Irene Hannon - A Dream To Share

“Assuming the Oak Hill Gazette agrees to an investigation, why don’t you plan to leave next Monday?”

The firm set of his father’s jaw made Mark wary. “How long do you want me to stay?”

“As long as it takes. Twelve weeks minimum.”

Mark shot to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. “You want me to spend twelve weeks in some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere?”

“At least. And it’s in rural Missouri.”

“Same difference. Besides, if it’s a small operation it shouldn’t take that long to do due diligence.”

“This is a special case.”

“In what way?”

His father’s blue eyes turned steely. “You’ll just have to trust me on this, Mark.”

Raking his hand through his hair, Mark struggled to think of some excuse—any excuse—that might save him from banishment to the farm belt. But he couldn’t come up with anything he thought his father would buy.

“Give it up, Mark,” Spencer said as if reading his mind. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. Nor is it negotiable.”

Biting back a sharp retort, Mark glared at his father. “I’m not the best person for this job.”

“You’re the perfect person.” The phone rang again, and Spencer reached for the handset. “Check in with me every few days. I want to be kept informed of your progress…Spencer Campbell here.”

Their conversation was over. No, Mark corrected. This hadn’t been a conversation. It had been an executive order. Picking up the folder, he wandered back to his office in a daze and sank into his leather desk chair. He was being sent to Hicksville, ill equipped for everything except the numbers part of his assignment.

Although he tried to remain angry, Mark didn’t succeed. Nothing had much power to evoke—or sustain—emotion in him. Besides, he’d been coasting for years. He supposed his father had a right to expect him to earn his keep. And, as heir apparent, to learn more about the business than how to crunch numbers.

Still, spending three months in the heartland of Missouri seemed pretty extreme. He’d survive, of course. As for learning anything, he suspected the only thing he’d gain would be a greater appreciation for big-city living.

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.”