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)
“I deal with change all the time,” I grumbled. “But no one’s going to tell me how to run my department.”
“Are you for real?” my dad yelled at the TV. “That was not a catch!”
Shea picked up her phone, groaning as she read a text. “I have to go. There’s a mascarpone situation at work.”
“I should go too,” I said, forking up the last of my pie. “I have to meet my Winter Showdown group for some axe-throwing lessons.”
Dad turned toward me, suddenly interested. “Who’s in your group this year?”
I shook my head. “I got Georgette and Olivia. We don’t stand a chance.”
Every year, the Sven’s Beard Business Bureau held a Winter Showdown and a Summer Showdown. The police chief and the fire chief were each the captain of a team, and the teams were made up of representatives of the ten businesses that donated the most to the bureau. It was a status symbol for the businesses. Half the town showed up to watch our teams compete. This year’s Winter Showdown would consist of axe throwing, an obstacle course, snowball throwing, and a cold plunge into Lake Karlsson.
Georgette Hoyer, the owner of Beard Blooms, the local floral shop, was on the losing team every year. Not only was she slow, she didn’t have a competitive bone in her body.
I’d definitely be giving the showdown trophy up, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. I was giving axe and snowball throwing lessons to anyone in my group who would show up.
“I remember those days,” Dad said. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but it’s really not about who wins.”
When he was police chief, my dad led dozens of showdowns. He’d always been competitive, but the accident had made him more introspective.
“I don’t want to listen to six months of Painter’s shit,” I grumbled. “And that trophy looks good on the shelf in my office.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, you two,” Mom said to me and Shea as we put our coats on. “It’s hard to believe that someday soon we’ll have little ones running around here on Thanksgiving…hopefully.”
Shea and I exchanged a glance, both of us deciding to just ignore her comment. I was thirty-four and Shea was thirty, and neither of us was anywhere close to getting married.
Mom still believed, though. She irrationally hoped I’d fall crazy in love with some woman, move her into my house and have babies with her. I was too set in my ways for that, though.
I liked my life just fine as it was, Hungry Man dinners and all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Avon
The Monday morning after Thanksgiving was a quiet one in the Chronicle newsroom, everyone scrambling to make up for the time off last week.
“I forgot where I’m supposed to put photo captions,” I said to Bess from my side of the newsroom.
“It’s a cutline, and it goes in the cutline folder. Make sure it has the same slug as the photo.”
I’d taken some decent photos over the weekend. A couple of them were of women selling quilts and noodles at a church bazaar, and others showed men ice-fishing and kids sledding. Every week, I got excited about seeing my pictures in the paper. It was like I’d frozen time for a second, and now I got to share that second with our subscribers.
I was peering at my notebook, typing the names of the ice fishermen when a text popped up on the screen of my phone, which sat on my desk next to the keyboard.
Kerry: We need to talk.
Shit. My boss in San Diego only said that when she was pissed. I was technically using paid time off right now, but I still checked emails daily and kept up with as much as I could.
I picked up the phone and texted her back.
Avon: Sorry, on deadline to get the paper to press on time. This afternoon okay?
Kerry: I suppose it will have to be.
My stomach rolled. I was a classic people pleaser, working extra hours not just so I could make more money, but so that my boss would know I was devoted to my job. That was why I had six weeks of vacation days built up—I’d never taken time off.
“It’s Lake Karlsson, not Karlsson Lake,” Bess said absently as she read the photo caption I’d just uploaded. “Or just ‘the lake,’ because everyone knows which one it is.”
“Lake Karlsson,” I said, trying to decide if I should apologize to Kerry for not being available until later.
“The B section is done,” Devon said from his desk. “Other than the two photos Sam is sending over.”
“Did the obits jump?” Bess asked.
“Yep. There were a lot this week.”
The front door was pulled open and a tall blond man in a coat that said SBFD stepped in and stomped the snow from his boots.
“Avon Douglas?” he said, his gaze landing on me.