The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  I don’t pretend to understand the reasons behind the reactions the note has received thus far, but I know the note is powerful and power shouldn’t be wasted. So I’m hoping this last prospect will be able to truthfully and sincerely tell me, “Yes. This message is for me.”

  Today, when I present a copy of the note to the final prospect on my list, I’ll be giving a child one last chance to hear a message from a loving father.

  Will he accept it? We’ll see.

  Knowing she had no answers for Erma and the regulars at Dunkin’ Donuts, on Monday morning Peyton skipped her usual cup of coffee and drove straight to the office. She had an hour to kill before she had to leave for Gainesville, and she needed to go through her e-mail and phone messages.

  Mandi jumped up like a jerked marionette as Peyton approached her desk. “Tanner Ford called,” the intern said, her eyes narrowing. “He’s got company up in Gainesville.”

  Peyton’s mouth went dry. “Who?”

  “At least two different news vans and a half-dozen reporters.” Mandi’s eyes gleamed. “He said he’s willing to wait until you get there, but those people are getting mighty impatient.”

  Peyton scratched her head, her thoughts scampering around. “How’d they get his name? I didn’t identify him in the column.”

  Mandi’s brow arched. “You didn’t see the promo? I saw it last night, and it’s playing probably once an hour on WNN. It’s a shot of Julie St. Claire promising to reveal the mystery passenger of Flight 848 in a news special Wednesday night.” She leaned closer. “She named all the names, Peyton: Tim Manning, Taylor Crowe, and Tanner Ford. That’s how everybody found out.”

  Peyton groaned as her plans for a leisurely drive to Gainesville vanished. It didn’t take much effort to envision the scene outside Tanner Ford’s house and Timothy Manning’s church. All the local stations would be represented, of course. Taylor Crowe could thank heaven she lived on a boat.

  And Julie St. Claire . . . that little guttersnipe was probably en route to Gainesville, if she hadn’t arrived already.

  But St. Claire could do nothing without the note, and she still had no clue what it said.

  “Ignorance,” Peyton whispered, meeting Mandi’s gaze, “is bliss.” She’d have to take a flight now, one of those puddle-jumping planes that always made her nervous . . .

  No. She couldn’t. She would need help to get through this, even to get to Gainesville.

  She rapped Mandi’s desk with her knuckles, then nodded. “Okay. No reason to fear, we’ll just pick up the pace a little. Um—go into my mailbox, will you, and print out all the e-mails? Answer any you can and leave the others for me. And be sure you tell Nora how many there were.”

  Mandi nodded and rolled her chair toward Peyton’s computer. “Where will you be?”

  “In the sports department,” Peyton answered, moving through the newsroom. “I need to ask a favor.”

  Peyton watched, supremely gratified, as King’s face darkened to a lovely crimson color. “The gall of that woman,” he muttered, snapping a pencil as if it were a toothpick. “What is it with television reporters? They seem to live by that maxim about forgiveness being easier to obtain than permission.”

  “You know they’ll come up with a hundred ways to justify the promo spot,” Peyton said, glancing at the clock on his wall. “They’ll say it’s reasonable promotion; they’ll point out that I promised them the complete story by July fourth.”

  “But they’ve revealed all three of your prospects.”

  “And they’ll suffer for it, if any of the three decide not to cooperate. They’ll really suffer if this Tanner fellow turns down the note, too. They’ll be stuck with a prime-time special about nothing.”

  King’s mouth curled like he wanted to spit. “Julie St. Claire won’t let herself get stuck. I’ve a feeling she’ll insist the note’s authentic, and then she’ll find a way to make it stick to one of the three candidates. She has no choice.”

  Peyton tilted her head. “Which of the three?”

  King shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? From what you’ve told me, it looks like all three are pretty colorful characters. You’ve given her a television preacher with a flair for histrionics, a wildly successful songwriter, and a weatherman who, at the very least, is bound to be photogenic.”

