Читать книгу A Touch of Grace - Linda Goodnight - Страница 12

The familiar hustle and bustle of a busy newsroom flowed around Gretchen’s cubicle. Phones rang, people talked in soft tones, a fax machine whirred. The mug of coffee on her desk grew cold. Head bent in total focus, Gretchen pounded the keys of her laptop, writing up the notes from her phone call to Marian Jacobs. Suspecting that some of the councilwoman’s statements about Isaiah House were politically motivated, she would be very careful to research every complaint before taking them to the air. Keeping her integrity as an objective reporter was paramount, regardless of her personal concerns about Ian Carpenter and the rescue mission.

A creepy feeling, as if she was being watched, came over her. She glanced up.

The Isaiah House minister stood in the open space, one wide shoulder against the doorway, his hands steepled in front of him. Above gleaming new black-and-turquoise tennis shoes, faded old jeans and a turquoise T-shirt, he was rumpled and unshaven. A weathered LSU ball cap was pulled low over his face. The unexpected scruffy look gave Gretchen a sudden attack of butterflies. She had never met a preacher who looked so little like a minister and so much like a man.

Goodness. His eyes were blue.

“Got a minute?” he asked in that quietly compelling voice.

She took a second to casually toss an empty yogurt container into the trash can before pushing back from her desk. “Is this about last night’s story?”

Even though she’d aired nothing but facts, Gretchen fully expected him to be unhappy with the report.

He sidestepped the question with one of his own. “Do you blame me and the mission for what happened to Maddy?”

The memory of her sister’s untimely death, never far away, rushed in like a cruel wave of fresh pain. She closed her eyes, quickly collecting the loose ends of her composure before looking back at him. “Leave Maddy out of this.”

Ian pushed off the flimsy partition and moved closer. Gretchen’s pulse gave a funny jump of fear, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Was she afraid of him? Or of the odd reaction she was having to him this morning? Whichever, she refused to cower.

Her story had been fair. She’d reported what she’d witnessed, and from the way her e-mail inbox had overflowed, the people of New Orleans wanted to know more. Even if Ian was angry, what could he do in a crowded TV station? Laser her to death with his startling eyes?

He startled her even further by going to his haunches next to her chair so that they were eye level. The action stirred a vague scent of laundry soap and new shoes. For a second, she thought he was going to touch her, but when she stiffened, he placed his hand on the edge of her desk instead.

“It’s okay to talk about Maddy,” he said gently. “It’s even okay to be angry about what happened. Shoot, I’m angry about it; you have to be.”

His kindness was so unexpected that the horrible grief threatened once more to well up and flow out like a geyser. She needed to talk. She needed to make sense of her sister’s life and death. And she needed someone or something to blame for the unspeakable waste.

With sheer force of will, she staunched the threatening tears. “Don’t give me your counseling mumbo jumbo. I’m not one of your runaways.”

He pinned her with a long, quiet look, holding her gaze until she fidgeted and glanced away.

“No harm or insult meant, Gretchen. Everybody hurts.”

When she remained there, staring inanely at the slide show of monster trucks on her screen saver, the preacher pushed to his feet and stepped away. Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief. He was too close, both physically and emotionally, and she didn’t want to lose control in front of a man she was investigating. What kind of objectivity would that be?

“So, exactly why did you come here this morning, Reverend? To complain about the report? Or what?”

He answered with a smile that probably melted everyone else. “I have a complaint and a suggestion. Your report wasn’t fair.”

“Viewers have a right to know the truth.”

“That’s all I’m asking. Report the whole truth, all of it. Show what we really do at Isaiah House.”

“Meaning?”

“Come to the mission. Spend more time with us.”

That was already in her plans. She propped an elbow on her desk and pointed at him. “On your terms? Or mine?”

“I was hoping we could make a deal.”

“Why, Reverend, you shock me. Making deals. Isn’t that rather unreligious?”

“I shock my mother sometimes, too, but she still loves me.”

There he went again, trying to use that sweet, Southern boy charm.

“You actually have a mother?” She bit the inside of her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that. The flippant remark sounded too conversational, too friendly.

“I have a great mother up in Baton Rouge. She makes the best gumbo north of New Orleans. When Dad was alive—” He stopped as if remembering this was not a normal chat between friends. Funny that both of them kept venturing into side conversations that had nothing to do with the topic at hand.

Gretchen tapped a fingernail on her desktop. Time to get down to business. Just because they’d talked at Maddy’s funeral didn’t mean she wanted to be buddies. “Okay, then. What’s your deal?”

“You come back to the mission. Not a one-shot deal like last time, but over a period of days whenever you have a free hour or two. No photographer. Volunteer, take part, follow me around. See what I do.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. A chance on the inside to see if his religion bordered on mind control? This was too good to be true.

