Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (4 page)
I know exactly what my uncle’s parting words are going to be, and I’m correct. “Be careful driving home. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t tell Beatrice about the cigar or the donuts.”
I display a thumbs-up signal, which means that I can keep secrets myself. If ever his wife finds out about his smoking or circular nighttime snacks, it won’t be because she heard it from me.
As I get into my truck, Ropey tosses out, “You’ll meet a good man one day, Jackie. Keep your chin up.”
Driving across the Oregon Inlet Bridge toward Waves, a parade of all the dates I’ve had since my return to the Outer Banks to live flashes before my eyes. Not one of them has led to a second date. One did seem promising the first time I met him, but then he never asked me out again. Last I heard from the family grapevine, he moved to Chicago to run a trucking business and married a Turkish belly dancer.
“Is there anyone out there for me?” I ask God in my loud voice, the one that vibrates off the steering wheel, hits the back of the cab, and then clangs back to my ears. As I’ve done before, I remind God that this man can arrive on a horse, a Coast Guard barge, a sailboat, or a ferry. “Whatever you think is best,” I say.
My truck bounces over the narrow strip of Route 12; thin, evenly spaced electrical poles whiz past my peripheral vision. I wait, hoping to hear an audible voice, one like Moses heard coming from the burning bush. But all I hear is the continual sound of ocean waves splashing onto the shore across the blackened dunes. Even Bodie Lighthouse’s beacon seems dismal tonight, as if it can’t find a man suited for me.
Monday mornings are reserved
for staff meetings from nine until Selena Thomas, our boss at
Lighthouse Views,
feels we have “sufficient coverage.” This takes hours; one Monday it took four hours and twenty-three minutes according to Bert’s watch. Halfway through, Selena did stop her ranting about dishonest car mechanics—she was particularly fed up with one in Rodanthe—and ordered us lunch from The Happy Fisherman.
These staff meetings aren’t at all like they were when I was at
The Daily Pulse
. Of course, that paper didn’t have a colorful editor like Selena. We had Jack Brenton, who didn’t believe in talking much—except on the phone to his girlfriend during his lunch in the break room. To his staff he repeatedly said, “Deadlines, deadlines,” as though the most important part of being a journalist was getting the story submitted on time, not whether it was well-written, interesting, or factual.
“I know this is a recession, but tourists still exist!” Today Selena clutches her cell in one hand and a silver Cross pen in the other. The cell does not need to be up to her ear; the caller is on speakerphone and our entire staff, seated on overstuffed chairs in our small Nags Head office, is listening.
We watch the phone, quietly waiting.
“How about a quarter-page ad, then?” The caller on the other end, Roberta Hakkadok, is the manager of Blackbeard’s Restaurant. I know exactly what she looks like; we were in middle school together. I’ve only been to her restaurant once and that was when Selena took the staff out for lunch after the death of her father. Roberta hasn’t changed much since our youth; her auburn hair is still in a sweeping ponytail and her eye shadow is a pale green.
“A quarter-page ad?” Selena places the phone on an antique coffee table she inherited from her father’s estate. She gives us the thumbs-up signal, a sign that she is certain she’s going to get Roberta to commit to an ad in our magazine.
Roberta’s voice is hesitant. “How much will that cost?”
“Didn’t our advertising department send you an updated price sheet?” Selena looks at Cassidy, the head of our so-called advertising department.
Cassidy, seated beside me, nods as she chews on a granola bar. She usually eats chocolate chip, but I don’t see any chips in today’s variety.
We hear a pause and then Roberta’s voice on the other end of the line. “No.”
As Shakespeare, Selena’s Yorkshire terrier, yaps twice from his perch by the office’s bay window, Selena sucks in air. Her little dog doesn’t bother her; in fact, she lets her pet get away with anything. However, humans, and especially those who she feels need to take out ads in
Lighthouse Views
and don’t jump at the opportunity, annoy her.
“I did send her a sheet,” Cassidy whispers in her defense as she crumples the Oats ’N Honey wrapper.
Selena cuts off Cassidy with a swing of her pen-holding hand. “Roberta, the ad you need for your business is two hundred dollars. That will run for the next two issues.” Without waiting for an answer, she says in her most authoritative tone, “Bring in the check by Thursday. We’ll run your ad as we have in the past. You’ll see results, results.” In her soothing tone, the one that sounds like a guitar strumming the music for “Edelweiss,” she says, “Customers will flock to you like intoxicated seagulls, you’ll see.”
