Page 5 of Off the Record

I take the seat across from him and open my computer. I half expect him to mention the tire or his ruined pants, but he says nothing, so I take initiative and start my campaign to prove my worth. “I’ve been working on a list of potential concepts centered around the upcoming holidays. Good, family-friendly haunted houses, where to donate time or resources for Thanksgiving charities, how to find the best Santa experiences?—”

“Is there such a thing?”

“As a good Santa experience? Yes. Probably.” I wouldn’t actually know. As one of six kids, my parents tended to make our own experiences at home. Everything became too expensive when you had to multiply it by six.

“How do you intend to choose which ones are the best? Testing Santas?”

I clear my throat. Was that a joke, or is he hinting that I’m already being shoved out by pointing out the ridiculous nature ofmy idea? “I meant on a practical level. Where to avoid the lines or get affordable pictures.”

Hudson nods, leaning back in his chair, his blue eyes still fastened on me with penetrating endurance. “I looked through the numbers for your last few columns.”

Great. This meeting is him trimming the fat after all. Time to prove he needs me to keep things from getting too dry in the roasting pan that is this office.

Bad analogy? I’m under duress right now.

Heart hammering, I lean forward and put my computer on the edge of the desk, spinning it to face him. “Those aren’t my only ideas. I can also form a guide to the best produce self-picking options, do a bit on porch decorating on a budget, a series of recipes for autumn-themed entertaining?—”

“I’m not firing you, Ms. McConkie.”

Oh. My desperation is bleeding through. I sit back. “You looked at my numbers.”

“Your clicks aren’t high enough.” He spins a BIC pen on his desk, watching me. “It’s no secret we need to revamp the place, give it a fresh edge. You were in the meeting last month to discuss the future of our columns.”

I was, and it scared me then as much as it does now. Lowest on the food chain, remember? I’m the meerkat. He’s the lion.

Kyla’s a hyena.

“People are evolving,” he continues. “They aren’t the same now as they were ten years ago, so the themes of ten years ago won’t cut it anymore. We need fresh voices to match our new direction.”

Fresh. He considers me outdated? Me? I don’t even own a pair of skinny jeans anymore—half of my closet is wide-legged trousers. “Family traditions don’t change much, though, and that’s my job, to give families a monthly guide.” I’m literally thecolumn moms go to in order to find seasonal tips and tricks. How am I meant to evolve that?

Hudson pulls something up on his screen. “Your best performing article since joining us was about Carnton. What do you think grabbed readers’ attention?”

About a civil war plantation house? “Probably the bloodstains they still have on the floor.”

His mouth quirks into a little smile, making my stomach flip. “Maybe.” He watches me, like if we sit in silence long enough, the answer will come.

Okay, fine. I think back on that article and how different it is from most of the other pieces I’ve put out in the last eight months. First off, it wasn’t a guide at all. It was about a local historical gem and the fantastic employee who took me on the tour. She was old, spunky, and didn’t shy away from the difficult parts of the property’s history. I didn’t write all the details about walking through the cemetery or the various outbuildings, but I’d tried to paint a picture of the gorgeous house and the family that lived in it, interspersed with Maggie’s fascinating tidbits. The woman has been working at Carnton for over twenty years. She’s a veritable expert.

“History?” I ask. “Maybe readers want to know more about the past lives in our rich history.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I don’t think that’s it. When I read that article, it stood out to me as well. A touch above the rest.”

A blush steals up my neck. Hudson Owens has been reading my work? It’s ideal for him to do that if he’s going to be whittling down our department, but I still can’t believe it. He seems too swanky to bother himself withThe Ten Best Ways to Beat the Summer Heat in Downtown Nashville.

Internally, I do my best not to cringe.

It also feels like one of thoseleading the witnesssituations here. Hudson already has the answer, and he wants me to say it for him. But he also has twenty other people to interview.

“There are two other civil war properties related to Carnton. If you’d like, I can do a series, visiting each?—”

“It’s not the civil war history that set that article apart, Ms. McConkie.”

“You can just call me Paisley,” I tell him. He’d said it this morning on the side of the road, after all. “Ms. McConkie” makes me feel like I’m getting in trouble with my high school English teacher for chatting too much with a friend.

“Paisley,” he says, moving his lips around the word like he’s born to it. Sheesh, it’s getting warm in here. “You’re a good writer, but TripAdvisor already exists. Anyone can Google the ten best Santas in town. I want us to offer something different. Something that will draw people in, not just keep their attention once they’re already reading.”

Draws them in? That has to be something ultra interesting. A serial. Something with consistency. Do we even have enough history in the area to support more than a year’s worth of articles?

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