regional paper in Missouri. I visited there last week. Seems like a good fit.”
“Do you want me to check out the books?”
“Among other things.”
Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Such as…?”
“I need you to do the on-site operational audit, as well. Observe the day-to-day functions of the paper. Get a feel for the place. See how it’s run, check out the management style, sit in on editorial meetings.” He held out a manila folder. “Here’s the background and contact information.”
The younger man ignored the folder. “I don’t know anything about the operational side of the business.”
“You’re thirty-four years old, Mark. It’s time you learned.”
“But it’s not my area of expertise.”
A few beats of silence ticked by. Then Spencer leaned forward, set the folder in front of Mark and crossed his arms on his desk as he pinned his oldest son with an intent look. “If you want to run this company someday, you need to understand the heart of this business as well as the numbers. That includes getting a few ink stains on your hands—figuratively speaking. I think you could learn a lot from the editor down there.”
Abby had impressed Spencer as an intelligent woman with firm principles and a deep passion for her work. Unlike Mark, who’d led a sheltered life, she struck him as a woman who knew what it was to struggle and wasn’t afraid to fight for what she believed in. If Mark needed a wake-up call, Abby Warner might be just the one to give it to him.
“Assuming the Oak Hill Gazette agrees to an investigation, why don’t you plan to leave next Monday?”
The firm set of his father’s jaw made Mark wary. “How long do you want me to stay?”
“As long as it takes. Twelve weeks minimum.”
Mark shot to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. “You want me to spend twelve weeks in some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere?”
“At least. And it’s in rural Missouri.”
“Same difference. Besides, if it’s a small operation it shouldn’t take that long to do due diligence.”
“This is a special case.”
“In what way?”
His father’s blue eyes turned steely. “You’ll just have to trust me on this, Mark.”
Raking his hand through his hair, Mark struggled to think of some excuse—any excuse—that might save him from banishment to the farm belt. But he couldn’t come up with anything he thought his father would buy.
“Give it up, Mark,” Spencer said as if reading his mind. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. Nor is it negotiable.”
Biting back a sharp retort, Mark glared at his father. “I’m not the best person for this job.”
“You’re the perfect person.” The phone rang again, and Spencer reached for the handset. “Check in with me every few days. I want to be kept informed of your progress…Spencer Campbell here.”
Their conversation was over. No, Mark corrected. This hadn’t been a conversation. It had been an executive order. Picking up the folder, he wandered back to his office in a daze and sank into his leather desk chair. He was being sent to Hicksville, ill equipped for everything except the numbers part of his assignment.
Although he tried to remain angry, Mark didn’t succeed. Nothing had much power to evoke—or sustain—emotion in him. Besides, he’d been coasting for years. He supposed his father had a right to expect him to earn his keep. And, as heir apparent, to learn more about the business than how to crunch numbers.
Still, spending three months in the heartland of Missouri seemed pretty extreme. He’d survive, of course. As for learning anything, he suspected the only thing he’d gain would be a greater appreciation for big-city living.
Chapter Two
Dr. Sam Martin strode into his office, took his place behind the solid oak desk he’d inherited from his predecessor and opened Abby’s file. After giving it a quick scan, he looked at his patient.
“Everything appears normal, Abby. I assume you’re sticking to your diet, exercising, taking your medication?”
“Yes.”
“Good. How are you sleeping?”
“Okay.” That was stretching the truth. With the Gazette’s problems weighing on her mind, she was lucky to manage five or six hours a night. Less since Spencer Campbell had visited the week before.
One of Dr. Martin’s brows quirked up, and his next comment confirmed that he hadn’t missed the blue shadows under her eyes. “How’s the stress level?”
Startled, Abby stared at him. Had the Oak Hill grapevine tipped him off to the paper’s financial troubles?
The doctor leaned back and gave her an empathetic look. “I’ve heard rumors that the Gazette is having some problems.”
Cara must be his source of information, Abby speculated. Dr. Martin had just reconciled with his estranged wife, who’d moved to town and opened a restaurant at the Oak Hill Inn—and become fast friends with Marge Sullivan, the inn’s garrulous owner who knew everything about everybody in town.
“We’re having some financial issues,” she acknowledged.
“Fatigue and stress aren’t good for you, Abby. They’ll only exacerbate your condition. I’m sure Dr. Sullivan told you that, as well.”
“Yes, he did.” But what was she supposed to do? She was the editor. Dealing with problems was part of the job. “I’m working on some options.”
“Good. Until things settle down, I’d suggest you increase the frequency of your monitoring.”
“Okay.”
He closed her file. “I’ll see you again in six months. Call in the meantime if you have any problems.”
As Abby exited the office and stepped out into the August heat, she slowly exhaled. She hated doctor visits. Hated everything about the disease that had killed her mother at far too young an age and which she’d been diagnosed with just a few months ago.
Still, it could be worse, she tried to console herself as she slid behind the wheel of her car. And it might get worse unless she followed her doctors’ instructions. The diet, the exercise, the medication—that was all controllable. But Dr. Martin had homed in on the one thing in her life that wasn’t: stress. And neither of the options for the Gazette’s fate alleviated that.
Lord, help me get through this, she prayed as she drove down Main Street to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. Give me the courage to face whatever challenges lie ahead.
Marge Sullivan banged the gavel on the conference table and called the meeting to order. “Has anyone heard from Ali Mahmoud?”
