realized that it was a thank-you note of some sort.

“That letter is from a man we featured in a story about prescription drug costs and government assistance. You can do a story like that and just quote statistics. A lot of papers do. But we put a face on the numbers.” Abby’s voice rang with passion and conviction. “Jon Borcic is seventy-six years old. He was eligible for state assistance with prescriptions, but when his request got bogged down in red tape he went without food to buy his wife medicine. Thanks to that article, the agency cleaned up its act. And people like Jon don’t have to go hungry anymore in order to care for the ones they love.”

Her voice choked, and she stopped long enough to take a deep breath. “So, no, Mark, this isn’t just a job. That’s why I do everything I can to keep the paper going. Including passing up a paycheck once in a while.”

Once again, Mark found himself speechless in the presence of the petite dynamo across from him. And thinking how unfair it was that Abby had to carry the full weight of such a burden on her slight shoulders. He’d made a few discreet inquiries and he knew she wasn’t married. But the minister in the photo he’d just noticed must be important to her. Why didn’t he help? His gaze flickered to the framed image.

“My brother. And ministry pays even less than journalism.”

As she answered his unspoken question, he shifted his attention back to her. Now he could add mind reading to her many talents.