Reinventing Leona (24 page)

Her gaze darted from frosty widow . . . to frantic mortician . . . to filthy rich feline as she considered her options. “Well, if you give me what you’ve written, I’ll proof it and make sure there are no errors.”

“I don’t intend to write a thing.” Goldie stroked Pinkie’s long, shiny coat. “That’s what you’re paid to do.”

Tension escaped Leona’s rigid shoulders. “Technically, I’m not. I’m just a proofreader. You see, today is my first day on the job.” She plastered on her committee-negotiation smile and charged ahead. “Tell you what, Mrs. Pond, why don’t you let me call Modyne? Get you some experienced help on this matter.”

“I don’t want Modyne. I saw what that old battle-axe did to Lucille Ellis. Owen would roll over in his grave if his final press release had such a horrendous mistake. Politicians live or die by publicity . . . but even negative publicity better keep the facts straight.”

“I’m not really authorized to write obituaries. I’m supposed to pick up what you’ve written, proof it, then give the piece to Modyne.” Suddenly Leona remembered the folder in her lap. “If you don’t know where to start, I have forms you can fill out.” She fumbled with the file, searching through the blurred headings for the right piece of paper.

Wayne threw himself across the desk, landing with a thud. “Leona, I’m sure you can see that this is a delicate situation, one that needs a seasoned hand.” He drew his hands together as if praying to the Almighty.

Grown men begging had never impressed J.D., and now Leona could see why . . . it wasn’t pretty.

“That’s just it, Wayne. I’m green as a Story cucumber.” Leona stood. “It’s my first day at the
Messenger
.”

“Leona.” Wayne heaved himself up from the desk. “After all those years of sorting through church troubles you have more public relations skills in your little finger than most PR firms have in the whole building.” His pleading face looked as if he were on the verge of dropping to one knee and giving her half of his sorry little mortician kingdom. Which, considering the brisk business the single man did, was an offer a lesser woman would have jumped at.

Goldie flipped the metal clasp on her beaded bag and removed two folded pieces of paper. She handed one to Leona. “Here is a list of my husband’s political friends. It’s short. Shouldn’t take long to give them a call.” She pressed a second paper into Leona’s hand. “But after talking with them, if you can’t fill a column, then call his enemies. I’m sure you’ll have more than you need by the time you’ve contacted each of them.”

“Obits are purchased by the inch. An entire column will be very expensive.” Leona gave herself a mental pat on the back for thinking of this clever point. If she hadn’t just paid for J.D.’s obituary, she wouldn’t have known this little funeral business secret.
Amazing how God can use every piece of sorrow to his glory.
In the future, she would be more willing to give experience the credit it was due. “Surely a destitute woman would find the newspaper write-up a perfect place to scrimp.”

The golden flecks in Goldie’s eyes twisted like the holiday-scented candle flames. “Pinkie can afford every line.”

Leona released the folder. Forms fluttered about her feet. “But—”

“Wayne has Owen’s biographical information.” Goldie snapped her purse closed. “One more thing. Don’t you dare write that my dead husband is resting in the arms of Jesus.” She scooped up the feline heiress. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Pinkie doesn’t do well in snow.” A sly smile glossed her collagen-plumped lips. “I’m afraid the uppity little thing will catch her death, should she accidentally be left in the cold.” Mrs. Pond floated to the door, paused, then executed a perfect pivot turn. “Leona, be sure and mention Pinkie. Owen would have wanted it that way.”

Leona’s stunned lips refused to move. She watched Goldie exit the funeral director’s office, a long, fluffy white tail swirling from under her arm.

“Here you go, Mrs. Harper.” Wayne ripped off the top sheet of a legal-sized yellow tablet. “This is Owen’s bio. If you need any more information, give Rosie a call.” He raced around the desk. Stooping, he gathered papers and crammed them inside Modyne’s disheveled file folder. Grabbing Leona’s elbow, he whisked her past Rosie Cass. “Glad to see Ivan got himself some first-rate help.” He hustled Leona out the door and into the blowing snow before she could utter a word of protest.

The heavy oak door slammed shut, leaving Leona out in the cold with a car battery as dead as her husband.

Chapter Nineteen

Leona rubbed her hands together, waiting for Cotton’s signal he’d successfully connected the jumper cables.

