Читать книгу Share the Moon - Sharon Struth - Страница 11

Sophie glanced at the display on her ringing cell phone and pulled off Lake Shore Road near an empty field, where morning frost glistened from the sun. “Hi, Dad. Everything okay?”

She’d taken him to brunch over the weekend since he’d missed the hearing and insisted upon a face-to-face discussion about every last detail. This Monday morning call was out of character.

“All this technology sure takes the mystery out of life.”

“It sure does. Anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong.” His annoyance carried through the phone. “Why?”

Ever since that horrible morning a year ago, when he’d called her at five AM saying he felt dizzy, cold, and clammy, unexpected calls from him were always met with an overreaction. Everyone in town knew Alan Moore as a sturdy, barrel-chested seventy-five year old who had never been sick a day in his life, at least until that day. She’d told him to call 9-1-1 and, thank God, he’d listened. The doctors found the blockage causing the problem and installed a stent.

She sighed. “You know why. Can’t a daughter worry about her father?”

“Yes, but I’m fine now, honey. I forgot to ask you on Saturday if Matt could help out at the shop on weekends during the holiday season. You know how traffic picks up between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Jay decided it would be a good time to have a sale on our kayak inventory.”

Dad talked in detail about her brother’s plans for the boat sale but she stopped listening. From where she’d pulled over, she viewed the hillside where Tate Farms grew their grapes. The leafy green vines of the summer were gone. Instead, the trellis system, made of strong wooden end posts connected by a wired line in each row, sat vacant amidst scraggly, dried vines. Across the road, the cold waters of Blue Moon Lake shivered with a gentle breeze.

Her dad’s silence made her return to the conversation. “Sure, Dad. I’ll have Matt call you later today. Listen, I’m running late for work. Can I call you later tonight? From home?”

“Sure, sure. Bye.”

She tossed the phone into her purse but didn’t drive off right away. To the far right of the hilly fields, sat the old farmhouse where the Tates lived. In her childhood, they’d come here early June each year to pick strawberries in the produce fields on the flat land behind one of the property’s three barns. Far beyond the barn near the woods stood the cemetery of her ancestors, with tombstones dating back to the seventeen and eighteen hundreds.

Back in the late seventies, word got out that Ehren Tate, father to the current owners, might start wine production on his land. The governor had just lifted the ban on commercial wine production in the state, established during Prohibition. Up until then, the Tates sold their grapes to other wine producers out of state. That first summer, the new winemaker hired Sophie’s brother to work the fields. Jay loved the job and talked about nothing else. A few years later, the summer she’d graduated from high school, she got a job in their newly opened tasting room. Being an insider to the nuances and secrets of each bottled creation made her feel like a part of something bigger than their small town. Several years after Ehren died, wine production had ceased but they still grew and sold grapes to other winemakers.

Sophie’s gaze drifted across the street to where the Tates’ land extended to the water’s edge. A gentle ache rolled against her chest as she examined the memorial garden planted for her son, the summer flowers gone but evergreens still giving some color. Over the years, her trips to the garden had brought her a strange measure of peace. Sometimes she pruned the flowers or weeded the area, a way to still care for Henry. Many times, she simply sat nearby on Putticaw Rock, a local landmark named after a shortened version of the lake’s original Indian name. What would happen to the only thing left of her son if RGI’s bid went through? Would they destroy this garden?

She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, threw the car into drive, and her tires spun on the roadside dirt as she pulled away. Nope. She wasn’t done with this land and it wasn’t done with her, either.

* * * *

“Morning, Gabby.” Thirty minutes later, after a quick stop to get breakfast to go, Sophie pulled the drawer open on her old steel desk and dropped her purse inside.

“Hey there, Soph.” Gabby beamed bright. Her short pixie-cut, petite height, and need to bring homemade cookies to the office at least once a week had earned her a nickname as their honorary Keebler elf.

Sophie threw a pod of French vanilla into the coffeemaker. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad’s stroke. How is he?”

Her chin buckled with a frown. “We’ve got him in a nursing home. Time will tell.”

“Cliff thought you’d be out until Wednesday. I’m surprised to see you here today.”

“I needed a break from the nursing home. My brother flew up from Florida and said he’d stay a week or two.”

“If you need help with anything, let me know. When you’re ready, I’ll fill you in on what happened at the hearing. Boy, you sure missed a good one. It’s your story whenever you want to take it back.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Gabby smiled, more gently than usual.

Sophie started her computer and opened the foil wrap of a warm breakfast sandwich she’d picked up at Sunny Side Up. The computer’s motor whirled to life and she went to her e-mail, opening one marked “urgent” sent from Cliff an hour earlier.

Will Steiner wants us to interview Duncan Jamieson. Let’s talk asap.

Will Steiner? Her shoulders tensed. There wasn’t an ounce of love lost when it came to the man who ran their parent company.

Sophie blew out a breath and her tenseness relaxed. What was she doing? A few short days ago, she’d begged Cliff to give her the story. Even though he’d think she was fickle, the time had come to tell Cliff what had happened at the kayaks. It might be in the best interest of all parties for her to step aside. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d just given up on anything, though. The idea gnawed at her, carrying the sour aftertaste of losing a well-played game.

