Monday, April 11
8:55 a.m.
She flipped on the overhead light in the conference room, grateful to be back at work after a long and exhausting weekend. The stories she’d managed to file prior to the events of Friday morning made it into the Sunday paper. The ones she hadn’t finished had been forced to wait.
Sam had stepped up to the plate in her absence, writing the news piece on the arrest of Al Nedley. And she’d been okay with that. The important thing was justice for Hannah, not the name on the byline that accompanied the breaking story.
But still, she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge the desire she had to finish Hannah Daltry’s story. To expand the teacher’s words to include an ending that resonated as loudly as the beginning.
“Well, look who’s here, Little Miss Kung Fu.”
Without looking up, Elise set her notepad and pen on the table and sat down, her backpack purse gripped tightly in her lap. “Dare I ask?”
Dean took off in a run to the other side of the table, jumping the last few feet and landing with one arm extended outward, the other bent upward at the elbow. “Hiiiii-yaaa!”
She laughed. “What are you doing?”
He set his camera bag on the table and went back to a series of bizarre and dramatic arm motions. “I’m practicing up.”
“For what? Stealing snacks from gorillas?”
“Nope.” He clenched his jaw and threw out a leg to his side. “Just getting my war tactics down in case I stumble on a killer while eating scrambled eggs one morning.”
Her head dropped into her palm, followed by a groan from somewhere deep inside her chest. “I didn’t use kung fu. I just took a running jump and landed on an old guy’s back. That’s it. Really.”
The photographer stopped his uncoordinated motions, spun his chair around backward, then straddled it so he was facing the table. “Does Mitchy know you do this kind of stuff? Or is that a topic better left behind closed doors.”
She threw her pen at him and made a face.
“Elise . . . it’s good to see you back. How are you feeling?”
Straightening in her chair, Elise looked up at her boss and smiled. “Thanks, Sam. I’m feeling great. Your story on the arrest was incredible—thanks for taking that for me.”
“My pleasure. Once a journalist, always a journalist. And there’s no denying the adrenaline surge that kicks in with a story like that. The funny thing is, if Nedley had just left Hannah alone, it’s very likely he’d have been safe from his original crime thanks to exceeding the statute of limitations by thirty years. But now he’s in for the rest of his life if he doesn’t get executed first.”
Elise flipped open her notepad and extracted a folded piece of paper she’d printed from her home computer over the weekend. “Actually, he can be tried for both crimes. If he’d stayed here in New Jersey after the robbery and not gotten caught, he’d have been free after five years. But, since he fled to Wyoming until six months ago, the statute of limitations was tolled. That means the five-year clock started when he moved back.” She wedged the printout between Sam’s thumb and the top of his binder. “Pretty wild, huh?”
The editor scanned the highlighted paragraphs then handed the page back to her, pride etched in his face for his youngest reporter. “Nice work, Elise, very nice.” He set his binder down with one hand, a large white paper bag with the other. “Hung—”
Tom bounded into the room, his yellow legal pad tucked under his arm. “Sorry I’m late. No hot water at my place this morning.” He patted Elise’s shoulder as he passed her chair. “You okay, sweetie?”
“She’s fine,” Dean answered with appropriate karate hand motions and sound effects before pointing at Sam. “What were you saying?”
“I was wondering if anyone was hung—”
“What’s with all the cars in the parking lot?” Karen stood in the doorway, her face scrunched tightly. “Did we hire a second and third shift or what?”
“People! Our leader is trying to say something,” Dean hissed through clenched teeth. “Let the man finish his sentence.”
“Is anyone hungry?” Sam, Elise, Tom, and Karen said in unison.
“That’s better.” Dean closed his eyes and reached his hands—palms upward—toward Sam and his bag. “Lay it on me, man.”
Sam opened the bag and pulled out four large chocolate chip cookies from Ocean Point Bakery on Second Street. Elise sat up, raised a finger to her lips, opened her purse and pulled out the Chips Ahoy! bag from last week.
Tom snorted.
