© Copyright Connie Gotsch
ISBN: 1-932014-14-4

"Shelby," Pete Martinez’ voice resonated into the phone, rich and deep, despite the tinny sound New Mexico lines produced. "Got a minute? I’d really like to speak with you."

Perching on the edge of her chair, Shelby McCoy braced her small foot on the floor of her office in the South River Mall Administration Building. "Y-yes. I’ve—got time."

Pain prickled in her lower back. She stiffened against it. Here came the question she had encouraged him to ask. But now, dear God, how should she answer? Her cheeks burned with mounting excitement. She longed for cool air.

"I’ve got a job open, covering the arts around the Four Corners and down to Albuquerque and Santa Fe," Pete boomed, as loud as if he sat on a chair beside her and not across town at the newspaper. "You wanna come work for The Mesa Vista Times?"

She shifted, trying to ease the swelling throb just above her waist. Thoughts bounced through her head, ricocheting off each other like a pile of film canisters tumbling from a darkroom table. "Wow, Pete. I—I don’t know. It’s—it’s a big step. Can I mull it over?"

"Mull it over?" His voice sounded like a bass fiddle with a cold. "I thought you wanted a new job."

"I do," she gasped. "But—"

"Then what’s a matter? You still scared?"

"Yes." Her voice rose before she could stop it. "I’m petrified, especially now that you’ve made an offer."

In her mind, a blue blur of paramedics danced around her, telling her to lie still, she had a bullet near her spine. To drive the vision away, she conjured an image of Pete.

The tall, sinewy dark-skinned newspaper editor would be lounging Jack rabbit-like in his chair, lanky legs crossed, looking perhaps in one direction, but alert to what might come from another. He could do ten things at once, just as she could. That’s why she liked him. Part of why she wanted to work for him. Longing competed with torment in her brain. The paramedics retreated, hovering at the edge of her thoughts.

Pete spoke more gently, "You were in Des Moines when you got hurt." He pronounced the ’s’ on the second part of the name. "We don’t have drive-by shootings in Mesa Vista, New Mexico. And you were also an investigative reporter. They can be targets of snipers. But people don’t shoot arts writers. They’re harmless."

"True." Lips turning up, Shelby pushed stray wisps of black hair off her damp forehead, then rested her left elbow on the sill of an open window beside her desk, and tried to catch a breeze. Sunlight burned her skin. She dropped her hand to her lap, then faced the window on the other side of the room.

Pete laughed. "Worst you’d get on an arts beat is a dressing down for a bad review."

A searing pulse raced up her spine. The paramedics danced forward again.

"On the other hand, there are crazies out there. Someone might pop me off for a negative opinion of them."

"Bullshit," he growled, a rabid bass fiddle this time. "You know how to be tactful with the truth. And pardon me, you’re fifty years old. And single." He coughed. "If you’re going to get back in the newspaper game, this is the time to do it. You’ve got tons of experience and few obligations."

She glanced at her computer screen. A lone sentence ran across the top. Fall Fest is coming, and the leaves are turning gold.

Gag. Sometime lately—she didn’t know when—she’d begun to hate writing press releases for this stupid arts mall. Drawing a breath, she started to ask, When can I come to the Times?

Pain burned into her ribs. Biting her tongue, she gulped. "No, Pete. If I’m sick of running a public relations office, I should move down to Albuquerque and get a technical writing job. Or maybe go back to Chicago and family."

Pete scoffed. "The mountains’ll block your view of the horizon in Albuquerque. An’ you don’t want Chicago winters."

Arching her neck, Shelby looked through the sky light in her ceiling. Against brilliant blue, a cloud stretched, then bunched and curled like a cat in a warm lap. Lord, it was beautiful. For an instant, she forgot her aching body and watched the big puffy thing. "You’re right, Pete. On both counts."

"You love this place. Sta-a-a-y her-r-r-e." His vowels rose and fell with the lilt of a person bilingual from babyhood in Spanish and English.

"Yes, I do love it. Very much." Looking out the window by the desk, she enjoyed the flat adobe roofs of the old part of Mesa Vista. They glowed in northern light. Glancing through the pane on the opposite wall, she admired the cool green ribbon of the San Martin River.

