ECAUSE I’VE BEGUN MY STORY on the night when I was dumped and had a woman hit on me, I might’ve given the impression that I don’t have any male admirers. I do…just not the males I want.

Case in point—Alan of the Gray Tooth, managing editor at Eaton Falls Gazette, where I have just shown up for my first official day of work. Alas, Alan and I are alone in the Gazette “office suite,” which is really just a big room divided into gray burlap cubicles, a conference room and a cramped office for our boss.

“I really hope you’ll like it here,” says Alan (5'8" and this is with chunky-heeled Doc Martens), grinning. Like Judas at the Last Supper, the gray tooth is malignantly out of place, sitting ominously in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable row of normal teeth. I try to look away from it, but it’s weirdly compelling. Alan raises an eyebrow. Eech.

“Sure. Yeah, I’m, uh, I’m sure I will. Thanks.”

“Maybe we can get together for drinks later on at the old watering hole where us journalists like to hang out.”

That should be “where we journalists like to hang out,” Al, old buddy. “I’m…I don’t…” I can’t hear properly. The Tooth has taken control of me.

“Drinks it is, then,” Alan says. “Awesome.”

Jesus. How did that thing get so gray? Doesn’t Alan know his own tooth is rotting away in his mouth? Shouldn’t it be pulled? It certainly should be capped. As Alan talks, the gray tooth blinks darkly, Alan’s narrow lips moving around the words that I’m ignoring, fascinated by the evil power of The Tooth. Like Tolkien’s Ring, it has a hypnotic, undeniable power. One tooth to rule them, one tooth to find them, one tooth to bring them all, and in the darkness bite them.

I shudder, then straighten a few books on my desk. “I should get organized,” I say to Alan with what I hope is an apologetic smile and not a horrified grimace.

“So. Six o’clock?” The Tooth asks.

Yes, Master. “Excuse me?” I realize I sound like an idiot, but really, someone should tell him. It dawns with sudden horror that he’s just asked me out on a date. “No! No, sorry. I can’t. Something…some other thing going on.” I flush with the lie, but Alan doesn’t seem to care.

“That’s okay. How about Friday?”

“You know what?” I blurt. “I don’t date coworkers. Sorry.” There. Great excuse. No hurt feelings, right? Alan doesn’t seem like a bad guy. Just physically repulsive on many levels. Oh, no, it’s not just The Tooth. There’s a paunch that droops over his belt…the musty, grandmother’s-bedroom smell that floats around him in a geriatric cloud, the Donald Trumpian comb-over…but lording over them all, yes, The Tooth.

“No, no, not a date. Just two fellow journalists having a few drinks.” His words are lost as I again find myself gazing into his mouth, swallowing sickly as the sinister power of The Tooth oozes toward me. Perhaps I can fake impending stomach distress. If I don’t look away soon, I won’t have to fake anything.

“So. That works for you, then?” The Tooth asks.

“You know, Alan, I think I ate something that was off this morning,” I begin.

“I have some Imodium on me,” he offers immediately, groping behind the pocket guard on his breast pocket.

Luckily (or not), Lucia bursts through the door balancing a box of doughnuts in one hand, several newspapers and coffees in the other. “Good morning!” she trills, then lurches to a halt in front of my desk. “Oh. Chastity. That’s right. It’s your first day.” Her nose twitches. “We have a meeting every Monday and Wednesday. Ten minutes. Have your ideas ready.”

“Nice to see you again,” I say, raising an eyebrow. Lucia is the receptionist here at the Eaton Falls Gazette and has worked here since she was eighteen—that is, about half her life. Penelope, the owner and publisher of the EFG confided that Lucia applied for my job and was deeply wounded when she didn’t get it.

Speaking of Penelope, she wobbles through the door. “Morning,” she sighs. “Chastity, can I see you in my office first thing?”

“Sure, Penelope,” I say, rising. Lucia shoots me a glare and sniffs loudly, her eyes running contemptuously up and down my form. Doing my best to ignore her, I go into Penelope’s office and close the door.

