Town Square, The (2 page)

Now Dare Valley’s deputy sheriff was staring at him too. “Like
me?”

“Why do you think I understand all you tough–as–nails women and what new love does to you?”

“If I weren’t so happy, I might object to that bunch of bull,” Meredith said, her wavy red hair a stark contrast to her cream–colored sweater.

Arthur shifted the baby in his arms. “Your hair is closer to your grandmother’s, Meredith. Jill, yours is a lot curlier, like my mother’s.”

“Why do you say she was so tough, Grandpa?” Meredith asked, coming forward and sitting on the floor next to him.

Peggy leaned against the doorway. “Part of me is glad you didn’t get off so easy in the love department.”

“Nothing worth having was ever acquired easily.”

“Tell us the story again, Grandpa.” Jill said, brushing a tear down her cheek. “I want my girls to hear it, and it seems like the right thing to do today. Like having Grandma here.”

“Well, the girls won’t understand it,” Peggy said, “but I’d love to hear it. I’ve always wondered what you were like when you were younger.”

Arthur decided he might as well tell it. Harriet was already in the room, and this new generation, even small and sleeping, deserved to know how it had all started.

“Well, I met her around this same time of year fifty–three years ago. It was December 1960. Kennedy had just become president, but hadn’t moved into the White House yet. I was twenty–three and had just returned to Dare Valley after working in New York at
The New York Times,
” he continued, and then started rocking faster in the chair as he took a stroll down memory lane.

***

Arthur spread the newspapers across his beaten–up desk in their proper geographic order with
The New York Times
flanking the right side and
The San Francisco Chronicle
flanking the left. One day he was going to print a paper as respected as they were, but first, he needed a working office space.

“Herman,” Arthur called over the incessant hammering in the next room. “When are those bookshelves going to be ready?”

The stacks of boxes spread around his new office building were driving him crazy. Perhaps he shouldn’t have hired his high school chum for the renovation job, but having just started a business himself, he wanted to support his friend. Smith’s Hardware had opened just last week.

“I’m doing the best I can, Arthur. You don’t have a level surface anywhere in this place. No wonder the bank built a new building. It’s taking longer to make the boards level than I thought. I don’t want your darn books to slide right off the shelves.”

Right. He didn’t need Herman Smith to tell him he’d bought a building with character. But it had been the only one available on Main Street, and he’d wanted to be situated right in the heart of Dare Valley.
The Western Independent
didn’t need to be fancy, as the newly stenciled sign on the front door announced with its simple black lettering. All that mattered was that the paper delivered good content. A quality newspaper sold copies. And his wasn’t just going to be good. It was going to be great. There was a niche for this newspaper—he just knew it. The people out West needed news that wasn’t tinged with the East Coast bias he’d run across over and over again in New York.

Plus he had the backing of the man who’d changed his life, Emmits Merriam, the oil tycoon who had come to Dare Valley as a young man to gamble at The Grand Mountain Hotel, now abandoned. Darn shame, that.

Emmits had built a summerhouse in Dare in the 1940s, and Arthur had run errands for him in high school until he gave the older man his take on oil exploration in Iran one day, which had made Emmits regard him with new eyes. His parents hadn’t understood why Arthur wanted to leave Colorado for college, but Emmits had. He’d even supported Arthur getting what he called a
superior
education, wanting him to “get worldly.”

While attending Columbia University in New York City, he’d fallen in love with journalism, and Emmits had managed to secure him a position at
The New York Times
. He’d struck gold with his first story on inner–city crime, rising through the ranks quickly for a young man. And he’d enrolled in Columbia’s Graduate School of Journalism, founded by his idol, Joseph Pulitzer, working day and night to become the best reporter he could be.

Emmits had declared the idea of Arthur becoming a journalist “capital” and had opened doors for him when he needed it, calling in favors for interviews with high–ranking officials or the elite.