Then her back muscles cramped. Wincing, she drew a sharp breath. "But, Pete—"

He cut her off. "Don’t ‘Pete’ me. Come over here. Why are you hiding at the mall, Woman?"

Woman. The playful nickname he’d given her long ago brought a faint smile to her lips. "It’s safe here, Pete," she whispered.

Then she heard tapping and knew he was hitting his silver ring against his desk in frustration. He’d told her the jewelry passed to each first-born son in the Martinez family for five generations. It came from the Taxco mines to Mexico City, then up the Cameno Real to Santa Fe with his forbears. Another good reason to stay in Mesa Vista. She could learn about more about Hispanic culture and its history, knowing Pete.

"Seize the moment, Shelby." The tapping intensified. "You’ve got real writing talent. Believe me. How many freelance articles you done for us? How long you been in town?"

Touching her thumb to each long finger of her graceful right hand, Shelby calculated. "Since I got to Mew Mexico. Thirteen years this month. I came in October."

"It’s time to grow, Shelby. You can be as safe as you want to be with us," Pete pleaded. "You can talk to artists. Go to openings. Do reviews. Stay away from nasty stories, like people vandalizing Indian ruins."

She found herself laughing. "I wouldn’t mind reporting on vandals. Looters and pot hunters are long gone by the time anyone discovers the mess they’ve left."

"Fine," he retorted, half-playful, half-serious. "I’ll put you on the Kirby Towers case. Right now."

"Kirby Towers?" The words drew her lithe frame upright, and she gripped the phone until her knuckles turned from ivory to white. "Kirby got looted? Right outside of town here?"

"Yesterday."

She bit her thin lips and held back anger. "That’s terrible. That site dates to the 1600s. It’s one of the places where the Pueblo people hid from the Spanish, isn’t it?"

"Yup," Pete groaned. "And someone tore it up good, looking for relics to sell. Too bad a rattler didn’t get ‘em."

"I’d prefer a brown recluse spider. You don’t know you’re bitten ’til you’re good and sick." Sarcasm tinged her tone. "Well, one more archaeological record ruined. Hope whoever did it feels big and strong."

"Sounds like a subject for a story, huh?" Pete prodded. "A good chance to plead with the public not to raid ancient sites."

Shelby pictured shattered masonry, deep holes, and crushed gray-green sage brush at the tiny pueblo. "So much for Federally protected lands. You’d think being right on Highway 22, Kirby’d be safe. Somebody on the way to Albuquerque would spot a vandal."

"You know better," Pete snapped. "A criminal could hit a ruin in the middle of the night. Who’d be up to see him?"

"Benjamin Keith Andrews won’t be happy. It’ll be a glum opening at the museum tonight." Shelby thought of the director of the Mesa Vista City Museum forcing a smile over punch and cucumber sandwiches while people strolled through his latest exhibit.

"What curator wouldn’t be down?" The music of Pete’s speech crescendoed, as he expressed sympathy for Benjamin Keith Andrews. "Though some would be more pleasant about it than he will."

"Don’t say that." She looked over her shoulder at a row of black-and-white photo landscapes behind her desk above her bookcase. "He’s just moody when he’s upset."

"I suppose you’d cut him slack, since he gave you a camera he could have sold for a thousand dollars, when he changed his photo equipment." Pete cackled.

Shelby ignored him. Barbwire-wrapped observations made Pete a tough news man, but he sometimes misaimed his invectives.

"The Ashita D-550’s one of the best cameras ever made. And my photography improved a million percent with Benjamin Keith’s." She studied the pictures. "Come look at my office wall sometime. I think you’ll agree. I might become a decent art photographer."

"Art photographer. Come take photos for the Times," Pete challenged. "With your sense of composition, you could really show an artist off."

Sadly, Shelby turned back to her computer. "But what does a headline about some painting matter, after what happened at Kirby?" Pain shot down her back. "I wish I had the guts to come and work for you. I’d cover social issues, not the arts."

"Come write up Kirby. It’s an important story. You might help save the history of the first people in this state."

"That’s true. And you’re tempting me." Pausing, she stared at her lap. "But, if I come, I’d have to give a couple of weeks notice here. That’s what J. Rodney Pearson always wants."

Pete snorted. "J. Rodney Pearson. It would serve him right if you just walked out of his crummy fifty-shop mall."