“So, welcome, of course. It’s great to have you here. Listen, Chastity, do you know anything about skin cancer?” She yanks down the collar of her sweater. “Look at this mole. Is it changing color? I think it looks cancerous.”

“Well, I really don’t…”

“Do you? Think it looks cancerous?”

I squint at her neck. “I don’t really know what it looked like before, so…”

“Doesn’t it look cancerous, though?”

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe you’d feel better if your doctor took a look,” I suggest.

She sits with a thud in her chair. “You’re right. You’re right. Sorry. I was up all night, looking at pictures on the Internet,” she says. “Melanoma.com. Very ugly.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Welcome! Welcome to the Eaton Falls Gazette. Did Lucia give you a hard time?” She smiles and sits up straight.

“Not really.” I smile back.

“All ready for the meeting?” she asks brightly.

“Absolutely. I’m really glad to be here, Pen,” I say.

“We’re glad to have you.” She smiles.

I really am relieved to be away from the urban heartbreak of Newark. Here, I’ll cover soft news and features: new stores opening, the principal retiring, the daffodils in Memorial Park. Alan will continue to cover the harder stuff: city hall politics, regional affairs, etcetera.

Ten minutes later, we’re all assembled in the small conference room. The staff consists of Penelope, Alan, Lucia, Carl, our head photographer, and Angela Davies, the food editor. Suki, a part-time reporter, covers the stories that Alan and I won’t be able to get to. Pete handles advertising, and Danielle does the layout. That’s it. It’s such a change from the legions who worked in Newark, so cozy, almost.

“So!” Penelope chirps, fingering her mole. “What have you got for me?”

Alan goes first, outlining the stories he believes will be top news this week, ruling out fires, murders and terrorist attacks. He’s tied into a few national stories and will try to put a local spin on them—a former resident has been connected with the Mob in Florida, the effect of gas prices on summer rentals in the Adirondacks. He talks about the endless construction to replace the water lines all along Main Street. Then there’s the ongoing investigation of our state representative, who seems to have (gasp!) taken illegal campaign contributions. Aside from his tooth and his inability to take a hint, he seems quite competent.

Then it’s my turn. “Okay,” I begin. “I’d just like to say how happy I am to be h—”

“I had a great idea for a story,” Lucia interrupts, turning a treacle gaze on Penelope. “A woman in Pottersville knitted the fourth-largest scarf in the world. I thought it could be a wonderful story, about what kind of yarn she used, her pattern, her plans for the scarf, her inspiration! Our readers would love it!” She glares at me, hoping I’ll disagree.

“I disagree,” I say. Penelope covers a smile. “I’d like to see the Gazette concentrate on stories with a little more substance.”

My shot across the bow is received with venom.

“Well, maybe you need to understand what our readers like, Chastity!” Lucia snipes. “You just got here—”

“I grew up here,” I interject.

“—and you might be surprised at how down-homey people here are. Right, Penelope?”

Penelope’s smile drops, and she rubs her mole harder. “Um…well, you have a point, Lu, but I think we’ll see how Chastity does. It’s why we hired her. Lots of experience.”

“But not in Features!” Lucia protests. “Features is—”

“Master’s in journalism from Columbia. Very impressive,” Pen smiles. I acknowledge my stellar education with a modest nod. Where I went to school doesn’t matter. Lucia will hate me regardless. Penelope warned me about Lucia at my interview lunch. She said that I was by far the most qualified candidate they’d had, and that Lucia would be fighting mad. Pen went on to confide over her third glass of wine that she’d once made the mistake of letting Lucia write a features article. This was well before my time, and it never actually ran but Penelope showed me the piece…ten thousand words, a novella, really, on Mrs. Kent, who won first prize at the county fair for her German chocolate cake.

“Features with substance. I like that.” Alan lifts an eyebrow suggestively, his lip raising enough for me to get a glimpse of The Tooth. I look away.

“What else have you got?” Penelope asks.

