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EMERY

Now . . .

It didn’t seem right that she had tickets to the Beach Boys when the Sunday Gazette was a disaster .

Their beautiful Sunday edition with an extended mural story, along with more of Kadasha’s stunning photographs, Rex’s piece on Diamond Dog Golf Courses, and Jane’s discovery of an advocate group wanting to shut down the food trucks, was a disaster.

Thousands of dollars’ worth of missing ads. Big holes on every page where a display ad was supposed to be.

She spent the better part of two hours fielding calls from angry advertisers—the ones she convinced to trust her—promising them recompense, talking to Elliot, trying to make him understand what she didn’t, then digging in with Rex to figure out what happened.

They found nothing. Ambrose even came in after church to help, suggesting that maybe the old Atex system simply needed to be replaced.

As a test, they resent the zipped files to the press and all the ads were there.

W hat now? Even Tobias, who came in to finish cleaning the floors and carry out the weekend trash, peeked over their shoulders for a look-see. However, the man could barely use his smart phone, so he was more moral support than anything else.

By the time Caleb picked her up at the Gazette office for the Beach Boys concert, she was exhausted and frustrated. As temporary ad director, she finally knew what it felt like to labor in sales only to have production go belly-up.

“We don’t have to go to the concert,” Caleb said as they drove from the East End into the West.

Emery glanced over at him. “Yes, we do.” The iconic sound of the Beach Boys filled the truck cab from the playlist on Caleb’s phone. “It’s just ... how? I can’t stop thinking about how every ad was missing, yet when we re-sent the file this morning, they were all there.”

“Glitch? Something happened while sending the file?”

“We don’t think so, but it’s on a schedule, so who knows.”

“Wish I could say it’ll be okay, but I have no idea. In the meantime, how do you like my ensemble?” He tugged on the collar of his Hawaiian shirt.

She laughed. “Very beachy. And how do I look?” That morning, she’d slept in. Taken a long, hot shower. Was about to enjoy the Sunday Gazette while dining on a Sweet Conversations pastry with a cup of Sophisticated Sips coffee beans when Rex called.

“Have you seen the paper ?”

She jumped into a pair of yoga pants and an oversized Ohio State T-shirt, wrapped her wet hair in a topknot, and ran out the door.

Caleb gazed at her for a long moment, and she felt suddenly shy and tugged the tie from her hair.

“Maybe you shouldn’t answer that question,” she said.

“You look pretty. Or should I say good-looking.”

“ Bentley would be proud, but I’ll take pretty, even if I don’t believe you.”

“I’m serious. Your hair is all wavy. And it smells good.”

Emery rested against the back of the seat. “Okay, Quinn, get in the right mindset. You’re about to interview the Beach Boys. Oh—” She sat forward. “Delilah said, ‘If the boys remember me, tell them hi.’”

“Delilah Mead, the woman who still holds sales records, thinks they won’t remember her?” Caleb slowed for one of many West End traffic lights. “You think she’ll ever tell you why she walked away from music?”

“I think her story is very special to her. Like deeply personal. She’s not going to share it until she’s ready.”

“You think she played a part in you getting last-minute backstage passes?” Caleb eased off the light when it turned green. The narrow two-lane Sea Blue Way in the East became six in the West.

“I think Mac Diamond gave me these tickets.”

“Really?” Caleb cut her a side glance as “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” played in the truck. “And FYI, he’s not reached out to me, in case you’re wondering.”

“I’m not.”

“He didn’t Mr. Potter me.”

“Sure looked like it that night.”

“Well, he didn’t. By the way, we have a Main Street meeting this Thursday.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat before or after.”

“Caleb Ransom, did you just ask me out on a date?”

His side grin was so cute. “You asked me first.”

“Since when?”

“Um, now. I’m going to a Beach Boys concert with you. You don’t need me.”

“ I had two passes.”

“Could’ve taken Rex or Jane, even Delilah.”

Emery stared out her window. “I’d be okay with dinner.”

His laugh resonated through her and once again took her back to riding around in his Chevy S-10, blasting music and Caleb reaching across the bench seat to pull her closer to him.

“What’s Bentley doing tonight?” Emery spotted the amphitheater up ahead as Caleb navigated the concert traffic.

“Skating with the Feinberg boys.” He made a left into VIP parking.

“That kid ... I told him if he got tired of the rink to call Dad and Mom. He says, ‘I don’t have a phone.’ So, this afternoon I bought him a prepaid dumb phone, programmed in emergency numbers, and handed it to him, thinking ‘Not bad, Uncle Caleb.’” He shook his head.