Sam nodded the sportswriter off and took the mini bite-sized cookie from Elise. “Keep ’em closed there, big guy.” He set a bakery cookie in front of himself and passed the other three on to Elise, Tom, and Karen. The miniature cookie was placed in Dean’s hand. “Okay. There you go. Enjoy everyone.”
Dean opened his eyes and looked at the tiny why-bother cookie in his hand and made a face. “Is this it?”
“I propose a toast,” Karen said suddenly. She raised her full-sized cookie into the air, prompting Elise, Sam, and Tom to do the same. Dean’s mouth twisted as he looked down at his cookie and the society reporter continued. “To Elise’s hard work and some much-needed mundane and boring stories.”
“Here, here,” echoed Tom and Sam.
“Thanks, Karen.” Elise pulled her cookie inward and winked at Dean as she slowly nibbled off a chocolate chip. “Mmmm, Sam, these are awesome. There’s almost enough here for three meals.”
Dean threw a karate chop in her direction then tossed the tiny cookie into his mouth, swallowing it whole. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? I’ve got a desk to pillage.”
“Okay, kids, Dean is right,” Sam said, shivering from the top of his head down to his waist. “God, I didn’t just say that, did I? Anyway, what’s going on with Sierra McDermott?”
Elise stuffed the rest of the cookie bag into her purse and reached for her pen. “The community college is not pressing charges. They’re thrilled that Hannah Daltry’s murder has been solved so they can start on damage control sooner rather than later.”
“So nothing happens to her?” Tom asked, the shock evident in his hushed voice.
“I wouldn’t say she’s free and clear. She’s got a serious image to live down now and she’s offered to man the computer lab on the weekends for the next six months. Normally a paid position, the college will bring her on purely as a volunteer.”
“And that’s punishment?”
Elise turned to face the sportswriter. “When it takes away her dream job at the bridal shop . . . yeah, it’s punishment.”
Tom shrugged, his expression still one of being unconvinced.
“The pressure that young lady is putting on herself is stronger than anything that anyone else can do, trust me,” Sam interjected. “I talked to Jacob on Friday afternoon. He’s standing by her.”
“You saw Jacob again?” Elise asked her boss.
“Yes. He came by here looking for you.”
“Me?”
Sam nodded. “Yup. He wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay.”
Swallowing over the sudden lump that appeared in her throat at Sam’s words, she simply nodded in response.
“That kid’s going to be okay. He said he’s been talking to Father Leahy and that writing his essay helped get some of his feelings out in the open.” Sam pointed at an empty chair beside Dean. “In fact, he’ll be occupying that chair on Monday mornings in about eight weeks.”
She blinked against the sudden stinging in her eyes. God, she loved Sam . . .
“Why’s that?” Dean asked.
“I offered him a summer internship with us. And he took it.”
“You okay with that, Elise?” Tom asked suddenly.
Elise looked from Sam to Tom and back again, her voice shaky as it emerged from her lips. “I couldn’t be any more okay with it. I think it’s awesome.”
She grinned in response to Sam’s wink. Things were falling into place nicely. Except for one thing.
Narrowing her eyes, she glanced across the table at the photographer as he practiced martial arts moves with his fingers. “I got a strange call from my cousin, R.J., yesterday. Said he heard I’ve been stingy with the Nabisco products at work. Any idea where he’d get something like that?”
Dean shrugged, his face reddening.
“What’s the deal with you emailing all my friends and relatives?” Elise asked.
Dean pulled backward in his chair and motioned at his chest with shock and hurt. “Did I do that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes . . .”
“Go ask Debbie.”
“What?” She stared at him as he opened his mouth and began digging trapped cookie crumbs from his molars.
He looked around the table slowly. “I think all that kung fu on Friday damaged her hearing. I said . . . Go. Ask. Debbie.”
Unsure of what to make of his odder-than-normal behavior, Elise looked to Sam for help.
Sam simply nodded and jerked his head toward the door.
“Oooo-kay.” Pushing back her chair, Elise stood and walked out into the hallway that led to the receptionist’s desk. As she got closer to her final destination, a menagerie of voices peppered the air. Loud voices, quiet voices, and everything in between.
