A Dream To Share. Irene Hannon
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the patriarch of the publishing conglomerate did look like the photos she’d found of him on the Net. At sixty-eight, he was tall, spare, white-haired and distinguished, with piercing blue eyes and a bearing that commanded respect. And he was just as sharp, astute and insightful as she’d assumed he would be. But instead of the pompous, arrogant manner she’d anticipated from this business tycoon, he was pleasant, personable and down-to-earth.
To her surprise, he also had a hands-on knowledge of the newspaper business. As she’d taken him on a tour of the Gazette offices prior to the finance board meeting, she’d been impressed by his intelligent questions. Spencer Campbell was no ivory-tower executive who understood balance sheets and bottom lines but little else. He’d learned the newspaper business from the bottom up.
“I really did live the American dream,” he told her with a smile as their tour concluded. “Thanks to a combination of lucky breaks, good-hearted people who were willing to take a chance on me and a lot of help from the Man upstairs.”
As she led the way toward the conference room, Abby glanced at him in surprise. “It’s not often you hear successful people attribute their accomplishments to God.”
“I believe in giving credit where it’s due. I couldn’t have built the business without a lot of prayer and a lot of guidance.”
Although Abby had been prepared to dislike the man who threatened her family legacy, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain her animosity as he spoke to the board about his humble beginnings, provided some history of Campbell Publishing, outlined the conglomerate’s growth over the past fifteen years and reviewed the sound—and ethical—operating principles of the company he led.
Instead of an ogre, he came across as a man of integrity, principle and honor. Abby was impressed. And from the expressions on the faces of the board members, she could tell that they were, too.
“When we consider acquisitions, we look for papers that are well-respected, have a solid readership, reflect good editorial direction, maintain the highest standards of journalistic integrity and aren’t afraid to tackle tough issues,” Spencer told them. “The Oak Hill Gazette passed those tests with flying colors. That prompted our call, which led to my visit today. The next step, if both parties agree to move forward, would be an on-site operational and financial audit by one of our staff members. If everything checks out, we’ll follow up with an offer.”
James folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I think it’s only fair to tell you that the main reason we were receptive to your inquiry was because we’re having some financial difficulties. Nothing to do with the management of the paper. Abby does an excellent job. But the pressures these days on small businesses of any kind are intense.”
“I understand,” Spencer responded. “Most independent papers we approach have a similar story. It’s a struggle to make ends meet. As a large organization, we bring economies of scale and efficiencies small papers can’t attain.”
“What about staffing? Do you eliminate jobs after an acquisition?”
At Abby’s question, Spencer turned to her. “When we have to,” he answered, his blunt honesty surprising her. “However, it appears that the Gazette staff is already very lean. I doubt we would eliminate any positions here.”
“What about editorial independence?”
“In general, we don’t interfere.”
“Meaning that sometimes you do?” Abby pressed.
“There have been a few occasions when papers in our organization have become a bit too…opinionated. In general, that doesn’t happen under a seasoned editor. That’s why we often require that editors remain in their positions for a year or two following the acquisition, to ensure consistent editorial tone.”
Abby wasn’t sure she liked Spencer’s answer. But neither could she argue with it. In any case, his message was clear: if Campbell Publishing acquired the Gazette, Abby would be forced to give up the editorial control her father—and his predecessors—had fought with such dedication and diligence to retain.
“Is there anything else you need from us today?” Harold’s question interrupted her thoughts.
“No. I’ll discuss my visit with my staff in Chicago and get back with you in a few days.” A flurry of handshakes followed as Spencer stood, and one by one the four board members left the room.
When only Spencer and Abby remained, he turned to her. “I’d like to thank you for the tour and your hospitality today—in spite of your misgivings.” At her startled look, he chuckled. “I’ve been through enough of these kinds of meetings to pick up the vibes.”
Soft color suffused Abby’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. This has been difficult for me.”
“I’m aware that the paper has been in your family for four generations. It’s understandable that you’d want to hold on to it.”
Abby found herself responding to the kindness in Spencer’s eyes. “That’s part of it. But even more than losing a family legacy, I don’t want the Gazette’s independent voice to be silenced.”
“Neither do I.”
“But you said you’ve intervened in editorial decisions on occasion.”
“Only when we begin to detect bias. But I don’t see that happening here. The coverage is sound and straightforward, and the Gazette never confuses reporting and advocacy. I have no reason to think we’re going to clash on a philosophical level.”
His praise warmed her. And his words reassured her. But they didn’t erase her guilt—or her sense of failure that she was letting a century of blood, sweat and tears be washed away. The paper’s demise might be inevitable, as James has suggested in the earlier finance board meeting, but she wished it hadn’t happened on her watch.
“We’ll both have plenty of time to think about this if we decide to take the next step,” Spencer continued. He picked up his briefcase and extended his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me today and for the tour. I’ll be in touch.”
“And I’ll talk with the board.” She returned his firm grip.
As Spencer exited, Abby closed the door behind him and headed back to her office, disheartened. While no vote had yet been taken, she knew that the finance board had been impressed and would be receptive to an investigation by Campbell Publishing. And intuition told her that Campbell Publishing would choose to proceed, as well.
When she reached her office, Abby sank into her worn leather chair and propped her elbows on the scarred surface of the desk that had belonged to her great-grandfather and which had been used by every editor since. She could no longer pretend that the threat of an acquisition was only a bad dream. She needed to face this. Sticking her head in the sand was a cop-out. Besides, it just wasn’t in her nature.
But first she needed to do something even more out of character.
She needed to cry.
Mark Campbell breezed toward the department secretary’s desk, juggling a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. As usual, his dark good looks and impeccable attire—custom-tailored suit, crisp white shirt, elegant silk tie—drew the interested glance of every unattached woman he passed, and a few glances from the attached ones, as well. It was a reaction he had come to not only accept but expect.
“Morning, Lena.”
“Morning, Mark.” The striking blonde gave him an indulgent smile as she checked her watch. “Must have been some party.”
Well aware that he was forty minutes late, he grinned and shrugged. “Too many parties, not enough time.”
With a shake of her head, she handed him a stack of messages. “These came in after you left last night and before you arrived this morning. You might want to check the top one first.”
Balancing the bagel on top of