"No comment." She glanced at her door to make sure it was closed. Anyone in the rotunda outside her office didn’t need to hear negative stuff about South River Mall’s owner and CEO.

"No comment? Then, I’ll talk for you," Pete roared. "So’ll everybody else in town. Nobody likes that son-of-a-bitch."

A low laugh escaped Shelby’s lips.

Pete raised his voice. "If he doesn’t wake up to that drunken son of his, the mall’s going to be a thing of the past. This town will lose a lot of business thanks to Charlie Pearson."

"Charlie won’t get his hands on mall funds. His father’s too smart for that. Charlie gambles with his own money. And that’s his business."

"You always defend him." Pete sneered.

"Charlie’s okay when he’s sober. And very talented." She let her mind roam to Benjamin Keith Andrews. What could she say to comfort the curator about the Kirby Towers potting?

"Herumpf." Pete cleared his throat. "You think anybody with a Navajo or Hispanic name’s ever been to J. Rodney’s house?"

Oh please. "Maybe he doesn’t invite the Irish either. I’ve never been to his place." She watched light ripple on the San Martin. Along its sandy banks, metallic glints flashed off railroad tracks. Beyond the roadbed, the buildings of the South River Mall basked in a warm glow.

"Pearson’s got his good points, Pete. He was the guy with the foresight to keep the narrow gauge train here and turn the old commercial district into a pedestrian arts mall."

The editor grunted. "Yeah and when the Tibetan monks wanted to build a mandala by the water, what did he say? ‘Not in my business. Those people probably smoke dope.’"

"Yes, that was bad." Shelby felt a prick of annoyance. "And when he said it, I wished I worked for you. I’d have written an editorial to blister him. Instead, I had to button my lip."

"Well, then take the job, damn it,"Pete retorted. "Stop fartin’ around."

She let her breath out. "Please. I’ve got to think it over. I must make sure leaving here is right. That’s the fairest for both of us, isn’t it?"

He considered. "Yeah, I guess. But I’ll be honest: turn me down, and you might not get another chance."

"I know. My mind tells me I’m being stupid. That I’ll be fine working for you. But my spirit just isn’t sure."

"Then I won’t push you." He cleared his throat again, and his tone softened. "Some fears never go away, I know. You always have to battle ‘em. I learned that in Viet Nam."

"Thanks, Pete." She sighed.

He didn’t respond.

The line hummed. Something clattered in the newsroom. Beyond Shelby’s door, steps thudded. She recognized the cadence of J. Rodney Pearson’s walk. He must have left the executive suite next door and headed across the rotunda to the conference room. She glanced at her watch. "Okay, Pete, I’ll let you go. You’ve got a deadline coming, and I need to talk to one of my interns. I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise."

"One of your interns?" His voice rose. "Who?"

"Warren Miller. Don’t worry. It’s not Tess."

Pete barked into the phone. "She’s been dating Miller. What’s he done? I’d like an excuse to tell her what I think of him."

"Say he’s a jerk." Reaching into a wicker basket on the corner of her desk, Shelby extracted a piece of notebook paper. "This is a sample of his writing. Listen." Narrowing her green eyes, she intoned, "’The five restaurants is promising a gloros menu for Fall Fest wek-end.’"

Pete sputtered. "J. Rodney probably owed Senator Miller a favor, so sonny-boy Warren got an internship."

"That happens." Shelby shrugged. "Every so often, we get some incompetent rich kid with connections."

"Kick Warren’s butt, Woman." Anger tinged Pete’s words. "For yourself, and Tess."

"I plan to." She straightened. "I’m not afraid of him. And don’t get mad at her. She’s doing fine."

"I’m not mad." Pete relaxed again. "Just concerned."

"I think she’ll find her way. She’s got a good head, Uncle Pete," Shelby soothed. "Leave her alone."

"That’s good to hear." He laughed a little. "She’s a cousin, actually, not a niece. Her great-grandfather and my grandfather were brothers."

