The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  Did I believe Jim’s assertion? Wholeheartedly, while I listened to him. But now, as I reflect upon the things he told me, I wonder if any of us can be completely certain we know what our loved ones really think of us. If you have not spoken to a parent in days or weeks or months, how can you possibly know what they are thinking and feeling? If you have not called or written, how can they know they are in your thoughts?

  Jim admitted he had not seen his father in some time. He assured me, however, that they were close. But how close were they? If the situation were reversed, and Jim had written a note on a faltering flight, would his father have been as quick to deny that Jim could have written it?

  Difficult questions, I know. And there are no definite answers.

  Even so, Jim has denied the note, and I have no choice but to continue my search. My next journey will take me to see a young woman. Let’s hope hers is the heart in search of a healing touch.

  It didn’t take Peyton long to discover that she’d become a minor celebrity at the doughnut shop. She had no sooner taken her usual seat and ordered her coffee and cruller when two of the regulars moved to the empty stools at her right and left.

  “Read your column this morning,” one man said, his button brown eyes alert and friendly. “Why’d you think the note mighta belonged to the preacher fellow?”

  She shrugged. “There’s a clue. It’s a little one, but it seemed to point toward the minister.”

  “So how do you know it wasn’t him?” This from a young woman in a booth.

  Peyton turned. The woman wore cotton slacks and a printed tunic top, the uniform of those who worked at the nearby doctors’ offices. “I don’t know for certain,” Peyton answered, smiling. “All I know is he’s sure the note wasn’t meant for him. You read his reasons in the paper.”

  “What are you going to do,” a voice boomed from the far side of the counter, “if nobody claims that note?”

  Peyton turned slowly. Two men sat at the end of the counter, executives, from the tailored and pressed look of them. As Peyton considered her reply, she realized every eye in the restaurant had turned toward her, including Erma’s. The waitress stood with the coffeepot in one hand, her head cocked in Peyton’s direction.

  She could have heard a frog hiccup in the silence.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do if no one claims it,” she finally said, looking around the restaurant. “I suppose I’ll feel regret, because a significant gift will have been unclaimed.”

  When Peyton reached the office, Mandi stood from behind her typing table desk and handed her a stack of mail. “Curtis DiSalvo was asking for you the other day,” she said, her eyes bright with interest. “The envelope on top is from him.”

  “Really?” Peyton dropped her backpack beside her desk and wished, not for the first time, that she had a door she could close and lock—even a cubicle would be nice. Mandi wasn’t bold enough to openly eavesdrop, but secrets were nearly impossible to safeguard in the newsroom.

  She ripped open the top envelope, addressed only with her name. It contained a single typed request—an order?—for her to appear in DiSalvo’s office at 11:00 A.M. on Friday. Today.

  “Mandi,” she called, dropping the note to her desk, “I need to warn you about something. From now on, don’t mention any of our prospects by name, not even on the phone. Let’s call them prospects one, two, and three, okay? Delete any files on your computer containing their names, or at least make sure your files are password protected. And don’t send any e-mails with their names. Got it?”

  Concern and confusion flitted through the girl’s wide eyes. “All right—but why?”

  Perching on the edge of her desk, Peyton folded her arms. “Yesterday Julie St. Claire showed up at the church as I was leaving. Somehow she learned where I would be, who I would interview, and when I would arrive.” Her mouth twisted. “Shoot, she probably had a private jet whisk her into town just in time. She has unfair advantages, so let’s not give her any more help, okay?”

  Misery darkened Mandi’s face. “I—I thought—she told me you were working together.”

  Peyton leaned closer. “I’m sure she did, but I’d sooner work with Captain Kangaroo. Remember this, Mandi, everyone else, especially TV reporters, is the competition. The enemy. We don’t want to help them any more than we have to. You got it?”

  Mandi nodded, her brows drawing together in an agonized expression.

  “Okay.” Peyton smiled. “So how are we coming with number two? Any luck on finding out where the woman lives?”

