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MILLS & BOON
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To Melissa Endlich
Thank you for saying “yes” the third time around!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
“I know you’re dead set against this, Abby. But I don’t think we have any choice.”
Abby Warner swallowed past the lump in her throat and stared at James Lipic, who sat next to her at the round table in the Oak Hill Gazette’s tiny conference room. Twin vertical grooves were etched in the center of the older man’s forehead, forming sharp right angles to the flat, resigned line of his lips.
None of the other finance board members looked any happier, she noted, taking a quick survey. Harold Walsh’s ruddy face was pinker than usual, his shock of unruly white hair falling into even greater disarray as he jabbed his fingers through it. Vernon Lutrell stared down at the table, giving Abby a good view of the top of his head, where bristly gray hair spiked to attention on either side of a shiny bald runway. To complete the circle, Tony Parisi doodled on a pad of paper in front of him that was blank except for a series of dollar signs.
That’s what it all came down to, Abby reflected, trying in vain to stem the tide of bitterness that washed over her. The almighty dollar. Forget about truth and heritage and independence. Let’s just make money.
“There has to be another way.” There was a note of desperation in her voice, but Abby didn’t care.
“We’ve tried to come up with other alternatives, Abby, but this is the only viable option.” Harold’s voice was gentle—but firm.
Much as Abby wanted to vent her anger and frustration on the paper’s board, she knew that wouldn’t be fair. Bottom line, it was a fiscal issue. Publishing conglomerates were gobbling up smaller papers, making it difficult for independents to survive.
Nor was this a new problem. The fortunes of the weekly Gazette had begun to sour fifteen years ago, forcing Abby’s father to enlist the aid of three successful local businessmen who were willing to support a free and independent press. Each investor had acquired a fifteen percent share, leaving her father fifty-five percent—a controlling interest.
Then, twelve years ago, he’d had to add a fourth investor in order to keep the paper solvent, tipping the voting power in favor of the board. The members had never sided against him—or her—since she’d taken over ten years ago, after her father’s fatal heart attack. Even now, she knew they’d prefer not to press the issue. But bills had to be paid. And the well was fast running dry. She understood their dilemma: they were all good men who wanted to do the right thing, but their backs were against the wall. Just as hers was.
“We’re open to suggestions, Abby.” Tony spoke again when the silence lengthened. “If you have any other ideas, we’re happy to look into them.”
With unsteady fingers, Abby adjusted her bronze-rimmed glasses. As they all knew, the only source of funding on the horizon was Spencer Campbell, founder and CEO of Campbell Publishing, who had expressed interest in acquiring the Gazette.
“I wish I did, Tony.”
“At the rate we’re going, I doubt we can sustain operations for more than six months,” Vernon offered as he perused the financial report in front of him.
That was pretty much what Joe Miller, the staff accountant, had told her yesterday when they’d gone over the budget. And there was little Abby could do to bolster the numbers. The operation was already as lean as it could get.
Bottom line, Abby felt like a failure. For more than a hundred years, under the leadership of her family, the Oak Hill Gazette had been a trusted voice in the rural counties in Missouri that it served. Her great-grandfather had started the paper in 1904 with little more than a crusading spirit and fifty dollars in his pocket. Her grandfather had won a Pulitzer prize. Her father, too, had held truth and honesty in far higher regard than monetary gain.
Now, under her watch, that sterling legacy would disappear.
“I just can’t see selling the paper to some giant publisher who may not even care about journalistic integrity and all the things the Oak Hill Gazette has stood for during the past century.” Her voice choked on the last word and she dipped her head, blinking to sweep the moisture from her eyes.
“There is another alternative,” Harold said when no one else responded.
He didn’t need to spell it out. They all knew what he meant: let the paper go belly-up. Liquidate. Close up shop. Abby, too, had thought about that option. And dismissed it, convinced that another way would be found to save the Gazette. But they’d run out of time. Selling out or shutting down now had to be considered. Even if both options made her sick to her stomach.
“I’m sorry. It seems I’ve let everyone down.” A tremor ran through her voice, and Abby removed her glasses to massage her forehead.
“It’s not your fault,” James consoled her. “The good Lord knows you’ve tried. It’s just a sign of the times. The little guy can’t compete anymore. At least Campbell Publishing seems to be a reputable outfit. What can it hurt to talk with them?”
He was right, Abby conceded. Agreeing to talk with Spencer Campbell didn’t mean they had to accept his terms. If nothing else, it would buy them a little breathing space. And maybe, just maybe, some other solution would present itself.
Besides, Abby knew she owed it to these men to at least consider the offer. They’d all invested a considerable sum in the paper, more out of friendship for her father than because it was a sound business move. They’d lose a lot of money if it folded.
