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Authors: Judith Michael
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change jobs like a teenager who gets tired of—"
"Now you wait a minute—" Matt began, but Spencer tore ahead. "What's the asking price for this paper you think you're buying?"
"The price of the paper we're going to buy is a little over a million," Matt said deliberately.
"The owners are very anxious—" Elizabeth started to say.
"A million dollars?" Peter yelled.
"A million dollars," Holly whispered.
Spencer shook his head. "Insane! Do you think you have rich parents? You know we haven't anything to spare; we've told you so. We thought we were doing you a favor by scrimping and saving so we could take care of ourselves and not be a burden to you: we did that for you—!"
"You did it because you were afraid," Matt said coldly. "Too afraid to do what we're doing."
"You damn fool, we were being sensible; not afraid! You will not have us to fall back on! Have you thought about that?"
"Of course we thought about it," Matt retorted, but Elizabeth cut in quietly. "We know you'd help if you could. We want to make it on our own."
"How?" Lydia asked curiously. "You're so young; we never could have done it at your age."
"A second mortgage on the house; a loan from the bank. It will be close, but—"
"We'll owe money all over town," said Peter.
"But we'll own a newspaper," said Matt.
Holly looked from her father to her mother. "You're excited. Your faces look all shiny."
Matt's eyebrows rose. "Shiny?"
"Like you said mine was when I got those two parts in the concert."
"It's called burning your bridges," Peter observed.
Holly swung on him. "Why are you so stuffy?" she demanded. "You're just like Grandpa, and you're not nearly as old as he is. Or are you just thinking about yourself? College and all that." Her voice wavered on the last words.
"See!" Peter shouted triumphantly. "You're worried about it, too!"
"We've taken care of that," Elizabeth said. "We're setting up a trust for each of you; you won't lose college, we promise."
"Just a minute!" Spencer demanded again. "We keep getting off the subject! What the hell do you know about running a newspaper?"
"Not a lot," Matt said. "But I've run a printing company for sixteen years, so I know the business end; we studied journalism, both of us were editor of our college paper; and Elizabeth's been writing for the Examiner for years."
"That's it?" Spencer asked. His face was red; his palms made slapping sounds as he clasped and unclasped his hands.
"Not quite. We've researched the paper and its competition. We're not going in blind; we know the problems and we have ideas for solving them. And the Chieftain has a good managing editor; he'll keep it going in the beginning, until we know what we're doing."
Spencer slammed both hands on the table. "Putting the welfare of your children in the hands of someone you don't even know. You can't even be sure he'll stick around to help you."
"Don't talk to me as if I'm a child!" Matt roared. Elizabeth put a hand on his arm and he lowered his voice. "Did I ever tell you my father wanted to be an artist?"
"Zachary?" said Spencer, surprised. "No."
"It wasn't something he talked about a lot. But when he was young he studied every art form he could think of: painting, sculpture, woodcuts, silkscreen, even linoleum cuts. And he was good. He just wasn't great. So he stopped; he didn't want to be a second-rate artist. Instead he bought into the printing company that later became his, and did lithography for the artists who lived here, and in Taos. An invisible assistant, he called himself. Except, he hated it. He told me he hated every minute of it and the more he hated it the more he put everything he had into it, not only for artists, but for himself, designing brochures and posters and maps for tourists: his only way of being an artist. Then, one day, the hating stopped and he was proud of what he made. That's why he was so terrified of losing it. Though I think he dreamed that someday, when he retired to Nuevo, he'd try again,
"Now you wait a minute—" Matt began, but Spencer tore ahead. "What's the asking price for this paper you think you're buying?"
"The price of the paper we're going to buy is a little over a million," Matt said deliberately.
"The owners are very anxious—" Elizabeth started to say.
"A million dollars?" Peter yelled.
"A million dollars," Holly whispered.
Spencer shook his head. "Insane! Do you think you have rich parents? You know we haven't anything to spare; we've told you so. We thought we were doing you a favor by scrimping and saving so we could take care of ourselves and not be a burden to you: we did that for you—!"
"You did it because you were afraid," Matt said coldly. "Too afraid to do what we're doing."
"You damn fool, we were being sensible; not afraid! You will not have us to fall back on! Have you thought about that?"
"Of course we thought about it," Matt retorted, but Elizabeth cut in quietly. "We know you'd help if you could. We want to make it on our own."
"How?" Lydia asked curiously. "You're so young; we never could have done it at your age."
"A second mortgage on the house; a loan from the bank. It will be close, but—"
"We'll owe money all over town," said Peter.
"But we'll own a newspaper," said Matt.
Holly looked from her father to her mother. "You're excited. Your faces look all shiny."
Matt's eyebrows rose. "Shiny?"
"Like you said mine was when I got those two parts in the concert."
"It's called burning your bridges," Peter observed.
Holly swung on him. "Why are you so stuffy?" she demanded. "You're just like Grandpa, and you're not nearly as old as he is. Or are you just thinking about yourself? College and all that." Her voice wavered on the last words.
"See!" Peter shouted triumphantly. "You're worried about it, too!"
"We've taken care of that," Elizabeth said. "We're setting up a trust for each of you; you won't lose college, we promise."
"Just a minute!" Spencer demanded again. "We keep getting off the subject! What the hell do you know about running a newspaper?"
"Not a lot," Matt said. "But I've run a printing company for sixteen years, so I know the business end; we studied journalism, both of us were editor of our college paper; and Elizabeth's been writing for the Examiner for years."
"That's it?" Spencer asked. His face was red; his palms made slapping sounds as he clasped and unclasped his hands.
"Not quite. We've researched the paper and its competition. We're not going in blind; we know the problems and we have ideas for solving them. And the Chieftain has a good managing editor; he'll keep it going in the beginning, until we know what we're doing."
Spencer slammed both hands on the table. "Putting the welfare of your children in the hands of someone you don't even know. You can't even be sure he'll stick around to help you."
"Don't talk to me as if I'm a child!" Matt roared. Elizabeth put a hand on his arm and he lowered his voice. "Did I ever tell you my father wanted to be an artist?"
"Zachary?" said Spencer, surprised. "No."
"It wasn't something he talked about a lot. But when he was young he studied every art form he could think of: painting, sculpture, woodcuts, silkscreen, even linoleum cuts. And he was good. He just wasn't great. So he stopped; he didn't want to be a second-rate artist. Instead he bought into the printing company that later became his, and did lithography for the artists who lived here, and in Taos. An invisible assistant, he called himself. Except, he hated it. He told me he hated every minute of it and the more he hated it the more he put everything he had into it, not only for artists, but for himself, designing brochures and posters and maps for tourists: his only way of being an artist. Then, one day, the hating stopped and he was proud of what he made. That's why he was so terrified of losing it. Though I think he dreamed that someday, when he retired to Nuevo, he'd try again,
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