Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Sam and Bess exchanged a look.
“But…it’s Svensday,” Sam said.
“It’s…Wednesday,” I said, wondering if I had misheard him.
Sam grinned. “We haven’t told her, Bess.”
“We don’t have Wednesdays in the Beard,” Bess said. “We only have Svensdays.”
This place was nothing if not quirky. I looked between the two of them. “And does that mean everyone dresses up?”
“Sometimes, but not usually,” Sam said. “The only rule you have to follow is no working past noon on Svensdays.”
I gaped at Bess. “No working past noon?”
“We give Bess until one, but that’s our little secret,” Sam said. “On Svensday afternoons, everyone has to do something that feeds their soul. Something fun.”
“Oh.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “It would be really fun for me to clear out my email inbox.”
He shook his head emphatically. “No work. There’s always a group event for Svensdays, or you can choose your own fun thing, but no work allowed.”
This was…crazy. I couldn’t imagine the entire town actually shutting down midway through the middle day of the week.
I groaned. “So what do we call Thursday, the day we all have to work until bedtime to make up for Svensday? Is that Screwed Day?”
“We’ve been doing this our whole lives,” Bess said. “You’ll get used to it.”
It was half of one day a week for the month I’d be here. I could roll with it. I closed my laptop.
“Okay, so I guess I’ll need that lei,” I told Sam.
His eyes shone gleefully as he passed it to me. “That’s the spirit. We’re getting together for a big potluck lunch at The Hideout and then painting downtown shop windows for the holidays. I already got out Pete’s CD of holiday songs to play on the boom box while people are painting here.”
The boom box. And a CD. Sam was reliably behind the times, but he was so good-natured that I found it endearing.
“And I got cookies from the bakery,” Bess said.
“Oh. I hope you charged those to the business,” I said.
She laughed. “No, I paid for them.”
“Ask Dandy to reimburse you.”
That was our HR and payroll person’s actual name—Dandy Mulligan. I’d never get used to it.
“Are you sure?” Bess said. “Pete was always tight about stuff like that.”
The people here didn’t get paid much—I knew, I signed their checks—and they also worked extra hours that they didn’t get paid for. The least the Chronicle could do was reimburse them for business expenses.
“Completely sure,” I told Bess. “And what can I grab quickly to bring to this potluck?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, shaking his head. “My wife made venison sliders, venison chili, and brownies. There’ll be more food there than we need. There always is.”
“Okay.” I checked the time on my computer. “I’m going to do my last six minutes of work.”
“You betcha,” Sam said, walking over to a closet to get out the boom box, which was practically an antique.
The top unread message in my inbox had just come in a few minutes ago. It was from a former journalism professor of mine, Claire Beaumont. I’d frantically messaged her on Monday asking for advice on running a newspaper, and I was eager to read her response.
Avon,
It was so nice to hear from you. I always saw so much promise in you as a journalist, and though I understood your choice to go into sales rather than continue in journalism, I will admit to also being disappointed. The field needs people like you, now more than ever.
When you were on staff at the paper here, you worked several different beats. Fundamentally, all journalists should be doing the same work. As Dunne said, comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Question authority. Be a voice for the voiceless. Look into how the government is serving its people and hold public servants accountable. Be fearless and fair. Don’t accept the status quo.
In small towns, journalists can have their judgment clouded when they feel like they are part of a team of community leaders. They can allow themselves to be manipulated and told what’s best for the paper. Protect your integrity. Trust your instincts.
I can’t imagine a better inheritance than a newspaper. What a gift your uncle has given you. I’ve just subscribed to the Sven’s Beard Chronicle by mail, and I look forward to seeing what you do with it. I am always here if you need me.
All my best,
Claire Beaumont
The Hideout looked different in daylight. It was scrubbed clean, the long L-shaped bar filled with Crock-Pots and casseroles. There were two people running microfiber mops over the concrete floor to keep up with all the snow being tracked in on boots.
It seemed like half of the people in the crowded bar were looking at me. I smiled and murmured to Bess, “Is it me, or is everyone staring?”
“Just people getting their first look at you. They don’t mean anything by it.”