“Bentley curled his lips and said something about a real phone, a smart phone, and I said, ‘If you think you’re getting a thousand-dollar phone at age eleven, you’ve got another thing coming.

’” Caleb powered down the window to show their press passes to security.

“Know what he said? ‘Okay, what’s the other thing coming? I need to check my options.’”

So, with a bit of laughter, they parked, then followed the signs to the press room, Emery shoving aside the missing ads debacle to focus on the opportunity ahead.

She’d solve the Gazette ’s problems tomorrow.

She would. There’s no reason an intelligent, educated woman couldn’t figure out what had happened.

For now, head in the game. She was about to interview two of the legendary Beach Boys: founding member Mike Love and longtime vocalist and contributor Bruce Johnston.

“You have ten minutes. Not a second more, so don’t ask.” A bearded man with Rocky Mountain muscles gave Caleb the once-over. “Who’s he?”

“My photographer,” she said. Caleb popped a wide grin and flashed his phone.

“ No photos in there.” The man shoved Caleb against a wall and ushered Emery to her seat across from Mike and Bruce.

Suddenly she was nervous. While she’d interviewed a few celebs in her time, and a great number of political figures at the Free Voice , this was for the Gazette .

Her paper. And a little bit for Delilah.

“Delilah Mead says hello,” she said right off the bat, and immediately the atmosphere changed. Mike and Bruce perked up and peppered her with questions.

“Delilah Mead, of course we remember her. Man, how is she?”

“She’s great,” Emery said.

“When we toured with her, every show was a blowout. What a voice.” This from Mike Love.

“Where is she these days?” Bruce said.

“Yeah, what’s she been doing the last forty years?”

Emery hit record on her phone and answered their questions as best she could. No, she didn’t know what happened to her or why she walked away from a stellar career. Yes, she’d love to know the rest of the story too.

“As far as I know,” Emery said, “she’s been running a motor motel in Sea Blue Beach for the last four decades.”

“Tell her to get in touch.” Mike handed over his card, then Bruce’s. “I wish she was here tonight. We’d pull her on stage.”

“My mom said there was no voice like Delilah in the late sixties, early seventies.” Emery tucked away their cards, treating them like gold.

“All true. Her last album had a sound that lives on,” Mike said. “Samson thought he was the brains and talent, but when they split, he never produced anything worth listening to again. Delilah was the genius behind their success.”

The mention of Delilah had turned the green room into a living room, and for thirty minutes, Mike and Bruce told stories. About their early days. About Bruce filling in for Brian Wilson i n 1965. About how the two of them toured longer than any other Beach Boy.

When their muscled man finally said, “Boys, you have to move on” for the third time, Mike and Bruce hugged Emery as if she was a long-lost friend and shook Caleb’s hand, looking at him like, Were you here the whole time?

Emery braved a request for a picture, which Mike granted, handing her phone to a hovering assistant.

The four of them squeezed together, smiling.

She exited the green room into a sour-faced huddle of print and TV reporters.

She’d stolen their time. Sorry, but bazinga, she had a stellar story for the Gazette . And for Delilah.

“You were magic in there.” Caleb grabbed her hand.

“Mentioning Delilah did it.”

“Maybe Delilah got you in the door, but the rest was all you. They were comfortable. You have that effect on people.”

“Do I?” Being tutored by a man with hard-news sensibilities, she’d viewed herself more of a gentle bulldog.

Get the story. Convey the facts. Ask questions.

Challenge the answers. Think through problems and situations.

She’d never considered herself comforting.

After losing Mom, she considered comfort a luxury.

Heading down the ramp to their seats, they passed a group of men in polos and pressed khakis. Bobby Brockton stood among them, with a lovely woman and another couple.

“Caleb?” Bobby said. “What’d you do, sneak backstage?”

“No sneak to it.” Caleb raised his press pass.

“Emery was interviewing Mike and Bruce. Great guys. You remember Emery Quinn, editor-in-chief of the Gazette ?” He introduced her to Bobby’s wife, Wren, and her brother, Tommy Lake, and his wife, Dani.

“Tommy owns JIL Architects. He’s good, gets all the West End jobs. ”

“Nice to see you all.” Emery shoved Caleb toward their seats in the center of the second row, bumping him with her hip. “Don’t antagonize those guys. He’ll tell Mac Diamond not to give you the golf course clubhouse.”

“Very funny. I’m not interested in his clubhouse. Nevertheless, it’s true. JIL wins just about every West End job.”