Page 99 of Hearts on the Line

I think we might make small talk, but Ruth is always on a mission. “You handled yourself well at the fire.”

I blink. “That’s—thank you. I mean—” I don’t know what to do with the praise, especially from her.

Her gaze is steady, even as I take a sip of lemonade so I can look away.

“You had a personal connection to what was happening, and you still did the job.”

I grip the mason jar, fighting back a smile. “How did you⁠—”

“I know all this town’s secrets, remember?” she says, and there’s a dry humor there, but underneath it is something truer.

It lands in my chest, a little too close for me to relax. “I couldn’t… report at first,” I say, but it sounds thin even to me. “I had to do so much after the fact.”

She takes a slow sip of her lemonade, then sets the jar down with a small, final clink. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided not to go back to the paper.”

I sit up straighter. “Really?”

“It’s time I retired,” she says simply. “It’s been a good run. Longer than I ever thought I’d have. But my body’s telling me it’s time, and for once, I’m going to listen.”

I stare at her, at the sure line of her mouth, at the way she doesn’t look sad about it. “What will you do?”

“Write a book.” She shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to talk about the people who’ve passed through Merritt Point. She’s refused for years now, but maybe I can finally meet Jacqueline Truesdale.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. For such a small town, there’s so much history here, good and bad. “Not sure everyone here will like that.”

“They’ll survive.” She leans forward, bracing her elbows on the big rough-hewn table. “I’m not worried about libel right now. This summer scared me a bit.” She clears her throat. “I need someone to take my place.”

I shake my head before she’s even finished. “Ruth⁠—”

“I’m not asking for an answer right now,” she says. “I’m asking you to think about it. Big change starts small, Sloane. You have a gift for bringing people together. You’ve traveled enough to know that having a free voice is a privilege, and you understand what it means when someone tries to take that away.”

Her words hang there, quiet but weighted.

“You can take that PR job in New York,” she says. “You’ll do well. I mean, you’re a talented writer, and you know hockey in a way that most others don’t. Not everyone is Jimmy Arden’s daughter. But we both know you’ve got the journalism bug, always have since I hired you sophomore year to cover the summer theater productions. I realize others think journalism is under attack and dying, or responsible for so much of what’s wrong with the world right now. But you can help put up a fight and make sure there’s still community here in Merritt Point.”

I swallow. “That’s… idealistic.”

“So?” she says, one eyebrow lifting. “The best fights always are.”

Something in my chest twists. Because I want to say no. I want to tell her I’ve done my time chasing stories no one cared about, watching them die because of an algorithm’s whim, or battle editorial because the money wasn’t where the true stories were. Headlines do, and always will, sell.

She watches me like she knows exactly where my head is. “I’m not telling you it’s easy,” she says. “I’m telling you it’s worth it. But it has to be your choice, Sloane. Not what I think. Or your mom. Or Ethan. You.”

Outside, the breeze moves through the old, twisted apple orchard in the field behind the house. The light’s gone softer now, that late-afternoon gold washing over the stretch of land before the bright hills meet the dark edge of the forest.

I think about Ethan saving my dad’s picture. About the way the town showed up in the hours and now days after the fire. The way strangers and neighbors worked side by side to clean up the damage on Main Street. About the stories that will get told, and the ones that will fade.

When I finally look back at her, Ruth is smiling. “Just think about it,” she says again, softer this time.

I nod because I can’t promise more. But the truth is, the idea is already stubbornly lodged inside my chest.

Chapter 34

Ethan

My dad is hunched over at the dining room table, on the phone again with the insurance company.

His readers are slipping down his nose, and since my parents have vowed off ever installing an AC in their house, it’s fucking hot—oppressively humid and sticky—and everyone’s tempers are on edge.