  “I have a call in to the publicist at her record company,” Mandi whispered, her eyes shifting from left to right as if she suspected spies behind every desk. “I should hear from him this morning. Apparently this woman is a recluse and really hard to reach.”

  Peyton nodded. “Okay. Just consider this—whenever you’re tempted to think somebody is too important or too out of the mainstream to reach, remember that nearly everybody has a telephone. The trick is finding the number. Oh—and try to find her mother. Most people who are famous have a mother who’s not, and all mamas love to talk about their kids.”

  “I’ll remember.” Mandi’s eyes shone with relief. “Um—don’t forget your other mail. There was an interesting-looking package with no return address—”

  “Not a letter bomb, I hope,” Peyton joked, turning. A yellow padded envelope rested at the bottom of the stack on her desk, and it felt heavy when she pulled it out. Though she suspected it was a book from a local author hoping for a plug, she couldn’t help feeling a prickle of curiosity as she weighed the package on her palm. No—too light and too large for a book.

  Mandi leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her face alight with curiosity.

  “You know, Mandi,” Peyton said, ripping the edge of the envelope. “You’re not my secretary. I don’t expect you to gather my mail every day.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  A piece of torn paper fell to the floor. Mandi bent to pick it up while Peyton pulled a picture frame out of the envelope. The plain wooden frame contained an enlarged photograph of her father and Kathy with their youngest daughter, who wore a cap and gown. The other five children were clustered around the happy trio, like overdone decorations on a birthday cake.

  She exhaled slowly, then dropped the frame to her desk. The resulting clatter made Mandi lift her head. “What is it? Something bad?”

  “Just a picture.” Peyton picked up the rest of the mail, shuffling through the inevitable junk mail in search of letters from readers. There were at least a dozen in this batch, not bad when you considered that most people sent e-mails these days.

  “What a nice family.” Mandi lifted the frame. “Why—this girl looks like you! How funny! Do many of your fans send you look-alike pictures?”

  “They’re not fans.” Peyton tossed the junk mail into the steel trash can behind her desk, then sat down to open her reader letters.

  “Then who—”

  “The man’s my father; the wife and kids are his family.”

  Mandi’s lips parted as if she would say something else, then her gaze shifted and caught Peyton’s warning look. She clapped her mouth shut, the words seeming to die in her throat, then placed the picture back on the desk.

  Peyton waited until Mandi had busied herself at her typing table, then she shoved the remaining letters aside and stared at the picture. Did she really look like her half sister? The girl had hair of a reddish cast and perhaps the nose was shaped like Peyton’s, but the proud graduate definitely had her mother’s eyes. Maybe there was a slight resemblance . . . well, obviously there had to be, or Mandi wouldn’t have said anything.

  Peyton squinted, trying to remember which name belonged to the youngest girl, then smiled as she remembered—Erin. She tapped the photograph with a fingernail, then turned back to her work, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  Tampa Times publisher and president Curtis DiSalvo’s office was located on the top floo
r of the Times building, a hallowed space Peyton rarely visited. Every nerve stood at attention as she stepped out of the elevator, and when she identified herself to the receptionist, the woman pointed toward a hallway and a pair of oak doors. “They’re all in there waiting for you,” she said, flashing an I’m-glad-I’m-not-you smile.

  “They?” Peyton smoothed her slacks. “I thought my appointment was with Mr. DiSalvo.”

  The woman picked up a list. “A planeload of people came in from New York this morning, but the only one I’d worry about is Adam Howard.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “I think he owns most of the planet.”

  Peyton felt a chill pass down her spine. “I’ve heard that.”

  She stood still for a moment, resisting the urge to bolt for the elevators, then lifted her chin and walked toward the conference room. Perhaps her fears were groundless. Perhaps this meeting would result in good news. In an hour she might laugh at the memory of her tense nerves.