“Okay.” She gathered up her notes. “I’ll set up a meeting.”
The conference broke up, and as Abby headed back to her office she couldn’t shake off the specter of doom that hovered over her. Time was running out, and she knew that only a miracle would save the Oak Hill Gazette.
So before she turned her attention to reviewing the copy that was waiting on her desk, she took a moment to send a silent plea heavenward.
Please, Lord, grant us that miracle.
Spencer Campbell was not what Abby had expected.
Yes, the patriarch of the publishing conglomerate did look like the photos she’d found of him on the Net. At sixty-eight, he was tall, spare, white-haired and distinguished, with piercing blue eyes and a bearing that commanded respect. And he was just as sharp, astute and insightful as she’d assumed he would be. But instead of the pompous, arrogant manner she’d anticipated from this business tycoon, he was pleasant, personable and down-to-earth.
To her surprise, he also had a hands-on knowledge of the newspaper business. As she’d taken him on a tour of the Gazette offices prior to the finance board meeting, she’d been impressed by his intelligent questions. Spencer Campbell was no ivory-tower executive who understood balance sheets and bottom lines but little else. He’d learned the newspaper business from the bottom up.
“I really did live the American dream,” he told her with a smile as their tour concluded. “Thanks to a combination of lucky breaks, good-hearted people who were willing to take a chance on me and a lot of help from the Man upstairs.”
As she led the way toward the conference room, Abby glanced at him in surprise. “It’s not often you hear successful people attribute their accomplishments to God.”
“I believe in giving credit where it’s due. I couldn’t have built the business without a lot of prayer and a lot of guidance.”
Although Abby had been prepared to dislike the man who threatened her family legacy, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain her animosity as he spoke to the board about his humble beginnings, provided some history of Campbell Publishing, outlined the conglomerate’s growth over the past fifteen years and reviewed the sound—and ethical—operating principles of the company he led.
Instead of an ogre, he came across as a man of integrity, principle and honor. Abby was impressed. And from the expressions on the faces of the board members, she could tell that they were, too.
“When we consider acquisitions, we look for papers that are well-respected, have a solid readership, reflect good editorial direction, maintain the highest standards of journalistic integrity and aren’t afraid to tackle tough issues,” Spencer told them. “The Oak Hill Gazette passed those tests with flying colors. That prompted our call, which led to my visit today. The next step, if both parties agree to move forward, would be an on-site operational and financial audit by one of our staff members. If everything checks out, we’ll follow up with an offer.”
James folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I think it’s only fair to tell you that the main reason we were receptive to your inquiry was because we’re having some financial difficulties. Nothing to do with the management of the paper. Abby does an excellent job. But the pressures these days on small businesses of any kind are intense.”
“I understand,” Spencer responded. “Most independent papers we approach have a similar story. It’s a struggle to make ends meet. As a large organization, we bring economies of scale and efficiencies small papers can’t attain.”
“What about staffing? Do you eliminate jobs after an acquisition?”
At Abby’s question, Spencer turned to her. “When we have to,” he answered, his blunt honesty surprising her. “However, it appears that the Gazette staff is already very lean. I doubt we would eliminate any positions here.”
“What about editorial independence?”
“In general, we don’t interfere.”
“Meaning that sometimes you do?” Abby pressed.
“There have been a few occasions when papers in our organization have become a bit too…opinionated. In general, that doesn’t happen under a seasoned editor. That’s why we often require that editors remain in their positions for a year or two following the acquisition, to ensure consistent editorial tone.”
Abby wasn’t sure she liked Spencer’s answer. But neither could she argue with it. In any case, his message was clear: if Campbell Publishing acquired the Gazette, Abby would be forced to give up the editorial control her father—and his predecessors—had fought with such dedication and diligence to retain.
“Is there anything else you need from us today?” Harold’s question interrupted her thoughts.
“No. I’ll discuss my visit with my staff in Chicago and get back with you in a few days.” A flurry of handshakes followed as Spencer stood, and one by one the four board members left the room.
When only Spencer and Abby remained, he turned to her. “I’d like to thank you for the tour and your hospitality today—in spite of your misgivings.” At her startled look, he chuckled. “I’ve been through enough of these kinds of meetings to pick up the vibes.”
Soft color suffused Abby’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. This has been difficult for me.”
“I’m aware that the paper has been in your family for four generations. It’s understandable that you’d want to hold on to it.”
Abby found herself responding to the kindness in Spencer’s eyes. “That’s part of it. But even more than losing a family legacy, I don’t want the Gazette’s independent voice to be silenced.”
“Neither do I.”
