Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

13. Marisa

CHAPTER 13

Marisa

A SWEET TREAT

I think I may be overdressed. I scrutinize my reflection in the mirror, taking in the black pencil skirt and tucked-in flouncy blouse. The skirt feels like too much; this whole outfit feels like too much. Somehow, I doubt my corporate attire is going to blend in very well around here.

I’ve never professionally worked as a journalist, despite it being my college major. I was a reporter for my college paper all four years of school, but unfortunately, my college writing experience didn’t translate into an actual job.

Post-graduate life was a harsh reality check. Countless rejections slowly but surely killed my romanticized dreams of working for a magazine and living in New York City. My hopes of success were met with disappointment. Eventually, I realized I needed stability, and I let go of the dream entirely, accepting the fact that some dreams needed to die. I grew up and put on my big girl pants and found a job in tech. I was content with my new outlook.

While I wouldn’t say working for a small town newspaper is a job I ever imagined for myself, there is something a little exciting about the prospect of getting to write more than technical specifications and work instructions.

“Ready for your first day?” my dad asks, descending the stairs. He’s wearing slacks and a polo, and I feel slightly less overdressed than I was anticipating.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I sigh.

“Coffee?” he offers as he works at making himself a cup.

I hold up my travel mug. “Already made one.”

I’m currently managing my caffeine addiction with a trusty jar of instant coffee, but I’m this close to caving and buying an actual coffee maker.

He raises his brows, excitement lighting his eyes. “I’ll tell you more when we get to the office, but I’ve got a special project for you.”

“Should I be worried?”

“All good things.” He chuckles.

Well, that isn’t suspicious at all. Now I’m even more nervous.

The drive is short and filled with classic eighties music, bringing me right back to all the times my dad would drop me off at school with Van Halen blasting from the car speakers. That feels like a lifetime ago. He used to say listening to Van Halen was the equivalent of a cup of coffee, and even now, there’s usually at least one Van Halen song on my driving playlists.

He parks in front of a brick building that looks like it may have been a factory or warehouse at some point in time. The parking spot he claims has a sign that says Reserved for the Editor . I would bet good money he put that sign there himself just to avoid having to drive around the block searching for a spot.

Once inside, my nose is violated by a distinct old building smell, reminding me of libraries and mildew.

“This is where the magic happens,” he says, a giant smile splitting his face.

The office is an open space with concrete floors and exposed brick walls. A cluster of desks sit in the middle. Off to the side is a makeshift kitchen area with a fridge older than me and a couple of microwaves. Right off the entrance is a separate office with an Editor plaque on the door. The entire space is about five-hundred square feet, if that.

“Well, what do you think?”

“It’s…um… It’s something.”

“Come on, I’ll show you to your desk.”

We walk the five feet from the front door to a wooden desk that wobbles.

“You’re in luck. Edgar left behind all of his supplies and equipment.”

If by supplies he means a bundle of old BIC pens held together with a rubber band and some crusty highlighters with missing lids, then yes, there were definitely supplies left behind. And the equipment consists of a paper shredder and a ten key calculator. None of these things are useful.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get settled. We do a team huddle at nine. You’ll meet everyone else then.”

My stomach churns, charged with nerves and caffeine. I fire up my laptop and work on getting connected to the Wi-Fi while also trying my best to not watch the door. What will they be like? Will they be nice? Will they like me? Hillary claims I have a people-pleasing problem and an innate need for everyone to like me. I would argue that most people are like that. Who doesn’t want to be liked? It’s perfectly normal to want others to accept you. Do I sometimes go out of my way to get someone to accept and like me? Yes. But I’m not over the top about it.

Over the next hour, people filter in. The first is a woman who looks about ten years older than me. She takes the desk to the left of mine and introduces herself as Suzy. Everyone makes it a point to come introduce themselves to me and tell me how much they like my dad. That’s no surprise, he’s always been well liked by colleagues. Around nine, they all start to gather around the chairs and couch set up near the kitchen, so I follow suit.

My dad stands before the small group in this very casual-looking meeting.

“Okay, team, before we get started, I want to introduce you to our newest reporter. If you haven’t met her yet, this is Marisa. Be extra nice to her, because not only is she our newest rookie, but she’s also my daughter.”

Everyone gives me a wave or head nod of acknowledgment.

“Alright, now down to business. It’s a slower week, but as you all know, October is our busy month, so don’t get too comfortable.”

I learn what everyone’s roles are during the meeting. Suzy is the opinion reporter. Bryce covers sports. He’s called me kiddo twice, and I’m still determining if it’s a term of endearment or an insult. Raquel is the office manager. She brought in a basket of muffins, instantly making me a fan. Then there’s TJ, who handles advertising, and Krista is an intern. Mario and Hannah are the other two reporters. Overall, it’s a lot fewer people than I’m used to, but also a lot more autonomy. And no one seems to mind that I’m the boss’s daughter. I was fully prepared for some animosity.

“For assignments this week,” my dad starts. “Bryce, you’ll be covering the parks and recreation football tournament. And Marisa, you have your first assignment. You’ll be doing a profile on Ethan Ledger and his new role as CEO of Ledger Estate Winery.”

He continues doling out assignments, but his voice fades to the background as my nerves begin to bundle. He couldn’t have given me something a little easier? Something simple?

“Let’s go chat in my office.” my dad says to me after the meeting wraps up.

I walk in, closing the door behind me, and take a seat.

“I—”

“Can—”

We both speak at the same time and then laugh, awkwardness hanging between us.

