Heart of the Matter (12 page)

“Look, sugar, don’t fly off the handle with me.” He obviously had no trouble interpreting her mood. “I just…I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t trust him.”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “For pity’s sake, Adam. I’m a big girl now. I don’t need the Bodine boys to protect me from my dates.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Adam frowned, planting one fist against her desktop. “Maybe he’s a nice enough guy in some ways, but I’d say there’s not much he’d stick at when it comes to getting a big story.”

True, but…“That’s what makes him a good reporter.”

“Even if he’s after a story that involves your family?” The question burst out of him, and then he clamped his mouth shut as if instantly regretting it.

She shot out of her chair, facing him over the width of her desk. “What are you talking about? What could he possibly want to write that would affect us? If you’re talking about that business with Ned—well, we’ve practically got the proof in hand that he wasn’t a coward.”

Adam dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “His digging is more up-to-date than that. If he—” He stopped, shook his head. “Look, I can’t say more.”

“Adam.” Her voice warned. “You tell me what’s going on right this minute.”

“I can’t.” To do him credit, he looked miserable at having brought it up. “Maybe I’m imagining things, but has it occurred to you that this series he’s supposed to be doing about the Coast Guard base might be a cover for something else?”

“No.” She tried for an indignant tone, but it didn’t quite ring true. Daddy’s unexplained animosity toward Ross, Ross’s insistence on information that didn’t seem to have much to do with the supposed purpose of the articles…

“I’m sorry, sugar.” His voice went soft. “I don’t want to cause trouble. Just—be careful.”

Before she could say anything, he turned and walked quickly away.

Chapter Twelve

A
manda was still troubled by Adam’s words when she stepped through the front door of the Shem Creek Café that evening. She shook the rain from her umbrella and shoved it into the old-fashioned milk can that held a number of similarly wet umbrellas. The storm that was making its way up the coast promised them a couple of inches of much-needed rain before all was said and done.

The rain hadn’t kept folks away from the popular restaurant, and the tables and booths were already crowded. As the hostess moved toward her, she scanned the dining area and spotted Ross, half rising to catch her eye from a table next to the window.

“That’s okay, I see my…” What? Date? Boyfriend? She wasn’t sure either of those words applied to her tenuous relationship with Ross.

Fortunately, the waitress didn’t bother to wait for her to finish the sentence, waving her into the dining room with a smile.

Amanda wove her way between the tables, trying to suppress the flutter that arose somewhere in her mid-section when she saw Ross waiting for her, his eyes warming as he watched her.

Ridiculously aware of his gaze on her, she nearly stumbled into a tray rack that had been left between the tables to trip up the distracted.
Get hold of yourself,
she lectured.
This isn’t just about being with Ross tonight. You have to find out if what Adam hinted at is true.

If she didn’t, the suspicion would poison whatever relationship she and Ross had. She couldn’t pretend the feeling wasn’t there. She had to deal with it.

Adam’s words had crystallized the amorphous concern that had been drifting like fog in the back of her thoughts. She’d realized after he left that she’d already been wondering why she’d never seen any indication that Ross had written a word about the interviews she’d set up.

Certainly he’d been researching something. Jim had commented on that, saying he’d surprised Ross searching through some records late in the evening, when he’d thought the offices deserted. And Ross never had asked to see any of the photos she’d taken, or checked with her on anything to do with the Coast Guard.

“Amanda.” He said her name with a caressing note that he’d never use in the office. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.” She slid into the chair he pulled out for her, too aware of the treacherous effect his nearness had on her as he bent to push the chair in. She could only hope the anxiety she felt wasn’t written on her face.

Anxiety—that was probably the right word. The truth was that she’d rather not face this. She’d rather pretend everything was fine and enjoy the moment.

“I’ve just been here a few minutes,” he said. “Cyrus advised me to come early so I could get a table at the window to enjoy the view.”

“Cyrus knows we’re out tonight together?” She wasn’t sure she liked that thought.

“Cyrus knows everything. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t have a closed-circuit television watching our every move.”

“Not here, I hope.” She glanced around with a mock shudder.

“Just at work.” His face relaxed in a smile.

Her heart clutched. She hadn’t ever seen quite that much ease in his expression. Even when he’d been enjoying himself as he had, she felt sure, with Miz Callie, there’d been a hint of restraint, of things suppressed and guarded.

This was the way he could be, if he weren’t so eaten up with the wrongs that had been dealt him.

Please, Father.
The prayer formed almost without volition.
Please help him set himself free from all that holds him back from being an open, giving person.

