Cold Tea on a Hot Day (11 page)

Corrine’s small head poked out the passenger window of the Cherokee. “To get doughnuts for the paper.” The girl’s voice came thinly across the distance.

Tate pulled his BMW through the intersection and up alongside Marilee. Her window and the rear passenger window, where Willie Lee poked his head out, came down at the same time.

“Hi, Mis-ter Tate.”

“Hello, Willie Lee…hello, Munro,” he added to the dog, who brought its head alongside the boy’s.

Then he shifted his gaze to Marilee. Big dark glasses hid her eyes.

She said, “We’re goin’ to get doughnuts to take down to the paper.”

“I thought we were going to have some cakes delivered.” He tried to see through the dark lenses. It was disconcerting to be talking to emotionless dark glasses.

“Too early. Bonita isn’t deliverin’ the cakes until around ten, and the office is already filling up with people…who all pretty much want to smack you for darin’ to change an institution of the town.”

“I know.” How well he knew. “Phone’s been ringin’ since yesterday. I got a call this mornin’ before I even got my shower.” Annoyance crawled over him, and he focused it on Marilee’s sunglasses. He considered
reaching out and yanking them right off her face so he could look her in the eye.

“Charlotte called to ask me to bring my tea maker,” she said, “and to go get another three dozen doughnuts. She brought in a dozen herself, and they’re gone.”

“I’d best scoot down there, then, and give her a hand with crowd control.” He could not believe the uproar over the tiny newspaper.

“Yes, you had better.”

“Get me some jelly doughnuts,” he thought to sling out the window as Marilee drove on.

He put his vehicle in gear and headed down the street, thinking that he should have anticipated a strong objection to changing the paper from a daily. Such outcry should be a cause for celebration on his part; it showed a lot more people than he had imagined read it.

He suspected, though, that the outcry had less to do with the number of people who read the paper and more with the simple fact that human beings did not take readily to change, even to change that meant improvement.

He shook hands and offered a friendly welcome and an attentive ear, which he had long ago learned was the best way to deal with complaints. Most people were content, once they had been heard out. There was not much more he needed to offer than a true listening ear.

The place had cleared out, and Tate had made it to his office, when a short but ramrod-straight grey-haired man in a dark cardigan, plaid shirt and creased khakis appeared at his door.

“Charlotte isn’t out here,” the man said to Tate. “No one is out here.”

“Well, now, I’m sorry. Charlotte was just here.” Tate came to the door and looked out at the empty room where only minutes before at least three women had been working at their desks.

“I guess everyone has stepped out. Can I help you?”

“Hmmm…Everett Northrupt,” the man said, sticking out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Tate Holloway.”

“I figured.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “I want to know how you will handle my account. I’m paid up for a year of dailies. I expected to receive them. I have received them for eight years, since I moved down here. Always paid on time. I tip the boy ten dollars, twice a year, Easter and Christmas.”

“I’m sure the young man appreciates that, sir. And we appreciate you as a customer. Don’t you worry about your account. It will be adjusted. You won’t lose any money.”

“I paid for a daily. I expect a daily.” The man stared intently at Tate.

“Well, sir…we can give you a refund.” Tate pulled at his ear.

“I don’t want my money back. I want my daily paper. I paid for a daily, and I expect a daily.”

Tate saw Charlotte out of the corner of his eye, coming out of the rest room. She looked his way, but he did not think he should wave her down for help.

“Sir—” he felt compelled to sir the man “—as I explained in my editorial, I am sorry for the disappointing
change, but it is my hope that by going to a twice weekly, we can save this important institution and turn it into even a grander paper than it has been for many years.”

The man’s mouth got tighter. “So then you’ll go bankrupt, and I’ll lose my payment anyway.”

The man had a definite negative outlook.

Tate took hold of the man’s elbow. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr….” He was embarrassed to have forgotten the man’s name.

“Northrupt. I’ve had my coffee this mornin’.”

