Right about . . . now.
“Great!” Grant Buchanan stepped into Mac’s cubicle and held up a sheet of paper. “Because I’ve got the perfect story for you.”
“Great,” Mac echoed, trying to match the editor’s enthusiasm. The last time Grant claimed he had the “perfect” story for her, she’d been sent to interview the cheerleading squad about their upcoming fall fund-raiser. Forcing Mac to relive certain moments she’d rather forget.
Like all four years of high school.
“I guarantee this will have the whole town talking.” Grant continued to hold the piece of paper just beyond her reach, the proverbial carrot dangling in front of a hungry reporter’s nose.
“Senator Tipley agreed to an interview?” Mac was the one who’d found out the politician planned to spend a week at a friend’s cabin a few miles north of Red Leaf. She was also the one who’d hinted that someone should set up a meeting with Tipley to discuss his stand on proposed cuts to Wisconsin’s tourism budget. And Mac wanted—no, needed—that someone to be her. The interview would be her ticket out of Red Leaf.
“Senator—no, this is better.” He slapped the paper down on the desk, creating a breeze that ruffled the collage of multicolored Post-it notes stuck to Mac’s bulletin board.
She glanced down and the one-word subject line shattered the front-page byline dancing in her head. “A . . . wedding?”
“That’s right.” Grant looked so happy, one would think he’d come up with the concept. “What do you think?”
Probably not a good idea to tell him what she was thinking. Not when Mac practically had to beg the man to hire her in the first place.
In a world where people had instant access to the headlines on their cell phones and tablets, the Red Leaf Register’s survival depended on low overhead costs—Grant’s wife, Beverly, and her twin sister worked for free—and good old-fashioned loyalty. The weekly newspaper had been around as long as the town itself because really, where else could people list their children’s accomplishments or find out the stats for the men’s summer baseball league?
Grant hadn’t been looking for a reporter, but the fact Mac had a minor in photography seemed to tip the balance in her favor. Kind of a two-for-the-price-of-one special. It probably hadn’t hurt that she’d turned in her résumé on the opening day of fishing season, either.
Mac hadn’t cared. She needed a job and working for the Register would give her experience. An opportunity to write stories—serious stories—that would capture the attention of a larger newspaper. Except . . . no one in Red Leaf seemed to take her seriously. After being assigned to attend the garden club’s monthly meetings instead of the city council’s, Mac realized that in her editor’s eyes—and in everyone else’s—she would always be little Mac Davis. The coach’s daughter.
And right here, in black and white, was the proof.
Trying to hide her disappointment, Mac dropped her gaze to the first sentence of the e-mail and her heart stalled. “Hollis Channing”—she practically strangled on the words—“is getting married? In Red Leaf?”
Grant’s eyebrows hitched together over the bridge of his nose. “Brides traditionally return to their hometown to tie the knot, don’t they?”
“Yes, but the Channings moved away years ago.” Ten, to be exact. Not that Mac was counting.
“The family never sold the house on Jewel Lake after Dr. Channing passed away, so maybe they still feel some sort of connection to the town,” Grant pointed out. “It doesn’t really matter why Hollis chose to get married here. The Register is going to be there every step of the way.”
“But . . .” Mac pushed out a laugh even though the expression on her boss’s face told her that he wasn’t joking. “Newspapers don’t cover weddings. At least, not unless you’re a celebrity.”
“Or marrying one.” Grant smiled. “Hollis is engaged to Connor Blake.”
“Connor Blake the actor?” Mac recognized the name immediately. Critics who’d previewed Dead in the Water were already predicting that Connor’s big-screen debut about a rookie cop who takes on a powerful drug cartel would be a runaway hit at the box office when it opened in three months over Thanksgiving weekend.
“That’s right.” Grant spread his hands apart, framing an invisible headline in the air. “Future Academy Award Nominee Marries Daughter of Prominent Local Family.”
Given the recent buzz surrounding Connor Blake, Mac couldn’t refute her editor’s claim. But Hollis, a local? That was a bit of a stretch.
“The Channings live in Chicago,” Mac muttered.