Page 15

EMERY

The first edition of the Gazette with her fully at the helm hit the street on a blustery Florida winter Sunday. And she felt a little proud. It was only four pages—with one of them being the comics—but the local content was strong.

Junie was an experienced paginator who’d started with the Gazette when her last child went to kindergarten.

Gayle in advertising makeup also had years of experience.

Rex was not only a talented writer, but also a brutal editor.

Emery hadn’t seen so much red on one of her pieces since her first year at the Free Voice.

Made her wonder if Lou cut her too much slack over the years.

On Saturday evening, after they put the paper to bed, she was restless with excitement. She’d produced the Free Voice many, many times, but always with Lou looking over her shoulder. If not in person, in spirit.

She slept in her clothes and set her alarm for five a.m., ready to hop out of bed, grab one of the motel’s bikes, and pedal through the cold dark toward the Gazette office, where the “paperboys”—about two dozen teenagers and retired couples—prepared the paper for delivery.

Almost every paper went into a rack or business. None to private doorsteps. Yet.

She’d met Owen, the head paperboy, earlier in the week. When she arrived at the office, he handed her a copy of the Sunday Gazette the moment she stepped onto the wide front porch.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“I’ll never tire of holding a freshly printed newspaper.” She loved everything about it—the feel, the smell, the stories. And as of today, her name on the masthead.

She rode back to the motel, where she made a pot of coffee with Elianna’s beans, and on the settee where Mom used to read her books and nap, Emery read the paper from front to back, top to bottom, writing ideas and small areas for improvement in the margins. Then she read it again and again.

Jane’s story was short and to the point, objective, which was what Emery expected for the Gazette .

Rex’s piece on the surfing contest was fantastic—rich in detail, with an engaging human-interest angle.

One of the surfers had a prosthetic leg.

And the photos, taken with his iPhone, were crisp and clear, full of color.

At ten a.m., she started a Notes file for a growth plan, then emailed the staff. Thank you all for making my first Sunday Gazette a success.

Cut from old school journalism, Lou would grumble at her for that one.

She could hear him saying, Don’t get giddy over people doing their job.

Get giddy when they do more than their job.

Like break a Watergate-level story. Even then , just give them a nod of “well done” and tell them to find another one of equal or greater magnitude.

By the afternoon, she’d cranked open the jalousie windows to let in the brisk Gulf air, napped under a pile of blankets, taken a long, hot shower, and tucked the newspaper in her laptop bag for Tuesday’s staff meeting.

Now what? The courtyard was quiet. The guests in Cottage 2, 3, and 5 checked out yesterday. Delilah had sent a text that she’d be gone all day Sunday.

Emery hadn’t seen or heard from Caleb since the town council meeting, though he was never far from her mind.

Stepping out of the cottage, she looked toward the center of town, wondering what he was doing.

Something with his nephew? Maybe a family day.

If memory served, his grandparents had a hobby farm northeast of town.

Back in the cottage, she sat on the settee and peered out the window toward the beach and the bluish-green Gulf. And missed her mom.

“Do you have any more advice for me, Mom?” She understood a person died once, then stood before God. But she wasn’t sure if they stopped hearing words from the living.

Mom tried to stuff every ounce of wisdom she had into Emery before she died. Many of those moments were right here in this cottage. Only she couldn’t remember what she said, only that death took her mom and her future as a daughter.

Okay, enough of this line of thinking. The day was too gorgeous to stay inside and feel sorry for herself, especially with such newspaper success.

Heading out in her yoga pants and an oversized Buckeye’s sweatshirt, Emery started for the Beachwalk, but the distant sounds of the carnival gave her another idea.

Back inside, she changed into jeans and pullover, wrangled her hair into a braid, tucked her phone, cottage key, and a couple of twenties in a crossbody bag, and headed up Avenue C against a stiff northern wind.

She purchased a ticket, then made her way through the crowd—between parents with strollers and kids on leashes, hand-holding teenagers, young couples, older couples, ladies in purple hats, men in ballcaps. She squeezed past people in Alabama, Florida State, Clemson, and Ohio State T-shirts.

She snapped a picture of one couple from the Buckeye State and sent it to Dad.

Emery:

We’re everywhere.

Dad:

Never doubted it.

She made a note to research the Fantastic Carnival’s relationship to Sea Blue Beach, see if she could find a story there, when she suddenly found herself in front of the Serendiporama.