  She opened one of the doors and walked into the cavernous room, simultaneously interrupting several conversations. A few of the men sitting around the elongated oak table stood when she appeared, buttoning coats and smiling as she approached.

  Feeling underdressed in her blouse and rayon slacks, she moved forward on legs that felt about as sturdy as spaghetti noodles.

  “Peyton MacGruder, I presume.” The man at the head of the table stepped out and walked toward her. “I’m Adam Howard, and it’s a real pleasure to meet the woman who has the entire nation talking.”

  “The entire nation?” Peyton smiled, feeling her way.

  Howard laughed. “Your search is the talk of every news broadcast from here to Hawaii.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t watch much television.”

  As he took her hand, Peyton tipped her head back and took the man’s measure. Adam Howard was a distinguished-looking fellow, far from elderly despite his graying hair, glasses, and the slight spare tire that pushed at the front of his suit. His hand encased hers like a well-worn catcher’s mitt.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t know you have the world’s attention,” Howard said, grinning over his shoulder at the other people around the table.

  “I really don’t see how that’s possible.” She forced a smile. “The circulation of our paper is only—”

  “The Web site featuring your column is averaging sixty thousand hits an hour,” Curtis DiSalvo said, stepping forward. Wide-shouldered and athletic-looking in his dress shirt, the publisher seemed taller than Peyton remembered. His square jaw tensed visibly as he shook her hand, and Peyton suspected he wasn’t enjoying Adam Howard’s visit as much as he pretended.

  “We’ve been printing extra copies on the days your column runs,” he explained, releasing her hand. “Interest is so great, Peyton, that Mr. Howard has come down to see how we can do a better job of broadcasting your search. We want the world to know about the Heart Healer’s quest.”

  Peyton looked around the room. She recognized Nora Chilton and a few faces from the marketing and sales departments, but at least half a dozen people were complete strangers. Television executives, probably, or worker bees from Adam Howard’s media hive. Most of the newcomers were grinning at her, while Nora sat silently, her head inclined toward a sheet of paper on the table.

  “Please, Ms. MacGruder”—Adam Howard gestured to an empty chair next to Nora—“join us. We’re anxious to have your input.”

  They wanted her “input” on her own series? Instantly on guard, Peyton accepted the proffered seat, crossed her legs, and stared at the faces around the table. Adam Howard settled into his chair, unbuttoned his coat, and pulled his tie—red silk, from the look of it—free from the tailored suit. “I’ve read every single column in this series,” he began, his dark, earnest eyes seeking hers. “And I must say, I admire your work and your insight tremendously. I admire it so much, in fact, that I’m prepared to offer you a contract with my syndicate, Howard Features.”

  He gestured toward another man at the table, a narrow-faced fellow who peered intently at Peyton from behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Frank Myers is president of Howard Features, and he’s got seven hundred papers standing by to shift their layouts to find space for ‘The Heart Healer.’ That’s—what is that, Frank, in terms of revenue for Ms. MacGruder?”

  The aforementioned Frank spoke in a voice as narrow as his face: “Nearly ten thousand dollars a week in writer’s fees,” he said, unsmiling. “Most writers take years to reach that level.”

  “Peyton, we want to take you to that level now.” Adam Howard gave her a bland smile. “We can have your column in seven hundred different papers on Sunday morning. We’ll bring the readers up to speed, maybe with a compilation of the past three columns, and let them ride out the rest of the search with you.” He dropped his fist to the table with a gentle thump. “How’s that sound?”

  “It sounds incredible.” She squinted in Howard’s direction. “How will this syndicate work, exactly?”

  “Through technology.” Howard spoke with quiet firmness. “You submit your story to your editor as always, but she’ll send it to our syndicate electronically. In the click of a button, your column will appear in papers throughout the country, including your own Tampa Times.”

  “But . . . the summation.” Peyton struggled to maintain an even tone. “Who’s going to put that together?”

  “You are.” An expression of satisfaction glimmered in his eyes. “I hear you’re as dependable as the sunrise. We’re not at all worried about you pulling this off.”