Snatches of what sounded like J.D.’s voice howled around the raised hood of the van and whipped through her open driver’s-side window. “What’s the point of having a cell phone if you don’t keep it charged, or worse, forget to take it with you?” the gusty wind accused.

Cranking the stubborn handle a couple of turns, Leona managed to raise the scratched glass several inches, but she failed to roll away the ache settling in her bones. She didn’t know what hurt more—missing her husband’s loving chastisements or not knowing who to call when she had car trouble. Thankfully, Wayne was holed up in his office by the time she rallied enough courage to step inside the funeral home and phone the church. Shirley promised she’d send the custodian in a flash, and in her efficient manner, she had been true to her word.

Cotton poked his head around and gave a thumbs-up. “Try it now, Leona.”

Holding the key, Leona prayed Cotton’s mechanical magic had conquered the corroded battery posts. Modyne would be chomping at the bit if she didn’t return to the office soon. After a few grinding seconds, the engine roared to life, and Leona let out the breath she had been holding. “You’re a prince, Cotton,” she shouted through the cracked window.

“Don’t go peeling out of here.” He removed his cables and slammed the hood. Wires in hand, he approached her window. “You take your time and be careful on these roads. They’re not safe.”

“Thank you, Cotton,” she mouthed.

After a nod of his head, he threaded himself between the nose-to-nose truck and van.

Leona put her hand to the window lever. She concentrated on coaxing the window shut to keep from running after her steadfast friend and burying her face in his sturdy shoulder. A deserted sense of loss seeped from her heart as she watched him toss the cables into his truck, get in, and back away. Struggling as if she were the drained battery, she forced the shifter into drive, pushed the play button on her CD player, and pointed her car in the direction of the office. Trying her best not to think about the only man left in her life returning to his duties at the church, Leona focused on keeping her car on the treacherous road while the Gaithers sang “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.”

Trolling Main Street at a crawl, Leona prayed for an empty parking space in front of the newspaper office. Suddenly, brake lights lit up a familiar two-toned Buick hogging two slots.

“I didn’t expect my little crisis to bring Shirley downtown in this weather. She could have just called Modyne.”

Noticing traffic stacking up behind her, Leona drummed her nails on the steering wheel as she waited for her husband’s secretary to back out and free up the premium parking.

Once the four-door tank cleared, Leona wheeled into one of the vacated spaces, relieved she’d snagged a slot out of the jurisdiction of the Koffee Kup’s management. She made a mental note to ask Ivan about parking and Modyne about Shirley’s visit.

The accumulated snow had drooped the canvas awning over the
Messenger
window into a forced smile. Maybe the unexpected display was a sign from God that this disastrous day could be salvaged. File folder in hand, Leona climbed out of the van and risked a daring dash across the perilous sidewalk.

“Seems you’re a popular girl.” Modyne leaned across her desk, thrusting three pink notes in Leona’s direction. “You’ve got several phone messages. Your cell has been ringing nonstop. And your husband’s secretary just left.”

“What did Shirley want?” Leona brushed the snow from her shoulders.

“This ain’t church. Everything is not my business. And I’m not
your
secretary.”

Leona ceased her pawing. “Oh. Right. Guess I’ll just give these folks a call.” She felt Modyne’s smoldering judgment laser a hole through her coat, searing her conscience into awareness. She snatched the phone slips. “During lunch. On my own time.”

“You do that.” Modyne’s unflinching gaze conveyed the unspoken ground rules. She was the indubitable head honcho; Leona was the hireling. Driving her point home, Modyne proceeded to drill her charge. “You got that obit on Owen?”

Leona hesitated. “Not exactly.”

Modyne’s brow arched above the rim of her glasses, indicating she had Leona squarely in her sights. She placed her elbows on the edge of the desk, steepled her hands, then rested her chin on the point. “Not exactly?”

“I have some biographical information, the time of the funeral, interment plans, and where to send donations.”

A wry smirk eased out from under Modyne’s hairy upper lip. “Sounds like an obit to me.” The dog-eared ace spun around in her chair, then attacked the keyboard with a vengeance.

“But I also have a list of friends Mrs. Pond wants me to call before I—” Leona shuffled her feet, praying the scraping sound would camouflage the knocking of her knees— “write the piece.”

