Digonly?Had she been dreaming about kid wizards? Or…She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity.Digital Only.A possibility she’d resisted, hating to give up the traditional printed newspaper. But time marches on, as Mom was so fond of reminding her, and as much as she hated the idea, ditching the print edition would free up much-needed funds. She scribbledLast Resortin the margin.
Savings.Holy shit on a flaming stick. Had she really been contemplating that? Because cracking into her not-large nest egg to keep a sinking business afloat would be thirty-one flavors of stupid, right?
Then why did that sound so tempting?
A soft knock on the door jerked her head up. “Xander?” She bolted upright and nearly face-planted when the blanket tangled around her feet.
Smiling in that patient way of hers, Mom stood in the doorway, holding a tray. “Brought you some banana bread and tea.”
“Maahh,” Hannah protested, “you’re supposed to be resting, not baking.”
“Bah,” she countered and bustled in, casting a disapproving glance at Hannah’s messy apartment. “Baking is restful. Besides, the bananas were going black.”
Hannah took the tray and pressed her mother into the only armchair not covered with papers and laundry. “Doc said three days, Mom.”
“It’s been almost three days, and I’m bored.” She stretched out her legs, then winced. “Headache’s gone, anyway. Sciatica’s kicking up, though.”
“And your ulcer?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. So.” She laced her hands behind her head and regarded Hannah with an X-ray gaze. “What’s got you holed up here on a Tuesday afternoon? Shouldn’t you be out covering the town council meeting?”
“Almah’s got it.” She plated two slices of banana bread. “I’m working on—something personal.”
“Uh huh,” Mom deadpanned. “Does it have something to do with that handsome guy you’ve been dating?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She set a plate and napkin at her mother’s elbow. “And before you ask, I promised to keep it between the two of us.”
Mom’s teasing smile grew wider. “I’m glad you two are getting closer. Now, let’s talk brass tacks.”
Hannah chuckled. “Brass tacks? Mom, you’re sixty-eight, not ninety-eight.”
“You’ll discover, my dear, that one of the blessings of age is not giving a flying crap what the youngsters think. So, how’s your salvage mission coming?”
She’d probably already checked theBeacon’s accounts, despite the doctor’s warning to stay away from screens, a common migraine trigger.
Hannah’s shoulders tensed, but she forced a nonchalant smile. “Subscriptions are up. We’re on track.” Not enough to be back in the black by April, but if this upward trend continued, they’d make it by May or June, at the latest. If she presented her mother with the data, plus her projections, surely she’d relent and keep their doors open a little longer. She had to.
“Uh-huh.” Mom did not look convinced. In fact, she barely looked interested. Maybe those migraine meds were stronger than Hannah realized?
She cleared away the end of the couch closest to Mom and sat, fixing her with a no-bullshit stare of her own. “Mom, you have more connections than I do in Trappers Cove, yet as far as I know, none of them have come forward to help save theBeacon. Why is that?”
She lifted one shoulder. “You know where I stand. Community newspapers are a lost cause. It’s time to pull the plug.”
Hannah leaned closer. “Buy why?”
Mom squirmed in her seat, then winced and repositioned her legs.
“You don’t think I can manage without you? Is that it?” After all these years of working side by side, that thought hurt like hell.
“Oh for cripes’ sake.” Mom dropped her head backward. “You always were persistent. Like a bulldog, kiddo.” She gave Hannah a look brimming with sadness. “You are destined for greater things, daughter mine. I’d have closed the paper years ago, but I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Mom, I—”
“No, you listen to me.” She shifted in her chair, planting her elbows on her knees, and for a moment, Hannah saw the old Mom again, the one who defeated a bribe-dealing developer and rooted out corruption in the city council.
“Hannah, you are too smart, too beautiful, too talented to end up like me—old, alone, discarded, stuck.” Tears brimmed in Mom’s brown eyes. “So if I have to jolt you out of your rut, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Mom!” A flush washed over Hannah’s face. “I am forty years old. You do not get to make that decision for me. You can’t just—”
