https://preview.redd.it/atxfdqdvz20d1.jpg?width=1410&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=a1de4b1144687f7d2213ad8e78959c33d045bcd3
My Discord
Buy me a cup of coffee (if you want)
Previous Chapter
Chapter Seven:
(Frankie)
The newsroom was quiet at 5:30 p.m., which was a little strange on a Friday evening. Usually, the Friday news dump would have our reporters scrambling on at least one or two stories. We’d expected our governor to announce her decision on a new offshore wind farm application today, and she’d so far sent nothing.
If Brian isn’t responding to my texts there must still be some last-minute meetings going on in Augusta, I thought. Brian Tildry was the governor’s executive assistant and my best source for news tips when it came to Maine’s executive branch.
I walked over to our breakroom, opened Apple Pay, and got a candy bar from the vending machine.
Sugar and caffeine are a journalist’s two best friends, I thought as I started to feel woozy for the second time today.
Right as I started to open my Snickers bar, our IT person walked into the room and all but cornered me. The smell of cigarettes and hand sanitizer filled the air.
“Frankie Dee, do you know what happens when you don’t respond to my text messages?”
Sighing and lowering my dinner from my taste buds, who were now about to start a revolution at being denied sugar, I scanned our super short computer engineer. “Fun-sized,” I occasionally called them.
Their name was Ghost, and they looked every bit the part. Pale skin, undercut, hair dyed white, and colored contact lenses that made their irises the color of flour. Ghost’s nails were painted gunmetal grey, and it was difficult not to stare at their tongue piercing every now and again.
But they were a fucking wizard on a keyboard and didn’t give me too much shit about not being able to pay as well as news outlets in Boston’s market.
“I’m sorry, Ghost. I’ve been on a Zoom call for the last hour with a new applicant for our printing press apprenticeship. I didn’t even have time to glance at my phone,” I said.
After rolling their eyes, the IT expert said, “You know, when you’re using your phone for a Zoom call, you can respond to iMessages on your laptop, right? That’s why I set that up for you two months ago.”
Rubbing my temples, I apologized again.
“Because when you don’t respond to my texts asking me what time I can take our servers offline for maintenance tonight, I have to leave my den and come find you. Do you know what happens when I leave my den?”
I shook my head.
“People talk to me! Emma wanted to see my Cowboy Bebop tattoo, Richard asked if his computer had a virus (it didn’t), and Craig wanted me to listen to some new song from an Australian DJ. I don’t have the spoons to be a social butterfly, Frankie,” Ghost said.
I fought a grin. Our IT expert was. . . not the most social person around. They preferred to stay in their office, and if you had a tech problem, you were supposed to email them. Don’t call them. Don’t holler for them. And definitely don’t knock on their door.
We called their office a den because it was an icebox to keep the servers cool, the lights were usually off, and Ghost did not like to leave it. Hell, some days I didn’t even see Ghost in person.
They were the only staff member with access to this building’s basement, and they used it to come in and out of the news office unseen. I almost respected that level of antisocial dedication.
“I’d hardly call three conversations totaling less than 45 seconds much of a social outing, Ghost,” I snickered.
And they honest to god hissed.
“Answer. My. Texts. Please.”
“Um, do I text you back now, or can I just tell you face-to-face?”
“Well, I’m already here, so you might as well tell me in person. I swear to god, I’m going to take that job in Montreal,” they muttered.
I stifled another giggle. Some people thought Ghost was a little prickly. And they absolutely were. But I always got a kick out of their quirks and did my best to be accommodating.
“Midnight should be fine? I think our web traffic tends to drop off then for the night,” I said, rubbing my chin.
They nodded and turned to leave.
“Well, you certainly smoke enough to fit in with the other Québécois, but how is your French?”
I watched our IT expert leave the room shortly before calling back, “Je t'emmerde.”
I’ll need to remember to Google what that means later, I thought.
The refrigerator in the breakroom started to hum and rattle as I stared at the yellow-ing appliance. Don’t get me wrong. We kept the inside immaculately clean. But she was approaching 30 years running. We didn’t have the money in our newsroom budget to replace it. Just another piece of technology we kept operating with engine grease and chewing gum. It matched the outdated blue and white cabinets that squeaked no matter what angle you opened them from.