“You go first,” he says.

“About the assignment. The thing with Ethan.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair.

“Wouldn’t that be better suited for someone else? It’s just that Ethan and I didn’t get off on the best foot, and I don’t think he would be very receptive to me.”

I’m putting it mildly. Trying to interview Ethan, especially after what happened yesterday, would be a disaster. We can’t seem to coexist without pissing each other off. And it’s all his fault. I would be perfectly friendly and stay out of his way, but he’s so prickly he can’t seem to stop poking me.

“There’s a reason I gave you that assignment. It’s actually why I called you in here.”

This must be related to the special project he mentioned this morning. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“A few years ago, we had a quarterly magazine insert called The Vine that accompanied the paper. It would highlight the local wine industry, do pieces on community members, advertise upcoming events. It was an enormous hit, but the gal who ran it ended up leaving for greener pastures and it pretty much died with her. I’d like to bring it back, and I think you’d be just the person to revive it.”

“But, Dad, I’m not planning to stay here very long. Wouldn’t it be a bad idea to start a project when I’m not sure I’ll be around long enough to finish it?”

“Sweets…” He pauses, looking at me. “I understand your plans are up in the air, but I think you can handle one edition, and we’ll go from there. If we abide by the previous release schedule, you have until the end of October, so about three weeks, to get it together. I imagine that’s still within a window where you could manage it if you do get a job offer.”

“But I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never even seen it.”

He grins. “Check your email. I already sent over the archives.”

“But—”

“No more buts. I’m assigning this to you. Not as your dad, but as your boss.” He waves his hand, shooing me away. “Now scoot and get to work.”

I guess that’s the end of that conversation.

After leaving my dad’s office, I skim through the archives he sent me, but it’s hard to focus. Last week, I was jobless and crying myself to sleep, and now, I’ve gotten this huge project, which I’m not qualified for, dumped on my lap.

I take a break from looking through old versions of The Vine and redirect my attention to actually trying to learn how to do some basic tasks. With the help of Suzy, I spend the better part of the day getting trained on the writing system the Herald uses and how to navigate the portal. It all seemspretty cutand dry, but it’snice chatting with her and learning more about the rest of the staff and little tidbits about the town. I also end up word vomiting my doubts about writing a decent article when my subject isn’t likely to be a willing participant.

“Welcome to being a journalist,” Suzy says. “Unless it’s a fluff piece or something sports related, most people don’t want anything to do with being featured in the Paper . Heck, I’m not even sure they read it. I think they prefer to get their news through the gossip mill.” She laughs at her own joke, and I give her a polite chuckle, distracted by my own thoughts.

If Suzy is willing to divulge as much information as she already has, I may as well take advantage of it. “What can you tell me about the Ledgers?”

“How much time do you have?” she jests. “If Red Mountain had a royal family, it would be the Ledgers. They’re one of the founding families.”

“Founding families?”

“Yes, as in, they founded the town. The Ledgers and the Bentons.”

Small town lore at its finest. “The Bentons own a winery, too, right?”

She nods. “They sure do. Big competitors, those two.”

I snort. “You make it sound like the Hatfields and McCoys.”

She shakes her head, rejecting the notion. “Oh, no. It’s not nearly as dramatic as that mess. Business competitors sure, but they’re cordial. Jack Ledger and Bill Benton are co-chairs of the Red Mountain Vintners Association. Around here, if one winery is doing well, it’s good for everyone. It ups the local tourism and keeps pockets lined. All in all, everyone wants success for one another.”

“That’s kind of sweet actually.”

Her head tilts, an easy smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “We’re a community. I don’t know how things are in Seattle, but the traffic alone would turn me into a raging bitch.”

Hearing a curse word slip from the proper-looking woman has me stifling a laugh.

“Anyway,” she continues. “The Ledgers are the backbone of this town. Jack would do the interview without question. Ethan on the other hand”—she huffs a laugh— “good luck with that.”

If she meant to give me a confidence boost, she did the opposite.

“I take it Ethan has a reputation?”

She rests her chin in her palm, looking to ponder the question. “I wouldn’t say reputation. He comes off as abrasive at times, but I think he’s more shy than anything.”

I give a dismissive scoff. “Ethan? Shy?”

“Well, sure,” she defends. “Doesn’t talk much, keeps to himself, looks like a deer caught in the headlights when you try to engage him in conversation. Sounds shy to me.”

I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe he is shy. And clearly suffers from anxiety, something he seems to not want others to know about. I’m still pissed about his man tantrum, though. A tad overdramatic, if you ask me.

“But who knows?” she continues. “Maybe he’s changed. He only recently moved back. A few years ago, he left. That’s a story all its own, though.”

Well, now I want to know the story, but I can tell Suzy isn’t going to spill. I guess that explains why he’s staying in a vacation cottage instead of a more permanent home. But it doesn’t explain why he left and then moved back. And why do I care? It’s not as if finding out some tragic story—if it even is tragic—would be reason enough to explain why he acts the way he does.

“You know,” Suzy says. “I bet if you flashed Ethan a smile or two, he’d definitely be willing to sit down with you for an interview.”

I laugh. “I’m not too sure about that.” I’ve already tried that, and it didn’t work.

She lifts her shoulders, offering me an encouraging smile. “There are so many different avenues you can take to make a source feel relaxed and comfortable to speak with a reporter. You need to find what works best for Ethan. Maybe do something nice for him. Even the prickliest of men can appreciate a sweet treat.”