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Steve followed his brother up the path to the one-story rustic building that housed KQHV and smiled as a memory flickered in his mind. For years, Lincoln had thought the Q in the station’s letters had stood for Mr. Q until Steve had dissuaded him of the notion.
“I like the snowman,” Lincoln said, noticing the one adornment in front of the building, a huge Frosty replica with blinking lights. A simple green wreath with bells hung on the door. It jingled as they entered.
A twenty-something office assistant with thick, straight hair was bent over the reception desk, slicing open envelopes with a letter opener. “Just a sec and I’ll help you.” After a moment, she raised her chin, brushed floppy bangs from her face, and smiled more broadly. “Oh, Lincoln, hi.” Her warmth was real.
“Hi, Cici.”
Steve noticed his brother seemed to be holding some kind of excitement in check. Was the assistant the real reason Lincoln liked visiting the station? Of course she was. He may be challenged, but he was still a guy.
Steve said, “Is Mr. Q available?”
“He’s doing the news,” Cici said. “Give him a few minutes. Have a seat.”
“Can I . . . Can I help you open those, Cici?” Lincoln sputtered.
Yeah, he likes her. Steve stifled a chuckle. Good for him.
“Sure. Grab a letter opener.” She pointed to a pencil container on her desk. “Christmas mail has been piling in. Mr. Q likes to read every single one.” She flashed him a Mickey Mouse in Santa garb card. “Isn’t this cute?”
“Uh-huh.”
Ten minutes later, Mr. Q emerged from the sound booth. “Hey, Cici, any—” He gawped at Steve and Lincoln. “Well, greetings, boys. Merry Christmas Eve.”
Mr. Q hadn’t changed in all the years Steve had known him. He was a robust Indian man with a round face and the serenity of Gandhi. Even as a science teacher, he’d preferred Nehru-style shirts or jackets and black trousers. Never jeans. Never a lab coat. The man had a head for statistics and knew every chemical equation without having to look it up. Mr. Q attributed his expertise to a photographic memory. According to Steve’s mother, the reason he’d bought the radio station was that after his wife passed, he’d become disheartened and withdrawn. Being around a classroom of students rattled him. However, he’d still wanted to impart information. The solace he found doing so at KQHV had been his saving grace.
“Shouldn’t you fellas be at the Christmas Attic?” Mr. Q asked.
“Yes, we should, Mr. Q. We really should. We really, really should.” Lincoln was vibrating with pent up energy. “But we’re here. For a reason. A very good reason.”
Mr. Q put a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder. “Steady as she goes, Linc. Deep breaths. And full sentences. Remember how I’ve taught you?”
“Uh-huh.” Lincoln drew in a yoga-style breath and let it out slowly.
“Okay, speak.”
“Mr. Q, my brother has something he wants to ask you.”
“Steve Waldren. It’s been years, young man.” Mr. Q’s eyes narrowed as he sized up Steve. “Haven’t seen you on TV this past week. Why is that?”
“I’ve been here,” Steve said, not willing to say he’d been axed. “Helping out.”
“So you’re a helper now?” Mr. Q looked skeptical. “That’s not your typical MO.”
Steve winced. Exactly what kind of reputation had he earned during his teen years? He’d been ambitious, sure. Was that a crime? Big deal if he’d wanted a career away from Hope Valley. His parents had never guilted him about his choice. Even Lincoln had taken pride in the fact that his big brother had become a celebrity.
“I’ve changed,” Steve said.
“Have you?” Mr. Q tapped his chin. “If I recall in your junior year—”
“I know, sir,” Steve cut in. “I know.” He and his buddies had an away game and, thanks to Steve’s goading, stayed out of town rather than come back to Hope Valley to help the rest of the team with the drive Mr. Q had organized to collect canned goods. “I was pretty full of myself back then.”
“I’m not full,” Lincoln said. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Mr. Q offered Lincoln a wry look.
“Sir,” Steve said, “I’d like to put together a human-interest story.”
“Listen to this, Mr. Q,” Lincoln said. “Listen, listen.”
Steve had told his brother the idea in the car.
“Breathe, Lincoln,” Mr. Q said. “Continue, Steve.”
For the next few minutes, Steve outlined his plan. The photos. The interviews. How he planned to talk Ray Capellini, Bobby’s father, into helping out. The angle being that the disenfranchised in Hope Valley needed to be seen, acknowledged, and appreciated in a big way.
Steve spread his hands at the end. “Of course, I think it would be best on TV because, well, it’s easier to respond to visual stimuli, but Lincoln thought—”
“Stop, Steve.” Mr. Q narrowed his gaze. “Don’t kid a kidder. The TV stations turned you down, didn’t they?”
Steve really disliked how intuitive his former teacher was. He squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
“Give him a chance,” Lincoln said. “Please.”
Mr. Q patted Lincoln on the shoulder. “Lincoln, you are one of my most devoted listeners, and I would do anything for you, but your brother is right. What he is proposing isn’t for radio.” He turned to Steve. “Why don’t you do a live chat on the Internet? You have fans. They’ll get the word out. I think that’s your best bet. Sorry I can’t help. And now”—he smoothed the front of his Nehru jacket—“I must get back on the air. Have a Merry Christmas, boys.”
––––––––
Steve refused to be deterred. He dragged Lincoln to the car and, without leaving the parking lot, called Brie. “Look, I know you’re almost retired, but I need you to do me a favor. A photo spread. I’m paying.” He explained the plan.
Brie sniffed. “Hope isn’t going to like this. She doesn’t want her story told.”
“But this isn’t her story. Not exactly.”
“Gray area, Steve.”
“Please, Brie. Get photos. Meet me at my parents’ house in two hours. I’ll explain more then.”
Meanwhile, Steve went to Capellini Associates, a real estate firm in the center of town known for building extraordinary houses as well as state-of-the-art apartments and office buildings, in Hope Valley and beyond. Ray Capellini rarely took a day off. He lived and breathed real estate, one of the reasons neither of his boys had followed in his footsteps. Steve had warned Lincoln not to say a word when they entered the chic offices. Lincoln had nodded his assent and had mimed locking his lips.
“Mr. Capellini.” Steve extended his hand as he was escorted by the man’s executive assistant into his office. “Thank you for seeing us.”
Ray was sitting at his large oak desk. He nodded to his assistant, who exited, closing the door behind her.
“Call me Ray, Steve. What an unexpected surprise.” He was as handsome as his boys, but his eyes lacked mirth. “What’s the reason for your visit?” He rested his arms on the edges and tented his fingers. “Thinking of moving back? Ready to invest in a beautiful home?” He gestured to the wall to his right, which was filled with framed pictures of available houses.
“Actually, sir, my request is for others. I think your wife will be on board with this idea.”
Mentioning his wife seemed to soften Ray. She was light to his dark and loved donating to good causes.
“Sit. Proceed.”
Steve settled into one of the office chairs, and Lincoln took the other, working hard to steady his restless legs. Quickly, Steve laid out his plan. Ray Capellini nodded throughout.
When Steve finished, Ray said, “Yes, you’re right. The wife is going to love this. Tis the season, boys. Count us in.”