Modyne’s fingers froze in midpeck. Leona tried not to fidget while her news flash sank in. In the old days, reporters hated being one-upped on an exclusive. From the daggered glare Modyne shot over her shoulder, territorial boundaries hadn’t changed all that much during Leona’s working-world hiatus.

“Write?” Modyne’s tone indicated a wise woman would reconsider her brazen insubordination.

Wisdom has never been my strong suit.
Plowing straight ahead was the only way out. “Goldie wants a special . . . piece.”

“Special piece?” Modyne’s mustache twitched.

Leona’s panicked gaze skittered from Ivan’s empty desk, to the microwave, and back. Her boss was nowhere to be found. What should she do? This conversation was spiraling out of control. Shoring up the bulky file slipping out from under her arm, she realized the situation called for one of her tried and true diversion tactics. Maxine Davis loved to pump the preacher’s wife for inside information, but Leona had always managed to point the nosy woman in another direction by simply changing the subject. Praying the feeble ploy would work yet again, Leona offered Modyne the return of her battered folder. “Should I keep these forms or do you want them back?”

“Special piece?” Apparently, Modyne was not so easily distracted. “What do you mean,
special
piece?”

“It’s complicated.” The bellows of interrogation had fanned Leona’s body heat to lethal levels inside her heavy winter coat. She would not have been surprised if the ratty thing burst into flames and took her out in a fiery ball of shame. “Where’s Ivan?” Fingers trembling, she unfastened the wool-covered buttons.

“He went out to get some pictures of the snow. Won’t be back until after lunch.”

Maybe if she pleaded for mercy, Modyne would understand how she had been thrown to the dogs . . . cat . . . on her very first assignment. Surely the newspaper business had not become so cutthroat that sympathetic assistance was out of the question. “I tried to explain that this was my first day, but Mrs. Pond insisted I write Owen’s obituary.”

Her gaze steady, her features calm, Modyne said, “Then you better get started.” Lightning quick, the seasoned reporter’s fingers returned to the keyboard, zipping across the keys, sparks flying every which way. “You don’t want to miss your first deadline.” Her tone parceled each word, wrapping the curt packages with so much rope an inexperienced rookie couldn’t help but hang herself.

But Leona knew reverse psychology when she heard it, having fed her kids a steady diet of the tricky stuff for years. She stalked to her corner desk and tore out of her coat, grateful for the burst of cool air. The dark computer monitor presented a minor problem, but she had been raised to suppress panic. From the corner of her eye, she could see Modyne pecking away like a crazed banty rooster.
No way I’m asking that small-town-rag diva for help.

Draping her coat across the back of the chair, Leona wished she’d paid closer attention to J.D.’s navigation of the techno-monster when he opened Word at home. She swiveled the chair around and plopped down on the fake leather seat. Remembering her husband working the mouse, she thought, how hard could it be? She gave the ladybug-shaped contraption a nudge and the screen came to life. A sense of triumph bolstered Leona’s confidence. She recognized the Word icon, dragged the arrow across the blue background, and clicked. No change. She sneaked a glance in Modyne’s direction, then clicked the mouse button frantically. To her amazement, the program opened . . . several times.

Look out, publishing world, Leona Harper is in business!

The tingle of success straightened her spine and realigned her courage.
Maybe I do belong here.
She cracked her knuckles. Flexed her fingers. Held her readied hands over the keyboard. She studied the unfamiliar symbols on the excessive rows.
Well, maybe not.

She opted to take a moment to . . . pray . . . sift through her phone messages . . . anything to put off touching the wrong key and destroying her progress. The first crumpled note was from David. He had managed to book a flight out of London on Saturday.
Good boy.
The next was from Maddie. She had a surprise for her momma.
What in the world?
The last one was from Mt. Hope Rehabilitation Center. Call immediately.
Right.

Leona relegated the rehab center’s message to the bottom of the stack, then skewered the vexatious slips on the wire message holder. Rooting through the compartments of her extravagant handbag, she located Mrs. Pond’s papers. Running a smoothing hand over the wrinkles, she wished removing the creases grief had pressed into her once perfect life could be as simple.
Lord, help me.