  Peyton managed a choking laugh. “Really made it easy for her, didn’t I?”

  His eyes softened. “You did good. You didn’t give her the ball and you stayed in the game.”

  Peyton glanced down at her hands, swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat. This next part would be hard.

  “King?”

  “Still here.”

  “Do you have plans for today—I mean, unchangeable plans? I need someone to go with me to Gainesville.”

  When she looked up, he seemed to be examining her face with considerable concentration. “Are you not feeling well?”

  “I’m fine—a little tired, maybe, but that’s not why I need someone to go with me.”

  Teasing laughter lit his eyes. “You lose your license or something?”

  “No.” Lowering her gaze to her hands again, Peyton struggled to find the words. She didn’t want to tell him anything specific, but if she gave him a general picture, maybe he’d understand. “It’s Gainesville. I used to live there and I went through some pretty rough times. I’m afraid I’ll—”

  The creak of his chair interrupted her. When she looked up, he was standing behind his desk and reaching for the Devil Rays baseball cap he kept on his filing cabinet. “Where are you going?”

  King gave her a relaxed smile. “If we leave now, I figure we have a pretty good chance of keeping the wolves outside Tanner Ford’s house at bay.”

  A rush of gratitude filled Peyton’s heart. “I’ll get my bag,” she said, moving ahead of him toward her desk.

  Julie St. Claire stepped out of the cab, tipped the driver handsomely, then stood for a moment in front of the small concrete-block house. Tanner Ford’s residence looked like the typical three-bedroom, two-bath tract house that popped up every fifty feet or so in this section of Gainesville, and its very ordinariness assured her. Ford would appreciate the uniqueness of his situation—and what she had to offer.

  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she walked toward the news van from WOGX, the FOX station in Ocala. A crew from Ford’s own station, WJCB, waited on the curb, too. Either Ford had called them, or one of their other reporters had gotten wind of the story.

  The FOX guys grinned as she walked up to the van. “Hi, fellas,” she called, pleased by their open admiration. Apparently these guys from the sticks didn’t get much in the way of excitement. “So glad you could come help me out.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss St. Claire.” A tall man in a denim work shirt climbed out of the passenger seat and extended his hand. “I’m Reed Nash, and I’ll be operating the truck. Michael Green”—he gestured to a man crouching inside the open door—“is our photojournalist.”

  “Cameraman’ll do fine.” Green grinned as he thrust out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss St. Claire. I’ve admired your work for some time.”

  She peered inside the van as she shook his hand, then smiled. The truck was equipped with video editing equipment, television monitors, telephones, intercom systems, audio mixers, speakers, and what looked like miles of cable.

  “Nice to meet you both.” Julie took a step back and surveyed the truck’s exterior. The vehicle was a microwave unit, not as good as the satellite equipment she was accustomed to, but it would do. A retractable mast with a small rotating dish rode on the roof. When they were ready to broadcast, the mast would extend far enough to beam the signal to a receiver, probably located at the station.

  She lowered her gaze and looked at Nash. “You got a clear line of sight from here to the receiver?”

  “No problem, ma’am, you’re in Florida.” Reed gave her an easy, relaxed smile that seemed to have a good deal of confidence behind
it. “That signal will fly straight home, so don’t you worry.”

  She shifted her gaze to the camera operator. “Did they tell you my plan?”

  Green nodded slowly, a grin slowly overtaking his stubbled features. “They sent along a release form, though. Mr. Ford will have to sign it before I can set up.”

  “He’ll sign it.” Julie turned toward the house, then lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the late morning glare. “I’m not worried.”

  After a quick glance at her watch, she shot a smile back to the waiting men, then tilted her head toward the house. “Come with me, Mr. Green, and bring the release. I want to be all set up before Peyton MacGruder arrives.”

  Grinning like a child at Christmas, Michael Green unfolded his long legs and followed her.