Lucia’s ruby-red lower lip sticks out obstinately as I continue. “We need to focus on hyperlocal stories,” I say. “Papers all across America are watching subscriptions fall. People can get news anywhere—CNN, Internet, even on their phones—so we have to offer Eaton Falls readers stories they can’t get anywhere else. I think people want to read more than cutesy features or stuff pulled off the AP wire. And of course, all of this will be on the Web site, too, which I’ll be beefing up considerably.”

Lucia snorts.

I smile at her, which makes her scowl even more. “I know, Lucia,” I say, hoping to placate her. “It’s a paper first and foremost. But if people aren’t reading it, then let’s get them to go to our Web site, which is sponsored by our advertisers. It only makes fiscal sense.”

“Great, Chastity,” Penelope says. “This is why we hired you.”

“Obviously, we have to do a piece on the Resurrection for Easter,” Lucia announces, not placated.

“Maybe a piece on the town egg hunt and some local traditions, but no, we’re not doing a story on the Resurrection. That’s not news, Lucia,” I state firmly. “That happened almost two thousand years ago.”

Lucia’s mouth drops open. “Penelope!” she protests. “She can’t—”

“I’m going to defer to Chastity here, Lu,” the boss says, lovingly stroking her mole. “Let’s move on. Angela?”

Angela, a soft-spoken, gentle-faced woman about my age, has been sitting silently throughout the discussion. “Well,” she says in a near-whisper, adjusting her glasses, “Callahan’s is opening tomorrow, so I’ll review that. I’m doing low-fat Easter favorites for next weekend. The nutritious school-snacks column is featuring…”

I try to pay attention as Angela details the asparagus bisque recipe she hopes will dazzle our readers. Though I’m not much of a cook, I do love to eat, and all this talk of food is making me hungry. And while Angela carries the title of food editor, she will answer to me, and her recipes and advice will give our readers another reason to check out our food Web page, which can carry more information than the Thursday edition of the paper.

After our meeting is done, I get to work calling the freelancers the EFG uses, introducing myself, checking the town calendar for events I should go to, chatting up the nice lady at the chamber of commerce. I edit a piece for our next edition, then, glancing at my watch, decide I have time to extend the old olive branch.

I grab my backpack, check my cell phone and go over to Lucia’s desk, where she is busy filing. “I hear you’re engaged, Lucia.” It’s my peace offering, and it works.

She is more than happy to rant and rave about the stresses of being engaged for the next ten minutes. “So anyway, I told the florist that I didn’t care what was in season! Teddy—my fiancé?—I call him Teddy Bear, isn’t that cute? Anyway, he loves sweet pea. He just loves it! I have to have sweet pea! He wanted it mixed in with baby’s breath? So beautiful! In these little bowls? And candles? And here was this stupid florist, telling me I couldn’t have sweet pea? I don’t think so!”

I force a smile, nod and glance at my watch, wondering if all brides are this psycho, and if all grooms are invested in centerpieces as Ted. Sounds like…well. I’m the one who was mistaken for a lesbian, so what do I know?

“Well, I’d love to hear more, but I’m doing an interview. Should be back before five, okay?”

“Fine,” she snaps. Apparently, it will take more than a feigned interest in her wedding for us to become friends.

It’s a lovely, warm day. The pale green leaves are just about edible, and I stop for a moment to look to the hills as well, a smile coming to my face. Most of the buildings of the downtown area were built at the turn of the last century and exhibit a grace and attention to detail that would be considered too costly for a design today. Brick or limestone, most are only four or five stories tall, with all sorts of cunning detail and gilt painting. Little alleys run off the main street like tributaries off a river, and a wave of affection washes over me. I love Eaton Falls. I love being a journalist. I’m so glad to be back. This is a new phase of my life, and I’m determined it will be a good one. True adulthood. A home, a dog and soon, hopefully, a boyfriend/fiancé/hubby/father of my strong and attractive children.

I walk the three blocks to the new toy store, conveniently located next to Hudson Roasters. I pop into the coffee shop, order two tall lattes and, as my stomach growls, a cheese danish, then take my bags next door to Marmalade Sky.

