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“I may have to verify that with your mother at some point,” she said, smiling.
“I stand by it.” I nodded toward her bag, which she’d slung over her shoulder. “Your arm feeling better tonight?”
“Much better,” she said, smirking.
I walked her out to where she’d parked Pete’s truck and she got in, the truck struggling to start up.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” I said. “I’ll follow you home.”
“You don’t need to do that,” she said, waving her cell phone. “I’ll text you when I get there.”
“Okay.”
“Good night.”
“Night, Avon.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Avon
“It’s all loaded up, Miss Douglas,” the driver from Helping Hands said. “Here’s a receipt for your tax records.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I said, taking the slip of paper.
I’d donated all of my uncle’s clothes, shoes, small furniture, and kitchen items to the local charity that helped those in need. They’d sent two men over to load it all into a truck, saving me countless trips up and down the stairs.
Bess had been side-eying me from her desk the entire time, silently judging me for parting with Pete’s things. There was no reason to keep them when they could do others some good, though. I was getting to know my uncle by running the Chronicle and by studying his photos. I didn’t need his blender or his flannels anymore.
“Can you come take a look at this layout?” Bess asked me.
Christmas was on Monday, so the Chronicle would be closed. We were preparing next week’s paper today, on Friday, so we could take Monday and Tuesday off. I walked over to Bess’s desk and studied the large computer monitor, double-checking spelling and kerning. Devon was off for two weeks visiting family, so it was only me and Bess making sure this week’s edition looked just right.
“That’s a beautiful photo, you know,” Bess said. “You’ve come a long way with your photography in the past month. Pete would have been proud.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to quell the tears filling my eyes. Not only had Bess just dished out a very rare compliment, but she’d also praised me for something that meant a lot to me. Being told my sweater was nice hit differently than being told that the thousands of photos I’d taken while trying to make the Chronicle look its best had paid off.
“Thank you,” I said.
I’d been in the right place at the right time to capture the photo of a reindeer at the sleigh ride event on Svensday this past week, looking like he was smiling at a little girl who was petting him. In the moment, I’d kept the camera up, snapping off photo after photo so I would have several to choose from.
Immediately after that, though, when I looked at the photos on the camera’s small screen, I knew I had something special. It felt great to know that Bess liked it, too.
This afternoon, I had a meeting at Max Morrison’s office. Half of me wanted him to tell me there was a buyer for the paper, but the other half was conflicted.
I was surprisingly hooked on seeing my work in print every week when one of the pressmen delivered the first few hard copies of the paper to the newsroom. I’d only ever worked in sales before, where the evidence of my hard work came solely in numbers. Units sold. Customers retained. Bonuses earned.
I’d always thought I loved the numbers; they were a black-and-white measurement of my success. But here, my week of work was displayed in stories about school board meetings and women who had been quilting for sixty years. It was in photos of people laughing, shoveling snow, and sledding down hills on their stomachs, arms in the air.
There was no question I’d continue pursuing photography once I got back to San Diego. Pete’s camera belonged to the Chronicle, but I hoped to buy it when I sold the paper. When I was taking photos, I felt a sense of peace that nothing else gave me. Stopping to observe the world around me instead of racing to keep up with it was a nice break.
“I’ve been over it so many times my eyes are crossing,” Bess said. “Does it look okay to you?”
I nodded slowly, reading every headline one more time. Last week, I’d caught myself in a headline error about an upcoming “pubic meeting” that was supposed to be a “public” one, and now I was paranoid.
“I think we’re good,” I said.
“I’ll print hard copies and go over them again later.”
“Will you print some for me, too?”
“You betcha.”
I started walking back to my desk, but something made me turn back to Bess.
“Do you like me more than you did when I first got here?” I asked. “Because I felt like you hated me then and now it seems like you…hate me less?”
Bess smiled, and I realized how infrequently I saw her smile. Did she smile more at home, or was she just a serious person?