“You”—she pointed to the crazy-eyed mechanical man in the crooked turban—“are evil.” She kicked at the machine. “You cannot tell the future.”

She didn’t have her white card from sixteen years ago, but she remembered what it said.

Immanuel , God with us.

The town saying, according to Caleb. And what did it mean? God didn’t feel near when Mom was dying.

Her phone pinged again. She expected to see an Ohio State meme from Dad, but it was Ava to the QuinnFam thread.

Ava:

I purchased my dress! AHHHHH! It’s stunning. I’m a bride!

Emery enlarged the photo for a better look. The dress and Ava were beautiful. She wore her long dark hair in an updo—to see how she’d look on her wedding day—a bright smile and otherworldly glow in her eyes. She was going to knock Jamie’s socks off.

Elianna:

It’s even more gorgeous in person, Aves.

Blakely:

I’m wearing it when I get married, so don’t spill anything on it.

Ava:

OMG, Blake, let me have my moment, will you? Emery, dear big sister Emery, this dress calls, yearns, for a set of gorgeous pearls.

Really , Ava ? Leave it. She was obsessed with Mom’s pearls. The pearls that the Force women handed down for four generations.

Emery:

Check Walmart. Their prices are reasonable. Love the gown, Ava. Stunning.

Ava:

Walmart. Ha, ha, very funny.

Emery:

Thank you. I’m here every night at 7. Remember to tip your server.

Blakely:

Ugh! Em’s turning into Dad.

Then a private message came from Joanna—who wrote every thought on its own line.

Joanna:

We miss you.

With the wedding coming up so fast, we have to host the shower in March.

I know you’re focused on your job.

But it would mean so much to Ava if you could come.

We all want you there. It’d be incomplete without you.

Dad and I will pay for the flight.

I’ve checked the airlines, just in case.

You could leave late Friday afternoon.

And return early Sunday morning.

Also, I’m sorry Ava keeps bringing up the pearls. I’ll talk to her.

But did you know you left them here? I was surprised to find them in your room.

I hid them in your father’s wardrobe.

Emery:

Thank you. Re: pearls. I didn’t know I’d left them. As for the shower, we only have two editions: Wednesday and Sunday. Friday and Saturday are production days for the Sunday edition, which is our biggest issue. So I’m not sure I can leave. I’m just getting started here.

She was finally getting a handle on all of her job duties.

While the paper was small and Rex could produce a Sunday edition in his sleep, Emery still ran the staff, acted as ad director, planned future editions, and wrote stories.

It was too soon to take a weekend off. What if the mysterious missing ads thing happened? What would she say to Elliot?

While he’d given her free rein, he also made it clear he and his sister expected a quality production with an eye on the future. She also sensed the threat to sell was always on the table—in a far corner, but on the table.

Joanna:

I understand, but keep it in mind, please.

“Everything all right?” Emery looked up to see Caleb, dressed in nice-fitting jeans, a long-sleeved polo, and his hair loose about his face. “Are you waiting for the bus to the future?” He nodded at the machine.

She grinned and tucked her phone into her bag. “Don’t look now, but we’re in the future of our past.”

“‘We’re in the future of our past.’” Caleb leaned against the other side of the machine. “Nice, Quinn. Very poetic. Did you read that somewhere or make it up on the spot?”

“Just made it up.” She snapped her fingers. “I’m that good.”

“So,” he said, giving her a Rhett Butler smirk, “you come here often?”

She laughed. “Never. Come on, buy me a hot dog.”

Down the thoroughfare, he shielded her from the crowd, taking all of her hits, blocking her from folks who spent too much time at the beer truck.

“Beer and carnival rides do not go together,” Caleb said, shoving a large teetering man aside.

“Write me a letter to the editor on it.” Emery ducked behind Caleb to avoid a child wielding a large stick of cotton candy. “Letters to the editor are the voice of the community. Anyone can submit one. That’s the hallmark of the Gazette .”

“To be microlocal, right?”

“You remembered—and such a big word too.”

“Keep talking smack, Quinn. Keep talking.” Caleb put his arm around her, guiding her through an angry crowd arguing about cutting in line at the pony ride. “How about I write about how architecture and politics don’t go together?”

“I’ll expect it in my inbox this week.” She curved into him to avoid a band of teens walking five abreast. “Are you here alone? Where’s your nephew?”

“Wandering around with my folks. They wanted to bring him after church. But I know for a fact Dad is useless without his Sunday afternoon nap.”