  Tanner Ford felt his heart skip a beat when he opened the door and discovered Julie St. Claire on his front porch. The woman had become a legend among newscasters in the last three weeks; some said she was destined to take Barbara Walters’s place within three years. Though she had sprung from a lowly station much like the one where Tanner currently worked, her success proved that intelligence, good looks, and dogged perseverance could propel talent to the top.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ford.” St. Claire’s voice seemed lower and a great deal huskier than on television. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  For an instant his tongue seemed paralyzed, then his reflexes kicked in. “It’s my pleasure.” Tanner opened the door and gestured to the inside of his house, momentarily ashamed of his Spartan living quarters. Julie St. Claire probably lived in a penthouse apartment . . .

  But she walked in and smiled, admiring his living room as if it were digs fit for a king. “Nice place,” she said, walking slowly. She stopped before his bookshelf, as he’d hoped she might. His home might be humble, but the variety of books on his shelves would tell her he was well-read, even ambitious. If she took a moment to examine the titles she’d find books on meteorology, self-discipline, public speaking, even Feng Shui.

  “This”—she tapped the shelf, then turned to look at the blue-jeaned bubba who’d followed her in— “would be the perfect spot for the camera.”

  The bubba moved toward the shelf, and Julie backed away, her gaze now centering on the guest chair before the window. Tanner knew she was planning the shot, mentally placing him and Peyton MacGruder into position.

  “I had a call from Miss MacGruder about an hour ago.” He slid his hands into his pockets, giving Julie a conspiratorial smile. “She’s on her way. Said she’d arrive about noon.”

  “Oh?” The fine dark brows lifted. “She say anything else?”

  “‘Hands off.’” He deepened his smile. “That’s an exact quote. That’s what I’m supposed to tell you if you knock on my door.”

  Her laughter was warm, deep, and rich, and suddenly her exquisite hand came up to touch his face. “Then I suppose,” she said, stepping close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek, “we’d better not tell her about this, should we?”

  Traffic clogged Interstate 75, vacationers mingling with semis who rumbled cab-to-cab like the cars of an unrelenting freight train. King drove like a pro, though, slanting from one lane to the next, skirting sluggish sightseers and commercial drivers alike.

  Peyton sat in the passenger seat, her legs pressed together, her hands clasped, her blood rushing through all the boulevards of her body. They’d talked about several things since leaving Tampa—the Bucs, the Devil Rays, and Darren, King’s son. Not much had changed in that situation, King had said, a note of regret in his voice. Darren still came around when he wanted money or needed a place to study, but most of the time he seemed content to remain at arm’s length. Peyton accepted this news silently, thinking of the unopened letters on her kitchen table. Weren’t she and her father at the same place?

  When they passed the huge green-and-white sign announcing their entrance into Alachua County, Peyton flinched, the view pebbling her skin with goose flesh.

  “You know,” King said, “I read your column this morning. It was great—far better than anything you’ve ever done. I think you’re beginning to figure this columnist thing out.”

  Despite her anxiety, Peyton flushed with pleasure. “I hardly remember what I wrote.”

  “You’re learning, kiddo. You’re opening up and beginning to go deep. And I appreciate what you’re doing, as a reader and as an editor.”

  Peyton lowered her gaze as her cheeks burned. High praise indeed from the man who’d once routinely threatened her with covering nothing but the Senior Adult Synchronized Swimming Association.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, glancing at him. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

  He grinned at her, then reached out and took her hand. For a moment she was too surprised to react, then her lips parted—he’d read her column today. And in it she had confessed to having bad memories of Gainesville, so King had agreed to drive her on the barest suggestion because—

  He cared.

  She felt the truth all at once, like an electric tingle in the tips of her fingers and toes. She savored the thought, enjoying its newness, but that thought brought another in its wake: What was she going to do about it?

  She didn’t have the faintest idea.

  “King—,” she began, but he dropped her hand and gripped the wheel, slanting the car toward the right exit lane. “We’re here,” he said, nodding toward another green sign. “Gainesville.”

