Eva's Deadline

Dora nodded. “He liked a good time. And, yes, he was two years older than Eva. Seb had his heart set on Brett following in his footsteps here at the Herald. When Brett died, Seb went into hiding, and Boyd had to run the show. It was awful. Seb never got over losing his son. Never.”

“What happened to Seb’s wife?” Cody asked. “I’ve never heard much about her.”

“She died two or three years before Brett. Pancreatic cancer. Nasty stuff. Can take you just like that.” Dora snapped her fingers. “Janice was a lovely woman. Quiet and unassuming. Kept in the background. Seb definitely has been the boss in that family.”

“But what exactly caused Seb and Eva’s split?” Mark asked.

Dora shrugged and picked up her needles again. “Seb never wanted to talk about what happened with Eva. Maybe she just didn’t want to be second choice.”

“That doesn’t mean she has to take out her bad attitude on us,” April said.

“Not gonna be too good for morale around here,” Bernie grumbled under his breath.

“Remember, this is what Seb wanted,” Mark said. “And the terms are only for a year. We can handle it.”

A tension-filled silence descended on the group. Bernie drank his coffee and stared into space. Cody pulled a cloth from his back pocket and dusted the lens on his camera, while Dora concentrated on her knitting. April pouted and studied her fingernails.

Finally, Mark said, “I know you’re all upset about this turn of events. But I gotta say again, it’s what Seb wanted. He must’ve had his reasons. We’ll welcome Eva and do the best we can while she’s here. For Seb’s sake. For the Herald’s sake. Can I have your cooperation on that?”

The staff nodded their agreement.

When the meeting was over, Mark rinsed out his mug and hung it on the mug tree. Maybe Eva’s disappointment at being her father’s second choice to take over the business was the reason for her reluctance to accept the terms of his will.

Still, something told him there was more to the matter than that. Would he ever know? Judging by their relationship so far, he couldn’t see them becoming friends, much less confidants.

In the meantime, he must be careful to live up to the standards he’d set for the others. It wouldn’t be easy. As coeditors with different viewpoints, he and Eva were sure to clash over how to run the paper. Yes, the coming year promised to be challenging indeed.

* * *

“IS THIS ALL?” Eva glanced around the apartment’s combination living, kitchen and dining rooms, then shifted her gaze to Mrs. Halsey, the building’s owner.

Mrs. Halsey frowned and brushed a lock of gray hair from her forehead. “I’m not sure what you mean. What more do you want?”

“It’s just so...small.”

The apartment was on a corner of the town’s Main Street. It was on the second floor, above a mini-mall, with stores and antiques shops geared for the tourist trade—what there was of it in Willow Beach.

“Don’t forget the great view of the ocean.” Mrs. Halsey gestured to the picture window.

Eva walked over and gazed out. Mrs. Halsey had a point. From here she could see the ocean in all its glory, waves breaking on the sand, and she could even make out a couple of clam diggers trudging along with their buckets and shovels.

Still, she much preferred the view of Elliott Bay from her fifth-floor Seattle condo. Fortunately, she’d be able to return to the condo when her exile here was over. Her leaving coincided with her coworker Susan Jensen’s need for new living quarters, and Susan had happily sublet Eva’s unit. Plus, Susan said Eva could stay there whenever she returned to Seattle, something she looked forward to. She was homesick already.

“And this apartment is furnished,” Mrs. Halsey said. “You won’t find many furnished places around here.”

Eva tore her gaze away from the view to focus on the lumpy maroon sofa and two stiff-looking chairs upholstered in 1950s lime-green. Once again, she thought of her condo, with the beige sectional couch she’d purchased from Sigma Design, the fashionable furniture store on Queen Anne Hill.

Still, Mrs. Halsey was right about the dearth of furnished apartments in Willow Beach; Eva had searched all the ads she could find, and this was the only one offered.

There was always her father’s house, which was now hers. She could live there until she finished cleaning out the place and put it on the market. She shook her head. Better to stay here in this dingy rental than to be surrounded by all the painful memories.

