Читать книгу Heart Of The Matter - Marta Perry - Страница 11

Amanda didn’t know whether she was more relieved or surprised that Ross didn’t fight her on the visit to Coast Guard Base Charleston, but he’d headed back to his office without further comment. Maybe he was beginning to see that she had something to offer. If this worked out well, maybe he’d…

She looked at C.J., and she came back to earth with a thump. Ross hadn’t changed his mind about her. He just hadn’t wanted to get into a hassle in front of the new intern.

No, that didn’t sound like Ross. He didn’t mind coming off dictatorial, no matter who was listening.

Thinking of him had brought a frown to her face. Amanda replaced it with a smile for C.J. Although, come to think of it, she wasn’t exactly feeling warm toward the young woman. What had she meant by her outspoken distaste for working with Amanda?

She nodded toward a chair at the vacant desk next to hers—vacant since Ross had decided that its occupant was expendable. “Pull that seat over, so we can talk.”

Wearing a sullen expression, C.J. rolled the chair to Amanda’s desk and plopped into it, folding her arms.

Amanda had to hide a grin. C.J.’s body language was eloquent. Still, she’d have to learn that she couldn’t call the shots at this point in her career. Any more than Amanda could.

“I suppose you’ve been working on your school newspaper,” she ventured, wondering what the key would be to opening up this abrasive personality.

C.J.’s lips pressed together. After a moment, she shook her head. “Have to be a teacher’s little pet for that, don’t you? Anyway, I’m not gonna write stupid stories about poster contests and decorating the gym. I want to write about important things. That’s why I entered the contest.”

That hit a little too close to home. “Sounds like we have something in common then,” she said briskly. “We both want to write more challenging subjects.” She’d never really regretted retuning home, but the truth was that with the paper’s already well-established staff, it was tough to move up. Especially when the new editor refused to believe she could write.

C.J. glowered at her for another moment, and then she shrugged.

Amanda resisted the desire to shake her. Working with this kid might be an exercise in suppressing emotions.

“Okay, then.” Might as well go on the offensive, since nothing else seemed effective. “How did you know what kind of articles I write?”

Another shrug. “I know what everyone who works for the paper writes. It’s my thing, isn’t it?”

So she’d put time and effort into this chance at success. Did she even realize that her attitude was working against her? With a more accommodating spirit and some advice on what to wear, C.J. could come out of this on the road to success.

Dismayed, Amanda recognized her crusading spirit rising. It was the same irresistible urge that led her to one lame duck after another, always convinced that somehow she could help them.

And she had, more often than not. Her brothers insisted that her victims, as they called them, responded because that was the only way they could get rid of her, but she didn’t buy that. That hapless Bangladeshi student at College of Charleston would have been sent home before he finished his degree if not for her organizing his fight to stay. And the article she’d written about endangered sea turtle nests had helped move along a new lighting ordinance.

Given C.J.’s attitude toward her, it was unlikely that the young woman would be one of her success stories. Still, she had to try.

“If you really mean to make journalism your career, an internship is a great place to start, especially getting one while you’re still in high school. I didn’t have one until the summer between my junior and senior years of college.”

C.J.’s eyes betrayed a faint spark of interest. “Where did you go?”

“University of South Carolina. I interned at the Columbia paper that summer. Writing obits,” she added, just in case C.J. had missed that part. “What schools are you looking at?”

C.J.’s dark eyes studied the floor. “Can’t afford USC, that’s for sure. Maybe I can work and take classes at Trident,” she said, naming the community college.

Amanda opened her mouth to encourage her and closed it again. She didn’t know what kind of grades C.J. had, or what her home situation was. It would be wrong for her to hold out hope without more information.

She hadn’t ever had to doubt that she’d be able to attend any college she could get into. Her parents had put a high priority on education for their four kids, no matter what they might have to sacrifice. C.J. might not be so lucky.

“How long you been here, anyway?” C.J. glanced around the newsroom, gaze lingering on Jim for a moment. As well-informed as she seemed, she undoubtedly knew that he wrote the kinds of stories Amanda could only dream about.

“Three years.” She’d had her reasons for coming home, good ones, but maybe it hadn’t turned out to be the smartest career path.

She was closing in on her ten-year college reunion, and still near the bottom of the journalism ladder, writing stories no one read but the people immediately involved.

C.J. eyed her. “If I had the edge you have, I’d sure be doing better by the time I got to be your age.”

Was C.J. the voice of her conscience, sent to remind her that it was time she accomplished something worthwhile? Or just an obnoxious kid who would alienate everyone who might be willing to help her?