“But you said you’ve intervened in editorial decisions on occasion.”
“Only when we begin to detect bias. But I don’t see that happening here. The coverage is sound and straightforward, and the Gazette never confuses reporting and advocacy. I have no reason to think we’re going to clash on a philosophical level.”
His praise warmed her. And his words reassured her. But they didn’t erase her guilt—or her sense of failure that she was letting a century of blood, sweat and tears be washed away. The paper’s demise might be inevitable, as James has suggested in the earlier finance board meeting, but she wished it hadn’t happened on her watch.
“We’ll both have plenty of time to think about this if we decide to take the next step,” Spencer continued. He picked up his briefcase and extended his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me today and for the tour. I’ll be in touch.”
“And I’ll talk with the board.” She returned his firm grip.
As Spencer exited, Abby closed the door behind him and headed back to her office, disheartened. While no vote had yet been taken, she knew that the finance board had been impressed and would be receptive to an investigation by Campbell Publishing. And intuition told her that Campbell Publishing would choose to proceed, as well.
When she reached her office, Abby sank into her worn leather chair and propped her elbows on the scarred surface of the desk that had belonged to her great-grandfather and which had been used by every editor since. She could no longer pretend that the threat of an acquisition was only a bad dream. She needed to face this. Sticking her head in the sand was a cop-out. Besides, it just wasn’t in her nature.
But first she needed to do something even more out of character.
She needed to cry.
Mark Campbell breezed toward the department secretary’s desk, juggling a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. As usual, his dark good looks and impeccable attire—custom-tailored suit, crisp white shirt, elegant silk tie—drew the interested glance of every unattached woman he passed, and a few glances from the attached ones, as well. It was a reaction he had come to not only accept but expect.
“Morning, Lena.”
“Morning, Mark.” The striking blonde gave him an indulgent smile as she checked her watch. “Must have been some party.”
Well aware that he was forty minutes late, he grinned and shrugged. “Too many parties, not enough time.”
With a shake of her head, she handed him a stack of messages. “These came in after you left last night and before you arrived this morning. You might want to check the top one first.”
Balancing the bagel on top of his coffee cup, he took the slips of paper and scanned the message. “Dad called? What did he want?”
“He didn’t say. Just that he wanted to see you as soon as you came in.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Once in his office, Mark took a few fortifying gulps of the strong black coffee. It helped clear his head after a night of one too many drinks. As the caffeine began to take effect, he admired the sweeping view of Lake Michigan visible through the wall of windows in his high-rise office. Not an unpleasant way to spend his days if he had to work.
And he did have to, as his father had made clear a few years ago. Accounting wasn’t so bad. It didn’t thrill him…little did. But he was good at it. And with a Wharton MBA and a CPA under his belt, he certainly had the credentials for the job—if not the interest. At least it was easy. He could breeze through the workday and then head out to enjoy life. As he had last night. There had been plenty of gourmet food, premium alcohol and gorgeous women on the posh party boat. It was a great life. What more could a man want?
Even as he asked the question, the answer echoed in his mind, as it had with increasing frequency—and urgency—over the past few months.
Something.
Frowning, Mark set his coffee cup on the polished surface of his sleek mahogany desk and shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his upbeat mood dissolving. Though he tried not to dwell on that unsettling question—and its unsatisfactory answer—it kept cropping up. Almost anything could trigger it. Like yesterday’s call from his younger brother, Rick. A call that had left him feeling almost…envious.
Which was ridiculous. There was nothing about Rick’s life he coveted. In fact, Rick had always struggled, while things came easily for Mark. Focused and studious, Rick had earned good grades only after great effort. Mark had aced his classes with minimal exertion. Then, after they both earned business degrees, their lives had taken different directions. While Mark took his time getting an advanced degree and taking a leisurely tour of Europe, Rick had accepted an accounting job with a small chain of Christian bookstores, gotten married, fathered two children—the second one was still on the way—and settled into a home in the suburbs.
Mark had never understood why Rick had declined their father’s offer to join the family business. Yet he seemed happy. He now managed the chain of stores, and though Mark suspected Rick’s salary was far less than his, his brother seemed content. Rick’s response yesterday to Mark’s question about his weekend plans had once again confirmed that.
“We have a Lamaze refresher class on Saturday morning. Then we’re going to take Elizabeth to the zoo. We’ll probably go out for pizza and rent a video after that. Sunday is church and grass cutting. And we might barbecue. You’re welcome to join us. It will just be burgers and brats, though. Nothing fancy.”
Mark had only been half listening to Rick’s less-than-exciting agenda and, as usual, he’d declined the invitation. “Thanks, but there’s a gallery opening I promised to attend Sunday afternoon.”