She rounded the final corner between the conference room and the reception area and came to an abrupt halt. The subjects of the assorted photographs that dotted her apartment were standing there, around Debbie’s desk, smiling at her.
Uncle Ken and Sophie.
Aunt Betty.
Jonathan.
Her cousin, R.J.
And Mitch.
A squeal escaped her mouth, causing a round of laughter from everyone as outstretched arms moved in her direction all at the same time. “Oh, my gosh, what are you doing here?”
Six index fingers pointed behind her and she spun around, her gaze falling on a sheepish photographer with long, stringy blond hair and a Blue Oyster Cult concert T-shirt.
“Dean? You did this?”
“Yes, missy, I did. And that was before I knew you could beat the crap out of me if you wanted to.”
Elise looked from Dean to her loved ones and back again, unsure of what to say.
“I’ve been working on this since the day you got back from Mackinac.”
“What is this?” she finally asked.
“An engagement party!” everyone yelled together.
“Here? Now?”
“No, silly,” Dean said, waving his hand in the air in dismissal of her ludicrous words. “That’s tonight. At St. T’s. But with everything you just went through, I figured you could handle seeing everyone now.”
“But how? I just gave you the email addresses last week . . .”
“I’d waited too long to get back to everyone with hotel numbers and transportation options from the airport, so I decided to try that damn email you’re always blabbering about.”
“So the computer wasn’t for”—she felt her face grow warm—“viewing, um, weird sites.”
Dean leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “Puh-lease. I like my women real.”
“What women?” Mitch quipped.
Dean ignored him. “The postcards I mailed were just an extra touch I threw in to whet their appetites for the trip.”
The lump from earlier appeared once again, only this time it wasn’t because of Sam. She held up her finger and disappeared down the hallway, returning seconds later with the cookie bag from her purse. “Here.”
Grinning, he grabbed the blue bag from her hand and poured the contents into his mouth.
• • •
As she looked around the room at her loved ones, Elise Jenkins knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that she was the luckiest woman in the world. Not only was she surrounded by the people she loved most, but they’d all come together to celebrate a promise she was about to make to the man of her dreams.
Her eyes instantly sought out Mitch as he stood in a corner talking to her uncle and Jonathan. There was something so strong, yet gentle . . . protective, yet loving about him as he looked up, mid-conversation, and smiled at her from across the room.
The butterfly brigade that lived in her stomach took flight as he excused himself from the group and headed in her direction.
It was still hard to believe that they’d be husband and wife in just a little over six months. On the one hand it felt as if they’d just met—her heart rate still accelerating every time she saw him. On the other hand, it felt as if they’d known each other their entire lives.
And that’s the way it was supposed to be.
She buried herself in his arms, reveling in the feel of his lips against her skin.
“Having fun?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” Keeping one arm around him, she reached around his body to the blue folder she’d set beside her purse on the coat table. “I have something for you.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” He popped his head up for a moment, then returned to kissing her forehead with gentle lips.
“My writing assignment . . .”
The kissing stopped and he stepped back, a grin spreading across his face like wildfire. “The one about me?”
She nodded. “Within the first few sentences, I knew it didn’t fit the assignment we were given . . . but I kept on writing it anyway. Because it was what I wanted to say . . . what was—and is—in my heart.”
“Do I get to read it now?” he asked as he reached for the folder.
“No. I want to read it to you.”
Reaching for his left hand, she held the paper with her right. She didn’t really need to read the printed words, they were forever embedded in her heart. But she read them anyway, her eyes meeting his from time to time as that well-known lump returned to her throat for the third time that day.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
It was a question I answered many times throughout my childhood regardless of who was asking. But unlike my peers, my answer never changed.
I wanted to be a writer.
I wanted to create worlds. I wanted to create characters. I wanted to make people happy. Give them an escape.
But then I met you.
And suddenly my lifelong answer was different.
She paused, peered up at Mitch through tear-dappled eyelashes.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asked, his voice huskier than normal.
“I want to be your wife. I want to create a world with you.”