“Hello,” I call, pushing open the door. It’s very cute inside. Toys…well, obviously…puzzles, Legos, stuffed animals, all in a cheerful, crowded atmosphere. “Kim? It’s Chastity O’Neill from the Gazette.”

A heavyset young woman wearing a brown denim jumper comes out of a door toward the back. “I’m Kim Robison. It’s so nice of you to come!”

Kim’s interview had been scheduled by my predecessor, and I’d decided to take it myself. Her toy store opening is just the sort of soft news that I’ve been looking forward to covering, a far cry from the urban heartbreak of Newark that I’d been immersed in for the past five years.

“I brought you a latte,” I say, holding out the cup.

“Oh, you’re so nice,” she smiles. “Sorry, though. I can’t have any.”

Probably one of those green-tea types, I guess, judging by her rather crunchy look. Kim invites me to sit in the reading area at the back, surrounded by glossy picture books, classic Pooh figures, and a mobile shaped like a ship with rainbow sails. I take out my notebook. “So, Kim, how did you come up with the name Marmalade Sky?” I ask.

“It’s from the Beatles’ song.” She smiles, shifting in her chair.

I pause. “The LSD song?”

“No,” she answers. “‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’”

I pause. “Uh…that’s the LSD song.”

Her face falls. “Oh, no,” she says. She thinks for a moment. “Oh, for God’s sake. Of course it’s the LSD song.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t put it in the article. Okay, next question. When did you become inspired to own a toy store?”

“I guess when my sister had her first baby,” Kim says. She talks about her love of children and their vast imaginations. I smile and nod as she talks, sometimes mentioning one of my eight nieces and nephews. Kim smiles often, her plump apple cheeks bunching attractively as her glossy hair swings. “See, Chastity,” she says, leaning forward, “when you give a child the right toy, you’re giving them hours of fun and creativity and imagination, almost giving them the key to…their own…”

“To their own world?” I suggest, scribbling away. She doesn’t answer. I look up.

Kim rises awkwardly out of her chair and stares down at her ample stomach. “I think my water just broke.”

My head jerks back, and my stomach drops as if I’m on the express elevator in the Empire State Building. “You’re—you’re pregnant?” Not heavyset. Not chubby or plump. Pregnant. Crap. Some journalist I make.

“Yeah, I’m…ooh! Yes, that’s water breaking.” She lifts the hem of her long dress and examines her ankle. “Oh! Oh, boy. Yup, it’s started.”

In response to those words, my own water breaks—sweat. I am suddenly drenched in sweat, from the soles of my feet right to my scalp. Because even if I’ve never seen a baby born, I know how it goes. Pain. Screaming. Blood. Gore. “Uh-oh,” I choke out. My throat slams shut, and I can’t seem to breathe. I raise a shaking hand to push my hair off my face, pictures of bloody afterbirth flashing through my mind.

“Um…can you…can you just call my husband for me?” Kim sinks back into the chair, takes a deep breath and rubs her abdomen.

“Are you…um…are you…” There is a watery stripe of blood on her bare ankle. Don’t look. Too late. Don’t look again. Stop looking. “You’re bleeding,” I say in a hoarse whisper, tearing my gaze off her ankle and pointing in the vague direction of her foot.

Kim glances at her ankle. “Oh, they say that’s normal.”

I swallow repeatedly. “Oh.”

“Do you mind?”

“What? Do I mind what?” There’s a buzzing in my ears, and Kim sounds very far away. Stay with it, Chastity! She needs help!

“Can you call my husband? He’s number one on speed dial. My cell phone is in my bag behind the counter.” She breathes in deeply and exhales with a long shushing sound, rocks back in her chair.

I force myself to stand, though my knees are buckling. How can they buckle just because of a little bl—red stuff? I can run five miles without breaking a sweat! I lurch over to the counter, fumble for her bag and dump it out. Keys, wallet, sunglasses, tissues…“I can’t find it!” I call, my voice rough. I order myself to stay calm. Myself doesn’t listen. The panic is rising like icy water, and I do in fact feel close to drowning, my breath coming in labored gasps. “Your phone! Where’s your phone? I can’t find the phone!”