“Your social calendar must be a sight to behold.”
“How about you? Don’t you ever want to get out and have some fun?” Mark has asked.
“I have fun every day.”
Dumbfounded, Mark had needed a couple of seconds to regroup. “You call the nine-to-five routine followed by chores at home fun?”
“I like my job. And what could be better than coming home and sharing a meal with a wife and child who love you? By the way, I saw a face from the past a couple of days ago in one of our bookstores. Mrs. Mitchell. She asked me to give you her regards.”
The sudden dull shaft of pain in Mark’s gut had caught him off guard, and his grip on the phone had tightened. The mere mention of Mrs. Mitchell had brought back a kaleidoscope of jumbled memories and emotions, the good and the bad woven together in a tangled web. He’d stopped trying to sort through them long ago, instead burying them deep in his heart. Especially the ones about Bobby Mitchell. He didn’t want them resurrected now—or ever. The past was over and done.
But if that was true, why should events that had happened more than twenty years ago still have such power to disturb him?
Finding no answer to that question, Mark had ended his conversation with Rick, then tried to put it out of his mind. But it had stayed with him throughout the day and into the evening, despite the many distractions at the party.
It was odd, really. And unsettling. Until recent months, Mark had been just as content with his life as Rick seemed to be. But conversations like the one yesterday with his brother, or watching his father’s unwavering passion and energy for Campbell Publishing, or even simple things like observing a family in the park enjoying a picnic or flying a kite, had begun to affect him. Now when he went home to his professionally decorated loft condo, he was no longer impressed by the great view or the hip minimalist furnishings or the trendy address. Instead he was aware of the emptiness. Not just in the rooms but in his life.
Something was missing. That much he knew. The problem was, he had no clue what it was.
The intercom on his desk buzzed, and Mark took a deep breath as he punched the button, trying to dispel the dark mood that had descended on him. “Yes?”
“Your dad’s office just called again,” Lena reminded him.
“Let them know I’m on my way.”
At least a meeting with his dad would get his mind off his melancholy thoughts, Mark told himself as he left his office and strode down the long hallway, his steps silent on the plush dove-gray carpeting. His father’s secretary waved him in, and without pausing he crossed the threshold into the spacious executive office of Campbell Publishing.
Spencer was on the phone when he entered but motioned him into a seat across the desk.
“I understand, Charlie. Just do the best you can and keep me informed.” Leaning forward, his father set the phone back in its cradle. “Press broke at the printer in Cincinnati. The Register may not meet its delivery deadline.”
“That’s a shame.”
Casting a shrewd eye at his son, Spencer eased back in his chair, propped his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers. He’d mollycoddled his oldest son long enough, hoping and praying that he’d see the light. That one day he’d recognize he was wasting his life and his God-given talents and get his act together. That he’d care about something with a little more substance than what parties he was going to attend this weekend and which interior designer to hire for his condo.
For years his prayers had gone unanswered. But after his visit to Oak Hill a few days ago Spencer had been hit with an inspired idea. One he hoped would work—but one he was sure his son wasn’t going to like.
“I have an assignment for you. We’re thinking of acquiring a small regional paper in Missouri. I visited there last week. Seems like a good fit.”
“Do you want me to check out the books?”
“Among other things.”
Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Such as…?”
“I need you to do the on-site operational audit, as well. Observe the day-to-day functions of the paper. Get a feel for the place. See how it’s run, check out the management style, sit in on editorial meetings.” He held out a manila folder. “Here’s the background and contact information.”
The younger man ignored the folder. “I don’t know anything about the operational side of the business.”
“You’re thirty-four years old, Mark. It’s time you learned.”
“But it’s not my area of expertise.”
A few beats of silence ticked by. Then Spencer leaned forward, set the folder in front of Mark and crossed his arms on his desk as he pinned his oldest son with an intent look. “If you want to run this company someday, you need to understand the heart of this business as well as the numbers. That includes getting a few ink stains on your hands—figuratively speaking. I think you could learn a lot from the editor down there.”
Abby had impressed Spencer as an intelligent woman with firm principles and a deep passion for her work. Unlike Mark, who’d led a sheltered life, she struck him as a woman who knew what it was to struggle and wasn’t afraid to fight for what she believed in. If Mark needed a wake-up call, Abby Warner might be just the one to give it to him.
“Assuming the Oak Hill Gazette agrees to an investigation, why don’t you plan to leave next Monday?”
The firm set of his father’s jaw made Mark wary. “How long do you want me to stay?”
“As long as it takes. Twelve weeks minimum.”
Mark shot to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. “You want me to spend twelve weeks in some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere?”