“Well, sir, I find I’m in need of several cups this mornin’.” He decided it was time to get Charlotte’s help, no matter how blatant the request appeared. But she was busy at her computer. It was nearly impossible to get Charlotte’s attention once she determined to focus on the computer screen.

Thank heaven, there was Marilee! She came through the door with the children, each carrying a white doughnut box and going over to the long, white-linen-draped table.

“Well now, here’s doughnuts,” Tate said. He hauled Northrupt along by the elbow. “Just look at this spread…fresh doughnuts…fresh coffee. Thank you, Miss Marilee.”

Marilee, opening the boxes of doughnuts, said to him, “I have to go back to the Jeep for the tea maker and distilled water.”

Tate was left there with his irritated customer, staring at Marilee and Corrine’s backs disappear out the door.

“Hel-lo, Mis-ter North-rub.”

It was Willie Lee, with Munro beside him, standing there looking up and holding out his hand for a shake.

Mr. Northrupt shook the boy’s hand. “Hello, Willie Lee.”

Willie Lee gave his hand to Tate for a shake, too.

Then Northrupt looked expectantly at Tate.

“How about a doughnut, Mr. Northrupt? Let’s see, there’s glazed, chocolate covered, cinnamon…and jelly. Jelly doughnuts are a secret to life, you know.”

“I want a jell-y dough-nut,” Willie Lee said.

“You betcha’, son. Here you go.” Tate handed a doughnut to the boy. “What kind would you like, Mr. Northrupt?”

“I have diabetes,” Mr. Northrupt said.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You look fit, though, sir.” He had a sudden disturbing vision of a newspaper headline that read: Editor Kills Man With Doughnut.

He filled a foam cup with steaming coffee and held it toward the older gentleman.

Mr. Northrupt looked at the cup. “I said I’ve had my coffee. And I don’t drink from a foam cup, anyway. Tastes bitter.”

Tate withdrew the cup, brought it to his lips and sipped. He didn’t like foam cups, either.

“I don’t see how goin’ to a twice weekly paper delivered at fifty cents each can make you more money than a daily at forty cents each,” Mr. Northrupt said.

“Cut down on outlay. Paper costs dearly these days. Over all, we’ll cut down on paper costs, printing costs and delivery costs.”

The man’s frown deepened.

“I believe it will be a better paper. We’ll have a lot more in each issue. We’ll be adding two pages to start,
another two in two more months, as well as special inserts from time to time.”

“You’re set to do this thing, then.”

“Yes, sir, I am. It’s gotta be done.” He looked down to see Willie Lee standing there, jelly on his face, and his eyes behind his thick glasses intently looking up at them. The dog sat at his feet, doing the same thing.

Just then Marilee came in bearing the tea maker and a sack, and Corrine came right behind her, lugging two gallons of distilled water. Tate jumped to take the heavy gallon containers from the small girl.

“You have met the
Voice’s
senior editor, haven’t you, Mr. Northrupt?” Suddenly he realized the need to give her the title. Her eyes came quickly to his. “This is Marilee James.”

“Everett and I have known each other for quite a while. Hello, Everett. How is Doris doin’? I heard she took first prize for her watercolor at the Spring Fair.”

“Yep, she did.” Northrupt turned to the table and took up two napkins. “I think I’ll just wrap up a couple of these cinnamon rolls and take them with me.”

“What about your diabetes?” Tate said, a little alarmed.

“I’m takin’ these to Doris. I need to get some of my money back.” He left with a napkin-wrapped cinnamon roll bulging in each pocket of his cardigan sweater.

For a few minutes—dare he hope for the rest of the day?—the visitors had stopped. Feeling frazzled, Tate got his ceramic cup, now appearing very dear to him, and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that sat on the cloth-covered table.

Marilee, who was adding fresh doughnuts to the plates, said, “I’ll take twenty dollars more a month as senior editor.”

