A Dream To Share. Irene Hannon

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      “Yes. Sorry. I was in the middle of something.”

      “Would you like to call me back at a more convenient time?”

      Yes. Like never, she wanted to say. But the finance board had already agreed to a review by Campbell Publishing. She had to deal with this.

      “No. This is fine.” She tried to be cordial. But even to her own ears her tone sounded downright arctic.

      “Okay. I’d like to begin Monday, unless that’s a problem.”

      From his tone, Mark Campbell didn’t seem to be any more enthusiastic about his assignment than she was, Abby realized in surprise.

      “That’s fine with me.”

      “I’ll make the arrangements, then. Can you recommend a place to stay?”

      “The only lodging in town is the Oak Hill Inn. It’s a B and B.”

      “You mean one of those places where you have to share a bathroom down the hall with other guests?”

      From his appalled inflection, it was clear that Mark Campbell considered such an arrangement uncivilized—and well beneath him. He’d probably never darkened the door of a B and B in his life. As an heir to a publishing empire, he was no doubt more accustomed to five-star hotels.

      “No, the Oak Hill Inn is a bit more progressive than that. Every room has its own bath. They even have running water.”

      “Fine.” The stiffness in his voice told her that her barb had hit home. “Do they have high-speed Internet access?”

      She couldn’t quite contain her chuckle. “Sorry. This isn’t a big city, Mr. Campbell. If you want high-speed in your room, you’ll have to stay closer to Rolla.”

      “How far away is that?”

      “Thirty-five miles.” When he sighed, she spoke again. “However, you’re more than welcome to use the Net at our office.”

      “I suppose that will have to do. Just give me the contact information for the inn.” Once she’d complied, he didn’t linger on the phone. “I’ll see you on Monday. What time would be good?”

      “I’m always here by seven. I’ll see you then.”

      “In the morning?”

      “Well, I hardly think we’d be starting work at seven in the evening. Though I’m often here then, too.”

      “Okay. Fine. I can do seven.”

      As she hung up, Abby leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. Mark Campbell seemed to be looking forward to this whole process about as much as she was. But that appeared to be about the only thing they had in common. Spencer Campbell’s son came across as a snob who was accustomed to a cushy life. He exhibited none of the fire and passion for the business that his father had.

      Of course, she really shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he was just having a bad day. As she was.

      And she didn’t think tomorrow was going to get much better.

      Chapter Three

      Seven o’clock came and went on Monday morning with no sign of Mark Campbell.

      Somehow Abby wasn’t surprised. From their brief conversation, he hadn’t struck her as a morning person. But she wasn’t going to waste time worrying about his tardiness. She had a lot of work to do and she took her job seriously—even if he didn’t.

      An hour later, when Abby answered her phone, he was on the other end.

      “Ms. Warner? Sorry I didn’t arrive as scheduled. I, uh, missed my flight last night.”

      “I hope there wasn’t an emergency at home.”

      “No. It’s a…long story.” Actually, it wasn’t. He’d been at a party Sunday afternoon and lost track of the time—thanks to a gorgeous blonde who’d distracted him. When he’d at last thought to check his watch, he’d known he could never make his flight. But he wasn’t about to share that tidbit with Abby Warner. He already had the distinct feeling that she was less than impressed by him.

      “In any case, I’m at O’Hare now, and we should be taking off in a few minutes,” he continued. “When we land in St. Louis I’ll drive directly to your office. That will take a couple of hours, right?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I should be there no later than one o’clock.”

      “We’ll look forward to seeing you.”

      I’ll just bet, he thought, as he hung up. She sounded about as eager to see him as he was about trading his high-rise penthouse for a backwater B and B.

      But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the town would be far more progressive and up to date than he expected. It might even offer an interesting diversion or two.

      At least he could hope.

      Several hours later his hopes were deflated. Oak Hill was worse than he’d thought.

      As Mark drove down the town’s main street, which was baking in the late-August heat, he scanned the buildings on each side in dismay. It was like a Norman Rockwell slice of Americana—without the charm. A few cars were parked at the curb here and there, but the occupants hadn’t chosen to linger in the hundred-degree midday sun. They must have escaped into one of the tired-looking shops that lined the dusty street.

      He saw a soda fountain, a feed store, and a bar and grill on one side. His gaze swept ahead. More of the same. No diversions there.

      He switched his attention to the other side of the street. The Tivoli Theater looked promising, except the movie—only one movie, he realized—had played in Chicago weeks ago. There was also an antique store, a real-estate firm, a law office, a dentist, a bakery, a butcher shop. No Starbucks in sight.

      In less than sixty seconds he came to the end of the two-block-long business district. How did people live in a place like this?

      Shaking his head, Mark checked the street sign at the intersection. Spruce. This was it. His father had told him that the Gazette offices were only a couple of blocks off Main Street.

      He turned left and drove past an elementary school, a church, the city hall and a few other businesses tucked in between residential property. No sign of the Gazette.

      Backtracking, he recrossed Main Street. A small police station, a doctor’s office, more houses, a tiny library…and finally the Gazette.

      Since the newspaper didn’t seem to have a parking lot, Mark eased his rental car next to the curb, under the shade of a towering oak tree. He took a couple of minutes to assess the building across the street he would call home during working hours for the next twelve weeks.

      Unimposing would be far too generous a description, he decided. The small one-story white structure had a flat roof and was badly in need of a paint job. Two СКАЧАТЬ