But ever since her mother had washed Molly’s mouth out with soap for repeating the phrase at dinner one night, Molly had called it pluck.
But that morning, she’d given her reflection a knowing look that said she meant exactly what Aunt Ida had said.
Then she’d splashed enough cold water on her face to diminish the bluish circles under eyes, whipped through her usual ten-minute routine of light makeup and strong coffee; wrestled with her lamentably curly red hair until it became apparent that even her hair was going to get the better of her today; and made her way to the Payne Sentinel offices in historic downtown Payne, Massachusetts, where she was going to get fired as soon as Sam Reed got to the office.
She’d felt vaguely like a condemned prisoner making her way to the guillotine. Her fate was inevitable. The only thing she could control was how she reacted to it.
And Flynns never cowered.
So Molly leaned back in her battered chair in the Payne Sentinel copy office and stole a glance at the clock. 8:58. Two minutes and counting.
“All right, Molly—” Cindy Freesdon entered the copy office, dropped her purse to the floor and pulled a chair up to the edge of Molly’s desk. She pinned her with an avidly curious look. “Give, babe. When were you planning to tell us you and Reed were, you know, friendly?”
Molly stifled a groan. Humiliation was bad enough, but public humiliation was far worse. She wished Sam Reed would hurry up and drag his predictable, irascible, temperamental, bullheaded self to work and be done with this so she could clean out her desk and go home.
She gritted her teeth and met the probing look in Cindy’s blue eyes. “It’s not like that,” she assured her friend. “You don’t understand.”
Cindy dangled the Personals section between her thumb and forefinger. “I read the morning edition while I was getting dressed.” She indicated the copy room where the activity level had already reached light speed. “You’re the one who placed this ad for Reed. It’s got your sense of humor all over it.”
Molly forced herself not to flinch. “Not on purpose.”
That sent Cindy’s eyebrows into her bleached blond bangs. “Oh, this is too wicked.”
“Do you think everyone else knows?”
“My phone started ringing ten minutes after the paper landed on my doorstep. I tried to squelch the gossip, but even I don’t have that much power.”
That won a halfhearted laugh from Molly. Cindy Freesdon was the Sentinel’s resident busybody. She didn’t doubt that all interested parties would have turned to Cindy for information when the inflammatory personal ad showed up in the Sentinel’s Monday edition. “Thanks,” she told Cindy. “I’m already going to get fired. I’d rather not be humiliated on top of it.”
Cindy pursed her lips. “I hate to break it to you, but it’s kind of a lost cause. If it makes you feel any better, I did make them feel guilty as sin about it.” She shrugged slightly. “There’s not a person in this room you haven’t bailed out at one time or another.”
“This is my family,” Molly said simply. “I’ve always thought of it that way.”
“That’s obvious.” Cindy tapped a long fingernail on Molly’s overladen desk. “So that’s why everyone’s pretty much drawn the same conclusion—there’s no way you would have risked what you’ve got here by running that ad simply because you were miffed about the argument you and Reed had on Friday.”
“You don’t think so?”
Cindy gave her a pointed look. “I may not be the investigative reporter you are, Molly, but I know a lover’s tiff when I see one.”
Molly exhaled a weary breath. “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to deny that.”
“Probably not.”
“It’s a long story. It was a joke—my friend, JoAnna—” She shook her head. “I don’t have time to explain it right now. He’ll be here soon.”
Cindy stole a glance at the clock. “Forty seconds, if he’s on time.”
“He’s always on time.”
“Good point.” Cindy dropped the copy of the paper on Molly’s desk. “Lunch today? You can fill me in then.”
“Sure. I’ll be fired by then, anyway. At least I won’t have to clock out,” she said bitterly, the hated time clock—one of the many unwelcome changes Sam Reed had brought to the Payne Sentinel.
The antique clock that had kept vigil over the newsroom for nearly a century chimed nine. Precisely on schedule, the wide glass doors swung open, admitting a gust of chilly October air and forever suspending the rest of Cindy’s comment. The usual busy hum of activity in the newsroom ground to a halt. Fingers stopped typing, and chairs stopped creaking. Chatter ceased and pencils stilled. Only the lonely hum of a printer punctuated the eerie calm as one hundred eyes turned simultaneously to watch the drama unfolding at Molly’s desk.
Pluck, Molly reminded herself, as she met the steel-colored gaze of Sam Reed. He had a right to be furious. Since she’d seen the morning paper, she’d known this was going to turn ugly. She’d seen Sam angry only once. A member of the editorial staff had deliberately fabricated a source—forcing the Sentinel to issue a public apology. The look Sam had given the man could have melted glass.
Molly fully expected to find that same look in his eyes when she met his gaze. What she found, instead, stole her breath. Yes, his normal cool, implacable calm was gone, but she couldn’t quite pin a name to the expression in its place. A banked fire made his eyes look darker than usual—like storm-laden skies on a hot summer day. But what threw her the most was the slight sparkle that made him look as though he was enjoying himself.
This was going to be worse than she’d imagined, she thought with a sinking sense of dread.
Sam held her gaze for several long seconds, then announced a breezy “Good morning” to the staff. In the six weeks he had been running the paper, he’d arrived every morning at precisely nine o’clock. And every morning, he’d breezed through the newsroom without acknowledging the existence of the fifty or so employees who warily watched his daily trek to the elevator. No wonder then, Molly mused, that his butter-soft voice had the impact of a class-four tornado. She was surprised when the collective intake of breath didn’t rustle the piles of papers on her desk.
Damn him, she thought as she studied his normally implacable features. Dark hair framed a face made of angles and planes. There wasn’t a soft edge on the man. And he was definitely enjoying this. Like a cat, she mused, moving in on a helpless mouse and savoring the poor thing’s moment of doom.
Sam crossed the two steps to her desk and subtly shifted his briefcase so Cindy had to ease to the side. He planted the Italian leather case amid the clutter and leaned in with the smooth confidence of a predator.
At least, Molly thought wryly, her colleagues would have something to remember when she was gone. The spectacle he was causing was the stuff newsroom lore was made of. Despite herself, she had to suppress a small bubble of amusement. She didn’t think Sam would appreciate knowing that his legacy at the Sentinel was going to be reduced to newsroom gossip.
Something
