By Her Side
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He leaned back in the chair and picked up the Bible his mom had put on the bedside table. A newspaper clipping fluttered out and he caught it before it reached the floor. He assumed it would be something from the latest issue of the Dispatch but instead he found himself staring at an article cut out of the Observer.
The Dispatch’s rival had somehow found out about Jeremy and printed the story, turning what should have been private family business into watercooler gossip. He glanced at the date and realized that the story he was holding was the gossip column that had printed the damaging news last month. A gossip section was a feature that Wallace had decided long ago the Dispatch didn’t need to sell papers.
Why couldn’t his father make those same faith-filled decisions when it came to his family?
The jumbled words he’d been blindly staring at came into focus. Just as he wondered why his mom had kept a copy of the column that the rest of them had delegated to the wastebasket, he saw the words she had written across the headline.
I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to Him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.
Chris shook his head, a little in awe at the unwavering trust she had in God. She’d always told him and his siblings if they kept their focus on God, they’d never lose perspective. No matter what slander the Observer had printed, Nora had chosen to focus on what God’s word said.
A soft moan from the bed drew Chris’s attention and as he leaned closer, Wallace’s eyes fluttered open. For a few seconds, his father stared at him with a blank expression that yanked at Chris’s heart.
“Dad. It’s Chris,” he whispered.
To Chris’s relief, his eyes cleared and recognition dawned in them.
“Where’s…your brother?” Wallace rasped.
Chris swallowed hard against the sudden emotion that clogged his throat. Were things always going to be this way between them because he wasn’t working at Hamilton Media?
“I’m right here, Dad.” As if on cue, Tim had come into the room and was standing at Chris’s shoulder. Silently Chris shifted out of the way so Tim could move closer to their father.
“How…are things going…at work?”
Chris couldn’t help but notice the touch of arrogance in the smile that Tim directed down at Wallace.
“Everything’s under control, Dad. Don’t worry, just concentrate on getting better.”
“Knew you could handle it,” Wallace said faintly, his eyes closing again.
Just when Chris decided to leave them alone for a few minutes, Tim’s hand gripped his arm.
“Meet me in the hall, okay? I need your advice.”
Chris was too shocked to reply. When Tim strode out of the room a few minutes later, Chris was surprised to see that his brother actually looked worried.
“What’s going on?”
“The past few weeks someone’s been sending letters to the editor addressed to our new reporter. Unsigned, of course. The first one was a rambling complaint about the way she covered the last city council meeting. You know the type—they like to raise a fuss. Get some attention because they’re anti-everything. The next one came and it didn’t make much sense, either, but we printed them because it’s our policy to give everyone a voice.
“When the secretary opened the mail yesterday, another one had come over the weekend. We’re sure it’s from the same person but this one didn’t just attack her as a reporter, it was more personal. More threatening. I was hoping you could stop by the office tomorrow and talk to her.”
Chris remembered Jeremy hiring a new reporter in May but he hadn’t realized it was a woman. “Sure. I can come by around nine o’clock.”
“Her name is Felicity Simmons. Don’t be put off if she doesn’t roll out the welcome mat for you. She doesn’t want me to make a big deal out of all this but I’d still feel better if you read the letters and gave me your input.”
Chris read between the lines. This wasn’t Felicity Simmons’s idea. It was Tim’s. And Tim’s will prevailed, as usual.
“I’ll be there.”
For the first time in the history of her career, Felicity Simmons was late for work.
She blamed her secret un-admirer. That’s what she’d silently dubbed the person who’d been busy writing her letters recently.
When added to a restless night, a stoplight that had gone bonkers on her way to the Dispatch, confusing everyone who hadn’t had their daily dose of java, and getting stuck behind a recycling truck that lumbered along in front of her like a mechanical brontosaurus, she would officially be three minutes late by the time she sat down at her desk.