My shoes also squeaked as I walked across the white tile floor and finally started to eat my Snickers.
I was half-finished with my dinner when I returned to my office and found Dawn waiting for me. The sight of her pleasant curves and sparkling emerald eyes spun my heart faster than a Beyblade.
“H — hi, Dawn.”
“The dinner of champions?” she asked, standing up and placing both hands on her hips. Hips I truly missed feeling against mine.
C’mon, now. Professional, Frankie. Keep things professional, I thought, pushing those feelings away as best I could.
Before I could answer, the witch walked forward, snatched the candy bar from my jaw, and folded the wrapper, placing it on my desk.
“I know I don’t need to remind you of this, but dessert comes AFTER dinner, Frankie,” she said, gently pushing me toward the door after grabbing my small leather purse.
All I could do was gasp.
“Hey now!” I protested, but surprisingly, none of my employees came to my defense. In fact, I’m pretty sure Emma was audibly laughing.
When we got outside, I anchored myself as best I could.
“Where are you taking me?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“To get a proper dinner. Because I’m assuming the last real meal you had before that Snickers bar was a bowl of cereal this morning,” she said.
I crossed my arms.
“Frankie Dee, you’ve been in this office for — what — 12 hours today? Let’s take a fucking dinner break.”
When I cocked my head to the side, she added, “As colleagues, not girlfriends. Geez. Lighten up. Coworkers get lunch together all the time. We can keep it professional. We don’t even need to trade chapstick.”
With a slight wink, the witch left me paralyzed. The warmth of her cinnamon breath and the brush of her painted lips against mine like an artist shading a canvas was a potent memory. As I froze, Dawn giggled and again softly moved me down the sidewalk.
We wound up walking down Congress Street a few blocks to the Munjoy Hill Inn, a tall and narrow building, its first story made of brick, and everything above that faded white siding. Seagulls screamed above us, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw one shit on a cyclist who nearly lost control of their bike and swerved madly to the left.
He cursed and stopped to wipe his arm clean with a napkin from his pocket.
That was the thing about these seagulls. You never knew when they were going to dump on you. I remember standing in line waiting for ice cream on a hot summer day when one shit on my shoulder, and some of it got into my hair.
Fucking birds, I thought, shaking my head, remembering how I swore the entire walk home, all during the shower, and on the jog back to the newsroom.
My foot scraped against the concrete on the sidewalk’s edge, jarring me back to reality.
“Ope, easy there. You good? Looked like you tried to slip off the curb,” Dawn said, grabbing my arm before I faceplanted on Congress Street. “Let’s get you some proper dinner before you collapse.”
The witch opened a single heavy wooden door and motioned for me to head inside. I said nothing, having eaten more than a few meals here. It was actually one of Dad’s favorites. He brought me here as a kid all the time for meal breaks. He was better about eating than I was.
The interior of Munjoy Hill Inn was mostly exposed brick and chalkboards on the wall detailing drink selections and menu choices in plenty of colorful sketchings.
Dawn found us a table next to the long wooden bar where a woman wearing a yellow button-down shirt and a blue jacket was shaking a cocktail in a mixer.
The bartender made her way over to our table as the restaurant started to fill for the evening dinner rush. I ordered a personal pan pizza, to which, Dawn suggested I add a bowl of greens. She ordered a turkey sandwich.
“At least try to get a few vegetables with dinner, won’t you?” she asked as the bartender took our menus.
I scoffed.
“I’m getting onions on my pizza. Thanks, MOM,” I said, slumping in my chair. This fucking witch, I swear.
“What are you bitching about? I didn’t say anything about the garlic bread, did I?”
I started to retort but was interrupted by the witch reaching into her purse and grabbing something to tie around my wrist.
Before I could ask what she was doing, the witch had her hands back on her side of the table, and a tumbled gemstone was secured to my wrist with thin, black leather straps.
“What is this?” I asked, pointing to the polished black stone.
“Tourmaline. It absorbs negative energy. I’m hoping it’ll reduce your grumpiness about being forced to eat veggies with dinner. Is it working?” she asked.
