Cheri on Top

  J.J. knew all that.

  “As you know, this newspaper is at a crossroads, Jefferson, and it won’t take much for us to go under for good. So if I bring her in as publisher, you’ll still need to keep a hand on the wheel.”

  He’d nodded.

  “Plus…” Garland cocked his head and peered at J.J. quizzically. “Shit, son—if Cheri comes home it’ll open the whole Tanyalee can o’ worms. You know those girls never sorted it out between them.” Garland chuckled. “You’ll be ripped apart like a sirloin at a dogfight.”

  J.J. knew all that, too, but he’d agreed with Garland—the two sisters couldn’t go on forever without having it out, could they?

  “It would all be worth it if Cheri came home and stayed, wouldn’t it?” Garland smiled at him. “So you’re up for this mess, son?”

  “Of course,” J.J. had answered. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  By now, J.J.’s eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and he scanned the lake property, noting how the land gently leveled out at the water’s edge. The Newberrys owned over twenty wooded acres on this side, with the summer house strategically placed for sunset views over the Smokies. The house was fairly isolated, though he could make out the lights over at the McCaswells’ around the bend, a trick that would soon be impossible when the trees reached their full abundance.

  He’d always loved Newberry Lake. Looking back, he knew that living here for six months had been the only decent thing to come from his marriage to Tanyalee.

  J.J. shook his head and headed to the front porch. He placed the flowers by the door so they’d be the first thing Cheri would see when she visited with Tater Wayne the next day.

  And, unfortunately, that was all the seduction J.J. had time for that evening. He got in his truck and headed back to the newsroom, knowing it was going to be a long, long night.

  Chapter 7

  “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  Cherise picked up the shiny brass nameplate from the desktop and gawked.

  CHERI NEWBERRY, PUBLISHER.

  Why did these people insist on calling her Cheri? It wasn’t what her parents named her. It wasn’t even how she referred to herself. So why did they do it?

  There was no excuse. So what if everyone in Bigler had called her Cheri from middle school on? If Candy had been able to make the transition, why couldn’t everyone else?

  Cherise opened the desk drawer, tossed the nameplate inside, and slammed it shut.

  “Morning.”

  Cherise jumped at the sound of his voice. She managed a pleasant smile as she looked up to meet J.J.’s gaze.

  Her heart thudded.

  He stood slouched in the doorway, wearing yesterday’s jeans and rumpled cotton dress shirt. He looked disheveled. Sleepy. He’d probably nodded off in his desk chair at some point during the night.

  Though wrinkled and bleary-eyed, J.J. still looked unbearably, wildly sexy.

  Cherise shook her head, startled by the thought. “Good morning.” It embarrassed her that her voice sounded so unstable.

  “Problem?” He looked at her askance.

  “There’s a spelling error on my nameplate. It’s not … well, they spelled…” She lost her train of thought because, no, of course he wasn’t sexy. At all. He wasn’t even a decent guy. He was rude. Hostile. Cruel. A liar and a cheat. He was a bad man who happened to be good-looking. Period.

  And he stood there staring at her, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

  “Whom should I speak to about ordering a replacement?”

  J.J. thought that was funny, apparently. He straightened from the door frame as he laughed. “A typo, eh? At the Bigler Bugle? Are you absolutely certain?”

  “I know how to spell my name.”

  “See? That’s why we hired you as publisher!”

  Cherise crossed her arms over her chest, in no mood for J.J.’s caustic brand of conversation. “I don’t go by Cheri anymore, as you are well aware. I’ve been known as Cherise Newberry since … well … for more than five years. I believe it sounds far more professional.”

  He produced a crooked smile. “It most certainly does.”

  “I have no interest in going through life as a Popsicle flavor.”

  J.J. nodded slowly. “Or lollipop.”

  Cheri narrowed one eye at him, regretting she’d even started this conversation.

  “But I gotta tell you, there’s nothing like a cherry Slurpee on a hot summer day.” He winked at her.

  “Are you done?”