“Hi, Felicity.” Dawn Leroux gave her a friendly wave when she entered the building. She was standing near the reception counter, talking to Herman and Louise Gordon, Hamilton Media’s elderly “gatekeepers.” Even though they’d officially retired years ago, the couple were a permanent fixture at Hamilton Media. No one got past the lobby without an appointment—or their permission.
If she hadn’t been running late, Felicity would have paused for a minute to say hello. Dawn wasn’t only Tim Hamilton’s personal assistant; the two women had met when Felicity began attending Northside Community Church shortly after moving to Davis Landing.
“Morning,” Felicity called back, slightly out of breath from her dash across the parking lot. She made her way through the labyrinth of half walls to her “office” in the far corner of the room, the equivalent of journalistic Siberia. Farthest from the AP wire service and fax machine. And the break room. She’d accepted the cramped space with a smile, perfectly willing to pay her dues at the Dispatch. Not only was she the youngest full-time reporter that the daily had ever hired, she was also the first female.
If she didn’t have a window or a desk barely bigger than her computer, so be it. She didn’t expect any special treatment nor did she want it.
The telephone was already winking one red eye at her, letting her know she had some messages.
“Felicity, this is Tim. Push your nine o’clock appointment back to ten. My brother is coming to talk to you about the letter you got yesterday.”
Felicity exhaled sharply. With Jeremy gone, the only brother Tim could possibly be referring to was Chris Hamilton. The police officer. She’d tried to play down her concern over the latest letter she’d received but obviously “Typhoon Tim” had taken matters into his own hands.
He’d gotten the nickname from the Dispatch employees and Felicity thought that it certainly fit. With some of the new changes Tim had implemented, she was surprised that half the staff hadn’t jumped ship when he’d taken control.
Jeremy’s leadership style had been as laid-back as his personality. The stress of a newspaper with its never-ending deadlines had the potential to tie everyone in knots but Jeremy had always been as calm as Sugar Tree Lake on a hot summer day. Tim was much more intense, which seemed to put everyone on edge. Still, she hadn’t had a problem with him since Jeremy had left…
Until now.
She picked up the phone and tried to call Tim, hoping to change his mind. There was no response at his desk and she decided to track him down. Maybe he was on the second floor, terrorizing the employees who worked for Nashville Living.
Ducking down the hall, she headed toward the stairwell. Since the day she’d been hired, she’d been in a silent standoff with the ancient contraption most people referred to as the elevator. Fearless in most areas of her life, Felicity reluctantly called a draw when it came to enclosed spaces. She couldn’t stand them. Besides that, the elevator was original to the building, which meant it had existed when people rode in buggies instead of cars. Another reason to opt for the stairs. And as well as that, exercise was good for a person….
Now, with every precious second counting, she paused at the elevator, tucking her lower lip between her teeth.
You’re being silly, Felicity, she scolded herself. You’re a tough journalist, not a wimp. This is a three-storey building, not exactly a skyscraper.
She decided that whomever promoted self-talk as a good way to motivate a person hadn’t been afraid of small spaces. It was a good thing she knew what did work.
Lord, You promised to give courage to the faint-hearted. I’m taking You up on it! Please give me courage.
The elevator’s low, musical beep sounded and before Felicity could move, the door swished open.
She was trapped.
Not by the elevator, but by the man stepping out of it. For a second, the only thing in her field of vision was the color blue. Then the badge came into focus. Felicity wasn’t petite but the man who took a step forward seemed to tower above her. When she lifted her eyes to his face, she saw a familiar combination of features—the chiseled face, firm Hamilton jawline and a pair of warm, intelligent eyes that happened to be the same shade of brown as the caramels she had stashed in her desk drawer.
He stepped politely to the side and she could breathe again. Wait a second. Why was she holding her breath?
“Two or three?” he asked, holding the door for her.
“Neither.” Felicity buried a sigh and extended her hand. “I’m Felicity Simmons and if you’re Officer Hamilton, I believe we have an appointment.”
Chapter Two
“My office is just down the hall in the newsroom. I have several appointments this morning but I adjusted my schedule.”
