Читать книгу Montana Christmas - Jackie Merritt - Страница 9

Andrea slept well, but she awoke at 8:00 a.m. with prickly feelings of dissatisfaction. It had happened before in Rocky Ford, and she always blamed the sensation on impatience with herself over forever delaying that meeting with Charlie Fanon.

This morning, she wasn’t thinking of Charlie. The image in her mind’s eye was most definitely that of Shep Wilde. Too handsome, she told herself, even while tingling all over because he was so handsome. But Shep wasn’t the reason for the uneasiness she felt, either.

It took only a few minutes to come up with a logical diagnosis of the problem: there was no reason to get up. She could stay in bed for the rest of her life, and who would care? This doing nothing, or almost nothing, had to stop. It seemed she had made an unconscious decision to live in Rocky Ford, whether or not she ever introduced herself to Charlie, so it was time to start living.

And she knew precisely where the starting line was, too.

Throwing back the covers, she got up and padded barefoot to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. A glance out the window to her backyard had her grimacing. Before she could put her plan in motion, before she could go anywhere, for that matter, she had to shovel the driveway again. It wasn’t snowing this morning, but there were at least six inches on the ground.

Returning to her bedroom, she dressed in warm clothing and lined boots. Heading for her small garage and the snow shovel, she stopped and blinked in surprise. Her driveway had already been shoveled!

Lucas, bless his heart, must have done it before she was even awake. What a sweetheart.

She would thank him later on today, she thought as she returned to the house. After she had called on Kathleen Osterman, the owner and publisher of the Rocky Ford News. Yes, she was going to ask Ms. Osterman about a job. If there was nothing available at the newspaper, she would look elsewhere, but her first choice was definitely the local paper.

After coffee, toast and orange juice in the kitchen, she showered, did her hair and makeup and dressed in an attractive gray wool pantsuit. Under the jacket was a plain black sweater with a high neck. Her jewelry was gold earrings, a gold-and-black onyx pin on the lapel of her jacket and her gold watch. Stepping into her best black leather boots, she checked her appearance in the full-length mirror on her closet door. Satisfied with her reflection, she donned a long, dark gray overcoat, pulled on black leather gloves, slung her black leather bag over her shoulder and left the house for the garage.

Raising the door of the garage, she got into her car and started the engine. Giving it time to warm up, she thought of how differently one lived where winter was a true season. Cars needed extra antifreeze and snow tires, and people needed a wardrobe of warm clothing. She had never owned a winter coat before this year, for instance. Fashionable ski suits, of course, but nothing like what she was wearing today. She had found some of her cold-weather clothes in Rocky Ford, and some she had purchased from catalogs. Her overcoat, for example, had been purchased from an exclusive and very expensive house of fashion through their catalog.

When the heater was blowing warm air, she quit her meandering thoughts and backed out of the driveway to the street. Granted, there were butterflies in her tummy over this unannounced visit to Ms. Osterman, but they were flutters of excitement. Just the thought of working again, having something to do and somewhere to go, was exhilarating. She should have looked for a job long before this.

Andrea drove to the newspaper office, found a parking space and walked into the one-story building. She loved it at once, from its unique smell of newsprint to its air of productivity. It wasn’t large and it wasn’t noisy, but newspapers were created here. She would love to be a part of it.

The front of the building was one large room. Several doors drew her attention; one had to lead to the pressroom. Two women sat at desks, one of whom was talking on the phone. The other looked up.

“May I help you?”

Andrea smiled. “I’d like to speak to Kathleen Osterman. Is she in?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Is an appointment necessary?”

“No, but I thought she might be expecting you.”

“She isn’t, but I really would like to see her.”

“I’ll check with her. What’s your name?”

“Andrea Dillon.”

The woman dialed a number on her phone. “Kathleen, there’s an Andrea Dillon out here who would like to speak to you. Do you have time to see her now?” After a beat, the woman said, “No, she didn’t say what it was about. Should I ask her?” There was another pause, then she said, “Fine, I’ll send her back.” She put down the phone and looked at Andrea. “She’ll see you. It’s the door on the left. Just go on in.”

The woman had pointed to the back of the room. “Thank you.” Andrea rounded a short counter and crossed to Ms. Osterman’s office door. But she couldn’t just walk in, regardless of the instructions she’d received.

Drawing a breath, she knocked.

“Come in” came from the other side of the door. Though deep, gravelly and rather strident, it was unquestionably a female voice.

Andrea took another quick breath and opened the door. Her initial impression was of clutter. Papers, books and file folders were piled on anything that would hold them. Her gaze moved to the woman behind an enormous desk. “Ms. Osterman?”

