Free Cheri on Top by Susan Donovan Page B

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.
    Cherise took a deep breath of mildewed air, reminding herself that she was doing the best she could. Once she’d reviewed the Bugle ’s financials, she’d have a clearer picture of how she could help the paper get back on its feet. That was her area of expertise anyway, not news gathering. She decided that in the future, she’d resist the temptation to offer her opinion in editorial meetings.
    She wandered past the living room and into the kitchen. It was dingy but intact, except for the battered old refrigerator, with its door hanging off its hinges. That was destined for the junk heap. Everything else seemed usable—the deep porcelain farm sink with a pump handle and wooden drainboard, a mammoth old stove that would probably survive the apocalypse, tall maple cupboards, bead-board wainscoting, and the same narrow-strip white pine floors that ran through the rest of the house. The utilitarian round oak table and four ladder-back chairs resided in the middle of the kitchen, as always, though the centerpiece was a recent addition. At some point in the past five and a half years, a big chunk of plaster had fallen from the kitchen ceiling to the tabletop, almost as if the house itself were daring someone to notice it was falling apart.
    She laughed aloud at the irony. Not so long ago, she’d spent nearly sixty thousand to upgrade her Harbour Island kitchen, adding an environmentally controlled wine cooler, dual convection ovens, a separate beverage service island, and the finest black granite and brushed steel money could buy. Yet she never once cooked in that kitchen. In fact, she’d rarely even poured cereal into a bowl or prepared a cup of coffee in it. Catered dinner parties were the only times the kitchen was used for its intended purpose.
    And here she was, two years later, her only asset a quarter tank of gas and, if she wanted any privacy, no choice but to cook for herself. Right here. In this Little House on the Freakin’ Prairie kitchen.
    Cherise shook her head as she opened one of the cupboards, taking down a dusty old Mason jar from the top shelf. Wincing, she turned it over to shake out the dead insects, then removed the florist paper and stuck the flowers in the glass jar. The bouquet was too big and the jar too small, but it would have to do for now.
    She began to work the water pump, still laughing at herself. She’d graduated summa cum laude from the University of Florida, and landed a great job at one of the biggest accounting firms in Miami.
    Pump. Pump. Pump.
    She’d put in three years of accounting grunt work before she was moved to the auditing division of their Tampa office. She’d earned a reputation for sniffing out inconsistencies and rose quickly through the ranks. Two years later she was an account manager in their consulting division, specializing in forensic accounting.
    Pump. Pump. Pump .
    She started dabbling in real