We wait until we hear a reluctant Roberta say, “Well . . . all right.”
“All right, then.”
“This Thursday?” asks Roberta.
“Two hundred dollars this Thursday. Just know that you’re getting a bargain!” Closing the sale, Selena adds, “Thanks for your business. Tourists will know where to find you when you advertise with us.” With a swift jab to a button, Selena disconnects Roberta from us.
For a brief moment we all look at each other. Cassidy, Bert, and me—the backbone of the magazine, as Selena calls us. We’re already tired from this staff meeting; our coffee cups are empty, yet no one gets up to make another pot.
This is the way Selena operates—pushy until she gets the commitment. Or as Bert likes to put it: “Bloodsucking until the victim finally gives in. Then it’s a regular ‘Kumbaya’ sing fest.”
Selena walks over to give Shakespeare a treat. The little ball of champagne fur jumps off the sofa, doggie biscuit in his mouth, and scampers under Selena’s desk to enjoy his reward.
In my opinion, her terrier rarely does anything to deserve a treat. It’s when Selena gets a commitment from a client or praise for an article that she rewards her dog. She keeps the colorful treats in a glass jar marked “Shakespeare’s Treasures.” The jar sits by a framed photo of Shakespeare and her on a Jet Ski. The terrier is in front of her on the seat, wearing a lavender life vest with his name on it. Selena, also in a vest with her name on it, has her fingers on the handles and a sheepish grin, as if she just got out of bed and is still craving sleep.
Whenever people comment that a terrier is pretty small to ride a Jet Ski, and ask how the dog stays on when you speed over the waves, Selena just says, “Oh, Shakespeare loves his life vest,” even though the inquirer mentioned nothing about a vest. The truth is, the moment that photo was snapped, Selena rode slowly for five hundred yards, and Shakespeare’s whimper was so terrifying that the adventure of dog and owner’s first ride together lasted only a few moments. Selena now leaves her pet at home with a dog biscuit and a
Lassie
DVD playing on TV whenever she takes her Jet Ski around the inlet.
Smiling at us all, Selena reaches for her legal pad. She sits on the top of her desk next to the jar of treats and says, “Now that we’ve got a few more commitments for advertisements, we’re ready to pump this meeting up a notch. We have a lot to do.”
I wish there was more coffee. I try to gauge my boss; would she mind if I excused myself to the kitchen to make some more? One morning I stood to make another pot and she stopped talking until I’d sat back down. The room was quiet, all eyes on me, until I realized what was happening. I scurried back to my armchair, vowing never to embarrass myself like that again.
“Now, kids,” Selena says. To this fifty-year-old, we are all kids. “The June issue comes out in two weeks.” Crossing her stocking-clad legs—legs Bert says could be models in a hose commercial—she chews on the tip of her pen. “I want us to be ready. Are we ready?”
Something makes me want to say with all the pseudo-enthusiasm I can muster, “Yes, Chef,” like on an episode of
Hell’s Kitchen
, but I know my boss would not approve. Instead, I nod and pretend to be taking notes. Actually, my mind is on the Bailey House.
Who is the current owner? Where can I find out if it’s for sale? Can we afford it?
I scribble these questions at the top of the page. My savings account is nothing to be excited about, and Minnie is just able to pay her half of the rent and buy groceries from her earnings at Over the Edge, the surf shop near our house.
I must have missed something because suddenly everyone is looking at me. “Yeah?” I sound clueless, silly. Covering my notebook with my arms, I attempt to be interested in my surroundings.
Selena’s smile dazzles. “Good,” she says. “I’ll need that interview for the July issue.” Then her cell phone rings, and she is talking to her mother in Boston. “Ma, I know, I know!” Her accent goes from southern to northern quicker than it takes her dog to lick his paw. “Yes, it was a great article. I like that line they quoted about me, too.”
As my boss continues in a syrupy voice she never uses around us, I turn to Cassidy. “What is she saying?”
“I don’t know for sure. I think her mom’s congratulating her on that article in the paper about Selena.” That article, praising the work of
Lighthouse Views
, calling it a “stellar publication,” appeared weeks ago. A copy of it hangs in a frame above our boss’s desk. The photograph of Selena looks as if she was blinded by something because her eyes are wide like her dog’s get when he’s alarmed. I can guarantee that what they say about pet owners beginning to look like their pets is true.