I didn’t want to do her the favor of admitting I did strangely feel a little better with this rock tied to my wrist. And it was very pretty, like an oil slick, but with more of an artistic flair.
Behind us, a group of guys cheered at the Blue Sox game playing on a mounted TV. One nearly spilled his beer shouting something about a “hell of a pitch.”
“It’s pretty,” I confessed. “But is it professional?”
She shrugged.
“If you don’t want it, give it back.”
I clutched my wrist and pulled back with a frown.
“No.”
Dawn leaned over the table, her shadow covering the ciders we’d ordered, and she said, “Then it’s professional.”
Scoffing, I drowned any snide remark I had left lingering in the booze.
Our food came, and I found myself more ravished than expected. The garlic bread and pizza, I inhaled like a plate of cookies in front of a pink starfish. And the greens? Child’s play. I ate them faster than Billie could’ve.
I immediately placed a second order for two more sides of garlic bread while Dawn giggled into her sandwich.
“See what happens when you actually eat? You feel better,” she said.
Finishing my cider, I found myself staring at the bracelet again. Its weight on my wrist felt. . . reassuring somehow. It was like someone made a small effort to protect me when the whirlpool I was struggling to avoid being swallowed by each day tore another piece of my ship.
“I got our loan request back from Gorham First Security Bank,” I mumbled.
Dawn raised an eyebrow.
“They declined since we’re already paying back another business loan to Portland Community Credit Union. And my father only got that loan because he’s golf buddies with the president of that particular financial branch.”
With a long deep sigh, I suddenly felt more vulnerable and yet relaxed than I had in a long time. Maybe it was having a warm meal in my belly. Perhaps it was the liquor. Or it could’ve been the pretty witch sitting across from me that just made me want to spill every little secret tucked away in my heart. I swear, she could coax every lock in Fort Knox to retire with a gentle smile.
“I don’t mean to add any pressure, but if your astrology section launch could bring in a few more thousand subscribers, it’d be pretty great,” I said, staring out the window at a woman walking her golden retriever down the sidewalk.
Dawn placed a hand on mine.
“This newspaper is going to be the death of me,” I mumbled without thinking. And the witch’s eyes widened.
“Hey, we don’t have to talk about work, you know? We can talk about literally anything else.”
I devoured another piece of garlic bread, feeling the buttery goodness bring a little bit of relief to my sudden downpour of spirit. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ever get up from this table. Every weight in my body decided to drop anchor here tonight, and dammit if I lacked the confidence to shake it off.
“I’ve got one. If you could date any fictional witch, who would it be?” Dawn asked, finishing her sandwich.
The question caught me off guard, and I shook my head, mind rising from the current that’d been dragging it down for the last few minutes.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“What? You’re obviously not going to date me because of ethics or some shit. So pick a fictional witch who doesn’t work for you to take on a date. Who do you choose?”
A small Swanson-sized giggle escaped my throat as I considered the possibilities. This was an outrageous question. I dealt with facts. Indisputable data and information that my subscribers trusted me to deliver to them in a timely manner.
“Does Raven from the Teen Titans count? Her grown-up version? I’m pretty sure she was a witch.”
That earned me a small sympathetic smile from the new astrology editor.
“More like an intergalactic telepath. Try again, FeeDee.”
I ignored her use of the wrong name and pictured another group.
“Oh! Those girls from Scooby Doo. You know — the ones in the band?”
Dawn let loose a bellowing laugh that caught the attention of our baseball neighbors as they stared for a few seconds. When she got wind back in her lungs, she said, “The Hex Girls?”
“Yeah! The Hex Girls.”
My dinner partner nodded and stole a piece of garlic bread, tearing off a small bite before putting it back in the wicker basket.
“Okay, The Hex Girls. All of them?”
“Why not?” I asked. “Any or all. They could put a spell on me.”
That mischievous grin worked its way back onto the witch’s face, the dangerous one that lured me to her house. . . and couch. . . and bed. I stifled a quick gasp. She definitely noticed but said nothing.
“How about you?” I asked. “Who would you pick?”
