Page 17 of Off the Record

He leans back, assessing me. “Yes.”

Well, I appreciate his frank honesty. “Did you know at that time you’d be making the decisions about who would stay at the company and who would be cut?”

He stares at me. “I didn’t anticipate Ben removing himself from the equation, so, no, not entirely. I knew I’d be giving my opinions. It was a meeting about the future of the columns, Paisley.”

I nod, leaning back. He’s sitting much closer now. I get a whiff of his cologne, deep and velvety.

“Are you…” He watches me closely, deciding what to say. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem here,” I tell him. And there isn’t. None of this is a secret; it all makes sense. Still, I feel uneasy.

“I told you this already, but making cuts is the worst part of this job. I hate it.”

“Make someone else do it then. Who’s consulting? It can fall on them.” Although, I don’t really want that, do I? For whatever reason, Hudson seems to like my writing. I have a better chance of staying if he’s in charge.

“That’s too impersonal.” He leans back, running a hand over his face. “My uncle’s given me until the end of the month to submit my recommendations, but ultimately the decisions are made by a board, including the consultants. They’re creating a list of reasonable cuts to bring profits up. We’ll compare the lists and go from there.”

“Sounds like a lot.”

“It’s what I’m good at,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.

“Firing people?”

“Managing situations.”

“Then why don’tyoutake the open editor-in-chief position? You’re clearly good at editing, and the rest of the job is just managing groups of people.”

He goes still, staring at me. It seems like I hit a nerve with the question, but I can’t imagine how.

“Sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have?—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s my uncle. He wouldn’t want me to take a demotion.”

My eyebrows lift. Hudson’s position is up in the executive level, but that couldn’t really be much higher than editor-in-chief of a decent weekly paper, could it? “It’s barely a demotion. If you enjoy it more, wouldn’t that make it worth it anyway?”

He shakes his head. “I need to keep him happy. My mom’s been kind of difficult…anyway, what family doesn’t have drama, right? Just trying to stay out of mine.”

He pulls up my articles again, and I lean closer to see where he’s highlighted parts of it.

Hudson glances at me. “I know this is unconventional, but what are your thoughts on trying out a column about real locals? We have enough music news to fill the Grand Ole Opry ten times over. This will be fresh, interesting.”

“Everyone has a story,” I say, repeating what I’d heard my mom say over and over. “If we sit and listen, we’ll learn something new.”

“Exactly.”

“If you’re turning your recommendations into the board in a few weeks, I don’t have long to prove myself.”

“Two more papers,” he says. “We’ll use the bartender and the chicken lady this week. Get final versions to me by the end of Monday, and I’ll be sure they’re with formatting on time.”

“I can do that.”

The elevator dings and a few moments later a teenager appears, carrying in a brown paper bag that smells like garlic and heaven.

“Utensils in the bag?” Hudson asks, taking the food and handing him cash.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Ralph.”

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