A few nights later, I packed my backpack for work and grabbed a bagel and a bottle of orange juice before I headed out the door. Now that the days were getting colder, I'd traded my bike for the company car — a modest 10-year old sedan with a lighthouse painted on the side. It was a bit embarrassing driving around town with the Harbour Light plastered all over it. Besides, with my finances the way they were, I was in no position to be fussy.
I went straight to my desk and began working; I had a busy day and wanted to hit the ground running. An hour later, I'd only written two paragraphs on my story about a new tourism campaign for the town because my phone would not stop ringing. After arguing with Jake about how everyone has a story, and every story counts, my boss decided that I should handle all calls from the public. Some of them were beginning to test even my endless pool of patience.
"Yes, I received your e-mail, Mrs. McKinnon. I can see it a bit." I squinted at the screen. "Snowball does look a bit like Einstein," I lied. "Unfortunately, we don't have enough staff to do a story for the paper right now." I pulled the phone away from my ear while the old lady ranted.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. McKinnon, you're breaking up...just going into a tunnel. I'll have to let you go." I hung up the phone. I glanced back at Jake in his office, he was covering his mouth with his hand to hide his laughter.
"You know we have no tunnels in Locke's Harbour." He came out from his office and leaned on the door frame. I wasn't sure what it was, but he was looking especially handsome lately.
"I don't think Mrs. McKinnon gets out much," I muttered.
"So there's the shih tzu on Water Street who looks like Elton John, the cat with hair like Einstein, and Toonces, the gerbil who can sing. Great, now we've got enough stories for a centre spread." He came out of his office just to gloat.
"Toonces is a guinea pig, and I might just do that centre spread if you keep it up," I said, focusing back on my story when my phone rang again. "Shit," I muttered.
"Language," Jake said.
"Harbour Light. Yes. No— I mean, yes, we do stories on news and events of interest. Sorry, I'm just not seeing how a weekly bridge game is news." I gave Jake a helpless look and he didn't even try to hide his smirk.
"A bake sale?" I grabbed my pen. "Well now, that might be something."
By four o'clock, I still hadn't finished my story. I had a headache and was half-starved by my meagre lunch of two peanut butter sandwiches, a peach, a pear, yogurt and a banana. I didn't pack nearly enough. On top of all that, I had a stitch in my side that was killing me.
The doctor said pains like that would come and go as the baby grew and it was nothing to be worried about. I stretched, wincing. "Everything OK? Why don't you take the rest of the day off?" Jake dropped a stack of files on my desk as he walked by. "I just might," I said as my phone rang.
"Christ, what now?" I was too tired to deal with any more complaints or story ideas from the public.
"Sarah Keane?" The voice on the other end was clipped and efficient, and my stomach dropped.
"Yes?"
"I'm a nurse at Shady Rest. Would you be able to come here? Barney Jenkins is not doing well, I'm afraid. He's asking for you."
"Me?" Our last meeting didn't exactly end on a pleasant note, but I was saddened to hear Mr. Jenkins had taken a turn for the worse. "Yes, of course I'll come."
"He doesn't have much time left. Better hurry."
YOU ARE READING
The Bottom of the Sea
Mystery / Thriller[COMPLETE] Twenty-six year old photojournalist Sara Brusseau knows that if she stays with her abusive partner, Shane, she will die. She plots a daring escape to a tiny town in Nova Scotia, where the solace she initially finds quickly turns to terror...