  “Actually, no.” J.J. gave a thoughtful nod. “Did you know that ‘cherry’ is what gearheads call a perfectly restored old car? Or that virgins are sometimes—”

  “Who’s in charge of nameplates?” Cherise prayed her cheeks hadn’t flared red. “Who’s the point person for these things?”

  “Ah, that would be Gladys.” J.J. crooked a thumb over his left shoulder.

  She frowned. That couldn’t be right—Gladys Harbison was still at the Bugle? Cherise hadn’t seen her yesterday and assumed she’d retired long ago—or gone to the great Frederick’s of Hollywood in the Sky.

  “Yup. Gladys still runs the joint.”

  When J.J. let go with a real smile, Cheri took a sharp breath in—now that was the smile she remembered. It engaged his entire face and pushed up at his sparkling, blue-black eyes. But it was Gladys that made him smile like that. Not her.

  “She must be way past eighty,” Cherise said, forcing herself to change the subject in her head. He isn’t handsome. He isn’t sexy. He isn’t good.

  “No one knows for sure.”

  “And she’s here today?”

  J.J. nodded, gesturing for Cherise to take a peek into the newsroom. She ventured to the office door and immediately snapped her head back. She retreated behind her desk, horrified, and began to shuffle papers on her desktop, thinking to herself that old ladies weren’t supposed to wear that stuff! They were supposed to look like Aunt Viv, in pedal pushers and tennies!

  J.J. laughed at her reaction.

  “I…” Cherise looked up at him, at a loss for words. “I didn’t think she’d still be dressing like a…”

  “Ten-dollar hooker?”

  She choked back a laugh. When Cherise was a kid, Gladys had preferred stretch miniskirts, dangly feather earrings, and bottle-black, spiked-up hair. Apparently, she still did.

  “She’s dabbling in Internet dating these days.”

  “Please—” Cherise held up her hand. “Can we talk about something else?”

  J.J. laughed again. He was clearly enjoying this exchange. “Sure. I assume you’ve seen the front page of today’s Bugle?”

  Cherise didn’t like the tone of his question. It sounded like he was testing her. She suddenly felt defensive. Was she supposed to read the paper before coming into the office? Is that what was expected of publishers? Especially if their managing editor had been working all night, like J.J. obviously had? “I planned to read it once I got here.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, pulling a folded copy from behind his back and handing it to her. It felt warm in her palm, which meant he’d probably had it tucked into his belt, and the idea of that sent a shock wave through her. How much of his body had she touched? How well did her fingertips know him? Why couldn’t she recall?

  A memory flashed like fire through her muscle and bone—the feel of his hard body on top of her, the old wooden deck pressed into her back, the shiver of pleasure as his hands covered her breasts, his lips claimed her mouth, and her thighs opened in need.

  And just like that, Cherise felt on the edge of tears. What the hell was that all about? She hadn’t cried in … forever.

  “Read fast,” J.J. said. “We have an editorial meeting in fifteen minutes. Would you like some coffee?”

  She nodded quickly, trying to rattle some sense into herself. What was her problem? How had she let J.J. push and pull at her body and heart like this? It was ridiculous. She’d been on a carnival ride of sensation, emotion, and m
emory for the last two days, and it was looping and banking too fast for her to keep her grip. She felt intensely sad at times. Elated at others. Bewildered always.

  J.J. smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  It was true that Aunt Viv’s too-cold cup of instant decaf had failed Cherise on all levels—no caffeine, no flavor, no creamy froth, no rush of soul-satisfying warmth. “That’s a yes,” she said, sighing. “So there’s a good barista in town now?”

  J.J. laughed yet again, taking a moment to boldly examine Cherise from head to toe, pausing for an inordinate amount of time on her spike-heeled black boots. This caused her to stand straighter, squeeze her arms tighter over her chest, and second-guess the outfit she’d chosen for her first day as publisher—a stretchy, short-sleeved black blouse and a taupe skirt with a black belt. And the boots, of course.

  She’d wanted to look polished, but bring a little urban juju into the small-town environment. God knew it needed it. Plus, it was one of the three decent outfits she still owned.

  “Gladys can fix you up with a cup of coffee. She’s also your go-to gal for expense forms, paper clips, USB cables, and whatever else you might need. Oh, and she’ll get you your BlackBerry.”