Shelby chortled. "You Mesa Vista natives have family trees that would rival Genesis." Sobering, she picked up another paper from her basket. "Be proud of Tess, Pete. Here’s the opening of a release she wrote. ‘You may not like a tempest in your teapot, but you’ll love Shakespeare’s Tempest on the stage of the Pearson Theater at the South River Mall.’" She set down the page. "She’s done six releases for Fall Fest and is bringing another this afternoon. It’ll be typewritten in proper style. Not hand scratched like Warren’s. Hard to believe those kids go to the same university."

"Okay, I rest my case." Pete relented. "She thinks a lot of you, too. You’re a level-headed role model for her. She hasn’t been on her own much."

"I guessed that when her mother contacted me about setting up her internship and then called the kid to the phone."

"She’s got a lot to learn. Isabel and I let her do her own thing. Even if it turns out wrong." He became grim again. "Like it will with Miller."

"Actually, I haven’t seen them together for a while. The fling might be over. Tess is resourceful. That’ll save her." Shelby glanced straight ahead across her desk to a file cabinet by the door. On the cupboard’s top sat a brown Navajo bowl with a toad on it. Sprigs of blueberries whisped out of the vessel’s square mouth. "She made a wonderful flower arrangement today, out of weeds from the river bank. But it looks like it belongs at the Waldorf." A memory nudged into her consciousness, and she smiled. "I’ve done my share of growing up, too. I’m the baby of my family, so I never did laundry ’til college, when I put my navy slacks in the wash with my undies and got pastel blue bras."

Pete let out a genuine laugh. "That I would have liked to see."

"I’ll bet," she shot back, then pondered. "I enjoy helping Tess. I really do. She almost makes my job here worthwhile."

"Don’t stay just for her." Pete warned. "Take care of yourself, Shelby."

"I know. I will."

"Keep remembering you won’t get hurt at the Times."

An alarm buzzed in the newsroom. Voices babbled. Pete’s presence faded from the phone, then returned. "Stuff comin’ down the wire. Gotta go. So enough said, long as you remember it."

"I will." Shelby felt relieved to end the conversation. She needed time to think. "I’ll talk to you manana."

"Bueno. Hasta manana." Pete paused another second. Then his receiver clicked.

Shelby dropped hers into its cradle. What the hell should she do now? Mopping her brow, she faced the San Martin.

A breeze finally wafted in, fluffing her long, wiry hair, tickling her neck. Gathering corkscrew curls in her fingers, she looked at dark strands gleaming against her deep red nail polish. Not a trace of gray. But then the McCoys turned silver at seventy, twenty-five years before they died. Still, Pete had a point. If she wanted back into journalism, she should put aside the fear and go to The Mesa Vista Times—now.

The wind blew the smell of fish, weeds, then French fries into the office. She stared past the water to the mall’s main restaurant, Richie’s Steak Joint. Behind it, on Old Commercial Street, one- and two-story brick and wood buildings contained the rest of South River’s shops.

A locomotive whistled. Puffing and wrapped in a smoky veil, a black engine slid into a station in front of the steak house and settled beside the platform like a dowager into her opera box.

W W & M V R R, read letters on the tender. Maroon writing on the orange coaches spelled the words: White Waterton and Mesa Vista Railroad.

A crowd collected by the train. The engineer in blue-striped coveralls, lifted a child onto the locomotive’s pointed cow catcher and stood beside her. She waved for Daddy’s camera while the man grinned.

Shelby’s stomach knotted. The feel-good South River Mall. Bleh-bleh-bland. She should get out.

Bang! Something reverberated like a shot. Jumping, she spun her chair toward the sound. A delivery van lurched through the mall’s service entrance. Pow! It backfired.

A shudder ran through her. Another recollection exploded onto her mind’s horizon. She sat on the chintz couch in her Des Moines apartment, relaxing. Her lover, George, popped corn in the kitchen. It smelled buttery. Two beer bottle tops clunked, and as Beethoven swelled from the stereo, she anticipated hot salt, tingling liquid, and sex someplace cool, like the back porch.

Then a car drove by, lights intruding through the living room windows. She started to close the drapes. The beams exploded in a red roar—flying glass and pain.

"Friggin’ reporter bitch," a man’s voice screamed. "Next time write the truth about my friends, if you’re still alive."

Looking down as the van pulled away, she pressed her hands to her eyes. Why did she tell Pete she wanted to come back to a newspaper? The mall might make her feel insipid, but if she were smart, she’d stay with the job she had.