Jackie Merritt - Montana Christmas

“Good night, Shep. Sleep well.”

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.”