  Cherise felt her eyes go wide. “A BlackBerry?”

  Immediately, she regretted the outburst. She was supposed to be a finance whiz with a multimillion-dollar business back in Tampa. A person like that wouldn’t become excited about getting a smartphone—she’d already have one, one with all the bells and whistles, too.

  “Hey, don’t take it out on me,” J.J. said, misinterpreting her remark. “I know it’s a pain to carry around multiple devices, but the publisher needs to be reachable at all times. Part of the job.”

  Cherise nodded, damn happy to have been misunderstood and thrilled with the idea of having a phone again. Then it occurred to her that J.J. was being kind. He was providing helpful information. He was smiling at her now, too, his face relaxed and friendly. She didn’t understand it. She licked her lips in nervousness. His eyes darted to where her tongue had just been. Then he scowled at her.

  Oh, this was just plain nuts! If Cherise and J.J. were going to work together, they needed to clear the air. She had to know how he could have been so awful to Tanyalee, and why he seemed to vacillate between sweet and satanic in every encounter she had with him.

  And that moment at Paw Paw Lake, when they almost kissed? Somebody needed to say something about that completely bizarre incident. She took a breath. “Listen, J.J.—”

  “Yeah. We almost kissed. I know—bizarre. Forget it. I already have. I was hepped up on the adrenaline of a great news story. It’s not the first time that’s happened. In fact, I think I kissed Gladys when we had the giant mudslide across I-40 last year. See you at the meeting.”

  He was gone.

  After remaining frozen in bewilderment for a long moment, Cherise opened the newspaper she’d been holding. Body Found at Construction Site, the bold black headline said. Below was a color photograph of the mud-covered car swinging from a chain, a grieving old woman restrained by sheriff’s deputies in the background.

  Imbedded in the story was that iconic black-and-white school picture of Barbara Jean Smoot, the one Cherise remembered seeing as a kid, the girl’s blond bangs cut straight and her ponytail visible as it cascaded from high on the back of her head. Barbara Jean had a smile more suited to Hollywood than hill country. She had an elegant neck. Delicate features. Bright, shining eyes. Under the photo was this question: “Have we finally found the ‘Lady of the Lake’?”

  Cherise looked up in time to see J.J. round the corner out of sight.

  Chapter 8

  “Oh, hell no.”

  Cherise stumbled out of the car and stood in the gravel lane, her whisper escaping just before her mouth unhinged in shock. She was supposed to live here? The place was a complete catastrophe! Thistles up to her ass. A thick carpet of decayed leaves squishing under her feet. Hanging gutters. Missing shingles. Cracked windows. Thick kudzu growing unchecked up the bungalow’s stone walls. A crumbling porch. A dilapidated dock.

  A squirrel on her foot.

  Her shriek sent the birds scattering. The scream echoed across the lake, cut through the woods, and easily carried all the way over the Tennessee border.

  She snatched her boot away from the filthy, destructive creature and jumped back, smacking up against the side of the DeVille. The nasty thing just sat there on its hind legs like a rat-sized circus poodle, its little jaw going a mile a minute.

  Cherise stomped her boots in the gravel. The creature still didn’t move. “No! Git! Go away!”

  The rodent cocked its head and stared at her with curious little brown marble eyes before it finally swished its tail and scurried off.

  “Ain’t that bad.” Tater Wayne stood in the front door of the lake house, yet another bouquet of flowers dangling from his grip, his limp blond hair falling into his eyes. “Looks worse than it is, Cheri. Ain’t gonna fall on ya er nothin’.”

  She willed her pulse to return to normal.

  “Now, the outside is the main problem, but I’d hire a cleaning crew for the inside if I were you. It’s plenty bad, too.”

  Cherise shuddered, trying to shake off the image of how the vermin had actually touched her boot. She hated squirrels. She almost lost everything on her very first residential flip when squirrels chewed through brand-new electrical wiring and started an attic fire.

  Besides, they carried rabies. Ticks. Fleas. And God knew what else.

  Gathering her courage, she walked gingerly toward the rotting porch steps, keeping an eye on whatever else might be lurking in the overgrown mess.

