Irene Hannon - A Dream To Share

“All I know is that you’ve been here as long as I can remember,” Abby continued.

“That’s understandable, since you were only ten when I came.”

That made Abby thirty-two, Mark calculated, filing away that piece of information. He wasn’t sure why.

“In any case, Molly does a great job,” Abby noted. “Now let’s go back into the newsroom.”

It didn’t take long to complete the tour. The working space wasn’t large. Abby’s office and a conference room were the only enclosed areas. The rest of the area was divided into eight cubicles. As they moved from one to the other, he met the three reporters—Jean, Steve and Laura—as well as Marcia in marketing/sales, Jason in photography, Les in circulation and Paul in layout. Though Abby smiled at the staff members and their mutual respect was evident, she seemed to grow more subdued as the tour progressed.

He tried his best to put people at ease, insisting on first names and joking when appropriate, but the apprehension in the office was palpable. Was every operational audit this tense? he wondered. To him, an acquisition had always meant an evaluation of the books, an assessment of the effect on Campbell Publishing’s bottom line, done in the plush confines of his office. He’d never factored in the effect on people.

They ended their tour with Joe in accounting.

“How’s Cindy doing?” Abby greeted the sandy-haired man who looked to be in his late thirties.

“Okay. We’ll know more after the third ultrasound in—” he checked his watch “—two hours.”

“The ultrasound is today? Why on earth are you here?” Abby scolded him.

“Well, when the tour got bumped to the afternoon, I figured I should hang around.”

“Cindy needs you more.” Abby turned to Mark. “Joe’s wife is having a complicated pregnancy. You can talk with him later. Bottom line, he’s prepared to offer whatever assistance you need. Other than that, he’ll stay out of your way and let you do your job.”

“I appreciate that. I don’t want to disrupt your operation any more than necessary.” Mark extended his hand, and Joe shook it.

“Now go,” Abby told Joe. “And I’ll keep you all in my prayers.”

The man gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

As Abby led the way back to her office, Mark fell in behind her. Until he examined the books, he couldn’t pass any judgments on Abby’s financial management. But he’d already gotten a good feel for her people skills, based on her interactions with the staff. He gave her high marks there.

In the thirty seconds it took to reach her office Abby tried in vain to shore up her flagging spirits. Until the tour today, she’d been blind to the building’s flaws, much as she’d overlooked the tattered hair, threadbare clothes and patched face of the Raggedy Ann doll she’d loved as a child. The Gazette offices had been her home for so long that she’d never realized how shabby they truly were.

But now she saw the facility through Mark’s eyes. Eyes that noticed the outdated computers, the worn and frayed spots in the carpet, the ancient metal desks. He wouldn’t see the heritage or the passion or the sweat that had gone into creating an award-winning newspaper. He would see just the worn-out physical assets. But there was so much more to the Gazette than that. The challenge would be to convince Mark Campbell of that.

Or not—if she wanted to sabotage his investigation, Abby suddenly realized. If she let him focus on the nuts and bolts, the material goods, he might not recommend an acquisition. The Gazette would be saved from Campbell Publishing.

Then where would that leave her? The sole remaining option was liquidation. And that would be even harder to swallow.

When they reached her small office, Abby scooted past the edge of the massive desk and took her seat, indicating a chair across from her to Mark.

“That’s quite a desk,” he commented as he lowered his long frame into the hard-backed chair.

“It was my great-grandfather’s.” Abby ran her fingers lightly over the scarred surface, her touch almost reverent. “I’m the fourth generation of my family to use it. It always reminds me what went into building this paper and what the Gazette stands for.”

“This is a family business, then.”

Tilting her head, she regarded him with surprise. “Yes. I thought you knew. Your father said he’d given you a background file on the Gazette.”

Hot color crept up Mark’s neck. “He did. I have it with me. I just haven’t had a chance to review it. That’s on my agenda for tonight.”

“I see.”

Too much, he suspected, as her perceptive eyes bored into his. Rarely had he found himself in a situation where he didn’t have the upper hand. And he didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

Sensing that offense was the best defense, he leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee with studied casualness. “So tell me something. How do you manage to make stories about church socials and little league baseball games and dances at the VFW hall interesting week after week?”

Abby had to make a concerted effort to keep her mouth from dropping open. Not only had he neglected to review the background file, he hadn’t read a single issue of the Gazette. The man hadn’t done a lick of research on his assignment! Struggling to control her temper, she picked up the phone and punched in a number.

“Molly? Would you pull copies for me from the archives for the last six months?”

Replacing the receiver, she turned her attention back to the man in whose hands the fate of the Gazette rested for better or for worse. And she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was the latter. “What makes you think that’s all we report on?”

An indifferent shrug preceded his verbal response. “What else would you write about?”

“You don’t win a Pulitzer prize writing about church socials, Mr. Campbell.”

“You won a Pulitzer Prize?” He stared at her.

“My grandfather did. For ‘uncommon courage in publishing stories that exposed hazardous working conditions at a quarry operation in rural Missouri, which led to management changes and life-saving improvements.’ That’s a direct quote from the citation that hangs in the reception area.”

So much for his offense.

A knock sounded, and Abby looked at the woman in the doorway. “Come in, Molly. Just put them here. Thank you.”

The older woman set a stack of newspapers on Abby’s desk, then departed.

“While you’re reading the background file, Mr. Campbell, you may want to browse through these, as well. It shouldn’t take you long to discover that the Gazette is about more than church socials and garden club news.”

As Mark eyed the stack, Abby thought back to a conversation she’d had with Spencer Campbell a few days ago, when the older man had asked her to make sure Mark got a thorough grounding in the operational side of the business. Now she understood why. The publishing heir might know numbers, but he didn’t have his father’s hands-on knowledge of publishing—a deficiency the older man seemed determined to remedy. Whether his son liked it or not. And given Mark’s expression right now and his general lack of enthusiasm, she figured it was the latter.

When Mark looked back at Abby, he didn’t have a clue how to interpret her enigmatic expression. All he knew for sure was that this assignment was not starting out well. He was supposed to be the one in charge. Instead he felt like a chastised little boy who’d neglected to do his homework. Okay, so maybe he should have looked at the background file before now. And he supposed the remark about church socials might have been out of line. Well, he’d use the evening to get up to speed. Besides, what else was there to do in this tiny backwater town?