Yet Arthur had begun to notice that the news in the paper he worked for didn’t really represent the opinions of the people he came from. As people throughout the country took to the streets demanding to be heard, from women to people of color, he experienced a proverbial light bulb moment. He wanted to create a newspaper that would represent people’s opinions out West. Decision makers in Washington and on Wall Street needed to hear them, and he would be the conduit. He pitched his idea to Emmits one night over Manhattans, and his mentor loved it. Since Emmits had run for the senate, he knew how important it was to learn the pulse of places that were completely alien to New Yorkers.

While Arthur had been the one to secure the main loan, Emmits had been more than willing to heavily invest in the project. He loved knowing there would be a visionary newspaper coming to Dare Valley right as he was building a new university in Dare. Named after himself—so Emmits—it would be opening next fall.

Launching a newspaper might seem like a lofty plan, but Arthur wasn’t intimidated. He was going to be the voice of the West, the
new
west.

He was smart, young, driven, and he had a vision. This new decade was ripe for huge change. Heck, 1959 had shown what kind of path they were on. The first microchip had been unveiled; the Civil Rights movement had gained prominence; and the first casualties in this war in Vietnam had been reported. And now they had a young, idealistic president, who’d captured the imagination of the country with his New Frontier. President Elect Kennedy was going to do great things. He could just feel it.

Arthur picked up the copy of
The New York Times
. Part of him couldn’t wait until he held his own newspaper in his hands, the ink leaving a welcome imprint on his fingers.

Now that the 707 had taken its maiden nonstop voyage from coast to coast last year, he could follow stories where they led him. Cuba was so hot politically right now with all of Fidel Castro’s hi–jinks, and he was thinking about trying to go there—even if that was pretty damn risky. He was still freelancing as a journalist for other papers while he got
The Western Independent
up and running, writing an article here and there. There was no way he could stop writing about the news. He’d wither like ivy cut away from the mother vine.

He’d arrived only a few weeks ago and was trying to hire his first staff position—a secretary. She’d help him set up the office while he began the process of hiring and training other reporters and staff for the May 7th launch of the newspaper.

Emmits was traveling with his wife, visiting his various companies across the United States. They didn’t like the cold much, so they stayed away for a few of the brittle winter months, visiting their grandkids in California. When Emmits returned in March after being a snowbird, there would be a lot to show him.

Arthur had just picked up
The New York Times
when a woman’s voice called out over the pounding of the hammer. “Excuse me,” she said. “I understand you’re looking for a secretary.”

He looked up, the newspaper slipping through his fingers onto his desk. The woman’s red hair was carefully coiled into that bun–thing women wore, and somehow it made her seem more elegant, like Rita Hayworth. Her green eyes were brighter and more alive than the trees in Sardine Canyon. And her skin? Well, he wouldn’t compare it to the heaps of snow covering the ground outside, but there was a coolness to her that told him she liked to keep her distance from people.

“Yes, I am,” he said finally, pushing the papers out of the way. Standing, he walked around his desk to her. “I’m Arthur Hale. And you are?”

“Harriet. Harriet Jenkins.”

When she shook his hand, he wished she weren’t wearing those darn navy gloves that matched her wool coat and pillbox hat. He would have liked to feel her skin against his.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, and gestured for her to sit while he rested his backside on his desk. She was too coiffed and finished to be a local; plus, he knew everyone here.

There was only one chair in his office besides his own, and it was rickety. She carefully slid into it. “No, I’m not from Dare. I heard around town that you’ve been pretty particular about typing skills, which is why you haven’t found anyone yet. I can type one hundred words per minute and take shorthand at ninety per minute.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” he said. It was true—he’d interviewed a few women around town without success. At best, he’d found a few who could maintain sixty words a minute. “Tell me a little more about yourself. Where you’re from and where you went to school. Do you have a resume?”

“No, I don’t.” Folding her hands in her lap, she regarded him cooly. “I came from Denver, and there’s not much more to tell. I’m happy to demonstrate my skills if you’d like.”

