Dear Debbie,
I’m desperate and need your help.
Elena Montoya studied the first of several letters she’d been handed during her job interview at The Brighton Valley Gazette. She’d come here today, hoping to get her foot in the door at the small-town newspaper, but as a reporter. Not someone offering advice to the lovelorn in a weekly column.
Mr. Carlton, the balding, middle-aged editor, leaned forward, resting clasped hands on his desk. “So what do you think?”
Seriously? Elena would be hard-pressed to offer advice to anyone, especially someone with romantic trouble. But she didn’t want to reveal her inexperience or doubt. “I’d hoped to land a different assignment—or another type of column.”
“Let’s see what you can do with this first.” Mr. Carlton leaned back in his desk chair, the springs creaking under his weight, the buttons of his cotton shirt straining to contain his middle-age spread.
Elena knew better than to turn down work, even though this job wasn’t a good fit. Worse yet, the pay he’d offered her wasn’t enough to cover a pauper’s monthly expenses. And since she was new in town, she needed a way to support herself.
But as an advice columnist? The irony was laughable.
“You look a bit...uneasy,” the editor said.
She was. Either Mr. Carlton had neglected to read her resume or he’d confused her with another applicant.
“It’s just that...” She cleared her throat and chose her words carefully. “Well, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to have this position, but I only took two psych courses in college. And since I majored in journalism, I’m more qualified to work as a reporter.”
“Don’t worry. It shouldn’t be too difficult for a young woman like you, Elena.”
She cringed at his use of her given name. The last thing she needed was for her new co-workers at the newspaper—or any rodeo fans in the small Texas community—to connect the dots and realize who she was. And why she looked familiar—in spite of her efforts to change her appearance.
“By the way,” she said, “I go by Lainie.” At least, that’s the childhood nickname her twin sister had given her.
“All right,” Mr. Carlton said. “Then Lainie it is. But keep in mind you’ll be known as ‘Dear Debbie’ around here. We like her true identity to be a secret.”
A temporary secret identity was just what Lainie needed. After that embarrassing evening, when rodeo star Craig Baxter’s wife had caught him and Elena together at a hotel restaurant in Houston and assumed the worst, Elena had done her best to lay low. The next day, she’d relocated to a ranch outside of Brighton Valley, where she could hide out until she could rise above those awful rumors—all of which were either untrue or blown way out of proportion.
Elena had tried to explain how she’d come to be there that night—how she had no idea that Craig was a rodeo star, let alone married—to no avail. Kara Baxter had been so angry at her husband, she’d thrown a margarita in Elena’s face and read him the riot act. As if that hadn’t been bad enough, someone at another table had caught it all on video, and the whole, ugly scene had gone viral. And now Kara’s friends and Craig’s fans blamed her for splitting up a marriage that wouldn’t have lasted anyway.
“Do you have any other questions?” Mr. Carlton asked.
As a matter of fact, she had a ton of them, but she didn’t want to show any sign of insecurity.
“I do have one question,” she admitted. “Some of the people writing these letters could be dealing with serious issues. And if that’s the case, I’m not qualified to offer them any advice.” Nor should she counsel anyone, for that matter.
Mr. Carlton shook his head and waved off her concern. “Our last Debbie used to have a stock answer for the bigger problems. She told them to seek professional help.”
Lainie nodded. “Okay. Then I’ll use that response.” A lot.
“Just focus on the interesting letters or on those that trigger a clever response,” Mr. Carlton said. “It’s really just entertainment for most people. But keep in mind, if the readership of the Dear Debbie column increases, I’ll give you a bigger assignment in the future.”
At least, he’d given her a chance to prove herself, something she’d had to do time and again since the third grade, when she’d gone from a foster home to a pediatric intensive care unit and lost track of her sister. “I’ll give it my best shot, Mr. Carlton.”
“Okay, kid. What’s the best number if I need to get a hold of you?”
“I listed my cell on my resume, although that’s not the best way to reach me. I’m temporarily staying at the Rocking Chair Ranch. Since the reception isn’t very good there, and the Wi-Fi is worse, you’d better call me on the landline.” She pointed to her resume, which he’d set aside on his desk. “I included that number, too, and marked it with an asterisk.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you staying at a retirement home for old cowboys?”
“Because I’m filling in for the ranch cook, who’ll be gone for the next three weeks.” When Lainie first heard about the temporary position, she’d declined. But after that awful run-in with Kara Baxter, she’d changed her mind and accepted it out of desperation, realizing it would provide her with a place to stay until she could find something better and more permanent in town.
Oddly enough, she actually felt a lot more comfortable staying at the Rocking C than she’d thought she would. And she liked the old men who lived there. Most of them were sweet, and even the crotchety few were entertaining.
Mr. Carlton pushed back his chair and got to his feet, signaling the interview was over.
Lainie stood, too. Still hoping for something more respectable and better paying, she said, “I minored in photography, so if you need a photojournalist, that’s another option.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Consider this your trial run, kid.”
Lainie nodded and reached for her purse.
Mr. Carlton headed for the door of his office and opened it for her. “I’ll send you a copy of the letters electronically, and even if you’re somewhere with terrible web access, your column is due by email before midnight on Wednesday. I can’t wait to see it.”
“You won’t be disappointed. I’ll channel my inner Debbie.” Lainie tamped down her doubt, offered him a smile and lifted the letters in her hand. “You’ll love what I do with these.”
Mr. Carlton beamed, clearly convinced that she’d work a miracle of some kind, but Lainie knew better. And she feared that by Friday morning, when her first column came out, her inadequacy would come to light.
* * *
Rodeo promoter Drew Madison drove his pickup down the county highway