“Have you had a look at the menu?” She’d been silent too long, caught up in her reactions to him. “I highly recommend the she-crab soup. And the shrimp and grits.”

“Do they guarantee that only she-crabs went into the soup?” The teasing note in his voice turned her determination to jelly.

“I’m sure they do. Anyway, it’s the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“Okay, then. She-crab soup and a grilled sirloin.”

She raised her eyebrows at that. “You did notice that saltwater tank when we came in, didn’t you? Why would you order steak in a place that has seafood only a step from the boats?”

She nodded to the window beside them. A lone fishing boat made its way up the creek, its captain swathed in a yellow slicker against the rain.

“You’re not going to let me get away with this, are you?” He flipped the menu open again. “I’m not ready to try shrimp and grits yet. Will you be satisfied if I get the grouper?”

“I guess. But sometime you have to give in and try grits.”

They could go on all evening like this, as far as she was concerned. Keep the tone light and easy, enjoy the moment. Not think about the questions she had to ask.

“Maybe I can have a bite of yours,” he said softly, reaching across the table to touch her fingertips with his in a gesture that set her pulse fluttering.

The server came then, and after a consultation as to what the catch of the day was, she brought drinks and headed back to the kitchen with their order.

“This is in the nature of a celebration,” Ross said, tipping his glass of iced tea toward hers.

“It is?”

He nodded. “We’ve put the story to bed. In the morning it will be all over the city. Cyrus was very complimentary about your writing, by the way.”

Cyrus was? “I’ll have to thank him,” she said.

“All right.” His fingers enveloped hers. “Your piece was better than good. You’re not quite the lightweight I thought you were at first.”

“At first? You’ve had me pegged as the stereotypical Southern belle right along, and I’m not sure you’re over it yet.”

“Maybe so,” he admitted. “You have to admit, you do look and sound the part.”

“Scarlett O’Hara has a lot to answer for,” she said darkly. “And let me tell you, Scarlett was a lot tougher than she looked.”

“Got it,” he said, lifting one hand in a gesture of surrender. “I promise not to make that mistake again. I couldn’t, not now that I know you.” His voice deepened on the words, and his eyes seemed to darken.

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t have given him a flippant answer if her life depended on it. Adam’s worry sounded in her mind, adding its weight to the doubts she couldn’t get rid of.

Their food arrived then, and she was grateful for the distraction. They ate, they sampled each other’s entrées, and then Ross pinned her with a direct gaze.

“I saw you and Adam in the newsroom today. It looked like a pretty serious discussion.”

She smoothed her napkin out in her lap. It seemed she was being forced to have this talk no matter how she tried to avoid it.

“He brought a photo over to show me.” She was still avoiding, and she knew it. “He’s been trying to identify which of our possibilities is the right one, and he found an old picture of the crew of a PT boat that Theodore Hawkins served on. It was Uncle Ned. I’m sure of it.” Her eyes filled with tears at the memory of that young face. “The family will be so relieved to know the truth about him at last.”

“After all these years,” he said, shaking his head a little. “There’s a human interest story there, if you’re not too close to write it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Her nerve endings prickled. She hadn’t, but that could be the resolution to all their worries about Miz Callie and the memorial to Ned Bodine. If the world, meaning Charleston in this case, learned first that Ned hadn’t been a coward, but had served honorably, then no one could argue about Miz Callie establishing a memorial to him.

“Is that everything?”

She looked up, meeting his gaze, to find a question in his eyes.

“I…I don’t know what you mean.” She certainly was feeble as a liar.

“Yes, you do. Something’s been weighing on you.” His dark brows furrowed, setting three vertical lines between them. “Was Adam warning you against me again?”

“Not the way you mean.” She couldn’t leave it at that. Despair settled on her. What she said next was going to send Ross back behind his armor. She’d prayed that he’d be set free, but accusing him wouldn’t do that, would it?

“What then?” His tone turned impatient.

She took a breath. There was no way out but to say it. “Are you really writing a series of human interest articles about the Coast Guard base? Or is it a cover for something else going on?”

She watched it happen. His face tightened into a mask. His eyes grew cold and suspicious.

“What makes you think that?”

They were both answering questions with questions. That didn’t get them anywhere.

“I don’t just think it. I feel it. There was something going on when you talked with my father. You went in there with an agenda, and it didn’t have anything to do with writing a profile piece.”

She waited for the ax to fall, knowing she’d said nothing more than the truth.

