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    Garrett's Back in Town
    Garrett's Back in Town
    Garrett's Back in Town
    Ebook192 pages3 hours

    Garrett's Back in Town

    By Leigh Michaels

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    When columnist Matt Garrett returns to Lakemont to take over the family newspaper, assistant city editor Anne McKenna is furious. She believes in climbing the corporate ladder on merit, not connections -- though she has to admit that cultivating a connection with Garrett might be very interesting, after all. Book #3 in the McKenna Series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLeigh Michaels
    Release dateDec 15, 2010
    ISBN9781458089854
    Garrett's Back in Town
    Author

    Leigh Michaels

    Leigh Michaels (https://leighmichaels.com) is the author of more than 100 books, including contemporary romance novels, historical romance novels, and non-fiction books including local history and books about writing. She is the author of Writing the Romance Novel, which has been called the definitive guide to writing romances. Six of her books have been finalists in the Romance Writers of America RITA contest for best traditional romance of the year, and she has won two Reviewers' Choice awards from Romantic Times (RT Book Review) magazine. More than 35 million copies of her books have been published in 25 languages and 120 countries around the world. She teaches romance writing online at Gotham Writers Workshop.

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      Book preview

      Garrett's Back in Town - Leigh Michaels

      Garrett’s Back in Town

      by Leigh Michaels

      Published by Leigh Michaels at Smashwords

      http://www.leighmichaels.com

      Copyright 2010 Leigh Michaels

      First published 1992

      All rights reserved

      Cover illustration copyright 2010 Michael W. Lemberger

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      CHAPTER ONE

      It was almost a month now since the announcement that Garrett was coming back to Lakemont, and ever since then Anne McKenna had seen his face no matter where she looked. At least it seemed that way, and it was certainly true that his photograph had been plastered up in odd places all over the city for the past thirty days.

      It was Garrett’s face on the huge billboard that dominated the freeway exit to the university campus. It was Garrett’s crooked smile on the back of the Metroliner bus that cut Anne off at a traffic light downtown and left her cursing — though she wasn’t quite certain whether it was the bus or the smile that annoyed her more. It was Garrett’s Roman nose and untidy, windblown hair plastered over every newsstand in the city. And every morning, when she picked up the Chronicle from her doormat, there was Garrett staring at her from the top of the front page, with that slightly quizzical twinkle in his eyes and the tall red letters underneath that teased, Garrett’s Back in Town.

      Anyone who didn’t know it by now must have been in a coma for the past four weeks.

      Of course, it would have been more accurate if the headline had said, Garrett’s Coming Back to Town at the End of the Month. Anne had pointed out the fact to the managing editor the day after the slogan first appeared — but she was forced to agree with him that it didn’t have the same sort of catchy rhythm.

      And she couldn’t blame the management of the Chronicle for taking advantage of the opportunity to promote the newspaper. Garrett’s views had appeared on the Chronicle’s editorial page five times a week for several years, but even more importantly, in a hundred other papers across the country as well. For a prizewinning columnist to leave his base in Washington, D.C. to come home to Lakemont – yes, of course it was a feather in the newspaper’s cap.

      And the headline was true now, of course. It must be, she told herself, for the first opinion column of Garrett’s triumphal return was supposed to be published in tomorrow’s Sunday editions. It would no doubt be some sentimental pap about how touching it was to return to the old hometown after half a dozen years, Anne thought. Garrett was good at writing that sort of thing. Or perhaps it would be some equally sentimental claptrap about how impossible it was to truly go home at all....

      Whichever it was, she thought, at least after tomorrow the hoopla would die down and the whole city could get back to normal. They could get Garrett off the billboards and the buses and back onto the editorial page where he belonged, where those not interested in his plentiful opinions about the human race could be free to ignore him.

      Not that Anne would ignore him. In her position, it was scarcely wise to try.

      But Garrett’s success set her social conscience on edge, just the same. The whole thing was just one more example of the unfairness of life. If his name wasn’t Garrett, and if his daddy didn’t own the newspaper, nobody would be hanging on his every word or giving adoring recognition to his offbeat view of the world. In fact, he’d probably be writing ads for a suburban shopping guide!

      The image tickled her fancy. Yes, Matthew James Garrett II would have been quite good at promoting the sale of used cars. He was certainly never at a loss for a pithy comment — at least in print.

