A Place in Her Heart

  A Place in Her Heart

  Holmes Crossing Book Six

  Carolyne Aarsen

  Chapter 1

  Becky Ellison pressed her back against the outside door of Going West’s office, balancing her muffin, coffee cup and a batch of folders. Don’t panic. You’re just a little bit late.

  “Hey, hon. Welcome back. How was the holiday?” Trixie sang out as Becky entered the reception area.

  Becky set everything on the waist-high divider separating the entrance from Trixie Langston’s domain and blew her breath out in a gusty sigh. “Breakfast on the run my first day back. Orders from our new boss that I’m deciphering late last night after spending ten days with hormonal teenage girls at camp.” She grabbed her hair in a ponytail and twisted an elastic band around it. “You fill in the blanks.”

  “And such a lovely hairdo to impress our new boss.” Trixie frowned as her eyes flicked over Becky’s plaid shirt and blue jeans.

  Trixie, as usual, was immaculately groomed. Artfully windblown hairstyle. Pale pink sweater and gray skirt. Perfect smoky eyes. Dangly and artistic earrings. Becky had never sought to emulate Trixie’s style, but once in a while she wondered if people would take her more seriously if she did.

  “If this is your good impression,” Trixie continued, “I would hate to see the slob version.”

  “Mom’s wash machine broke down. The sewer backed up while Dad and Dennis were out in the orchard. After cleaning up that mess, this was all I had left to wear.” Becky anchored a few loose strands behind her ear and bit her lips to make them red. “Okay, enough primping. I’ll get my messages after the meeting. By the way, how late am I?”

  Trixie glanced at the clock in the foyer of the magazine office. “I’d love to say everyone else is running their usual fifteen minutes behind, but for once everyone is early. Except you.”

  Becky pulled a face at Trixie, stifling the dread that clutched her midsection. Rick Ethier. Here in Holmes Crossing. What were the odds that he remembered who she was? Probably slim to none. She probably knew more about him than he did about her. She sucked in another breath. “My friend, wish me luck.”

  “Give him your best smile and you’ll do fine,” Trixie said, flashing her a thumbs-up.

  The door of Nelson’s office was shut and the only sound she heard was an unfamiliar deep voice. Rick, most likely. New publisher of the magazine her father started and Rick’s grandfather, Colson Ethier, recently purchased.

  Up until three weeks ago, office gossip was Nelson, the previous publisher, would stay on after the purchase. Then, just before she left on her so-called holiday—camp counselor to ten teenage girls—she was stunned to discover that Rick Ethier, Colson Ethier’s grandson, would take over Nelson’s job. Now she would be making an entrance, and a poor first impression, in front of the man who had shattered so many of her hopes and dreams.

  She smoothed one hand over her still damp hair, drew in a slow breath, sent up a quick prayer and carefully opened the door. Flashing everyone an apologetic smile, she dropped into her usual chair beside Nelson’s desk, uncomfortably close to her new boss. She dropped her papers on the corner of Nelson’s desk and chanced a look at Rick Ethier standing beside her.

  His face was all too familiar, though the grainy magazine picture indelibly imprinted on her mind didn’t capture the reality of his good looks in person. Shaggy blond hair framed the kind of face that would make women of any age stop and take a second look. The hint of a dimple in his cheek balanced out the self-assured cockiness of his smile, and his eyes were so intensely blue it was as if they glimmered with an interior light. His clothing was a mixture of casual and stylish. He wore a soft cotton cream-colored shirt, a deep brown corduroy blazer and fitted blue jeans.

  And as he glanced Becky’s way, a frown.

  Please don’t let him state the obvious, she thought, carefully setting her coffee cup on the floor beside her.

  Instead, he glanced at his watch. Almost as bad.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said with a quick smile as she reached over and shook his hand. “I’m Becky Ellison.”

  “Our editor,” Rick said, returning her smile with a cool one of his own. “Glad you could make it.” He held her gaze a moment, as if establishing his territory, then he turned to face the rest of the gathered staff of the magazine, dismissing her. “As you all now know, I’m Rick Ethier, grandson of Colson Ethier, the new owner of Going West. I’m sure you’re wondering why my grandfather, whose holdings are fairly substantial, would bother himself with one small, regional magazine. Trust me, I’m as baffled.”

  A few titters greeted that comment, but Becky heard the faint cynicism in his remark. His trademark.

  Rick Ethier was a travel writer for Colson Ethier’s flagship magazine. Though he couldn’t be more than thirty, his stories and articles usually held a shadow of world-weariness. As if he’d seen it all. Done it all.

  And as Becky listened to him, one part of her mind easily resurrected other words of one particularly scathing article. “Sentimental claptrap” and “shamelessly manipulative.” These less than flattering descriptions came from a monthly book review column Rick wrote for the same magazine. A column in which Rick wrote about the first book Becky had published. Her pride and joy. And thanks to that negative review, book sales tanked, other bad reviews followed like barnacles and Becky hadn’t been able to get a second contract with her publisher. Or any other for that matter.

