He’d take their awkward conversations any day over none at all.
“Get better, Dad,” Chris murmured. “You can beat this.”
Tammy Franklin, the floor nurse, peeked in and waved her clipboard at him. “I’m glad you convinced your mother to go home for a while. I’ve tried three different times today.”
“Mom can be stubborn.”
“Mmm.” Tammy pretended to consider the statement. “I’ll bet that trait doesn’t run in the Hamilton family, does it?”
Chris grinned. Tammy could get away with teasing him because she’d been involved in Wallace’s care from the beginning. His older sister, Amy, had told her once that they were going to make her an “honorary Hamilton.”
“I’ll be back soon to check his vitals. And I’ll have a supper tray sent up to you.”
Chris hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his stomach rumbled in agreement. “Sounds great.”
He leaned back in the chair and picked up the Bible his mom had put on the bedside table. A newspaper clipping fluttered out and he caught it before it reached the floor. He assumed it would be something from the latest issue of the Dispatch but instead he found himself staring at an article cut out of the Observer.
The Dispatch’s rival had somehow found out about Jeremy and printed the story, turning what should have been private family business into watercooler gossip. He glanced at the date and realized that the story he was holding was the gossip column that had printed the damaging news last month. A gossip section was a feature that Wallace had decided long ago the Dispatch didn’t need to sell papers.
Why couldn’t his father make those same faith-filled decisions when it came to his family?
The jumbled words he’d been blindly staring at came into focus. Just as he wondered why his mom had kept a copy of the column that the rest of them had delegated to the wastebasket, he saw the words she had written across the headline.
I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to Him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.
Chris shook his head, a little in awe at the unwavering trust she had in God. She’d always told him and his siblings if they kept their focus on God, they’d never lose perspective. No matter what slander the Observer had printed, Nora had chosen to focus on what God’s word said.
A soft moan from the bed drew Chris’s attention and as he leaned closer, Wallace’s eyes fluttered open. For a few seconds, his father stared at him with a blank expression that yanked at Chris’s heart.
“Dad. It’s Chris,” he whispered.
To Chris’s relief, his eyes cleared and recognition dawned in them.
“Where’s…your brother?” Wallace rasped.
Chris swallowed hard against the sudden emotion that clogged his throat. Were things always going to be this way between them because he wasn’t working at Hamilton Media?
“I’m right here, Dad.” As if on cue, Tim had come into the room and was standing at Chris’s shoulder. Silently Chris shifted out of the way so Tim could move closer to their father.
“How…are things going…at work?”
Chris couldn’t help but notice the touch of arrogance in the smile that Tim directed down at Wallace.
“Everything’s under control, Dad. Don’t worry, just concentrate on getting better.”
“Knew you could handle it,” Wallace said faintly, his eyes closing again.
Just when Chris decided to leave them alone for a few minutes, Tim’s hand gripped his arm.
“Meet me in the hall, okay? I need your advice.”
Chris was too shocked to reply. When Tim strode out of the room a few minutes later, Chris was surprised to see that his brother actually looked worried.
“What’s going on?”
“The past few weeks someone’s been sending letters to the editor addressed to our new reporter. Unsigned, of course. The first one was a rambling complaint about the way she covered the last city council meeting. You know the type—they like to raise a fuss. Get some attention because they’re anti-everything. The next one came and it didn’t make much sense, either, but we printed them because it’s our policy to give everyone a voice.
“When the secretary opened the mail yesterday, another one had come over the weekend. We’re sure it’s from the same person but this one didn’t just attack her as a reporter, it was more personal. More threatening. I was hoping you could stop by the office tomorrow and talk to her.”
Chris remembered Jeremy hiring a new reporter in May but he hadn’t realized it was a woman. “Sure. I can come by around nine o’clock.”
“Her name is Felicity Simmons. Don’t be put off if she doesn’t roll out the welcome mat for you. She doesn’t want me to make a big deal out of all this but I’d still feel better if you read the letters and gave me your input.”
Chris read between the lines. This wasn’t Felicity Simmons’s idea. It was Tim’s. And Tim’s will prevailed, as usual.
“I’ll be there.”
For the first time in the history of her career, Felicity Simmons was late for work.
She blamed her secret un-admirer. That’s what she’d silently dubbed the person who’d been busy writing her letters recently.
When added to a restless night, a stoplight that had gone bonkers on her way to the Dispatch, confusing everyone who hadn’t had their daily dose of java, and getting stuck behind a recycling truck that lumbered along in front of her like a mechanical brontosaurus, she would officially be three minutes late by the time she sat down at her desk.
“Hi, Felicity.” Dawn Leroux gave her a friendly wave when she entered the building. She was standing near the reception counter, talking to Herman and Louise Gordon, Hamilton Media’s elderly “gatekeepers.” Even though they’d officially retired years ago, the couple were a permanent fixture at Hamilton Media. No one got past the lobby without an appointment—or their permission.
If she hadn’t been running late, Felicity would have paused for a minute to say hello. Dawn wasn’t only Tim Hamilton’s personal assistant; the two women had met when Felicity began attending Northside Community Church shortly after moving to Davis Landing.
“Morning,” Felicity called back, slightly out of breath from her dash across the parking lot. She made her way through the labyrinth of half walls to her “office” in the far corner of the room, the equivalent of journalistic Siberia. Farthest from the AP wire service and fax machine. And the break room. She’d accepted the cramped space with a smile, perfectly willing to pay her dues at the Dispatch. Not only was she the youngest full-time reporter that the daily had ever hired, she was also the first female.
If she didn’t have a window or a desk barely bigger than her computer, so be it. She didn’t expect any special treatment nor did she want it.
The telephone was already winking one red eye at her, letting her know she had some messages.
“Felicity, this is Tim. Push your nine o’clock appointment back to ten. My brother is coming to talk to you about the letter you got yesterday.”
Felicity exhaled sharply. With Jeremy gone, the only brother Tim could possibly be referring to was Chris Hamilton. The police