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“Pet of the week from the animal shelter. Wait till you see this kitty. He’s only got one eye, but he’s so stinkin’ cute.”

“Be with you in a minute, dear.” Mom rolled her eyes, then grasped Hannah’s hands and lowered her voice. “My beautiful, hard-headed darling, I know how much theBeaconmeans to you, but I’m tired. My back is shot; my stomach is trying to eat itself, and my vision is going from staring at computer screens. It’s time for me to retire.” She patted Hannah’s hand. “And without Agnes Jankowski’s support, we’ll run out of funds in a few months. So I’ll give you until the end of April. If you can make theBeaconsolvent by then, you can take over as Editor-In-Chief. If not, we’re closing our doors.”

“Ma,” Hannah croaked and blinked back the sting of tears.

Mom cupped Hannah’s cheek, her weary smile brimming with compassion. “I’m sorry, darling, but all good things reach an end. And Trappers Cove is too confining for someone with your drive and talent. You’re wasting your potential here. Go stretch your wings, maybe even find someone to love. You’ve been single far too long.”

Bristling, Hannah counted backward. It hadn’t been that long since she and Nathan broke up. Just...

Her shoulders sagged. Wow, almost four years ago. His parting words still stung: “Your priorities are fucked up, Hannah. I’m offering you love, but you won’t lift your nose out of that damned newspaper long enough to see it.”

So what? She could get another man if she wanted to. She kept fit and took care of her appearance. Even at forty, plenty of guys still asked her out.

Besides, what were the chances of finding a partner who wasn’t put off by her drive? A guy who didn’t expect her to spend the rest of her life in the passenger seat?

Hannah closed her eyes and massaged her aching brow. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend, Mom. Journalism is my passion, and Trappers Cove is my family.”

Mom’s sigh spoke of weariness and defeat. “This newspaper has cost me too much already, baby. Don’t let it cost you a happy future.” She packed up her lunch and headed for the back staircase. “I’m going to lie down for a while.”

She could use a lie-down herself, a little time to digest this wrenching news. But the clock was ticking, and she had a helluva lot of work to do if she was going to right this sinking ship in less than three months, so she collapsed into her seat and flipped through her appointment calendar.

City Council meeting, high school honors assembly, Mable Scarpetti turns one hundred…

“Come on, TC, I need a juicy story.”

The oppressive silence of the newsroom left her flushed and claustrophobic. Weird—usually she felt as much at home here as in her tiny apartment upstairs.

She clapped a hand to her clammy forehead.Oh no, is this what perimenopause feels like?

She needed air. Grabbing her jacket, she bolted outside and lifted her face to the sky. Misty rain cooled her heated skin. Main Street was nearly deserted today—empty and frustratingly news-free. A brisk wind carried the scent of salt and sea from the beach, only two blocks away. If not for the cold, she’d head west and walk the shoreline, letting the surf’s roar calm her buzzing thoughts.

“Dead, dead, dead,” she muttered as she scanned Main Street. Between the holidays and spring break, raw weather and a paucity of fun events kept away the tourists who tripled the town’s population in summer. Even locals mostly stayed indoors. No parties, no festivals…nada.

A seagull flapped down to perch on a fire hydrant and eye her intently, probably hoping for a snack.

“Why did things have to change?” she asked the bird, adding a childish foot stomp since no one was around to see.

The gull ruffled its feathers and squawked.

“You’re right; it’s my trauma talking.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Ten years of therapy and I’m still chewing on that bone. But damn it, bird, how would you feel if you had to watch bulldozers demolish the nest where you grew up?”

The gull cocked its head and regarded her, a glint of accusation in its beady eye.

“Yeah, yeah, it was twenty-five years ago. I should be over it by now. But can a person really get over something like that?”

Dad’s ultimate betrayal, worse than leaving her and Mom for a younger woman. He’d refused to let Mom have his share of equity in their cozy beachfront cottage, so the family court judge forced the sale of the property—to a greedy California land shark who didn’t give two cold dog turds about Trappers Cove. To this day, she couldn’t walk past the ugly block of apartments that took its place without stomach-churning flashbacks.

So who could blame her for pushing back against change? Change meant loss and heartache and bitterness.

The bird grumbled in its gull language, then fluttered down to her feet.

She dug in her pocket and found a crumpled paper napkin from her last visit to Garrett’s bakery across the street. She shook it out, and a few crumbs fell to the pavement. The bird gobbled them quickly.

“All I need is one good story, buddy. Deep investigative journalism. Pathos, humor, irony…something people will be dying to read about. So if you’ve got any ideas, I’m wide open here.”

The gull stretched its snowy throat, let out a yawp, then winged across the street toward Souvenir Planet, the sprawling, kitschy souvenir shop that shared a parking lot with the bakery. Odd, even during this slow time of year there’d normally be at least a half-dozen cars in the lot, but today it stood empty. And that was bad because tourist dollars were Trappers Cove’s lifeblood.

Frowning, she gazed up at the chaotic façade where two silver-painted plywood UFOs and an assortment of stars and planets shared space with a pirate captain and a grinning dolphin. Beneath the porch roof, antique farm equipment and other mechanical oddities squatted beside benches and weedy planters.