  Focus on the now, Becky, she reminded herself, taking a long, slow breath to ease away her irritable emotions. This was her new boss, and no matter what, she had to learn to get along with him. The past was past.

  “I’ve done my research on this magazine,” Rick was saying, “but for now, I want to go around the room and ask each of you what you see as the purpose of Going West. The vision, so to speak.”

  Feet shuffled, a few throats cleared as the staff glanced around the room at each other. Becky sat back in her chair, crossing her feet at the ankles, surprised at the momentary blankness in her own mind.

  Going West was supposed to have a vision?

  Nelson, the previous publisher and her father’s partner, had set the tone and layout of the magazine from its inception. He had reviewed, accepted and or rejected freelance articles. Since Becky started working as editor, she had simply followed his lead, hoping she caught the idea of what he wanted for that particular issue.

  Never had they sat down and reviewed—or even spoke of—any kind of long-term vision.

  “Why don’t we start with you, Becky, now that you’ve deigned to join us.” Rick stood beside the large screen television hooked up to a laptop, his arms crossed, his legs apart, his head tilted to one side.

  Definitely hostile body language, thought Becky with a surge of anger. She shouldn’t have been late. But that was also past.

  “We can do that.” Becky licked her lips, buying time as hazy, insubstantial thoughts slipped past her defensive emotions. C’mon, Becky. Think. This is your chance to show Rick Ethier that you are intelligent and articulate. Not sentimental in the least.

  “I’ve always seen Going West as firstly a regional magazine,” she said, grasping at an idea that she knew to be true. “Our second mandate is to be a magazine disseminating a viewpoint peculiar to Western sensibilities.”

  Rick nodded, his lips pursed. “Can we try that in English?”

  Becky held his direct gaze, trying not to be unnerved by his glinting eyes. In spite of her resolve to forget, snatches of his nasty book review sifted through her head. “Verbose, treacly and unrealistic.”

  “It’s a cowboy and farmer magazine,” she snapped.

  “That’s probably closer to the mark,” Rick said with a humorless
half grin.

  Becky held his gaze a moment, as if challenging him, but she was the first to look away.

  The meeting went downhill from there. People who had received minimal guidance from Nelson or, to be honest, her father, now had to come up with a thumbnail sketch of what the magazine was supposed to accomplish.

  Advertising. Art. Circulation. While they struggled through their answers, Becky felt embarrassed and exposed.

  They should all know, she thought, taking a pencil out from behind her ear. But Nelson’s editorial meetings tended to be haphazard. He and Becky sat down once a week going over articles and their status, laying out the magazine’s plan for that particular month. When they wrote up the schedule for the upcoming magazines, there was an underlying cohesion, but a person had to go looking to find it.

  But vision? Simply not there.

  She scribbled a few things down on paper, took a few notes from what people were saying.

  “So you can see—” Rick double clicked and brought up a PowerPoint slide “—all this vagueness has translated into this.” He pointed to a listing of numbers all laid out in painful bullet-point style.

  “Circulation is down, subscription is down. Advertising revenue is down. And I’m going to attribute all that to what I’m hearing in this room this morning.” Rick looked around, letting his direct gaze tick over each of them, then finally coming back to Becky. “Which is a lot of vague words, but no single, clear statement that outlines what this magazine is really about. And that is going to change. As of today.”

  He had done his homework, Becky thought with grudging respect.

  “So what’s your first step?” Becky asked. Rick’s language made it very clear that he was lead dog. She just needed to know where he was heading.

  “Sitting down with my editor and laying out my vision for this magazine.”

  A cold finger of apprehension snaked down her back. “Your vision?”

  Rick shrugged, rocking lightly back on his heels. “Media is all about communication. I haven’t heard much in this room, other than your cowboy and farmer comment, that creates a concise and clear idea of what Going West is supposed to be.”

  He didn’t know the community. The surrounding area. How was he going to come up with the direction of the magazine? And where did he see it going?

  “Branding is the name of the game in publishing,” Rick continued. “Now I need to figure out what brand of magazine we are going to become.”

  His words were not comforting.

  “I’ve already commissioned a marketing analysis team to do surveys, interview focus groups and send out questionnaires to our current readership. That won’t be coming in for a couple of months, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make some changes now.” He perched on the edge of Nelson’s desk and glanced around the room. “I’m going to be sitting down with each member of the various departments and going over what we’ve got coming up and what we can possibly change for now.”

  Becky rubbed the back of her neck. Rick’s plans translated into work she didn’t have time for. She had a long-term commitment to the youth choir at church. She had promised the school librarian she’d help weed through books that needed to be sold or discarded. A fund-raising committee had asked her to write copy for their brochure.

  She had Bible study. Book club.

  And somehow in the middle of all this she needed to put together a stellar proposal that would negate any second thoughts her publisher had about working with her.

  “I hope this isn’t going to be a problem, Miss Ellison?”

  Becky looked up. Had her disappointment shown on her face?

  Rick faced her, his eyebrows raised, his eyes boring into hers. “You seem disheartened.”

  It had shown.

  Becky glanced around the room. She wasn’t the only disheartened one, but somehow Rick had zeroed in on her.