She turned to Mrs. Halsey. “All right, I’ll take the apartment.”

Mrs. Halsey beamed, then opened a file folder she’d been carrying under one arm. Extracting two sheets of paper, she handed them to Eva. “Here’s the lease. First and last month’s rent due up front.”

“Of course.” Eva scanned the lease, then signed her name to both copies. She gave one to Mrs. Halsey.

The older woman squinted at her signature. “Eva Sinclair.” She looked up. “Are you Seb’s daughter? Heard you were in town.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Had to miss his memorial. Had to take care of my sick mother in Morganville.” She slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry for your loss. Seb was a wonderful man.”

“Thank you,” Eva said. Was there anyone in this town who did not think her father wonderful?

“You’re here to take over the Herald, then?” Mrs. Halsey tucked the lease into her file folder.

“Uh, no, just helping out for a while.”

“Good to keep it in the family.”

“Yes, well, I’d better start unloading my car,” Eva said hurriedly, not wanting to continue a discussion that made her uncomfortable. She stuffed her copy of the lease into her purse and headed for the door.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, Eva sat at the kitchen table in her new apartment, lingering over toast and coffee and putting off reporting for work at the Herald. When she could delay no longer, she stacked her dishes in the sink and collected her purse from the bedroom. On the way out, she glanced in the mirror on the bathroom door. She smoothed her chocolate-brown top over her beige slacks and tucked an errant lock of hair into the faux-pearl clip at her nape. At home, she would’ve worn a skirt, but this outfit ought to do just fine for the Herald. From what she’d seen of the staff, she doubted the newspaper had a dress code.

Leaving her car in its designated spot behind her apartment, she headed for the Herald’s office on foot.

Willow Beach hadn’t changed much, not the stores anyway. The window of Barnett’s Drugstore still displayed the same duck holding a placard that said Get Your Prescriptions Filled Here. And she would swear Macon’s Diner sported the very same café curtains in what was still an ugly black-and-white checker pattern. The Bon Ton Bakery still kept its door open, allowing enticing aromas to drift along the sidewalk.

Two blocks later, she arrived at the Herald, located between The Book Nook and Mac’s Barbershop. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, her fingers froze. Then, filling her lungs with a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The receptionist, whose name Eva remembered was April Hensen, looked up from her desk situated behind a semicircular counter. She had pale blond hair as fine as corn silk and high cheekbones any model would envy. Unfortunately, her checkered, sleeveless blouse was more appropriate for housecleaning than for meeting the public. Eva was right. The Herald had no dress code.

She shut the door and crossed the room. “Good morning, April.” She hoped her cheerful tone sounded authentic rather than forced.

“Morning,” April said in a flat voice. “I’ll let Mark know you’re here.” She picked up the telephone and punched a button. “He’ll be right out,” she said when she’d hung up. She turned back to her computer.

Feeling more like a customer than the new coeditor, Eva gazed around. She hadn’t taken much time to survey the place the night she’d arrived. The shock of Seb’s death had preoccupied her.

The reception area was as drab as it had always been, with half a dozen molded plastic chairs bracketed by two small tables. In one corner, a terra-cotta tub held a tired-looking philodendron. She thought of Seattle’s Best’s reception area and its elegant black leather sofa, matching side chairs and glass-topped coffee table with its bouquet of fresh flowers provided weekly by a local florist.

Spotting a stack of the latest edition of the Herald on the counter, she walked over and picked up a copy. Tabloid-size, with Willow Beach Herald printed in big letters across the top, the paper had at the most ten or twelve pages. Compared to Seattle’s Best, a publication of at least fifty glossy pages, many in color, the Herald seemed hopelessly dull.

At the sound of footsteps, she turned to see Mark walking down the hallway. He wore his usual jeans and short-sleeved shirt—today’s was blue—that showed off his tanned, muscular arms.

Mark’s long-legged stride quickly brought him to her side. She thought he was going to reach out and shake her hand, and she braced herself for his touch. But he rested his hands on his slim hips and let his gaze sweep over her.