Page 68 of In a Word, Yes

Wyatt reads the opening chapter of his new story. He writes with a crisp, humorous tone that sucks me in right away, even though the story is meant for kids. He asks our group for help with a plot problem. “I’m trying to think of a plausible reason these kids would venture out into the forest without a grownup in the first place,” he says. “They’re good kids, and they’re not stupid.”

“Maybe they’re out looking for Sasquatch?” Nytasha offers.

“Hmm. Could be. But these boys are pretty nerdy. I doubt they’d buy into a myth.”

“What about geocaching?” I say.

Wyatt leans back. Taps his pen on his thigh. “You know, that could work.” After a pause, he says, “Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of thing these guys would be into. Man. Why didn’t I think of that?” He scribbles a note on his paper. “Thank you, Lucy. This is such a huge help.”

His smile sends warm tingles through me.

Ian taps my left arm with a stack of papers—copies of Bernard’s piece making the rounds. Absently I take a copy and pass the stack to Billie on my right. She winks at me. All night she’s been tracking my every interaction with Ian.

But in the fantasy I’m currently having, it isn’t Ian that’s taken with me. It’s Wyatt.

I don’t let myself look at him for the rest of the night.

Twenty-Three

druthers(n.): free choice; the power or opportunity to choose

“Have a seat,” Sam says the following morning.

I hold out one of the small pumpkins I bought yesterday. “May I?”

He cocks a brow. “Long as I don’t have to water it.”

I give it a home on the only clutter-free patch of his desk.

“You know, Montgomery,” Sam says, lacing his fingers and resting them on the desk, “when you showed up here five years ago, you were fairly green. And rather a deer in headlights.”

My jaw tightens. It feels a little early in the day for Sam to splay me open like a trout.

“But you know what else I saw? Spunk. The fact that you struck out on your own with that boy of yours. Most people would call that courage.” He narrows his gaze at me. “But I’m guessingyoumight call it something else.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Something I could probably stand to take stock of myself.”

I think I see where Sam is heading. With my job going away, he figures I’ll have to rely on faith again. Here’s what’s odd. I alreadyam. There isn’t an anxious bone in my body. I’m sitting here, about to get handed my pink slip, with no vision for what comes next, and I’m exponentially at peace.

I offer Sam a reassuring smile. No need to make this more difficult for him than it already is.

“You’re a scrappy young woman, Lucy, and I’m not sure you know that about yourself. In fact, you remind me a little of myself. I won’t bore you with the unsavory details. Suffice it to say, I was given little reason to believe in myself. But push came to shove, ya know? Anyway, now I know it hasn’t exactly made me into a soft fellow.” He chuckles, and I smile. “Still working on that. But what Iamis a pretty decent judge of character.”

And...?

“What I’m trying to say is that I see something in you. Something hard to come by these days. Something genuine. I appreciate the way you look at the world. The way you look at people. And I don’t have to tell you community journalism is all about people.”

Maybe Sam feels the need to lay it on thick before lowering the hammer. Even so, beneath my ribs, a tender bouquet of warmth blooms. His generous words skirt my practiced resistance and hit their marks.

“That means a lot to me, Sam. Thank you.”

He reclines, and his chair groans. “I liked the way you handled yourself the other day when I was out of commish. You got things done. And you got them done in theMountain Messengerway. Chasing that last-minute story about the protest over at city hall—you didn’t have to do that. But you did. Ha! Word has it you even put our Mr. Vickery in his place.” Sam winks. “Bravo.”

Peace, don’t fail me now.

“So. What’s the old guy getting at, you must be wondering.”

I smile, and Sam leans in. “To tell it square, Lucy, we’ve come to a pivotal moment in the life of this paper. I met with the McPhersons, as you well know. Managed to pull off a stay of execution.But our days are likely numbered. I’ve been tasked with drawing up a proposal—some way to make this paper pencil out.”

Sam rubs his brow as if warding off a headache. “I sense there’s an idea out there, a way forward. But doggone it if I’ve got the mental bandwidth to arrive at it. Frankly, with everything going on with Noleen, this couldn’t come at a worse time.”