Without hesitation, Dawn said, “Oh, Bonnie Bennett for sure.”
“From ‘Vampire Diaries’?” I asked.
Dawn nodded with a satisfied smile on her face.
“She was so badass. I’d fight Enzo for her any day,” the witch said as my phone vibrated. I checked a text, and it actually turned out to be a picture from one of my friends, a journalism professor at South Portland Community College, which sat right on the beach.
There was a fire. A large white boat with yellow paint down the side.
Shit, I thought, zooming in and realizing it was a ferry. She’d snapped the photo from the Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse. That’s the Bug Light Ferry.
Standing up with every muscle in my body and mind starting to protest, I felt my hands shaking.
Come on, Frankie! I thought. This is breaking news. You’ve done this thousands of times! Get to work.
But my chest was starting to ache and throb. My legs wanted to give out and sit back down as weakness filled me.
“What’s wrong?” Dawn asked with more concern in her voice than business partners typically give each other.
“There’s a fire on one of the ferries that goes out to Peaks Island. I gotta get back to the newsroom,” I said, grabbing the table for support.
More pain radiated from my chest, and I took short breaths, closing my eyes and willing it away. It didn’t work very well.
“Why don’t you sit down? Text Emma or something. Isn’t this why you have an evening city editor?”
I shook my head.
“I mean — yes. That’s why I do. But what good is a managing editor who isn’t in the trenches with her reporters? They respect me because I’m always willing to hop in wherever there’s a gap. Covering meetings, writing stories, proofreading, and even taking pictures. I do it all, and this is going to be an all-hands-on-deck night.”
Dawn furrowed her brow.
“You’re awfully pale, Frankie. And you’ve already put in 12 hours today. I can see your legs shaking from here. Why don’t you sit back down, and I’ll give you a ride home? Seriously, I’m worried.”
My heart was at war. On one front, I was demanding it give me the strength to power through an evening of breaking news. On another, it swooned over someone actually telling me to give it a rest for once. And not just anyone. . . but the girl I’d give anything to stop being professional with.
The bartender came over with our ticket, and I put some cash on the table.
“Keep the change,” I said, turning to go and nearly colliding with one of the baseball bros. He steadied me, and I apologized.
Dawn was quickly beside me as I called Craig.
“Where are you?” I asked, as soon as he picked up.
“City Hall. They’re about to meet and vote on —” I interrupted him.
“Scrap it. Take your camera and head to Bug Light. There’s a ferry on fire, and I want pictures. Use the big lens. Hustle over there, but take your time with the photos. It’s getting darker, so you’ll need to keep the camera more steady to get clear shots.”
“You got it, boss,” he said.
I sighed and walked outside, nearly spilling into the street again. What was it with my legs and this particular section of sidewalk? Fuck.
“Don’t call me that,” I said, hanging up and immediately calling Emma.
She answered, and I fired off a list of things to do, telling her I was on my way back to the newsroom.
“Call the PIO for the US Coast Guard Station in SoPo. He doesn’t answer after hours, but he will check his voicemail through the night, so leave him a message. I’m going to text a contact who works in the dispatch office for the Bug Light Ferry system.”
“Yes ma’am,” Emma said, hanging up.
My chest throbbed even harder as I walked uphill toward the newsroom. Dawn tried one final time to convince me to let my night crew handle this.
“I truly think you should rest, Frankie. You’re sweating and really pale.”
Huffing, I walked and talked.
“Seventy-five years the Portland Lighthouse-Journal has served as the leading source of news for Maine’s biggest city. Equity firms want to buy us out. Subscribers call and ask why they need us when they can get their news for free on Facebook. And the TV stations try to take our content at least three times a month. But we’re still here. A Ricci at the helm of this paper keeping the public informed is what’s kept us afloat for 75 years. And I can’t quit now, Dawn. I won’t. These are the moments they need us, and I refuse to let our readers down.”
My hand clutched the doorknob of our office, and I took a steadying breath. It was going to be a long night of breaking news push alerts, redoing the front page layout, evening press conferences, and hopefully, news that everyone made it back to shore alive.
I’d be there to cover it all with my team, chest pain be damned.