“No, not that.” I stop Cassidy before she enters the restroom. “What is it that Selena asked me to do?”
Cassidy laughs. “Were you bored and not paying attention again?” With her hand on the door to the women’s room, she says, “Selena wants you to interview the owner of Rexy Properties. I heard he’s single.” She winks.
Sometimes I wonder if there are fliers circulating the Outer Banks, advertising in bold lettering, DESPERATE HALF-KOREAN SINGLE WOMAN DESIRES A MAN! NOW!
Aside from staff meetings,
Mondays at our office are made up of discussing the previous weekend. While Selena takes another phone call, Cassidy says her family held a reunion up the northern coast in Duck. Although the food looked and smelled glorious, especially her uncle’s sweet potato pie and corn pudding, she managed to stick to her diet, hovering over the vegetable platter and slices of watermelon. “I had so much watermelon I felt waterlogged,” she tells us as she sips from a bottle of Aquafina.
Bert says he flew to his sister’s wedding in Nashville and that he’s sure she has married a loser. “He’s got to be the most boring professor Vanderbilt has.”
“Well, at least he teaches at a prestigious university.” Cassidy was once in love with a biology professor from Duke, but that was back before her marriage to her current husband, who is a taxidermist.
“He’s got nothing going for him.” Bert’s tone shadows disgust. “He doesn’t know a thing about the Civil War.” Bert is a known Civil War buff; ask him about any general or battle and prepare to spend time listening. When his parents come to visit from Raleigh, he takes them to Fort Fisher. So far, his mother and father have been to the historical landmark seven times.
“Well, I’m sure he knows a lot about other things,” says Cassidy.
“He can’t even tell a joke. He gets the punch line out there too early, before it makes sense. Then he wonders why no one laughs.”
I keep my lips clamped, determined not to mention anything about my date with Douglas. I check my cell for messages. I’m not sure if I’m more afraid Douglas called, or that he didn’t.
There are no messages.
“So how was your weekend?” Cassidy looks at me.
“Oh, fine. You know, nothing exciting.”
“Another bad date?” Cassidy’s brown eyes bore into mine.
“Something like that.”
She laughs. “Your relatives are pretty adamant, aren’t they?”
“They try.”
My desk is at the far left corner of the room by a tiny window. The surface of the desk is clean except for a computer, penholder, and dictionary. Bert’s is scattered as if a whirlwind just came through. Notebooks, folders, and pens are visible, yet we all know underneath are stacks of books and papers. It doesn’t seem to matter that Bert’s workspace is a mess; he’s clearly Selena’s favorite employee. Whenever I have a question about how to conduct an upcoming interview or what to leave out in a piece, Selena is quick to say, “Ask Bert. Bert knows.”
Minutes later, Selena concludes her phone call, lays the legal pad in her lap, and waves her pen in circles. “We now have officially closed our ads for the June issue. Got that, Cassidy?”
Cassidy is eating from a cup of vanilla yogurt. She dips her spoon into her mouth, closes her eyes as though she’s savoring the taste, and nods. She’s lost about ten pounds, although she would say eleven and a half. Dieters are quite precise when it comes to pounds.
“So if Lacy Lingerie calls us at the last minute, like they have three times in a row now, it is too late for them to place their ad in this next issue.”
“And Isle Bait and Tackle?” asks Cassidy.
“No more.” Selena whisks her hand through the air in front of her as one would when batting at a flying insect. “Deadline has been reached. These people know we have to allow time to lay out the issue and get it to the printer.” Selena lets a moment pass as she looks over her pad. She then folds her arms over it. “You are writing well.”
When she smiles at me, I smile back. I don’t care if she treats us like kindergartners; I’ve always flourished when praise is tossed at me.
“Keep it up. No worthless glop. I don’t want us to start writing froufrou things like that
other
magazine!”
That other magazine she’s referring to is
Hatteras Style
, a magazine Selena claims we’re better than, yet clearly feels is our competition. She’s constantly telling businesses that the place to advertise is with us and only us.
When Selena joins her dog on the sofa, I head for the coffeepot to make another round for all of us. I watch my boss as she pets the terrier with gentle, loving strokes. Walking over to them, I ask, “What should I know about the owner of Rexy Properties?” I hope she won’t ignore me as she does sometimes when she’s engrossed in her beloved Shakespeare. Once I had to wait no less than fifteen minutes as she brushed the terrier with a new doggie brush. Apparently, it was his birthday gift.