“People who haven’t done anything wrong don’t have to worry about publicity,” he said finally. “That’s all I have to say about it, so you might pass that on to your cousin. And the form these articles take is my business and Cyrus’s.”

Not yours. The words were unspoken, but there.

All the barricades had gone up between them again. And any chance she had of finding out who Ross truly was at heart had just moved further away.

Amanda tried to put aside her worries and enjoy the air of celebration that permeated the newsroom the next day. The slumlord exposé had been everything Cyrus might have wished for—a splashy story of wide interest, a clear villain and, best of all, the
Bugle
had beaten out the competition.

The television in the corner of the newsroom was turned on, with local stations belatedly jumping on the bandwagon, promising exciting new revelations about Hardy on the noon news.

A grumble greeted this, but Cyrus, watching with the others, turned away with a shrug. “That’s their advantage, going on the air right away. People are still going to come to us if they want something more than a couple minutes’ worth of sound bites.”

“Right.” Even Jim, whom no one could remember seeing smile since a certain prominent local politician had been caught trying to pick up an undercover police-woman, had a broad grin on his face. “We do our job, they do theirs. Good work, everyone.”

Most of the staff had had little or nothing to do with the story, but its success affected them, too. Amanda suspected that the old warhorses, like Jim, were reminded of what it had been like in their glory days, while the eager kids saw their dreams of journalism coming true.

The buzz died off suddenly. If it was Ross…her stomach lurched. They’d parted with an uncomfortable truce last night, and she couldn’t imagine that there would be any more romantic dinners on their horizon for a while, at least.

But it was C.J. who’d come in. She paused, looking around rather truculently, as if prepared for a fight.

Jim walked over and threw an arm over her shoulder in a hug that would have staggered Amanda, but didn’t seem to faze C.J. “Good work on that story, kid. You led us to a really fine piece. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Following Jim’s lead, the others in the newsroom added their congratulations. By the time C.J. made it to Amanda’s desk, she wore a broad grin.

She dropped into the chair beside the desk, a little doubt creeping into her eyes. “D’you think they really mean it? I didn’t do much. If it wasn’t for my gran, I’d never have talked to you about it.”

“They mean it,” Amanda assured her. “Even if you had second thoughts, your instincts were right on target.”

“That’s right.” Ross’s deep voice startled her, even as it reverberated right down to her bones. How did he manage to get within a few feet without her knowing he was coming? “Instincts are a solid part of being a good reporter. You can learn how to construct a story, but you can’t learn instinct.”

C.J. ducked her head, embarrassed at being singled out by the managing editor.

“Trust your instincts,” he said, this time looking right at Amanda.

She lifted her chin. “Sometimes your instincts can tear you in two directions at the same time.” Between the man you cared about and your family, for instance.

“If you’re in doubt, go with the truth.” He’d given up any pretense that he was talking to C.J., his gray eyes focused laserlike on Amanda’s face. “That’s the only thing reporters have going for them in the long run.”

“And if you’re not sure what the truth is?”

“Then you’d better find out, if you’re any kind of a reporter.” He spun and stalked off.

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” C.J. was probably too astonished to be tactful, if she ever was anyway.

“Nothing.” She took a breath and shook her head. “Well, nothing I can talk about. How are things between your grandmother and the other people in your building?”

C.J. shrugged, seeming to accept the new subject. “The other folks are all over the place. Some of them are complaining about the news crews out front, and some are offering them guided tours and acting like they broke the story themselves. Some of them are blaming us for bringing all this fuss on them. And I guess some are just plain scared.”

“How’s your grandmother taking it?” That was exactly the thing they had feared would happen to Miz Callie if she went through with her plans—that people she cared about would turn against her.

“She just holds her head high and ignores them.” C.J.

gave a little shrug that probably expressed bafflement. “I want to punch someone. Not sure I’ll ever get to where she is.”

“Give yourself some time.” That was probably good advice for her, too, when she wondered if she’d ever be the woman her grandmother was. “And don’t forget about calling the attorney if there’s anything you don’t understand. He’s there to help you.”

“I won’t forget. And no chance I’ll forget what you did.”

“What I did? It was you and your grandmother who did it. And Mr. Lockhart, of course, who started the investigation.”

“I didn’t mean that.” C.J. lowered her gaze in embarrassment. “I mean what you said that day at the Market. About having courage. It seems like that really affected my gran. She’s got her nerve back in a big way, ready to conquer the world. Says I’m going to college if she has to bully me all the way. She’ll do it, too.”