She slapped one hand down on her desk, making the silver-framed photo of her family tremble. “Now you look.” She put some fire into her voice. “This internship can be the chance of a lifetime for you, but not if you go into it determined to annoy everyone you meet. You may be bright and talented, but so are a lot of other people. Talent won’t get you anywhere without hard work and plenty of goodwill. Got that?”

She waited for the kid to flare up at her. C.J. pressed her lips together for a long moment. Finally she nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered.

Well, that was progress of a sort. Maybe C.J. had what it took to get something from this experience. She prayed so.

As for C.J.’s opinion of her—there wasn’t much she could do to change that, because like it or not, it was probably true.

Ross’s finger hovered over the reply icon for a moment, then moved to delete. Finally he just closed the e-mail. He’d consider later what, if anything, he should say to his mother.

How long had it been since she’d been in touch with him? A month, at least. And that previous message had been much the same as this latest one—an impersonal recitation of his parents’ busy lives. A perfunctory question as to how he was doing. A quick sign-off.

As for his father…well, he hadn’t heard from his father since he left D.C. The last thing Congressman Willard Lockhart needed was a son who’d made the front page in the headline rather than the byline.

“Ross? Do you have a minute?”

He swung his chair around and rose, startled at the sight of the Bugle’s owner, Cyrus Mayhew. “Of course. What is it?”

“Nothin’ much.” Cyrus wandered in, moving aimlessly around the office.

Ross felt his hands tighten and deliberately relaxed them. When Cyrus got aimless and folksy, it was a sure sign there was something on his mind. He might not know a lot about his employer yet, but he did know that.

Cyrus picked up a paperweight and balanced it on his palm, then put it back. He moved to the window, walked back to the desk. Peered at Ross, blue eyes sharp beneath bushy white brows. Someone had compared Cyrus to Mark Twain, and he seemed to deliberately cultivate the similarity.

The tension crawled along Ross’s skin again, refusing to be dispelled. “Something special you wanted, sir?”

“Just wondering if you got that intern settled. Seemed like a nice youngster—maybe a little rough around the edges, though.”

That was an understatement. “I assigned her to work with Amanda Bodine.”

“Good, good. Amanda will take her under her wing. Might be a good role model for her.”

She would, but somehow he didn’t think that was all that was on Cyrus’s mind today.

“Was there anything else?” he prompted.

“Well, now, I wondered what’s going on with that tip we discussed. Anything in it?”

“It’s too soon to tell.”

Maybe he’d have been better off to keep that tip to himself. Was Cyrus really the elderly gadfly, intent on keeping the establishment honest? Or would he, like so many others, sell anyone out for a big story?

His stomach clenched. The face of his former mentor and boss flickered through his mind, and he forced it away. It didn’t pay to think about the mentor who’d sacked him without listening to explanations, or the friend who’d stabbed him in the back without a second thought.

“But you’re lookin’ into it, aren’t you, son?”

“I’m following up on everything we have, which isn’t much. An anonymous call from someone who said businessmen were paying graft to get contracts at the Coast Guard base. A couple of anonymous letters saying the same thing, but giving no other details.”

Cyrus nodded, musing, absently patting the round belly he was supposed to be dieting away. “We need to get on the inside, that’s what we need.”

“I’m working on that now, sir. I have an appointment with someone down at the base this afternoon.”

Maybe it was best not to mention who. And even more important not to mention that tantalizing fragment he’d overheard from Amanda’s grandmother.

“Good, good. Keep at it.” Cyrus rubbed his palms together, as if he were already looking at a front-page spread. “We can’t afford to let this slip through our fingers. This is the real deal—I can feel it.”

“I hope so.” For more reasons than one.

Like Cyrus, he wanted a big story for the Bugle, but even more, he wanted one for himself. He wanted to erase the pain and humiliation of the past year.

Irrational. No one could erase the past.

But one great job of investigative reporting could get his life back again. The need burned in him. To go back to the life he was born for, to dig into important stories, to feel he was making a difference in the world.

This was the best chance he’d had since he’d come to the Bugle. As Cyrus said, he couldn’t let it slip between his fingers.

Amanda stood outside the redbrick building on Tradd Street that was headquarters of Coast Guard Base Charleston, waiting with C.J. while Ross parked the car. She was beginning to wish she’d had a chance to talk to the intern about proper professional clothing before taking her out on this initial assignment.

Ross came around the corner of the building, and before he could reach them C.J. nudged her. “So, you and the boss—are you together?”

“Together?” For a moment her mind was a blank. Then she realized the implication and felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “No, certainly not. What would make you think that?”

C.J. shrugged. “Dunno. Vibes, I guess. I’m pretty good at reading them.”