“Ms. Dillon?” Kathleen sounded amused over their greeting. “Any relation to the Dillons who live on Green Street?” She gestured to the chair at the front of her desk. “Come in and have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Andrea shut the door and went to the chair. Settling herself, she smiled. “To answer your question, no, I’m not related to any Dillons in the area.”

“Really.” Kathleen sat back and blatantly sized up her visitor.

Andrea was doing a little sizing up herself. Kathleen Osterman was an extremely attractive woman, in her middle fifties, she estimated. Her clothing—a pair of taupe slacks and matching sweater—looked expensive. So did the cut of her short blond hair, her makeup and her jewelry. Several rings with large diamonds adorned her long, thin fingers. Her face was more striking than pretty, and her eyes—a deep, dark blue—looked hard as marbles.

This lady was no cream puff, Andrea decided.

“So, what can I do for you, Miss Dillon?” Kathleen asked, sounding blunt, businesslike and to the point.

“I’m looking for a job, Ms. Osterman.”

Kathleen cocked an eyebrow. “And you think I have an opening?”

“Do you?”

“Do you know anything about the newspaper business?”

“Not as much as I would like to know,” Andrea said. She was getting too warm and she slid her arms from her overcoat and let it fall back against the chair. “I worked for the Los Angeles Times for almost a year, but I have to be truthful. I was more of a secretary and a gofer than anything else. I want to be a reporter, Ms. Osterman. I’m a good writer, although the only paper that ever published anything of mine was the student gazette at the college I attended. I have clippings of my articles in my purse, if you’d care to see them. Incidentally, I majored in journalism,” she added as a final note. “And graduated with honors.”

“Back up a minute. You worked for the Times for almost a year? If your heart’s so set on journalism, why did you leave the Times? You had your foot in the door of one of the most widely read papers in the country. If you’re as good a writer as you claim, eventually you would have worked your way into reporting. I think an explanation is in order, Miss Dillon.”

Andrea maintained an impassive expression, although her heart had started beating faster than normal. She couldn’t be honest and she didn’t want to lie, but there was no way to avoid giving this woman some sort of explanation.

“My mother passed away last February. Her estate demanded my full attention. I would have stayed at the Times if not for that.” It was as close to the truth as she could get.

“Your mother’s estate brought you to Rocky Ford?” Kathleen looked skeptical.

“In a roundabout way, yes. Things have settled down now, and I’d like to go back to work.” Andrea smiled. “But something happened during my stay in Rocky Ford, something I certainly didn’t expect when I came here. I’ve grown to love Montana and this little town. The thought of returning to L.A. is not at all appealing.”

Still appearing skeptical, Kathleen picked up a cup and drank from it. “Coffee,” she said. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you.”

Kathleen set down her cup. “Let me tell you how it is, Miss Dillon. My paper comes out only three times a week, and—”

“I know,” Andrea murmured. “I’ve bought and read it since the day I came to Rocky Ford.”

“Then you also know that we pick up only the most urgent national and international news from the wire services, and that most of the paper is dedicated to reporting events that would only be of interest to the locals.”

Andrea nodded. “I think it’s a wonderful format for a small-town paper. Those residents interested in moredetailed stories of world events can find them in any number of other newspapers.”

Kathleen’s expression became slightly sarcastic. “So glad you approve.”

Andrea flushed. “I’m sorry if I sounded patronizing. I merely intended to convey my own enjoyment of reading your publication.” Working for Kathleen Osterman would not be easy. But then, there was probably no reason to worry about it. Ms. Osterman wasn’t exactly elated over this interview.

“Getting back to how my organization functions, I’m the only reporter on the payroll, Miss Dillon.”

Startled, Andrea blinked. “You write every article yourself?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I’m the only full-time, salaried reporter. I have three employees. You saw two of them on your way in. Grace Mulroy handles the classifieds, without which we wouldn’t stay in business for long. The woman who sent you to my office is a jack-of-all-trades, secretary, receptionist, delivery person, et cetera, et cetera. You name it, Sally does it. My third employee is the pressman. Now, besides those three very essential people, I hire a photographer when necessary and buy free-lance articles. Anyone can bring something in. If I think it’s good enough, it goes in the paper. I pay sixty-five cents a line. Can you live on sixty-five cents a line, Miss Dillon? Assuming your articles are published, of course.”

“Money isn’t an issue,” Andrea said quietly, disliking this topic immensely. It really was no one else’s business that she had enough money to live very comfortably for the rest of her life. “But I need something to do. Naturally, your newspaper was the first thing I thought of when I came to that realization. What kind of articles are we talking about?”