      She forced herself to relax. Garrett wasn’t worth her time to fret about, and besides, there were plenty of other things demanding her attention on this glorious September afternoon.

      Saturdays were typically slow days at the Chronicle, and the newsroom crew generally had an easy time of putting together the news sections for the Sunday morning edition. But the skeleton size of the work force meant that if anything important did break in the early-evening hours in Lakemont — if the mayor’s car hit a tree, for instance, or one of Nicolet University’s football players was busted for possession of drugs, or some nut decided to hold hostage a building full of people — then Anne McKenna’s job as city editor, in charge of the evening shift, would suddenly get very exciting indeed.

      That adrenaline high was one of the things she liked best about her job – the sheer challenge of reducing an unwieldy set of events to a clear, precise, readable front page, in the fewest possible ticks of the clock. Sometimes she even daydreamed about how she would handle a particular story. If the mayor’s car were to hit a tree, for instance, and if one of the incredible number of gorgeous young women who worked in his office just happened to be with him—

      She pulled into the Chronicle’s parking garage, and the attendant barely glanced at the special sticker in the car window before waving her on and turning back to his radio. He was listening to the university football game, she deduced from the raucous cheering she heard as she pulled away from the tiny booth. Half of Lakemont must be out at the Nicolet stadium this afternoon; they certainly weren’t downtown. It made her feel resentful for a moment. Goodness knew she liked football, too, but someone had to put the newspaper out.

      She parked in her favorite out-of-the-way spot and paused, leaning against the concrete half wall at the very corner of the ramp to enjoy a last breath of fresh air before going in. A few blocks to the east of the downtown skyscrapers, Lake Michigan gleamed, unruffled and impossibly blue under the crisp autumn sky. It was far too cold now for swimming, but there were still people on the beach, walking or jogging. There were even a couple of hardy souls sunbathing. She watched the lake for a long, peaceful moment. There was certainly no comparable view from the newsroom, and there probably would not be much opportunity for contemplation, either.

      From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a hot-air balloon floating gently above the white sand beach, securely tethered and well away from the water, where it could be seen from all over the downtown area. The Chronicle’s balloon, Anne thought, or one just as huge and just as brilliant a shade of yellow gold. But why on earth was it tethered on the beach? Then the breeze caught the gas bag and turned it slightly, and she saw that the balloon had been recently repainted. Just above the newspaper’s distinctive logo was a twelve-foot-high reproduction of Garrett’s unmistakable face.

      For one brief instant Anne wanted to find the nearest hunting rifle and start taking potshots at it.

      Then she shook her head and smiled wryly and told herself to be patient. The manufactured excitement of Garrett’s homecoming would soon be past, and Lakemont would be calm again.

      *****

      The mayor did not drive into a tree, but enough other things happened in the city that night to ensure that the newsroom was never quite calm. It was nearly eight o’clock before everything was under control and Anne could take her dinner break. Even so, she decided to settle for the vending machines on the fifth floor instead of the restaurant in the main lobby — just in case. The elevators were unusually slow, and she was looking at her watch and tapping her shoe against the black marble floor when one of the general-assignment reporters joined her. I’m trying to decide whether a tuna fish sandwich from a machine is worth the wait, Anne joked.

      The reporter was using the polished-brass elevator doors as a makeshift mirror, checking out the hem of her skirt. Anne thought it was a little strange; Holly Andrews was always neat, but she was no clotheshorse, certainly not when she worked the Saturday night shift.

      Holly stopped inspecting her clothes and looked at Anne in surprise. You aren’t going upstairs, then?

      Upstairs? The only thing above the newsroom floor was the executive offices and conference rooms, and there was seldom any activity there during the evenings and weekends. What do you mean, Holly?

      Don’t you ever read the bulletin board, dear girl? Oh, I forgot. You’ve had a couple of days off, haven’t you? Jim Garrett is giving a cocktail party tonight.

      For the prodigal son, Anne groaned. Of course. He would.

      Well, why shouldn’t he? Holly asked practically. It’s probably the only chance we regular folks will ever get to meet him.

      That, Anne thought, was true enough. The Chronicle had a sizable staff, and there was little personal contact between the general employees and top management. Anne knew Jim Garrett, of course, because as publisher he often sat in on the weekly sessions where the Chronicle’s news coverage was planned. But she doubted he would remember her name if he met her outside the newsroom; she was only a second-level employee, after all. And as for his son, who would have even less reason to associate with the newsroom staff… well, Garrett would no doubt recognize her name. Unless, of course, he was so egotistically certain of his views that he paid no attention whatever to those who disagreed.