Her accent suggested back East, but it was the finishing school kind of voice that was impossible to pin down. He stroked his chin. “You know you’re talking to a journalist, right? I can’t help but ask questions.”

Her red–painted mouth tipped up. “What’s more important to you? Someone who can type fast or someone who answers questions?”

The hands clenching her clutch purse like it was a life preserver made him wonder if she weren’t quite as cool as her expression. He’d bet she was a city girl who was in some sort of trouble. No other reason for her to show up in Dare Valley, population five thousand and a few, and apply for this job.

“How did you hear about the position?” he asked.

“You ran it in several newspapers,” she replied vaguely.

He had, but no woman from outside of Dare had applied. It didn’t pay well enough for a woman to relocate, and if she were married, her husband would need to find a job here, which complicated the situation.

She scanned his space, and with all the boxes and the mess, who knew what she was thinking? The walls were still blank, but at least they were freshly painted white.

“Can I ask why your office is in the middle of the floor and not in the corner where there are windows?”

“I like to be in the middle of things,” he replied.

“I see. So do you want to see if I’m telling the truth about my typing skills and shorthand?” she asked. “Otherwise, I will bid you good day.”

Yeah, she was trying to act as cool as a cucumber—and beautiful to boot. He wondered about her marital status, but he wasn’t about to ask, and the gloves concealed the answer.

“Fine,” he said, gesturing toward the IBM Electromatic typewriter on his back desk. He grabbed an article he’d scratched onto a legal pad this morning. “Let’s try this.”

She dusted off his chair before sitting down and swiveling around even though he couldn’t see a speck of dirt. Off came her gloves, revealing her perfectly manicured nails, which she so wouldn’t have gotten in the basement beauty parlors around town.

And no, she wasn’t married. Or at least she wasn’t wearing a rock.

Sliding the paper he gave her into the typewriter, she propped his legal pad up and took a deep breath. Then her fingers started an intricate dance across the keys. He took a look at his watch as the
chik–chik–cha–chik–chik–chika–chik–cha–chik–Ding–ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
of the typewriter filled the office. Her fingers flew over the letters and before he knew it, she was handing him the paper. He eyed the watch again, then the article.

Okay, she hadn’t been bragging, and darn if there weren’t a single error. Even with his own typing, there always seemed to be at least one mistake he’d have to blot out.

“I’m impressed,” he mused, setting the paper aside.

She wiped her fingers on a linen handkerchief she pulled from her purse. It was embroidered with a single red rose. “So, did I pass the test?”

“Let’s try your shorthand. Just for the heck of it.” There was no way he wasn’t spending as much time with this beautiful woman as he could. He’d been working like a dog, and he hadn’t been out much since moving home to Dare.

Dare wasn’t New York City. He missed the parties. The gallery openings. Having a drink at Sardi’s or going to El Morocco, even though that place wasn’t like it used to be.

And he was man enough to admit that he missed women. Not the local Dare variety.

Funny how she rather reminded him of the polished women he was used to meeting in the city. He hadn’t been sophisticated, but his charm had allowed him to quickly blend in with those who were.

Harriet looked around for a Steno pad and, not seeing one, said “Your legal pad,” holding out her hand. He gave it to her, and she drew a line down the center of the page to cut it in half. She did that on the next few pages also. She poised with one hand holding a pen and the other holding the bottom of the page, ready to flip it when it was filled.

Arthur paced beside his new Panasonic K21–10 color television. The article he dictated was one he’d been playing with for a while. He wanted to dive into what he thought President Kennedy’s New Frontier could mean for the nation and how the young leader would face off against the Soviets, something everyone with or without a fallout shelter was wondering. When he finished dictating, he held out his hand for the legal pad. She looked up at him, startled. “Don’t you want me to type it up?” He shook his head, no. He could read and write shorthand, and still wrote his interview notes in it. First, because the person he interviewed usually couldn’t read it, and second, because he liked the idea of writing in a code. Made him feel like a secret spy.

“Impressive,” he said again, wondering if she could have relocated from back East to Denver, which was only two hours away.