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Cold air smacks me in the face as I open the glass door that reads “Landry Gazette.”Wooden stairs creak as I climb them to the second floor. The stairwell muffles sound, so it’s a shock to step into the hustle and bustle of the newsroom.
“Lennon. A word,” my supervisor, Alex, tells me as he breezes by and heads for his office.
I trail after him immediately. I’m well aware he sees his role in coming up with and overseeing my assignments as a massive waste of time.
Most of the paper’s permanent staff members are in their mid-thirties and live outside of Landry. My impression is they’ve ended up here because their spouses wanted to live outside the big cities where most reputable papers are located.
Alex’s office is the total opposite of the messy farmhouse I picked my way through this morning. A couple of framed articles hang on the wall, but aside from that the space is spotless. A neat row of red pens is the only decoration on his desk.
“Good to have you back, Lennon.”
“Thanks,” I respond. The words are genuine, but I’m guessing Alex wouldn’t have been upset if recent events meant I didn’t return to the paper for a few more weeks.
“Now, for the summer—”
Emily, one of the other research assistants, pokes her head in from the hallway. “Sorry to interrupt…”
“Then why are you?” Alex asks, grabbing a pen and spinning it between two long fingers.
“Mr. Stradwell is here. He’d like to speak with Lennon. Immediately.”
“Right.” Alex’s face looks resigned, like he was expecting this.
I can’t say the same. Tom Stradwell, theGazette’s owner, attended Gramps’s funeral, but aside from that, I can’t recall the last time we spoke. He focuses more attention on his golf game and grandkids than at the many papers he owns.
Since he’s almost a decade past the traditional retirement age and the sole reason I’ve had a reliable paycheck for the past three years, I judge his time management less harshly than I know many of my co-workers do.
“Let him know—” Alex starts.
“No need to send a messenger, Alex-boy. I’m right here.”
Alex’s jaw clenches. If I had to guess, I’d say being called “boy” by your boss while you’re in your early thirties is not the greatest feeling.
“Hello, young lady.” Tom’s gaze has shifted to me.
Unlike Alex, I’m expecting the greeting. It’s what Gramps’s friends have always called me. It started when I was a toddler jumping into puddles and has stuck ever since, despite the fact I’m a “lady” often scrubbing water buckets or dumping manure when they stop by. Maybe because of it.
“Hi, Mr. Stradwell,” I respond.
“Tom, Lennon. Always Tom.” He smiles at me. The corners of light blue eyes crinkle, forming creases that work their way down his aged face. “Can we have a minute, Alex?”
We’re in his office, but Alex doesn’t point that out. “Yes, of course, Mr. Stradwell.”
There’s no name correction this time. Alex’s jaw tightens before he shoos Emily out of the room, shutting the door behind them.
Tom rounds the corner of Alex’s spotless desk and takes a seat in the swivel chair, leaning back as far as the springs will allow. They let out a squeak of protest, and that’s the only sound in the small room for several seconds. Tom folds his fingers under his chin, surveying me closely. I shift under the scrutiny.
“You doing all right?” he finally asks, kindly.
I knew venturing out into the world would probably involve some obligatory sympathies, but I didn’t expect to end up in a conversation with one of Gramps’s oldest friends.
“I’ll be fine,” I answer.
It’s not exactly what he asked, but he lets it slide with an understanding “hmmm.”
“I know Earl felt like he would likely leave you with an awful lot to worry about.”
“I’ll manage.”
