Page 5 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“You need something? Because last I checked, that tree-lighting piece still isn’t on my desk.”
“Just landed in your inbox, actually.” Jackson props a shoulder against the doorframe. “Six hundred words on the majesty of a thirty-foot Eastern White Pine shipped across statefrom Egremont, plus a sentimental ode to your charming little local tradition of standing around freezing your asses off while it’s lit. It’s the one I’ll be remembered for.”
“People around here care about that sort of thing, Jackson. And like it or not, they read what you write.”
Jackson snorts. “They read it because it’s the only paper in town, Mort. Captive audience.”
“Uh-huh.” Mort pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know, when I hired you, you sat right there in that chair and told me you were looking to slow down. Smaller pond, smaller fish; your words. This is what that looks like. And now you’re standing here sulking?—”
“Not sulking.”
“Whining? Pouting? Grousing?” Mort ticks off each adjective on his fingers. “Acting like a petulant little asshole? Hang on a second, I’ll dust off my thesaurus… Whinging? Whinging is a good one.”
“Alright, alright, settle down,” Jackson concedes, hands raised in mock surrender. “I’m notnotgrateful to pull a steady paycheck exposing the dark underbelly of beach parking permits. But listen, I think I’ve stumbled onto something that’ll actually get people talking.”
“And my blood pressure up, no doubt.” Mort does his best to look put-upon, but Jackson can tell he secretly enjoys their back and forth as much as Jackson does. “Give me the pitch, but I think you are underestimating how mad people are about those fucking parking permits.”
Jackson stands still, the air gone thinner. For a moment, he’s back in a Boston newsroom at midnight, chasing tips with his jacket half on and his phone pressed to his ear. He’d forgotten how loud it could get when that pulse kicked back in. “My gut says illegal waste dumping. Something’s off with the fishin Scrimshaw Cove, which, conveniently, sits right in Whitaker Seafood’s backyard. Hell of a coincidence.”
“Uh huh. And you can prove that? I know you’re not from around here, but the Whitakers are an institution. They do a lot of good for this town: donations, sponsorships….”
“And a hefty chunk of ad space in the Gazette, right?” Jackson adds innocently.
Mort’s jaw tightens a fraction. “Which does help keep those steady paychecks coming in, Jackson. For both of us. I’m not saying ignore a lead, but I’m not convinced the Whitakers would poison their own well. Seems unlikely.”
“I promise I’m not looking to go all Upton Sinclair on a hunch. And if it turns out to be nothing, I’ll do a nice, fuzzy piece on their holiday donations. Either way, you get a story.”
Mort waves him off, half affectionate, half resigned. “Fine, you maniac. Poke around. It’s not like I can stop you. But the rest of your work doesn’t suffer. You keep me in the loop on this, and you don’t make me regret giving you the green light. I’m too old for a lawsuit.”
Jackson pushes off the doorframe, buttons his coat, and delivers a lazy salute. “No worries. Strictly fair, objective reporting. Besides, it’s not like the Whitakers have anything to hide, right?”
Chapter 5
Ben
Abright chime from his phone cuts through the factory din. Calendar reminder. Five minutes until a meeting he swore wasn’t on his schedule an hour ago.Interview: Jackson James, Silver Shoals Gazette.His father’s assistant must’ve slipped it in. Fantastic.
He’s at the far end of the maintenance shop, double-checking the rebuild status of the spare once-through cooling water pump. Now he has to sprint back to the main office without wiping out on the minefield of slick patches in the icy yard. He nearly does anyway, twice, before bursting through the lobby door.
There’s one man waiting. Seated and immaculate with a tailored coat, perfect pill-free sweater, face handsome enough to belong on a magazine cover. He looks up at the sound of Ben wheezing.
Ben crosses the floor fast, hoping to channel professionalism through sheer velocity. “Apologies, Mr. Jackson,” he says, breathless and sweaty.
The man rises with the kind of slow composure that makes Ben just want to lie down and give up. “James,” he says smoothly.
Ben’s brain stalls for half a second, taking in that smile. “Right, James. Pleasure to meet you, James…” He trails off, more than a little tongue-tied.
A faint chuckle escapes the reporter’s mouth. “Actually, it’sJacksonJames.”
Ben feels a full tomato red blush suffuse his face. “Oh God, I am so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. One of the hazards of having two first names.”
Feeling like an absolute idiot, Ben stabs the elevator button about six times in quick succession. Thankfully, it slides open immediately. Ben moves aside in time to catch the door, nodding for Jackson to go first. Jackson hesitates for a beat, long enough to register the gesture, then steps in without comment.
The doors ease shut, Ben feeling for the first time as though the elevator is far too cramped. He can’t help noticing Jackson’s scent, vetiver and shea butter. It’s simple, understated, and impossibly appealing. Ben fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, painfully conscious of the scent rising off him: equal parts brine and stress sweat.
To distract from it, he blurts, “So, did you, uh, grow up here in Silver Shoals? I feel like I would’ve remembered seeing someone like you around.” The second it leaves his mouth, he cringes.