“It’s right in the…oh, man…” She takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly. “Ooh! A contraction! It’s in the side pocket.”

“Side pocket, side pocket, side pocket.” I can hear myself distantly. Easy, Chastity, easy…breathe, breathe, breathe. I can’t faint. I want to, apparently, but I can’t. I have to help this lady. What if that blood means something bad? Someone will have to help her. Someone like me, for example, since I’m the only person here. Renewed terror zips through my veins. I can’t get enough air and I’m hot and cold at the same time and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “Are you sure blood is normal?” I squeak.

Kim straightens up in her chair to look at me as I rifle through her bag. “It’s okay,” she assures me. “The blood is just from my cervix dilating. Perfectly natural.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then smiles at me. “They say it will take a long time, even from when your water breaks. The baby won’t come for hours. Maybe not even until tomorrow.”

They say. Who the hell are they, and what do they know? And why is Kim so calm? Isn’t she worried about her own child? I would be! Babies are born in freaky places all the time! I wouldn’t want my baby to be born on the sidewalk or backseat of a cab or on some carnival ride or in a toy store!

The phone! “I found it!” I announce, but it slips from my sweaty hands and skitters away on the wood floor. I pounce on it, snatch it up and stare at the console. How is anyone supposed to make an emergency call on buttons that are a bleeping millimeter wide? Carefully, as Kim inhales and exhales in the background, I punch in 911 with a violently shaking finger and wait for the dispatcher’s voice.

“911 emergency, how can—”

“A woman is having a baby!” I bark. “A baby! Right now!”

“Is that my husband?” Kim asks.

“Where are you, ma’am?” the dispatcher asks.

“Um, uh, we’re um, let’s see now, um, the new toy store? In Eaton Falls? On um, let’s see, Ridge Street? Next to the coffee place, about eight blocks from the firehouse, okay? So send them, okay? They have an ambulance and everything! Are they on their way yet? I don’t see anybody. Where are they? Why aren’t they coming?”

“That’s not my husband, is it?” Kim demands in the background. “Did you call 911? What did you do that for?”

“Because you’re having a baby and I can’t deliver it!” I yell.

“Eaton Falls Fire is on their way,” the dispatcher says. “Would you like to stay on the phone until they arrive?”

“Yes! Yes! Don’t hang up on me! Don’t leave me.”

My chest is heaving as I try to suck in enough air, but I stagger over to Kim, who is looking at me disapprovingly over her stomach. “Don’t push,” I tell her. “They’re coming. Do not push. Do you want me to get some towels? How about that coffee, huh? There’s a danish, too, but I was going to eat that. But you can have it! Sure! Want the danish? Just don’t push. I’m not good at this sort of thing.”

“Really?” she says, and is that a bit of sarcasm? During labor? How can she be so calm? “Can I have my phone, please?”

I’m still pressing the phone against my ear, hard enough for it to hurt. “Ma’am?” the dispatcher says. “What’s the situation?”

Sirens go off down the street. “Finally!” I shout. “Oh, God, hurry. Don’t worry, Kim, don’t worry, they’re coming.”

Kim stands up—surprising for a woman about to give birth—and pries the phone out of my hand. My watery knees finally give out, and I sink to the floor with a heavy thud, gasping. Winnie the Pooh looks on unblinkingly, and Eeyore frowns with the expected disapproval.

“Hi,” Kim says into her itsy-bitsy cell phone. “This is the pregnant woman. I’m fine…No, you don’t need to send them…my water broke, but I’m…oh, okay. Sure, fine. Thank you.” She hangs up. “I just wanted you to call my husband,” she tells me, accusation heavy in her tone.

From my place on the floor, I have an all-too-clear view of the smear of blood on her ankle. Please let the baby be okay, I pray distantly. Please, God. My ears are roaring, black holes are appearing in front of me, and I can’t get enough air. I inhale desperately, but my vision is fading. I tip my head between my knees and try to breathe.