Kathleen shrugged. “Weddings, funerals, any sort of social function, accidents. Anything, actually. Let me warn you. If you’re thinking of free-lancing, you’ll have lots of competition. Especially with weddings and events of that nature.”

“I understand.” Andrea began working her arms back into her coat. “Well, thank you for seeing me.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“I won’t lie about it, Ms. Osterman. I came here hoping for a full-time job.”

Kathleen got up from her chair. “You want to know something, Miss Dillon? I have a feeling that the most intriguing story you could write for this paper would be about yourself.”

Andrea rose. Kathleen definitely had a nose for news. It was blatantly obvious she wasn’t satisfied with Andrea’s explanation of why she was living in Rocky Ford.

Andrea forced a laugh, as though Kathleen’s curiosity was funny and certainly of no consequence. Then she picked up her purse. “Again, thank you for your time.”

“Will we meet again, Miss Dillon?” Kathleen’s agate eyes bored into Andrea.

“You’re asking if I plan to free-lance. I don’t know, Ms. Osterman. I’m going to think about it. Goodbye.”

Andrea felt Kathleen’s hard blue eyes on her back all the way to the front door of the building. Apparently, the publisher had left her office to watch her departure, probably with a rapidly working mind just teeming with all sorts of questions.

Well, Kathleen had a right to her curiosity, just as she had a right to her disappointment. Heading for her car, she got in and drove away.

Instead of going home, however, she made several turns until she came to Foxworth Street. Then, as she’d done a hundred times in the past seven months, she slowly cruised by Charlie’s Place. It always looked the same and it always affected her emotionally. Inside that sprawling structure was her father. Physically, it would be so simple to park and enter Charlie’s coffee shop. It was at that point that her imagination usually failed her.

This morning was slightly different, though. Lucas pronouncing Charlie Fanon a nice guy yesterday was fresh fodder for thought. Nice guys didn’t turn their backs on their offspring, did they?

But he had turned his back on her, before she was even born.

That was the wall she kept hurling herself at and never quite managed to scale. If only her mother would have talked about Charlie. Sandra could have told her so much.

Andrea’s heart hardened a little. Sandra hadn’t been fair with her, not fair at all.

Disappointed with her talk with Kathleen and despondent about Charlie again, Andrea pointed her car toward home.

That afternoon, Andrea knocked on Lucas’s door. When he opened it, she put a large covered pan in his hands. “I meant to give you this last night, Lucas. It’s turkey and pie. There’s no way I would be able to eat all the leftovers.”

Lucas beamed. “Thank you. Would you like to come in?”

Still unnerved over the morning’s depressing events, Andrea sighed. “No, but thank you. I’m going to run now.” She’d thrown on a sweater for the short hike from her house to Lucas’s, and was feeling the cold. She started to go, then remembered something. “Oh, by the way, thanks for shoveling my driveway again.”

“You’re welcome, honey, but I didn’t do it. Shep did.”

“Shep did?”

“He was up early and did mine before first light. When I got up, he was pacing like a caged tiger. I told him if he wanted some more exercise to go next door and do yours.”

“Well,” Andrea said, surprised and unable to conceal it. In a few seconds, she had gathered her wits enough to add, “Tell him thanks for me, okay? See you later, Lucas.” Shivering, she dashed home.

In the kitchen, she stood over the furnace vent to warm up. It was a gray day and much too cold to be running around outside in only a sweater. She hadn’t caught a cold or a flu bug yet this winter, though both were certainly going around, and getting herself chilled was a foolish risk.

But she’d wanted to take that food over to Lucas and simply hadn’t thought beyond that. More accurately, she’d been preoccupied, mostly thinking of her chat with Kathleen and wishing she could write something so brilliant, it would knock Ms. Osterman’s costly boots right off of her undoubtedly elegantly pedicured feet.

The problem, of course, was a topic to write about. Since she knew so few people in Rocky Ford, weddings and other social events weren’t a consideration. Besides, she wasn’t even a tiny bit interested in writing that sort of piece, although if Kathleen had deigned to hire her as a full-time reporter, she would have written anything.

Free-lancing was a whole other ball game. Of course, she could chuck the whole idea and seek some other kind of work. Deep down, though, she wanted to prove something to Kathleen Osterman. Prove herself, probably. Some people brought that urge out in others, and, in Andrea’s opinion, Kathleen was definitely in that category—hard as nails, exceedingly sure of herself and not particularly sympathetic toward would-be journalists.