She gulped a swig of coffee and stood. “This should be good.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

Sophie snorted. “Guess again. The powers from above are dictating what we report on.”

“Above meaning God or good ol’ Willy-boy?” Gabby chuckled. “May as well make the best of it. I think he’s here to stay.”

“Who? God?”

“Him too.” Gabby grinned. Sophie marveled at how her coworker stayed so positive, even with the stress in her personal life.

Sophie marched up the stairs. At Cliff’s office, she leaned on the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “Got your e-mail.”

He sat at his desk editing a document squared in front of him. With one swift movement, he dropped the pen and tipped his glasses to the top of his head. “Good. You’re here. Have a seat.”

She plunked into the chair across from him and pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan, staring at an autographed Larry Bird poster from the early years and a framed Super Bowl XXXI program on the wall behind Cliff. Besides sports, fishing was the only thing to draw him away from his desk.

“I can’t stand editing these reader submissions for Eye Around Town.” Cliff’s face reddened, matching the fire engine color in his plaid shirt. “They get worse and worse. How can we let the public give us news? Half this stuff probably isn’t even true. Why doesn’t a smart guy like Will realize you get what you pay for?”

“Because he knows anybody who has two index fingers and a computer can give us free content.” She grabbed a lone paper clip off the edge of the desk and unbent the curved metal. “That dumb column is right up his penny-pinching alley. If he gets enough free material from them, I’m the one who’ll be out of a job, not you.”

Cliff frowned. “You’re supposed to calm me down, not get me madder.”

“That’s Gabby’s job.” She tossed the ruined clip into a nearby can. “Why is Will in a big hurry to get a story about Jamieson?”

“Because Jamieson’s a rich guy moving to a small town. A town where he’s making a huge financial investment. I hate to say this, but it’s not a bad idea.”

“Don’t you think a busy guy like Will calling on such a trivial matter is odd?”

“Normally I’d say yes, but he’s friends with Jamieson.”

Sophie slapped a palm on the desk. “Did you know RGI is pulling strings at the Courant too?”

Cliff shrugged. “There’s politics everywhere.”

Annoyed by the way Cliff had returned to his levelheaded self, she stifled the rest of her rant.

He picked up the pen. “Oh yeah. Will said to give the developer some good press. I told him we’d do our best.”

Sophie bit the inside of her cheek. A quiet rebellion raised havoc inside her. Had journalism changed since she attended college? Who? What? When? Where? Why? How? So What? Keep it simple. Ensure the story remained fair and balanced. These days, everywhere she turned the lines between journalism and opinion blurred.

“You might have explained to Will the difference between reporting and editorializing.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’d like to keep my job until retirement.” The bags under Cliff’s lower lids suggested a tough night’s sleep and he didn’t appear in the mood to have this conversation. “Approach this the way you do every other interview. See how it falls out. Who knows?” He smirked. “Maybe you’ll end up loving the guy.”

Will’s demands sapped her energy. Maybe it was a sign she should give this up before she compromised her journalist ethics in a whole other way, to suit the needs of someone above her.

Besides, a whole sidebar of issues prevailed. The way she peeled out of the parking lot after telling Duncan off was rude and ladies’ night conversation had confirmed the indictments she’d thrown in his face were untrue. Worse than anything, her imaginary flirting accusation still left her with the embarrassment of an escaped burp.

She could just tell Cliff the truth; that she’d been lying to him for the past week.

Instead, she slipped on her best overwhelmed-but-willing face, hoping it didn’t look like she was in pain. “What about my conflict of interest? Maybe now that Gabby’s back, she should take the story. From what Will’s saying, this sounds urgent. I mean, I’ve got the Bellantoni’s Market hours change to work on.” Cliff stared back, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, and this week I’m scheduled to interview the head of Public Works about the left turn signal at the school park.”

“Thought I’d be dead before they addressed that stupid traffic light.”

“Me too.” Even back when Sophie had attended school, the signal at the main intersection of their educational park didn’t have a left turn arrow on the traffic light. Oncoming traffic was delayed by a good thirty seconds once the light turned green, however, during busy hours the precarious moment right before the oncoming light switched to green became a game of chance. “So, you’ll put Gabby on the zoning story?”

“Can’t.” Cliff rubbed the tip of his long chin. “Will said Jamieson specifically asked for you to do the interview, but I’ll call them and tell them no if you think you can’t handle—”

“Are you sure he wants me?”

“You two met at the hearing, right?”

She nodded.

“Then you’re the Sophie Shaw he’s asking for.” Cliff lifted a yellow Post-it, held it out at arm’s length, and squinted, apparently forgetting about the glasses on his head. “He said to arrange it through Carl, um….”

“Carl Hansen?”

His vision shifted over the top of the note. “You know him?”

“Oh, yeah. Carl and I go way, way back.” Sophie stood and left. The worn wood staircase creaked as she headed to the first floor.

When she hit the last step, Cliff yelled, “They’d like the story in by this Friday too.”

“Of course they would,” she mumbled but yelled back, “Okay.”

Sophie phoned Carl, who slotted her in with Duncan on Wednesday afternoon. She had two days to figure out how to mend her mistakes. She’d called Duncan a liar, speculated he’d flirted with her to gain professional favor, and then spat out the last word and sped from the parking lot. Two days? She’d need two weeks to find the right words to fix this mess.