  Hurtling back to earth, she picked up her backpack and rummaged for the folder with Ford’s address. She’d worry about King later; right now she had a job to do.

  After a couple of wrong turns, Peyton and King found Tanner Ford’s house on a street dotted with tall pines. The neighborhood was an older one—probably built in the early days of the university—and looked like a hundred other neighborhoods for married college students.

  In fact, it looked just like the area where she and Garrett had lived . . .

  A sudden chill climbed the ladder of her spine. The street wasn’t the same, nor was the neighborhood, but the concrete-block houses could have been designed by the same harried, unimaginative builder.

  King’s hand closed around hers again and squeezed. “You okay, kiddo? Looks like we have a mob up ahead.”

  Peyton shifted her gaze from the houses to the street. Ford’s place was easily distinguishable by the vehicles around it. Five TV trucks—from WJCB, WTXP, WOGX, and WXFL—straddled gutters on the road, their masts retracted, their motors idle. With a start, Peyton realized they were waiting for her.

  “WTSP?” King read the logo on the side of the nearest van as he parked the car. “That’s one of our local stations. They’re the CBS affiliate in St. Pete.”

  “News travels fast,” Peyton answered, her voice dry. She took a moment to scan the people loitering around the vans—sure enough, Julie St. Claire stood beside the van from WOGX. She’d probably worked out some sort of arrangement to use their equipment for her follow-up interview.

  “I see St. Claire’s not wasting any time.” Feeling a little stronger, Peyton pulled her backpack closer, then gave King an uncertain smile. “Ready or not, here I go.” She opened her door, then jerked back around when she heard King open his door, too. “You going with me?”

  “I’m going to stand guard,” he answered, turning to climb out of the car. “I was thinking maybe you won’t feel so outnumbered if you look out the window and see somebody in your corner.”

  Though she felt a long way from any real humor, Peyton laughed softly. As she walked toward the house, she saw Julie St. Claire straighten, look her way, and offer a little wave. Had the woman no shame? She glanced over her shoulder, then felt cheered to see King leaning on the car, his arms crossed in a defensive pose.

  Peyton knocked on the door, and half a moment later Tanner Ford opened it. Her third and final prospect was tall, helmet-haired, and handsome, as she’d expected him to be. He even had the newscaster’s re
quisite cleft chin.

  “Hi, Tanner, I’m Peyton.” She offered her hand and a smile. “Thanks for making time for me today. And I’m sorry about the circus outside.”

  Laughing, he invited her in. “Don’t apologize. Those are my people out there—some of them, anyway. I suppose you know I’m the weathercaster at WJCB.”

  Peyton nodded and moved into a tidy living room crowded with a sofa on one wall and two chairs before the window. A bookshelf of lumber and bricks lined the third wall, the poor man’s way to store books. She and Garrett had constructed a similar bookshelf in a house much like this one.

  Slamming the door on the unwelcome memory, she walked toward the sofa and forced herself to focus. “I read about your present position. I also learned you’re from Dallas.”

  “Yes—but don’t sit on that uncomfortable sofa, Peyton. It’s in terrible shape. Here, take this chair instead.” Surprised, she turned to see Tanner pointing toward a plaid chair that leaned toward the right and had obviously seen better days. The chair, in fact, looked in far worse shape than the couch. She was about to make a joke about the listing chair when a movement from the street caught her eye. One of the TV guys was telling a story, whooping and waving his arms—

  She pressed her lips together. Maybe Ford wanted her to sit with her back to the window so she wouldn’t be distracted by the commotion outside. Fair enough.

  “Thanks.” She sat in the seat he offered, bracing herself against the pull of gravity, while Tanner sat across from her in the opposite chair.

  “First,” she began, launching into the speech that now felt as familiar as her own name, “let me say how sorry I am about the loss of your father. Flight 848 was a great tragedy. I’ve never been so close to anything like it before. I think it’s safe to say the tragic loss of so many people dramatically affected everyone in my community.”