Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that,” I said, giving Max a quick smile. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”
He looked back down at the papers on his desk and continued reading. “The Sven’s Beard Chronicle and all its assets. Pete owned the building, too. It’s one of the most beautiful buildings in our downtown area. He had an apartment above the paper.”
I waited, trying to look appreciative. But I still had more questions than answers.
“What are the assets?”
Max lifted the paper he was reading from and read from another one beneath it.
“I’m in the process of making a full list,” he said. “But bottom line, it’s all the office equipment and furniture, the building itself and the printing press. Pete spent a bundle on that press.”
I rubbed my temple, worst-case scenarios now flooding my mind. Working in sales had turned me into a number cruncher.
“What about the debts?” I asked. “If he financed that press, am I responsible for the payments now? Does the business have the money to support itself?”
Max’s gaze softened. “I’m in the process of gathering all the numbers as of the day of Pete’s passing. But from what I can tell so far, he didn’t have much in the way of debts or money in the bank. He was able to pay his people and put the paper out every week with subscriptions and ad revenue.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “But I live in California. I’m only in town until Monday.”
“I understand. Here’s what I’d do if I were you, Avon. Go by the Chronicle and meet the staff. Let them know you’re the new owner and they can show you around. Even though Pete owned the paper, Bess knows that place in and out. Maybe she could be your interim publisher.”
I nodded. “Okay. But then what?”
“I assume you’ll want to sell it?” There was a twinge of sadness in his voice.
Of course I wanted to sell it. I couldn’t own a weekly newspaper in Sven’s Beard, Minnesota. Though technically, I already did. In a matter of minutes, I’d gone from dollar signs in my eyes to abject panic.
What if the building caught on fire? What if the paper started losing money? I could end up spending my own hard-earned cash on this inheritance if I wasn’t careful.
“Yes,” I told Max. “As soon as possible. I live in San Diego and have a full-time job. There’s no way I can manage this business like my uncle did.”
“I understand. I’ll start putting feelers out to see if I can find you a buyer.”
“Thanks.”
He grinned. “You bet. And I hope you don’t mind my saying, Avon…you look a lot like your mother. I was sure sorry to hear about the accident.”
I met his gaze across the desk, my throat tightening. It had been nearly two years since I’d lost my parents, but the wound would never fully heal. When I was growing up, we’d lived a quiet life in Phoenix, my parents telling me my whole life that neither of them had any other family. They had never, not even once, talked about where they grew up. So it was a shock to hear that Max had known my mom.
“You knew her?” I asked, keeping my tone level.
“Oh yeah.” It sounded more like yah with the twinge of his accent. “We were in the same class. Amelia was bright and kindhearted.” He grinned. “And was she ever pretty. Any guy in our class would have married Amelia Cooke without hesitation. But she only had eyes for…” His expression turned sheepish and he cleared his throat. “Someone else.”
Did that mean he knew my father, too? I was about to ask when Max lightly smacked his palm on his desk and stood up.
“I’ll walk you out, Avon. I’m meeting my wife and daughter downtown to look at floral arrangements for my daughter’s wedding. I don’t know what they think an old dog like me can contribute, but Amy’s our only daughter, so I’ll do my best.”
He walked over to a coat tree in the corner of his office and took a long wool coat from a hook, then grabbed a red-and-black-checkered hat with earflaps that was lined with fleece.
“Where’s your coat?” he asked me, his brow furrowing with concern.
“Oh, I just brought this one,” I said, putting my trench coat back on.
“Well, that won’t do. Not in Sven’s Beard during November.”
He took another coat from one of the hooks—a thick, lined Carhartt one.
“Now, I know it’s not fashionable, but it’ll keep you warm,” he said. “And there’s an ear warmer in one of the pockets.”
His concern reminded me so much of my dad that I had to fight back tears. Though I wanted to tell him it was okay, I couldn’t say no to that fuzzy lining.
“Thank you. I’ll return it before I leave on Monday.”