Chris barely felt the warm press of Felicity Simmons’s hand before she pivoted sharply and moved away, her low-heeled shoes clicking against the marble floor. He fell easily into step beside her.
“I have to be honest. I wish Tim wouldn’t have bothered you. I can’t help but feel like we’re wasting your time,” Felicity went on.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He was still suffering from the mild case of shock he’d been hit with when Felicity had introduced herself. He’d taken a few minutes to go up to the second floor to say hello to Amy and Heather, who were hard at work on the next issue of Nashville Living. It had been Heather who’d told him where to find Felicity, but when the elevator door had opened and he saw the woman standing on the other side, his first assumption was that she worked in the accounting department.
She was younger than he expected. Probably close to his age. Even though she looked every inch the professional in conservative brown pants and a matching jacket, with her auburn hair swept away from her face and anchored in place by an industrial-strength copper clip, he never would have guessed she was F. Simmons, the reporter who had covered the last city council meeting. She’d written it with bold honesty, not attempting to soften the heated debate several councilmen had engaged in over some proposed budget cuts.
“History meets modern technology,” Chris murmured as Felicity pushed open the swinging door between the front lobby and the part of the building that housed the Dispatch.
The historic beauty of Hamilton Media had bowed to progress when it came to the Dispatch. The original high tin ceiling was still in place but the room had been converted into a maze of half walls and computer stations. As they entered the newsroom, no one paid any attention to them as they weaved their way to Felicity’s desk. Chris could sense the tension in the air and he was thankful he didn’t have a deadline hanging over his head every day. Although he knew his mom would have preferred he face a deadline instead of the wrong end of a gun.
“Please sit down,” Felicity said, her voice brisk as she slid into the narrow space behind her desk. She motioned for Chris to take the chair across from her. “It isn’t unusual for reporters to step on people’s toes. Or to get letters from disgruntled citizens about an issue that ruffles their feathers.”
“With all that’s been going on lately, I’ll have to admit I haven’t read an issue of the Dispatch for the past few weeks.”
Right before his eyes, the no-nonsense reporter changed. She suddenly seemed to see him as a person, not as a cop who was interrupting her schedule.
“I know this must be hard on your family.” Her voice softened and it brushed against his defenses.
In the past few weeks he’d gotten used to people politely inquiring about Wallace and murmuring their surprise at the change in the hierarchy at Hamilton Media. Sometimes they asked questions that made Chris wonder if it wasn’t simply idle curiosity motivating them, but he saw none of that now in Felicity’s eyes.
Usually he was dead-on with his insight into a person’s character from the moment he met them. Now he had to adjust his assessment of Felicity Simmons. She wasn’t as tough as her brisk manner and businesslike attire suggested.
We’re doing all right. That’s what he started to say. It had become his standard, by-the-book comment. Those words couldn’t cover the sense of loss he’d felt when the family had gathered for their traditional monthly dinner not long ago. Not only had Wallace’s chair at the head of the table been empty, but so were Melissa’s and Jeremy’s. They also couldn’t begin to express the helplessness he felt when he watched his mom try to be strong for everyone. Or that he couldn’t make everything right.
“One minute at a time. Trusting God is the only way we’re getting through it.” He surprised himself by telling her the truth.
“That’s the only way we can get through anything,” Felicity murmured.
Adjustment number two. She was a believer.
“I’d like to read the letters Tim told me about.” Back to business. He needed to dwell on the reason he was here instead of the way Felicity’s eyes met his in complete understanding. And the fact they were the color of sweet tea. “He mentioned the last one seemed more threatening.”
Felicity nodded but the way she lowered her gaze for a moment raised a red flag.
“You didn’t destroy it, did you?” Chris asked, more sharply than he intended. It wasn’t unusual for women who were being stalked to delete threatening e-mails or burn letters, as if getting rid of the threats was comparable to getting rid of the person making them. Without the necessary evidence, an investigation came to a grinding halt.
Felicity shook her head. “I still have it.”