  She stifled her resentment and chose her words carefully. “I’m just thinking about all the work ahead for each department. It’s going to be difficult to turn the direction of this magazine around midstream.”

  Rick flipped his hand to one side, as if dismissing her concerns. “Any change we implement is going to take some sacrifice and time.” He gestured toward the screen behind him. “The figures speak for themselves. If this magazine keeps going in the direction it is, most of the people in this room are going to be out of a job. The only choices available to you now are hard work.” Rick looked around the room, his arms crossed, his legs spraddled in a defensive posture. “Or no work.”

  There was nothing more to be said. Rick waited a heartbeat more. “Meeting’s over,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”

  Cliff Thiessen let his chair drop back onto the floor with a thud and got up. “Well, better get back to it,” he muttered to no one in particular. As the rest of the staff left, there was some muttering, but for the most part people were subdued by what their new boss had told them.

  “Becky, I’d like to see you a moment,” Rick said as she gathered up her papers in preparation for leaving.

  Panic tightened her chest, but she masked it with a vague smile. She thought she had done pretty good up till now. She didn’t know if she could handle a face-to-face meeting quite yet.

  She shuffled through her papers while the room emptied, buying some time.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, once the door closed behind the last person.

  “I just wanted to take a moment to speak with you privately.” Rick walked around to the other side of Nelson’s desk, glancing out the bank of windows that filled one wall. Becky couldn’t help but follow the direction of his gaze. Beyond the roofs of Holmes Crossing, the fields rolled down to the river which bisected the town.

  “It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

  “It will help compensate for having to live out here for a while.”

  Cynicism again. She shouldn’t have been surprised. “What do you mean?”

  Rick turned back to her and rested his hands palms down on his desk. “You may as well know, I’m here a maximum of twelve months and that’s it. My grandfather issued me an ultimatum I have a lot of incentive to keep.”

  Becky frowned lightly, but held his steady gaze. “What ultimatum?”

  “Turn this magazine around in twelve months and he’ll leave me alone to go back to traveling and living my life as I see fit.”

  “And then what happens to the magazine?”

  Rick shrugged and pushed himself off from the desk. “Not my concern.”

  “Will your grandfather still own it?”

  “I don’t know. You could buy it if you wanted.” His casual words held a lash of mockery.

  “I’ve got my own plans,” she said softly.

  “And what would those be?”

  Try to ease away from the relentless deadlines of magazine work. Write a book that would make her current editor sit up and take notice. Offer her the temporary stability of a multibook contract. Maybe, possibly, if that didn’t work, try publish her book herself.

  But Rick Ethier was the last person she was going to dump her “treacly” dreams on.

  “I’ve got a few things on the go.” She drew in a slow breath and looked up at him again. He was watching her, his head canted to one side, his mouth softer now that it no longer was twisted into a cynical smile.

  And in spite of her negative feelings toward him, she felt a nebulous connection spark between them, then lengthen into a gentle warmth.

  She was the first to look away again, confusion fighting her initial antagonism. What was wrong with her? So he was good-looking. So he possessed a certain charm that it seemed even she wasn’t immune to.

  He was her boss. And, as he had so eloquently told her, he wasn’t sticking around.

  Rick cleared his throat and shuffled some file folders on his desk. “I understand from Nelson that you have been working on setting up an appointment with the Premier of Alberta?”

  “
I don’t have a firm commitment, but I’m in communication with his secretary.”

  “Congratulations. That’s quite a coup. I’ve been trying to get an interview with him since he was voted in with such an overwhelming majority.”

  “Jake’s pretty private.”

  “I’ll say. He guards his private life like a Doberman. I’ve tried a few times to get an interview for Colson’s magazine, but I’ve always been turned away with a polite but firm no.”

  Becky knew this about Jake. In fact, he had said the only reason he would consider an interview with her was because he knew it wouldn’t turn into a gossipfest. Before he had become premier of Alberta and after, she and Jake Groot had been members of a province-wide committee devoted to preservation of native grasslands. They had gotten to know each other on a social as well as committee level and Becky had used that leverage to snag this formal interview.

  “I’d like to help you with that article.”

  The cold finger she had felt before became an icy fist. “Actually, I always work on my own,” she said quietly but firmly.

  “When is the interview?” he asked, ignoring her comment.

  “Not for a few months.”

  “Keep me in the loop, then.”

  He’s your boss, Becky reminded herself when she looked up at him. “Okay, I’ll do that,” she said quietly. More than that she wasn’t going to promise. Jake would not be pleased if she dragged along a whole phalanx of people.

  She gathered up her papers and Rick laid his hand on hers. She flinched as if she’d been burned.

  “Sorry, I believe that’s mine.” He pointed to the small burgundy engagement calendar in her hands.

  “I don’t think so,” Becky said, shifting the papers that were threatening to spill out of her arms. “It has my initials on it. R.E.”

  Rick held up a similar calendar and frowned down at it. “This one has the same initials.”

  She was surprised that he not only had the same Day-Timer but that he had one at all. Most people these days put everything on their phones. She liked to keep things old-school and, apparently, so did he.