  Peyton’s stomach tightened as every eye turned in her direction. Syndication was every columnist’s dream—it granted a writer independence and multiplied his earnings exponentially. As a syndicated columnist, she would still work for the Times, but she’d expand her audience and her income beyond her wildest imaginings. The larger syndicates also promoted their writers, and promotion built a writer’s name recognition, which widened the circle of influence even further.

  She had thought the note might be a key to open that door, but this seemed . . . too easy.

  “Syndication sounds wonderful,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “but I’ve got to wonder, Mr. Howard—what’s the catch?” She caught Nora’s eye. “I know I’m on to a hot story, and my last couple of columns are probably among the best I’ve ever done, but what will you expect from me after the note story is finished? I really don’t think I’m at the level of Ellen Goodman or Dave Barry.”

  A spark lit Nora’s eye—agreement?—then Adam Howard turned to DiSalvo and chuckled. “You’ve got one forthright gal here, Curt.” He laughed again. “One sharp cookie.”

  Peyton said nothing, but waited until the wave of nervous laughter had subsided.

  “Actually, there is something we’d like from you.” Howard met her gaze again. “This thing will only go so far via the printed press. Not many people today even read a newspaper, so if we’re going to broadcast this incredible story, we’re going to have to use companion media. Your people are already using the Net, but even that’s limited—”

  “You want to put this story on television,” Peyton interrupted. She forced a polite smile. “And I’ll bet you want it to be a WNN report featuring Julie St. Claire.”

  She didn’t think she had the power to astound Adam Howard, but apparently she did. For an instant his face went blank with shock, then a tide of red flooded his cheeks. Peyton began tapping her toe, a little unnerved by the sudden change in the man. Julie St. Claire’s involvement was a given, considering how she’d shown up in St. Louis. So why was Adam Howard blushing?

  After a single moment of deafening silence, the CEO of Howard Media & Entertainment coughed a laugh. “I thought you said you never watched TV! But how else would you know Julie St. Claire is one of our best people?”

  “I watched her work during the aftermath of the crash.” Peyton lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “She was good . . . and she’s aggressive.”

  Howard t
humped the table again. “There you have it. Of course we want to put her on the story. We think she’d be great—working alongside you, of course.”

  “She’s already on the story.” Peyton shifted her gaze and caught DiSalvo’s eye. “I met her in St. Louis—apparently she knew where I was going and who I planned to interview.”

  Howard spread his hands. “Well, that’s proof of her competence, isn’t it? What we need to do is share and share alike around here. This story is too big for a single paper; it’s too big even for our features syndicate. We’ll let Ms. MacGruder keep writing her column, but we need to start making plans for a television special to broadcast the outcome.”

  He spoke as if the matter rested solely in this ad hoc committee’s hands, then he turned to Peyton. “I know you reporters tend to think of stories in proprietary terms. I also know you protect your leads like dogs guarding a chicken bone, but this story’s bigger than a simple column, Peyton. Share it with us, and we’ll take you to the highest level.”

  Peyton gripped the armrest on the leather chair as the room began to spin. Howard was right on all counts. Technically, the story was hers and hers alone to follow, but he was offering so much—

  “We’ll have to set up certain parameters,” she said, finding her voice. “First, you may be right about this story being too big for a column, but it began as a column, and I want to be fair with my readers. They are unraveling this mystery with me, so they can’t hear about the story’s conclusion before they’ve had an opportunity to read it in ‘The Heart Healer.’”

  Howard flung up his hands in a don’t shoot pose. “No problem. We’ll plan to air our special the same day you conclude your series. When will that be?”

  “July fourth,” she whispered.

  Howard picked up a pencil and scribbled the date on a tablet, as did all his lackeys. “That’s good. We’ll make our employees sign an agreement not to breathe a word before then.” He winked at Peyton. “If those people at CBS can keep secrets about who won that survive-on-a-deserted-island show, we can do even better.”