She leaned over the desk and wordlessly handed him some tear sheets from the two letters they’d printed in the newspaper.
Chris read the first one, a rambling commentary about the Dispatch being biased in their coverage, but it was obviously directed at Felicity because the person who’d written it mentioned her. Felicity was the only female reporter on staff. The second one again mentioned an unfair bias and then ended with a veiled threat: You’d better stop before it’s too late.
Chris paused and looked up at Felicity. Body language was an important part of the interview process and he noticed immediately that her hands were in a relaxed pose on top of her desk. She didn’t have her arms crossed. She wasn’t fiddling nervously with a pen or shuffling papers. She was patiently waiting for him to finish so she could get on with her day.
“What do you think they want you to stop?”
“I have no idea.” Felicity met his gaze evenly. “Since May, I’ve been covering city council meetings and attending court hearings. I’ve done the lead stories for two different jury trials. One was the drunk driver that pushed a car full of teenagers into the river, the other was a special-interest piece on the mayor’s vision to balance community development with economic development.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“You wouldn’t ask that if you’d been to the last council meeting.” Felicity chuckled.
That dash of humor and the glint in her eyes told Chris that she enjoyed the challenge of her profession. He could appreciate that. So did he. Maybe his family didn’t understand why he’d wanted to be a cop, but even on his worst day he wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
Felicity pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. Reluctantly, Chris thought. “This one was delivered over the weekend. Addressed directly to me, not the newspaper.”
Things are different here than where you’re from. If you keep it up, you’ll find out that people take care of their own problems in their own way. Just a reminder to you to watch your step.
A veiled threat, but it sounded a little more serious than the last one. Obviously the letter writer had some knowledge of Felicity’s background if he knew she wasn’t from Davis Landing. He’d subtly branded her an outsider.
Chris stared at the letters, wishing he had more to go on.
“Did the first ones come through by e-mail originally or were they sent to the paper through the post office?”
“The post office.”
Chris exhaled slowly. E-mail messages might have given him a better lead. He could have traced the sender to a specific e-mail account through the local server. “Did you notice a postmark?”
“Local.”
Chris was impressed that she’d thought to look. Obviously her attention to detail wasn’t simply a characteristic of her skill as a reporter.
For some reason that he didn’t understand, Chris was uncomfortable having to ask the next question. “Is it possible this is someone you know? Someone you met socially? Maybe dated?”
Color tinted Felicity’s cheeks. “The only people I’ve spent time with since I moved here attend Northside Community. I don’t have time to socialize.”
Now why did he have the urge to smile even though she was obviously upset with him now? “They’re standard questions, Miss Simmons. I’m sure, being a reporter, you understand.”
“Of course, and I’m sorry.” Felicity’s voice switched back to professional mode. “You’re just doing your job and you’ve probably received threats, too. It just goes with the territory. I’m sure the letters are harmless—the neighborhood bully trying to intimidate the new kid on the block.”
Chris wanted to reassure her. He admired Felicity for handling the situation so calmly, but to not be cautious and alert—to not take the letters seriously—wouldn’t be the wisest course, either. Frustratingly enough, with the flimsy evidence, there wasn’t much he could do from a legal standpoint. And he had the feeling she knew it, which was probably why she’d made the comment earlier about wasting his time.
“Let me know if you receive any more letters and be sure you document them.” Chris found himself reciting the usual precautions and the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Have your answering machine record your phone calls. Be aware of your surroundings, especially at night or when you’re alone. I’m sure your coworkers know about the letters, but let them know you’d appreciate it if they keep their eyes open for anything suspicious. Someone hanging around your car in the parking lot. Someone who calls the newspaper, asking questions about you, maybe looking for personal information.”
Felicity had been nodding in agreement during the beginning of his list but suddenly her expression changed. “Do you think it’s really necessary to mention it to my coworkers? I asked Tim to keep the last letter between the two of us. I don’t want it to look like I’m being coddled. Other reporters have gotten hate mail in the past.”
