the entire school year of 1986-87.
Looking down at her watch— 8:45 — Charleigh wondered what Jamie was doing at his office in Dallas. Correction: it wasn’t as much an office as the plush one he’d had in New York City as it was a small cubicle. A very small cubicle, he’d griped. She yawned, fidgeting on the hard plastic bleachers, and took another glance at her watch.
8:53 , Granddad was probably just coming in to the feed store with his thermos of hot coffee tucked underneath his arm and a fifty-cent package of sunflower seeds sticking out of a back pants pocket.
Could this be any more boring?
“Thank you all for coming. You can collect your orientation packets from your child’s teacher.” The elementary principal’s voice over the loud speaker shocked Charleigh out of her stupor of complete and utter boredom. She climbed down from her seat in the bleachers and went to find the group of students where Chris stood.
“Oh, Charleigh. Hi,” Missus McCallum, her teacher from fourth grade, said. She taught second grade now. The woman breathed a loud puff of air that tousled her bangs.
The closest thing Charleigh had ever had to a favorite teacher, Elise McCallum had doted on her. It was discovered years later that she had had a thing for the very single Mike Randall after her divorce was finalized and hoped the extra-special attention she paid to his daughter would spark his interest in her. Unfortunately, it never did.
“Hi.” It was all Charleigh could think to say as she came to stand behind Chris. She put a hand on the boy’s forehead, dragged it back across his crown to ruffle his hair. Groaning, he grabbed her hand away but held on tightly.
“Are you nervous, pal?” She asked, and her seven-year-old cousin simply nodded in response. Charleigh squeezed his little hand. “It’s alright. First days were always a little unsettling for me too. It all came out in the wash, though.”
Chris nodded again. It wasn’t a confident nod. He turned halfway to look up at her. “Uncle Mike used to say that too.”
“I guess I must have picked that up from him then,” Charleigh replied just as Chris’s name was called to join Missus McCallum’s class. She sent the boy off with a supportive push.
As soon as Charleigh collected the packet, she left and headed toward the paper offices. The building where The Magnolia Messenger was located was an old stucco on the corner of Main and Lockhart, in the heart of the small town. It was the same place it could have been found— and looked much as it had— when Caroline Randall’s father had started the paper more than four decades ago.
The large open space was alive with activity when she came through the front door. The sounds of keyboards under mad attack, people talking louder than normal and riotously ringing phones were present as always.
There were still a few reporters left in the conference room with Caroline, but the door was open, meaning the meeting was over. Charleigh stepped up to the doorway just as one of the younger journalists was leaving.
Hill Baird, a sports reporter, greeted her with a broad smile around the pencil in his mouth. A steno pad was tucked under his armpit. Without a word, he winked and kept walking.
Hot. Hot ! Very hot! And Hill knew it, too.
Stepping up toward the table, Charleigh remained silent. It sounded as if her aunt was in a heated ‘discussion’— because Caroline Randall never raised her voice— with Conrad Morgan, one of her veteran writers, over the length of his story. She was not going to budge, which sent the man storming out of the room.
Conrad flew by Charleigh, knocking her backward into the nearby water-cooler. He didn’t bother to help her pick up the leaking bottle or— in the very least! — apologize.
Oh, for crying out loud! Charleigh wanted to scream as she struggled to put the large plastic bottle, which felt as if it weighed a ton, back on its base. Water sloshed from the spout, pouring
Looking down at her watch— 8:45 — Charleigh wondered what Jamie was doing at his office in Dallas. Correction: it wasn’t as much an office as the plush one he’d had in New York City as it was a small cubicle. A very small cubicle, he’d griped. She yawned, fidgeting on the hard plastic bleachers, and took another glance at her watch.
8:53 , Granddad was probably just coming in to the feed store with his thermos of hot coffee tucked underneath his arm and a fifty-cent package of sunflower seeds sticking out of a back pants pocket.
Could this be any more boring?
“Thank you all for coming. You can collect your orientation packets from your child’s teacher.” The elementary principal’s voice over the loud speaker shocked Charleigh out of her stupor of complete and utter boredom. She climbed down from her seat in the bleachers and went to find the group of students where Chris stood.
“Oh, Charleigh. Hi,” Missus McCallum, her teacher from fourth grade, said. She taught second grade now. The woman breathed a loud puff of air that tousled her bangs.
The closest thing Charleigh had ever had to a favorite teacher, Elise McCallum had doted on her. It was discovered years later that she had had a thing for the very single Mike Randall after her divorce was finalized and hoped the extra-special attention she paid to his daughter would spark his interest in her. Unfortunately, it never did.
“Hi.” It was all Charleigh could think to say as she came to stand behind Chris. She put a hand on the boy’s forehead, dragged it back across his crown to ruffle his hair. Groaning, he grabbed her hand away but held on tightly.
“Are you nervous, pal?” She asked, and her seven-year-old cousin simply nodded in response. Charleigh squeezed his little hand. “It’s alright. First days were always a little unsettling for me too. It all came out in the wash, though.”
Chris nodded again. It wasn’t a confident nod. He turned halfway to look up at her. “Uncle Mike used to say that too.”
“I guess I must have picked that up from him then,” Charleigh replied just as Chris’s name was called to join Missus McCallum’s class. She sent the boy off with a supportive push.
As soon as Charleigh collected the packet, she left and headed toward the paper offices. The building where The Magnolia Messenger was located was an old stucco on the corner of Main and Lockhart, in the heart of the small town. It was the same place it could have been found— and looked much as it had— when Caroline Randall’s father had started the paper more than four decades ago.
The large open space was alive with activity when she came through the front door. The sounds of keyboards under mad attack, people talking louder than normal and riotously ringing phones were present as always.
There were still a few reporters left in the conference room with Caroline, but the door was open, meaning the meeting was over. Charleigh stepped up to the doorway just as one of the younger journalists was leaving.
Hill Baird, a sports reporter, greeted her with a broad smile around the pencil in his mouth. A steno pad was tucked under his armpit. Without a word, he winked and kept walking.
Hot. Hot ! Very hot! And Hill knew it, too.
Stepping up toward the table, Charleigh remained silent. It sounded as if her aunt was in a heated ‘discussion’— because Caroline Randall never raised her voice— with Conrad Morgan, one of her veteran writers, over the length of his story. She was not going to budge, which sent the man storming out of the room.
Conrad flew by Charleigh, knocking her backward into the nearby water-cooler. He didn’t bother to help her pick up the leaking bottle or— in the very least! — apologize.
Oh, for crying out loud! Charleigh wanted to scream as she struggled to put the large plastic bottle, which felt as if it weighed a ton, back on its base. Water sloshed from the spout, pouring
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