“I’ve heard some negative rumors about the mission,” she admitted. “I plan to check them out.”

“I’ve heard them, too. That’s why I want you to come see for yourself. All I’m asking is that you report the truth. I’ll give you access. You give an unbiased report to the citizens of New Orleans about the work at Isaiah House.”

This was too easy. What was he up to? She decided to test the waters and find out how much access he planned to give her. “What about your followers? Can I talk to them?”

Something flickered across his face that she couldn’t interpret. Her antenna elevated to alert. Now she was getting somewhere. What was he hiding? Why was he so hesitant to let her talk to the people inside the mission?

“They are not my followers. As I told you before, they’re vulnerable, and I won’t allow anything to impede their healing. You can only talk to them on one condition.”

“Being?” He’d gone ballistic when she’d confronted the trembling girl at the mission. She didn’t want a repeat performance of that, but she was going to talk to that girl and find out why she was so afraid.

“You ask their permission and mine, in advance.”

Interesting. Did he want to prep them first? Warn them of what not to say?

The demand sounded suspiciously like something Brother Gordon often did. She and Maddy had been taught all the correct answers to give about the commune. And all the specifics to avoid discussing with “outsiders.”

Energy bubbled up inside. She was on to something here. If she played her cards right, she could have the investigative news series of the year and find out if anything had happened to her sister inside that mission.

Before she could voice her agreement a male head sporting a tiny gold earring poked inside her cubicle. “Hey, Gretchen.”

The preppy speaker waved a pair of tickets in his hands. “Got ’em.”

For a second she forgot all about her visitor. In excitement, she leaped from her chair and squealed, “I can’t believe it. Let me see.”

She ripped the tickets from his hand. David Metzler was not only a great coworker and friend, he was an absolute genius when it came to finding tickets to sold-out events. A computer engineer with enough brains to fill the Superdome, David was as passionate about Monster Trucks as she was.

She quickly perused the tickets, then threw her arms around his lanky form. “You are awesome! This is going to be so much fun. I’ve wanted to see Bigfoot and Grave Digger go head-to-head for two years!”

David’s dimples flashed. “All righty then. See you tomorrow night. Six-thirtyish?”

“I’m there, buddy.” They slapped a high five and David disappeared down the corridor toward the engineering room.

“Bigfoot?” Ian spoke from behind her. “As in monster trucks?”

In her excitement, she’d practically forgotten he was there. She turned toward him, unable to wipe the silly grin from her face. A night out, watching her favorite drivers and yelling with the crowd would work wonders for her right now. She couldn’t wait to tell Carlotta that they finally had tickets.

She hitched a shoulder. “Everybody needs a hobby.”

A half smile lifted the edge of Ian’s mouth. “And yours is monster truck races?”

She slapped a hand on one hip.

“Got a problem with that, preacher man?” Goodness, that sounded flirty. She let her hand drop.

Ian laughed. The simple action did amazing things to his face. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Neither do you.”

“All men like big, noisy trucks. Even preachers.”

“I meant you don’t seem the preacher type.”

“Ah. Well. Thanks.” He looked as if the statement pleased him. “I guess we’re even then.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning stereotypes. Sometimes people judge you for not fitting the mold.”

“I guess I did that to you, didn’t I?”

“So, do we have a deal? You spend some time at the mission. Give us a chance to prove ourselves?” He flashed another of those killer grins. “Except for Friday night, of course. Can’t let you miss Bigfoot.”

Okay, so he was charming. And good-looking. Big deal. She was not about to get distracted by a gentle voice and a pair of gorgeous blue eyes. Not when they might hide a wicked heart.

As he motored down St. Charles Avenue, Ian dialed the Baton Rouge number on his cell phone and waited for the snick of connection. He’d been so busy he hadn’t called Mom, something he tried to do every day. Since his father’s death two years ago, he worried about her. At seventy-one, she was older than most of his friends’ parents but refused to admit that age was in any way affecting her. She still gardened and ran the women’s auxiliary at church, collected donations for the mission and swam daily at the health club.

A breathless voice answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Hi, baby. How’s my boy?”

Ian slowed to a stop, grinning at the traffic light above him. Even if he was approaching six feet tall and pushing thirty, he would always be Mom’s “baby.” An only child, she’d told him over and over how special he was because he’d come along after she and Dad had given up on ever having kids. His buddies had forever teased him about being a mama’s boy. But he didn’t care. He knew there was a difference between being a wimpy mama’s boy and a man who respected and loved the woman who’d not only given him life, but a wonderful upbringing, as well.

Besides, the guys had all been crazy about her, too, and called her “Mama Margot.”

“You sound out of breath. Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course I am.” He could practically see her hand flapping away the suggestion of illness. “I was in the garage and I like to broke my neck getting to the phone. That silly dog is always underfoot.”