Seeing the determined tilt of her chin, Chris had the sudden urge to put her in lockup until he could figure out who their anonymous letter writer was. He had the uneasy feeling that Miss Felicity Simmons’s confidence was going to get her into trouble.
“Let me ask you a question. Who has more wisdom—the person who walks down a dark path at night with their hands in their pockets, staring down at the ground, completely unaware of their surroundings, or the person who walks the same path but is alert? Not petrified, but cautious? Aware that there may be things out there they can’t see?”
“All right. You won this round.” Felicity sighed and then smiled at him.
She should be cited for carrying a concealed weapon, Chris thought, momentarily blown away by the transformation. The minute the elevator door had opened, he’d acknowledged the fact that Felicity was pretty, but that smile took her from serious to stunning. Chris wondered if she knew it totally ruined the whole “tough reporter” persona. Especially when it coaxed the dimple that lurked near the corner of her lips out of hiding.
Unnerved, he rose to his feet. As his brain cells began to function again, he took a few steps, then paused and glanced over his shoulder.
Felicity was already sorting through some papers.
“Miss Simmons?” he prompted softly.
Felicity looked up.
“Just a reminder. I’m one of the good guys. I’m on your side.”
As soon as he was out of sight, Felicity crossed her arms on her desk and buried her face in them, willing her heart to stop racing.
Had she managed to convince him that the letters were the unsettling but harmless result of someone with too much time on their hands? Because she’d certainly tried to convince herself. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to let him see that she was just as concerned as he was. She’d noticed his assessing gaze, looking for chinks in her emotional armor. As a reporter, she knew all about reading people’s body language, too. He wanted to see if she was telling the truth—did she maintain eye contact or did she look away from him? Was her posture open or closed?
It had taken a lot of concentration to make sure her real feelings didn’t show and for some reason, with Officer Chris Hamilton sitting close enough for her to breathe in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne, it had taken more effort than usual.
“This is all I need,” she murmured. “Just when Lyle and Glenn are starting to accept me, I end up in the crosshairs of some lunatic who doesn’t like the way I report the news.”
Lyle Kimble and Glenn Rhodes were the other full-time reporters. They were both in their late forties, had started as stringers and built their reputations over the years by printing the truth, setting peoples’ teeth on edge and earning the respect of their readers one issue at a time.
Felicity had a degree in journalism with a minor in political science, six years working at a weekly newspaper in her hometown, supportive parents and sheer determination.
After weeks of feeling the temperature in the newsroom drop when she walked in, the first letter to the editor Felicity received had actually started the equivalent of a spring thaw. Lyle had laughed and Glenn had given her a friendly clip on the shoulder after he’d read it.
“This is your rite of passage, Simmons. The first person you ticked off enough to write to the editor. Frame it.”
She hadn’t framed it. Instead of a rite of passage, it was evidence. Chris had taken the tear sheets with him when he left and they were probably already in a file at the D.L.P.D. with her name on it.
Chris. Remembering his last words made her smile again. Now that she thought about it, when he’d told her to keep the other Dispatch employees updated on the situation, she had sounded a little argumentative. As if they were squaring off in opposite corners of a boxing ring.
Her gaze shifted to the porcelain frame propped on a small gold easel near the corner of her desk. It was one of the first things she’d unpacked when she’d arrived at the Dispatch. Her mom had copied one of her favorite verses and given it to her as a going-away gift before she’d moved to Tennessee.
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.
It was a promise Felicity had clung to over the years. As a high-school sophomore, when she’d attended a Washington D.C. young journalist’s conference. When she’d left for college. When Jeremy had hired her to work at the Dispatch.
And after she’d received the threatening letters.
God was with her. He’d protect her. Like Chris had said, one minute at a time. Trusting Him.
Chris. A little dismayed that her thoughts had returned to him, Felicity tried to replace him by skimming an article on her desk. After reading the same sentence three times, she gave up. He stubbornly remained in her memory. Typical of a Hamilton, she thought wryly. They did have a tendency to make an impression.