Page 12 of In This Moment

Honestly, until she walked in, Graham would’ve sworn on his mother’s life that Jefferson was incapable of cracking a smile. The elder black man showed up for work three days a week in pressed slacks and a button-down short-sleeved shirt, nodded hello, then parked it in his chair. He was straight-up old school. Alas, he was not only grinning, but engaged readily in conversation. Most Graham had gotten out of him were one word replies.

Joan, who arrived for work in tracksuits of varying colors, warpaint resembling a clown, and bottle brunette hair teased like 1980’s Texas, often wouldn’t quit yammering once he got her going. Anything from nail polish color to her grandkids’ names or hobbies. Thus, he tried hard not to start anything he couldn’t or wouldn’t finish. Whatever she was telling Rebecca had her animated, hands flailing, and a polite smile from her avid listener.

His heart did some kind of shift. Perhaps started beating again, he didn’t know, but Rebecca was lovely. The classic kind that didn’t require artificial help. Sunlight from the big bay window storefront lit her blonde strands and created a halo around her form. The term angel came to mind, but her feisty attitude toward him didn’t fit the adage. That, or he was finally losing his gourd if he thought seraphs were coming down from On High.

She shifted the strap for a portfolio bag on her shoulder, patting Jefferson’s arm as she passed to walk Graham’s way.

Her stride resembled her personality. Strong. With purpose. Confident. About halfway to his office, she lifted her gaze to his, and her steps faltered. Confusion wrinkled her forehead as she moved slower. Once she reached the doorway, she looked at the nameplate beside the door, then at him, then at the plate again. A close of her eyes, and she dropped her chin, sighing.

He wanted to laugh. Badly. Guess she’d been unaware he was the new editor. “Hello, Rebecca.”

“Mr. Roberts.” She stared at him, deadpan.

He smiled. Not a difficult feat, yet it still felt foreign to his cheeks. “You can call me Graham. We’re neighbors, after all.”

“I suppose we are. Graham, then. Do you have a moment?”

For her? He had all day. “Of course. Come in. Have a seat.”

She claimed one of the black leather chairs across from his desk and set the bag in her lap, looking around. Her gaze traveled over the diplomas and framed articles on the brick wall behind him, then at the tall black shelving units on the walls beside him where he had books and trinkets of his life.

“What can I do for you today?” After his conversation with Forest the other night, Graham figured he knew what had spurred the visit, but he’d learned not to assume.

“I’m looking for a job.” She opened her portfolio and passed him a folder. “That’s my résumé, references, and letters of recommendation.”

Her accent had shifted from the drawl in the bar when she’d been pissed off at him to barely a trace of her southern lilt. And her tone was coolly polite. Pity. He preferred the sass.

“Let’s have a look.” He’d been itching to know more about her, if he was being honest.

He glanced briefly at her deets. She’d been a reporter at her college paper for three years. Graduated in the top tenth percentile of her class with a journalism degree. She’d gone right from school to the Boston newspaper, where it appeared she’d remained until a few weeks ago. Again, he had to wonder why she wanted to shift from a huge print syndicate in a large city to a small press in an even smaller town. His position required him to be careful in asking.

“Why did you leave your previous position?” There. A common inquiry.

“It wasn’t a good fit for me, and I was looking for a change.”

A very practiced reply and proved she knew her way around professionalism. Most people around these parts interviewed like they were dining with kin and discussing the grapevine. “You were there almost seven years. Why wasn’t it a good fit?”

A swallow worked her delicate throat as she glanced at her lap. A few beats passed before she inhaled and met his gaze with her blue one as if shoring her reserve. Like a cobalt sky in fall, her eyes. “There was really no room for advancement.”

Another practiced reply.

Frustrated, because he wanted candidness, he looked at her file again. “What was your position in Boston?” Her résumé only stated the dates employed.

She offered a slow blink, and when she looked at him, it was through him instead. Defeat turned the corners of her lips downward. “Obituaries. Sometimes, they had me play with ad space if someone was on vacation.”

Oh. That seemed almost insulting to her skill set. No wonder she was upset and wanting a change. Everyone had to start somewhere, but after six years, she should’ve been promoted.

“Do you have examples of your writing?” Maybe she wasn’t very good. He doubted that, though.

She extracted another file and passed it to him.

The articles from her college years were everything from political commentary to security issues on campus to protest movements she’d covered. He scanned one article just to get a gist for her style, and liked it. A lot. She was to the point, backed up her words, but it read like a conversation over whiskey by a fire. Very inviting. She’d obviously found and knew her voice. Some journalists took half a decade to figure out theirs. Her example at the Boston paper was one article on a prominent art gallery owner who’d passed away. The other was a copy image of the obituary section.

“I assume you didn’t care for your role and level in Boston? Did you try to submit other stories?”

“My first few years, yes. After that, it was apparent they preferred me where I was, and I got overlooked for other positions I applied to.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of that. She had talent and a good eye. If he got to know her better, perhaps she’d share more details, but for now, he moved on.

---