      Relax, Anne, she told herself. You might not run into Garrett for weeks, in the regular course of events. Maybe not at all.

      Perversely, the thought made her almost look forward to the party. You’re certain everyone is invited? she asked.

      Holly grimaced. Invited? You know Jim Garrett. I’d say it’s more like we’re commanded to appear.

      Anne smiled. Oh, I see, it’s fear of the boss that moves you. I thought at first that you were dying to meet the famous columnist, the one who thinks he can make or break reputations overnight.

      Holly shivered, and with determination pushed the elevator button again. Anne, I’d think you’d be a bit more careful, considering that you don’t even know the man.

      "Everybody who reads the Chronicle knows him. He makes no secret of his views, Holly."

      The doors whooshed open and a blond vision in a floor-length bronze satin evening gown stepped out. Anne’s mouth dropped open; it took a second for her even to recognize the Chronicle’s society editor. She was accustomed to seeing Dominique Delacourt in the elegant designer dresses she always sported at the office, but they hardly compared to this.

      Dominique said briskly, Don’t bother to hold the elevator, girls. I’ll catch the next one. She vanished into the newsroom without waiting for an answer.

      Holly said under her breath, I wonder what made her get dressed up like a tart at a circus?

      Then, almost in unison, they turned back to staring at their own reflections in the polished brass.

      Anne straightened the cuff of her pine green dress — plain and practical, nicely tailored, but hardly the sort of thing she’d have chosen for a party — and tried to shake her blue-black hair into smoothness. She’s got to be going somewhere else, she said, almost to herself. "That can’t be required dress for a Chronicle party."

      I’m holding you responsible, Holly said drearily. Because if you’re wrong, we’ll both be fodder for the famous columnist.

      Not a chance, Anne said stoutly. We’re not important enough.

      The party filled the largest conference room and spilled over into the neighboring offices and even the elevator lobby. At least half the Chronicle’s staff was there, Anne concluded, and not one of them was wearing evening clothes.

      Two reporters were nose to nose in a corner, loudly disagreeing with the mayor’s latest plan to cut crime, and Holly’s ears perked. I really want to hear that discussion, she said earnestly.

      Deserter, Anne accused good-naturedly.

      She took a long, slow look around the room and didn’t see Garrett anywhere. But the door of the publisher’s office, in a corner overlooking the city’s skyline, was open. Perhaps, she thought, guests were being ushered in a few at a time for a sort of royal presentation.

      Across the room was a long table loaded with food, which struck her as much more appealing at the moment, anyway. The caterer’s man at the portable bar in the corner gave her a tall glass of tonic water, and she drifted across the room to check out the food. The array would have put the average deli to shame, and she looked at it with a warm glow of well-being for a few seconds before reaching for a plate.

      Bless Holly, she thought as she picked up two slices of sourdough bread. No matter the occasion, this certainly beat the plastic and cardboard that came out of the vending machines.

      A couple of minutes later she looked up from her half-made sandwich just as a group of people came out of the publisher’s private sanctum. It included most of the senior staff of the Chronicle: the managing editor, the head of the legal department, the directors of advertising and marketing and circulation, the publisher himself and—

      Garrett looked younger than his photograph, Anne thought a bit bemusedly. It took her by surprise. If anything, she would have expected the opposite: that the photo he chose to use would be an attempt to hold on to lost youth. Not that the man was exactly old, if it came down to that, but he was in his middle thirties. What right did he have to walk around looking half a dozen years younger, as if he didn’t have a care in the world?

      Now you’ve got it, she told herself wryly. It’s because he doesn’t have anything to worry about.

      She watched with interest as he broke away from the group outside the publisher’s office and began to work the crowd, shaking a hand here and there, threading his way through the mob efficiently, without waste of time, but also without a hint of impatience.

      I wonder why he hasn’t gone into politics, she thought idly. He certainly had the gift of crowd control and the right looks to impress the voters. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a superb healthy-looking tan. He even had that slight intangible air of being a bad boy which voters seemed to love. His thick honey-colored hair was just a little longer than that of the other men in the room, and his clothes —well, she’d bet that his tweed jacket hadn’t come off the rack in any ordinary department store, but he wore

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