“Not this time.” Her fingers tightened on the strap of her bag. What on earth had led the kid to that conclusion? Were people talking, just because she’d taken him to the beach house?

Well, wouldn’t they? The inner voice teased her. You’d talk, if it were anyone else.

That should have occurred to her. The newsroom was a hotbed of gossip, mostly false. She could only hope Ross hadn’t gotten wind of it.

“Our relationship is strictly professional,” she added. Obviously she’d have to make that clear to C.J. and to the newsroom in general. To say nothing of herself.

He joined them, and that increased awareness made her feel stiff and unnatural. She nodded toward the door. “Shall we go in?”

Fortunately she knew the petty officer on duty at the desk. That would make it simpler to ask a favor.

“Hey, Amanda.” Kelly Ryan’s smile included all of them. “You’re expected. Go on up.” She thrust visitor badges across to them.

“Is anyone free to take our intern on a tour while we’re in with my father?” Sensing a rebellious comment forming on C.J.’s lips, she went on quickly. “I’d like her to gather background color for the articles we’re doing. Okay?”

C.J. subsided.

“Sure thing. I’ll handle it.” Kelly waved them toward the stairs.

They headed up, leaving C.J. behind with Kelly, and she was still too aware of Ross, following on her heels. Drat the kid, anyway. Why did C.J. have to suggest something like that? It wasn’t as if she didn’t feel awkward enough around Ross already.

Ross touched her elbow as they reached the office. “One thing before we go in. This is my interview, remember.”

“How could I forget?” She just managed not to snap the words. She’d like to blame C.J., but the annoyance she felt wasn’t entirely due to the intern’s mistaken impression.

She shot a sideways glance at Ross and recognized what she felt emanating from him. Tension. A kind of edgy eagerness that she didn’t understand. What was going on with him?

They walked into the office. Her father, imposing in his blue dress uniform, rose from behind his desk to greet them.

Under the cover of the greetings and light conversation, she sought for calm.

I don’t know what’s going on, Father. I’m not sure what Ross wants, but it must be something beyond what he’s told me. Please, guide me now.

Her gaze, skittering around the room as the two men fenced with verbal politeness, landed on the framed photo on her father’s desk. The family, taken at the beach on their Christmas Day walk last year. It was the same photo she had on her desk. Somehow the sight of those smiling faces seemed to settle her.

She focused her attention on Ross. He was asking a series of what seemed to be routine, even perfunctory, questions about her father’s work and the function of the base.

“The Coast Guard is now under the Department of Homeland Security,” her father said, clearly not sure Ross knew anything about the service. “Our jobs include maritime safety. Most people think of that first, the rescue work. But there’s also security, preventing trafficking of drugs, contrabands, illegal immigrants. We protect the public, the environment and U.S. economic and security interests in any maritime region, including lakes and rivers.”

This was her father at his most formal. He could be telling Ross some of the kinds of stories she’d heard over the dinner table since she was a kid—exciting rescues, chemical spills prevented, smugglers caught. Why was he being so stiff?

A notebook rested on Ross’s knee, but he wasn’t bothering to write down the answers Daddy gave. Maybe he was just absorbing background information. She often worked that way, too, not bothering to write down information she could easily verify later with a press kit.

But that didn’t account for the level of tension she felt in the room—tension that didn’t come solely from Ross. Her father’s already square jaw seemed squarer than ever, and his lips tightened at a routine question.

“I don’t see why you need information on our local contractors.” He bit the words off sharply.

“We’d like to show how much money the base brings into the local economy.” Ross’s explanation sounded smooth.

Too smooth. She’d already sampled his interview style, and this wasn’t it. As for her father…

Ordinarily when Daddy looked the way he did at the moment, he was on the verge of an explosion. No one had ever accused Brett Bodine of being patient in the face of aggravation.

There was no doubt in her mind that he found Ross’s questions annoying. But why? They seemed innocuous enough, and surely that was a good angle to bring out in the articles.

“So you’ll let me have the records on your local contractors?” Ross’s expression was more than ever that of a wolf closing in for a kill.

She braced herself for an explosion from her father. It didn’t come.

Instead, he tried to smile. It was a poor facsimile of his usual hearty grin. “I’ll have to get permission to release those figures.”

He wasn’t telling the truth. Her father, the soul of honor, was lying. She sensed it, right down to the marrow of her bones. Her heart clenched, as if something cold and hard tightened around it.

Her father, lying. Ross, hiding something. What was going on?

Please, Lord.

Her thoughts whirled, and then settled on one sure goal. She had to find out what Ross wanted. She had to find out what her father was hiding. And that meant that any hope of keeping her distance from Ross was doomed from the start.