thick. “Lots of people say they read it all the time.”
“So what’s the problem?” Becky frowned when she heard another, louder sniff over the phone.
“I’ve been asked not to do it anymore.” Another sniff. “By some man named Rick who says he’s the new publisher.”
Becky laid her pencil down, her full attention now on her caller. “What exactly did he say, Gladys?”
“That he’s changing the focus of the magazine and that what I do didn’t mesh with the vision. Or something like that.” Gladys paused and Becky heard her blowing her nose. “Becky, I’ve been doing that column for the past twenty-five years and I was never late. Not even once. What did I do wrong?”
Becky clutched the phone in her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gladys, I’m sure there’s been some mistake. I’ll go talk to Mr. Ethier.”
“Could you do that please? I’ve just finished taking pictures of the chocolate cake for this week’s recipe. I hate to see it all wasted.”
“You just get those pictures developed. I’ll deal with Rick.”
And bring that cake over here.
Becky stomach growled at the thought of Gladys Hemple’s chocolate cake. She hadn’t eaten or taken a break since she’d grabbed a couple of bites out of the stale muffin she’d found while scavenging through her desk for a pen that worked. That had been eight-thirty.
In fifteen minutes she had a meeting with Rick and she still had a couple of articles to go over. Becky had re-edited half of the articles already slated for the next issue to nudge them in the direction Rick wanted to take this magazine. The extra workload had meant she’d missed her bible study and had to cancel another library board meeting.
The phone rang again.
Becky stifled her resentment and put a smile on her face. “Going West. Becky speaking.”
“This is Alanna Thompson.”
Becky closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingers, and sent up a prayer for patience and peace. Alanna wasn’t known for her reticence. And noting the restrained fury in Alanna’s voice, Becky was pretty sure she knew the reason she was calling.
“How can I help you, Alanna?”
“What in the world is going on there? I just got a phone call from some guy named Rick Ethier. He just told me he’s returning the four articles that the magazine bought. Who is this guy?”
Becky blew out her breath, suddenly aware of the tension in her shoulders. Which columns to cut and which articles to send back should have been her call. Not Rick’s. At least he could have waited until their meeting this afternoon to consult with her.
“Rick is our new publisher.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“With a new publisher comes a new direction,” Becky offered, struggling not to let her own anger seep into her voice. “Rick obviously has a different idea of how he sees Going West than Nelson did.”
And from the sounds of things Rick’s vision didn’t include baking or horses, cowboys and farmers.
“You know how much time I spent on those? How many horse trainers I interviewed? All the pictures I took? And not on spec. You told me the magazine would buy them all.” Alanna’s fury grew with each sentence she threw at Becky. “I got some great material together.”
“You’ll be released to submit them elsewhere,” Becky said, her frustration growing. “And of course there’s our kill fee.”
“There had better be.”
“Look, I’m sorry.” A faint nagging pain started at one temple, threatening to take over her whole head. Alanna’s yelling only intensified her frustration with Rick. And her headache. If she didn’t get something to eat pretty soon, she was sure it was going to become a full-blown migraine. “I’m sorry about this, Alanna,” Becky said, trying to keep her voice quiet. Soothing. “You’ve done great work for us in the past and I appreciate all the hard work you’ve put into all your articles. Good luck selling the articles somewhere else.”
The harsh click in her ear told Becky how soothing her words had been.
Becky shoved her hands through her hair and grabbed the back of her neck. It felt as tight as a guitar string.
And in five minutes she had to face Rick Ethier.
She wondered if she had time to run across the street and grab a bite to eat. Better not. Instead she pulled open her desk drawer and pulled out the grease-stained bag. She shook out the rest of the muffin into her hand and popped it into her mouth. Two days old, but it was a much-needed snack.
She gathered up her papers and slipped them all into her portfolio, along with her Day-Timer. A paper covered with scribbles fluttered to the floor and she bent to pick it up. Notes for her most recent book.
Since Rick had come, she hadn’t had a spare minute to work on it. And if the past few days were any indication of the work Rick required to change the magazine’s direction, she wouldn’t have any time until Rick left.
In twelve months.
Dear Lord, am I ever going to get anywhere with my writing? The prayer was a cry of despair. She looked over at her crowded bookshelf. Her own book sat tucked away amongst all the others. But one book does not a career make, and if she wanted to live her dream, she needed at the least a multibook contract.
All her life she had wanted to be a fiction writer. But she had loans to repay and she had to live. So she took the job her father offered and for three years she had poured her heart and soul into that first book in her infrequent spare time.
When she received the call that this, her first book, had been bought, she broke down and cried like a baby. Then she celebrated.
Though her parents were overjoyed for her, her mother had given her the best advice. Advice, she was sure, countless other authors had received.
“Don’t quit your day job.”
So she stayed on with Going West, editing and writing nonfiction during the day, writing fiction in the evening, begrudging each minute away from her work as she put together her next book.
Then came Rick’s review, the sales figures just behind that, and her publisher started stalling on a contract for her option book. And now she didn’t have the time to work on it.
Becky pushed herself away from her desk. Enough wallowing. She had other things to discuss with Rick.
Such as maintaining her “day job.”
Chapter Two
Becky strode down the hallway to Rick’s office but was stopped when she faced the closed door. One of the many changes that had swept through this office since Rick took over. She knocked lightly.
“Come in.”
To