  “Don’t be such a city girl,” Tater Wayne said, chuckling. “There’s always been critters and weeds and dirt out here. You just done forgot.” He smiled broadly at her, which caused his eyeball to go off on its pinball journey.

  Cherise carefully made her way up the stairs and onto the porch.

  “Here,” he said, shoving the flowers toward her.

  She grabbed them and smacked them against the side of her thigh, not bothering to hide her annoyance. Candy had been right. She’d always had this problem with Tater Wayne—the nicer she was to him the more he misinterpreted her kindness. The time had come to make things clear.

  “Please don’t bring me any more flowers, Tater.” At the risk of sounding snippy, Cherise decided honesty was the approach. “I like you as a friend, but I don’t have any interest in you romantically.”

  Tater’s eye began to ricochet at double speed. “Oh,” he said, his work boots shuffling in the crunchy leaves. “Well now, I figured as much. Anyway, these ain’t from me. They was here when I showed up to clean the gutters.”

  “What?” Cherise bent her elbow to examine the mixed bouquet and saw it was wrapped in florist paper, a dead giveaway that Tater hadn’t raided someone’s garden to win her affection. She put her nose down into the delicate pink roses, daisies, baby’s breath, and ferns. Cherise frowned and looked up at Tater once more. “So who are they from, then?”

  He shrugged. “Heckifiknow. I best be getting back to work ’cause Garland pays me by the job and I still gotta run some urns for Viv. You know, Spickler’s Hardware and the post office.”

  Cherise smiled. “Ah. Err-ands.”

  “That’s what I said. Urns.” He looked at her suspiciously. “You don’t even talk normal these days.” With that, Tater Wayne jumped off the sagging porch and headed toward a tall aluminum ladder he’d propped against the far side of the house.

  “Hey, thanks for all your hard work,” she called after him.

  He gave her a salute and a smile.

  Cherise tucked the flowers under her arm and cautiously stepped over the threshold. Immediately, her nostrils were assaulted by the presence of mildew. One quick glance around the living room and Cherise was certain that everything made of fabric would have to go—the rugs, the couch, the curtains, the kitchen chair cushions.


  She went through the room and opened every window that wasn’t stuck, relieved that the fresh spring air helped her eyes to stop watering. A good sweeping up, my ass, she thought. Well, at least there was no wallpaper or wall-to-wall carpet to be dealt with, and the wood floors and trim could be scrubbed back to life with oil soap. Anything else would sparkle after some vinegar and elbow grease. A little fresh paint probably wouldn’t hurt, either. Of course, paying for a cleaning service was out of the question, and how she’d accomplish all this scrubbing and sparkling while running a daily newspaper she had no idea.

  Her mind snapped back to the editorial meeting that morning. Granddaddy hadn’t even bothered to show up, leaving Cherise to sit at the head of the conference table pretending to follow along as Jim Taggert discussed the day’s “news hole,” and Mimi ranted about the FBI’s tight-lipped media relations policy and how Carlotta Smoot McCoy refused to give an interview.

  “The lady is crazier than a sprayed roach,” Mimi had said. “She went off on me about how I’d never lost a sister and wouldn’t understand her pain and that the newspaper had failed her family for over forty years and she wasn’t about to do us any favors now.”

  “She’s pretty traumatized by this,” J.J. said. “Be kind to her, but keep trying.”

  That’s when Cherise decided that, as publisher, she should contribute to the discussion. “If Ms. McCoy doesn’t want to talk we can’t force her,” had been her brilliant appraisal.

  J.J. lowered his chin and stared at her from under raised eyebrows. “Madam Publisher,” he’d said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just yesterday you wanted to bring the sexy back. Well, I hate to tell you, but a background piece on Barbara Jean’s angry family is about as sexy as it’s going to get at the moment.”

  Cherise hadn’t known how to respond to that. Again, she was baffled by the way J.J. alternated between kindness and snarkiness with her. It was almost as if he were keeping her off balance on purpose. “Continue,” she had said with a wave of her hand. Too late, she realized the queenly gesture had been laughable.