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1
Callie
I have three rules in life, and in business:
1. Never print a lie.
Sure, I might embellish a tad for dramatic effect, but I never lie. Lies come back to bite you.
2. Always be able to look at yourself in the mirror the next morning.
That means no stories that could hurt someone. I don’t expose cheating scandals if the people involved are nice people. I don’t write about people’s kids. I have a moral code, and I like to think it puts me head and shoulders above everyone else in this business.
3. A little fun never hurt anyone.
I really try to live this one every day. I go to bed with a smile on my face and hope in my heart for the morning. Even on my worst days, I ask myself what I have to look forward to. Stupid? Maybe. But it’s worked for me so far.
Until today.
I squint at my phone screen, hoping the number will change. It doesn’t. $25,000. How can we still owe that much on the line of credit? We did not need that printing contract. I told Dad to focus on digital distribution and social media, but he thinks a newspaperman isn’t a newspaperman without a physical paper. The big red deadline is just two weeks away. I could have sworn we were making payments on time and the balance should have been close to zero. Another thing I should have been monitoring instead of letting my father “handle it.”
I put the phone down and pour another cup of coffee. It’s lukewarm. Dad was up early today. He must have brewed it before the sun rose. It’s just peeking over the horizon now, filtering in the east-facing living room windows, weak and watery at this time of year. He’s probably in his office right now, holed up with three or four papers, sucking down the daily news and gossip like a drug.
“Dad,” I call.
“In here.” His voice comes from behind his office door. I weave through the haphazardly organized and cozy living room, past the worn couch and around stacks of books. There’s a huge sofa, a record player, and a big TV—all the comforts of home—at least according to my father. But not a feminine touch in sight. My mother’s never been in the picture, so it’s always been just me and Dad against the world.
When I push open the office door, his typical chaos greets me—an actual typewriter, our fat orange cat Samson, stacks of papers, a few decorative paperweights. My father is settled in his leather armchair, thumbing through the Post.
“Anything good in there today?” I lean against the doorframe.
He lifts his head. He might be slowing down, but his jovial-seeming face hides a sharp mind and intelligent eyes. They never miss a thing.
“They printed your photo of Jonah.” He flips the paper so I can see one of my photos from last week. In it, Jonah Crown, Manhattan’s favorite billionaire, is striding across the street, coffee in hand, looking deadly and handsome.
“I should hope so, with how much they paid for it.”
My father is silent. He hates talking about money, but it’s the root of all our problems these days. Irritation flares.
“Dad. What’s going on with the loan we took out?”
His eyes flick up and back down, his bushy brows drawing together. “It’ll get paid, Callie, don’t you worry.” Don’t you worry. Like I’m a child who shouldn’t bother her pretty head with serious things. Except this paper is my business and my lifeline, and ultimately, my legacy. And I want to save it. If only he will let me.
“It’s coming due. We got an email from the bank today. We have two weeks to make the payments. I thought we’d been paying consistently. How can we still owe twenty-five grand?”
“It’s okay,” he repeats absently, and thumbs to another page.
“We can’t just ignore this. We don’t have enough money coming in from the paper. The photos I’m taking are the only things keeping this business afloat. We need a strategy.” All the plans I’ve shared push to the forefront of my mind. A better website, digital subscriptions, higher quality photos, different branding, a focus on celebrity gossip. Something, anything to get us out of this funk. Ideas my father has refused to implement over the years.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not letting this go. I refuse to stand by and watch this paper fail.”
His jaw tightens but he doesn’t respond. My stomach sinks. This is how my father deals with everything. We never talk about my mom leaving. We never talk about his failing health or the doctor’s appointments that we can’t afford. We certainly don’t talk about how the paper is on its last legs.
We’ve had numerous versions of this conversation. I push him, but he shuts down. I don’t want to lose our paper because we were too cowardly to talk about its problems.
I wait for him to say something, before I walk out of his office with an aching heart.
