Every Perfect Gift by Dorothy Love

in the corner, grateful that Patsy Greer had left it behind when she closed up shop more than a decade before. Smaller and lighter than the rotary press, it could be set up in a matter of minutes and spit out a thousand impressions an hour. If only the rotary press were so efficient. Perhaps in a year or two she could afford a feeder press like the one the New York Times had installed years ago. That press kept ten men busy feeding the paper into rollers that pressed it against the cylinder of inked type. For now, such efficiency at her newspaper was only a dream.
    She laid her completed sheets of newsprint on the counter todry and loaded the next tray of type into the press. Her stomach rumbled and she glanced at the clock in the outer office, realizing she’d completely missed the noon meal.
    Oh well. The food at the Verandah Ladies’ Hotel, though plentiful, tended to be quite plain. The original owner, Mrs. Whitcomb, had passed on a few years before, and now her widowed niece, Lucy Partridge, ran the place. And though Lucy was sweet as could be, cooking was not her strong suit. Flora Burke, who lived on the third floor, was doing her best to help Lucy bring her cooking skills up a notch. In the meantime, beans and fried fatback and occasionally a dried-apple pie were about the best one could hope for.
    Sophie’s stomach groaned again. Oh, for one of Wyatt’s steaks, a baked potato oozing with butter, and a pan of Ada’s buttermilk cornbread.
    “Hello?”
    Sophie peered into the outer office. “Mr. Heyward. Hello.” She removed her apron and smoothed her hair before going out to greet him.
    “Sorry to call without an appointment. I had a few errands to run and a bit of business with Sheriff McCracken—” He broke off and grinned at her. “And no, I won’t answer any questions about it. It’s a private matter.”
    “That’s too bad.” She smiled, enjoying their easy banter. “I’ve a spot to fill on the front page of next week’s issue. Are you certain you can’t give me a hint?”
    “Maybe something newsworthy will happen before then.” He perched on the corner of her desk. “I’ve business to discuss, if you have time.”
    “Certainly.” She slid into her chair and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriting machine.
    He placed a stack of papers on her desk. “I need six hundred copies of these menus. Can you handle it?”
    “Of course. When do you need them?” She drew her calendar across her desk and flipped the page. April was already half over. Where had the time gone?
    “No big hurry,” he said. “We’re opening the first weekend in June, but of course I want to handle as many details as possible ahead of time.”
    She nodded. “How about stationery? Business cards? Envelopes? If you place a larger order, I can give you a better price.”
    He laughed. “Did your boss at the Dallas newspaper teach you that?”
    “Nope. Wyatt Caldwell did. I watched him sell off cattle all the time. Everything I know about business, I learned from him.”
    “Well then, I’ll take a thousand sheets of stationery, a thousand envelopes, and . . . three hundred business cards. How’s that?”
    Her fingers flew across the typewriter keys. In a moment, she removed the completed order sheet and handed it to him. “There you are. My best price.”
    He whistled. “Pretty steep.”
    “I can do it for less if you want flimsy paper, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Not for a fancy place like Blue Smoke.”
    “I want the best, of course.” He reached into his inside pocket. “How much do you want on deposit?”
    “Fifty percent will be fine. I’ll have to order the better grade of paper, so the actual printing will take a little time, but I can have the proofs ready for you tomorrow. Shall I bring them to your office?” She handed him the order form and he signed it.
    “That won’t be necessary. Mr. O’Brien will call for them. He’ll be coming into town anyway.” He handed her a couple of