“Her car was still at the clinic when I drove by.”
Well, that was something. At least she wasn’t waiting on him. Had he been home anywhere approaching a reasonable hour at any point in the last two weeks? Barely. He’d been so damned busy with the paper, there’d hardly been opportunity to do more than sleep in the same bed. Something had to give, and he sure as hell didn’t want it to be his nascent marriage.
“Just as well you came back. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Simone braced herself. “It something going wrong with your access to the trust?”
“What? No. Everything’s fine there. I should be granted access in a few days.” Thank God. He needed that burden off his shoulders. “No, I wanted to talk about some of the issues that came up running things while I was gone. You’ll need to make some changes in how you handle things if you’re to take on more responsibility around here.”
“Myles, with respect, you’re a good friend, and I love you. But I don’t want more responsibility around here.”
“What?” Oh, dear Lord. Was she quitting?
“If your honeymoon taught me anything, it’s that I’m a reporter, not an editor. I never had that desire to mold and create a publication like you did. At least not the same way. I took this job in part because I wanted to get a chance to explore a different kind of journalism than I got in the city. But I also took it because it would be less demanding in a lot of ways and would give me the chance to actually have a life.”
Ironic, since his position here meant he had less of one.
Because he needed something to do with his hands, Myles unwrapped one of the po-boys and bit in. Fried shrimp. The breading was light and crunchy, the spice and salt a glorious counterpoint to the crisp lettuce and creamy mayo. God bless Omar. “And would that life be including seeing Omar Buckley on a more personal basis?”
“It would. As you well know, since you’re not blind. But he’s only part of it. I’m writing.”
“Well, yes, of course you’re writing. You handed in two stories this morning. The markups are in your email.”
“No, I mean really writing. Fiction.” Her eyes shone with excitement.
Despite the fatigue, Myles felt his interest pique. “Yeah? What genre?”
“Romantic suspense at the moment. Though I’ve got several other things kicking around in my brain.”
“I didn’t know you had aspirations in that direction.”
Simone laughed, her rich voice like a bubble of caramel. “Neither did I. But I love it. Really love it, the way you love running this paper. And I don’t want to take on anything that’s going to interfere with pursuing that. I certainly don’t mind helping out, when necessary. I know a paper like this means a lot of cross-training and interchangeability, but this isn’t about having a sub so you can go on a proper honeymoon. You’re really wanting someone to take over a lot of the responsibility for the paper on a more permanent basis.”
“You’re not wrong. I want an assistant editor.”
“It won’t be me.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Well, shit.”
“Is that a dealbreaker for my position here?”
“Of course not. If it were, I’d have brought all of it up when I hired you in the first place. But I’ve got to figure something out. I can’t keep working like this.”
“Won’t things settle down once you pay off your investor?”
“I’m afraid we’re a long way from settling down, period. For good reasons. The paper’s having a growth spurt, and that’s great. But I need more help to manage it. I could outsource some of it, but that would defeat the purpose of what I’m doing here. I want to keep my business here in the community, as much as possible. To do that, I need a proper assistant editor. You were the closest to qualified of all the staff to do what I want, and if you don’t want it, I have to find someone else.”
“Is there anybody locally who might suit?”
“No one with the necessary experience, even if there might be interest. And I’m inclined to be choosy in who I bring in from the outside. Not everyone would appreciate a community like Wishful.”
Simone considered as she worked her way through her own po-boy. “You need a Clark Kent.”
“How’s that?”
“A reporter with small town roots, who went off to the big city like we did and is ready for a change.”
The wheels in Myles’ head began to turn. “No...not a Clark Kent. A Vanessa Clark.”