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hers. The slapping back and forth continued for several seconds while the brother and sister argued about the maintenance history of Viv’s 1976 Coupe DeVille, a car that Candy had dubbed “the pimpmobile,” a car that Cherise would never, ever be caught driving.
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Garland!” Viv said, smacking her brother on the shoulder.
    Just then, there was a crisp little knock at the door. The hinges groaned as the door opened. “Anybody home?” When Tater Wayne stuck his head around the living room archway, the senior citizen beat-down abruptly came to a halt.
    “Cheri!” He smiled widely, even as his left eyeball began ricocheting around in his skull. He held out a bunch of familiar-looking pink and white peonies and moved toward her, smiling with the seven or eight teeth that remained in his mouth. “What in the world were you thinkin’ stayin’ away from Bigler this long?”
    “I know, Tater!” Cherise pasted a smile on her face. “I was just asking myself the same darn thing!”

Chapter 4

    The newsroom floors, walls, and ceiling were the same as they had always been. But nothing else about the place made any sense to Cherise.
    She made a quick sweep of the long and open room and counted four bodies behind about a dozen desks. When she’d been a kid, the desks had been crammed in here back to back, people running through the narrow aisles with paper gripped in their hands, cigarettes dangling from their lips as they shouted at each other over the ringing phones and clacking and humming of electric typewriters.
    Today’s version of the Bigler Bugle newsroom was preternaturally sterile. Reporters spoke in hushed tones into earbuds, their fingers flying over laptop keys that barely generated noise. The air was smoke-free. Nobody’s desk was piled high with papers. No one was running down the aisles to deliver news copy or photographs by hand to editors.
    In fact, there were no aisles at all, just open space, and Cherise saw only one editor and two people on the copy desk. The place had been decimated.
    A wave of sadness rushed over her. The Bugle she knew was gone. The business had been gutted and drained of its lifeblood.
    At that instant, J.J. came rounding the corner, his expression stern and his footsteps hurried. Cherise watched him point to a reporter who was wrapping up a phone conversation, then at the lone editor, motioning for them both to join him in the new glass-walled conference room.
    Only then did J.J. notice Cherise standing at the far end of the newsroom with Granddaddy at her side. He stopped. Cherise watched something pass over his face—surprise and another emotion she couldn’t immediately put her finger on. Probably shock. She was still shocked by that moment that they’d almost kissed, that was for sure. One thing she knew—that wasn’t shame she’d just seen in his expression. J.J. didn’t do shame, apparently.
    “You, too,” he said, pointing to Cherise. Then J.J. turned his back and headed for the conference room.
    Her mouth fell open. What an ass-hat . She couldn’t do this. She didn’t need this. She couldn’t stand to be in the same room with J.J., let alone masquerade as his boss. He’d been immeasurably cruel to her sister. What kind of person gets a woman pregnant, cashes out her inheritance, and kicks her to the curb when she miscarries, throwing her things into the rain?
    Cherise could still hear Tanyalee’s sobs over the phone. It would be a sound she’d carry with her for the rest of her life.
    And she’d almost let that man kiss her?
    She had to get out of there.
    “Shall we?” Grandaddy asked.
    No .
    She would turn right around and drive back to Tampa. Or maybe it was time to start over somewhere like Raleigh or Atlanta or Charleston. She had a finance degree and years of experience—she would eventually find a job if she kept trying. And Candy could join her once she was settled.
    That was that, then. There was no place for Cherise