“That is what the thirty was for. I just forgot to mention it.”

“If I had known, though, I would have asked for fifty.”

“When the paper makes money.”

“Good enough. I’ll remind you.”

“Would you mind stayin’ a while? I think we really need a hostess for this open house.”

Charlotte didn’t appear inclined to leave her desk, and if she did, Tate thought she seemed more intimidating than welcoming. He realized he felt a little desperate, and this made him feel silly, yet he still cast Marilee a hope-filled look.

“You’re the boss,” Marilee told him in that smooth, snappy way she had of speaking.

Her eyes looked very blue. He could never tell for certain when she was joking. He liked this about her—admired it, a trait he admired in himself.

“I doubt that very much where you’re concerned, Miss Marilee,” he drawled, relieved and happily taking up a jelly doughnut.

“I think I’ll do a lot better to ask you, rather than to tell you,” he added, and bit into the doughnut, raspberry, his favorite.

Her gaze was on him. He smiled, keeping his full mouth closed, savoring the jelly on his tongue and the sight of her blue eyes. Enjoying the electricity between them.

By golly, he wanted powerfully to kiss her. This struck
him so hard that for an instant he forgot to chew his doughnut and almost choked on it.

Then she had lowered her eyes and was saying cooly, “I’ll stay until noon. Then I’ll need to get the children home for lunch, and Willie Lee generally takes a nap.”

Tate, inhaling a deep breath and allowing his gaze to drift downward over her body, her back now turned to him, thought, Marilee James is one heck of an attractive woman.

He had experience attending parties to welcome some pretty prominent dignitaries, however, he had always been in the capacity of observer. He knew how to blend in and watch others pay welcome and receive welcome, pay homage and receive homage. He had never been the one stuck out there in the thick of it.

He smiled until his smile felt pasted on, and shook hands until he thought his arm might be permanently stuck into position. Every third minute he was blinded by flashes from Reggie’s camera.

“Let’s get one of you and the mayor shaking hands,” she said, going so far as to physically position Tate and Mayor Upchurch in front of the big spray of flowers sent over by Fred Grace. “Free advertising for town merchants never hurt anything.”

“Wait! I want in the picture,” said Kaye Upchurch, the mayor’s wife, who bustled herself over, slipped her arm through Tate’s and smiled at the camera.

Reggie snapped the picture, then told them to hold it. “I always take two shots, just to make sure.”

Reggie took two shots of Tate with Sheriff Oakes and
Jaydee Mayhall, who was a prominent—not to mention the only—local attorney, and then two of him with Adam and Iris MacCoy, who owned the feed-and-grain store and were building a senior living community, and two of him with Winston Valentine, who presented him with a key to the Senior Citizens’ Center.

“Let’s get a shot of the publisher and his staff,” Reggie commanded, assembling everyone who had returned to the offices—except Zona, of course, who might or might not have been holed up in her office behind the pulled shades.

“Marilee, you get there in front of Mr. Tate—” Reggie sighted through her camera “—Imperia, you get on his left, and, Tammy, you right here. June, get there beside Marilee, and, Charlotte, you stand behind his right shoulder, you’re so tall…get in close. And, Leo, get closer in with Charlotte.

Tate caught a sweet citrus scent from Marilee’s hair. He put his hand on her waist and felt her jump. A flash went off. Marilee moved away, but then Reggie made them all get back together for another shot, after which she enlisted Bonita Embree of Sweetie Cakes Bakery to take a shot with Reggie squeezing in.

“Nobody move! Take another one, Bonita, just to make sure.”

Tate paused to look at the room for a minute. In his mind’s eye, he constructed how he wished the room to take shape. He would hire a new layout manager and assistant as soon as he could find them, and two more staff writers. Two more desks along there, updated, pleasant
partitions, maybe of blue…modern, while leaving the antique brick walls. They had to have new lighting, but he didn’t intend to install a lowered ceiling, no, sir.