I hear the bell over the front door tinkle, and look up to see four men trooping into the store single file, carrying bags of gear. Dad, Trevor, Paul and Jake, turnout gear on, reflective letters catching the light. Thank God. The guys lurch to a stop when they see Kim standing calmly over me, her hands on her hips. “Hi,” she says. “My water broke. I didn’t actually mean for the fire department to come.”

My father looks down at me. “Get some oxygen, okay, Paul?” he says.

“I don’t need any,” Kim says firmly.

“It’s not for you.” Trevor smiles. “How far along are you?”

“I’m due tomorrow,” she says. “This is my first baby, and they said it will take a while. I’m really fine.”

They are all standing around, looking at me. Paul comes back and kneels next to me. “Slow down, kid,” he says. I force myself to obey, managing a few normalish breaths before he slips a mask over my mouth. I breathe in gratefully, feeling the slight rush of one hundred percent oxygen.

“Oops, here’s a contraction,” Kim says, breathing deeply and exhaling.

“Would you like to sit down?” Trevor offers.

“No, no, I can stand through it…there. It’s gone.”

“You’re a champ,” my father tells her. “My wife had five kids. Natural childbirth for every one of them. You’ll do great.”

Thanks, Dad. And Kim! Can’t she ham it up a little for my sake? Standing through contractions—show-off. Now that I’m no longer hyperventilating, my cheeks start to burn. Crap. It’s happened again.

“You okay, hon?” Dad asks me.

I don’t bother to answer.

“We’d be happy to take you to the hospital,” Trevor offers Kim.

“My husband works at the school,” she says. “I’ll just give him a call and he can come get me. But thank you.” She dials her husband’s number and speaks softly into the phone.

Dad radios back to dispatch. Paul picks up a Legos model. “I think my son has this one,” he murmurs, turning it over. “Yup. Star Wars Destroyer. Remember this one, guys?” He holds up the box.

“I love that movie,” Jake says dreamily. “‘May the Force be with you…always.’ So cool.”

Dad asks the woman about name choices, Paul opens a copy of The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. I suck oxygen. Three minutes later, the husband arrives and gently escorts his wife to their car. “Thanks!” she calls, smiling. “Just turn the lock in the doorknob before you leave, okay?” I wave feebly.

Trevor kneels beside me and takes my pulse. “How’s our little midwife?” he asks, mouth twitching.

Maybe I’d laugh, too, if I didn’t feel like such an ass. Maybe I’d feel small and cherished if I weren’t two centimeters short of six feet and didn’t weigh in well past a hundred and fifty pounds. I inhale deeply once more. “Chastity?” Trevor asks. “You okay?”

I sigh, causing the mask to fog, then reluctantly take it off. “Fine.”

He looks up from his watch. “Heart rate’s down to normal. Do you still feel lightheaded?”

“I’m fine, Trevor! You know how it is. An irrational fear of a harmless object or situation resulting in physical response such as hyperventilation, fainting, accelerated pulse, blah blah bleeping blah.”

“Just asking. Any numbness or tingling in your arms or legs? Chest pain?”

“No.” I sound like a sullen four-year-old. Trevor smiles and keeps looking at me.

“How’s my girl?” Dad asks, squatting in front of me. “Need a ride home, Porkchop?”

“No, Dad. I’ll just…I’ll just go back to work.”

Dad stands up. “Okay, guys. Let’s pack it in.” Paul takes the oxygen tank away and I move to stand up, my legs still shaking. Trev offers his hand. I ignore it and haul myself to my feet solo.

“See you later, sweetie,” Dad says. He smiles a little, pats my shoulder.

“Bye, Chastity,” Trevor says with a grin that curls around my insides. I shove the warmth away.

“Thanks, guys,” I answer. “Sorry to waste your time.”

“Beats watching The Tyra Banks Show,” Paul says.

“You think?” Jake returns. The guys laugh and walk out, and a few minutes later, they’re driving off down the road, lights off, sirens quiet. Fighting feelings of embarrassment, humiliation, mortification and general stupidity, I sigh, turn the lock in the doorknob and close the door behind me.