The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  Tanner lowered his gaze and seemed to study his knees. “Thank you. My father was a great man, beloved in Dallas. The funeral was held there, of course, and the church filled to capacity. It did my heart good to see how much everyone respected him.”

  “And there’s this little detail.” Bending, she pulled a confidentiality agreement from the folder, then set it on the little table between the two chairs. “I hate to have to do this, but for this story, I feel it’s necessary.”

  Ford’s brows pulled into an affronted frown as he skimmed the language. “Really,” he said, lapsing into a wry drawl, “and why would this be important?”

  “Take a look out your window.” Peyton gave him a moment to consider the circus outside, then folded her hands. “I’m sure you’re aware of competition in the media marketplace, Mr. Ford. I’m just trying to cover my bases.”

  Ford nodded, then stood and patted his pockets. “Call me Tanner. And I’ll sign, but I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Use mine.” Smiling, Peyton pulled a pen from her bag and handed it to him. Without another word he scrawled a barely legible signature across the bottom of the page, then handed it to her.

  After returning the confidentiality agreement to the folder, Peyton settled back into the uncomfortable chair, then shifted when something sharp—a piece of straw?— poked her through the fabric. “Now we can get down to details,” she said, smiling to put him at ease. “Were you and your father close?”

  “Very. I’ve only been away from Dallas for five years, and we kept in constant touch.”

  “So you must know why he was on that flight. I first assumed he was coming to visit you, but surely he’d take a more direct flight than Tampa. I also wondered— maybe I’m showing my ignorance here, or I’ve watched too much TV—but wouldn’t a man as important as your father fly in a private jet?”

  “He usually took the company jet, but it was being serviced.” A tremor passed over Tanner’s face, and a sudden spasm of grief knit his brows. “He never flew commercial, but he decided to this time. He had to take care of some business in Tampa, then he was planning to drive up to see me.” Tanner lowered his head. “If only he’d come to see me first, flown into Gainesville, or hired another plane . . .” His words trailed away, followed by a swipe at his nose.

  “Well, Tanner”—Peyton reached for her backpack again—“I’m sure by now you’ve heard about my reason for coming. We found a note that could have come from Flight 848, we’re searching for the person to whom it belongs, and we’ve reason to believe that person might be you. I’d like you to look at this copy of the note and tell me if you think your father might have written it.”

  Tanner’s expression cleared as he reached for the paper in her hands. Eagerly he skimmed the page, then dropped the note to his lap and pressed his hand to his face. “Oh . . . my . . .” He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word as if it might be his last. “Dear God in heaven, help me.”

  Peyton leaned forward. “Do you think—”

  “It’s his handwriting. Of course it is, I’d know it anywhere. Oh, why did this have to happen?” Ford pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, his eyes filling with water.

  “It’s your father’s handwriting?” Peyton prodded gently. “You’re certain?”

  Ford nodded wordlessly. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and slowly spilled from the ends of his dark lashes.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but can you tell me what he meant by ‘all is forgiven’? Did you two have some sort of falling-out?”

  His hand still against his mouth, Tanner nodded again, then wiped the wetness from his cheeks. “We had an argument the day before he got on the plane,” he said, more tears springing to replace those he’d wiped away. “It was a silly matter, really. Dad wanted me to move back to Dallas; I told him I wanted to move to New York. I’ve been at this station for five years, you see, and I’m ready to try for something bigger.” His mouth twitched with wry amusement. “I don’t know what you know about the Lone Star State, Ms. MacGruder, but Texans tend to think of Dallas as the biggest and best city in the world. But that’s just good ol’ Texas chauvinism, and that’s what I told my dad.”

  Taking a cue from Mary Grace, Peyton leaned back in the chair and said nothing.

  “My dad was the kindest, most supportive, most incredible father,” Tanner continued, gulping hard. “He was the absolute best. And this”—he rattled the copy of the note—“proves it. That he would think of me as the plane was falling, well, I—”

  He closed his eyes, held up a hand. “Excuse me a moment.”

  Peyton nodded silently while Tanner rose and left the room. She stared at the bookcase along the wall— Ford owned books on broadcasting, public speaking, and a large collection of tattered paperback copies of Garfield comics. A five-by-seven color photograph at the end of the shelf featured Tanner with his arms around a man and a woman—undoubtedly his parents.

  Peyton leaned forward, about to stand and have a closer look, but the sound of approaching footsteps forced her back.

  Ford reentered the room, sat down, then clamped his lips together. “I’m sorry, I needed to be alone for a moment.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I want to thank you.” He looked Peyton full in the face, his smile deepening. “Thank you for undertaking this search and finding me.”

  Peyton gave him a cautious smile. “You’re welcome. Can you give me an idea what you’re feeling? I know it’s not easy, but my readers will want to know.”

  “I—” He drew a shuddery breath. “The note means so much.” He lifted his teary gaze to meet hers. “May I—do you have the original?”

  “I don’t have it with me,” she said, reaching for her bag. “I’ve put it in a safe place. But I could have it sent to you.”

  His jaws wobbled. “I’d appreciate receiving it . . . as soon as possible. I’ll treasure it always.”

  He pressed his fingertips to the copy on the table between them, then stood and offered his hand. Peyton stood, too, a little annoyed at being dismissed so quickly. She had other questions to ask, and she wanted to get a look at the picture of his father.

  “Actually, I was hoping we could spend a little more time together,” she said, taking his hand.

  His face contracted in a small grimace of pain, as though she had suddenly struck him. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t talk right now. I need to be alone.”

  Peyton glanced out the window, where another TV van had joined the parade of vehicles. Somehow she doubted if solitude ranked very high on Ford’s priority list—the man hadn’t even closed the drapes.

  “All right, then.” She forced a smile. “But I’d like to ask a favor. Despite the TV cameras on your front lawn, please do not reveal what happened here until after Wednesday morning. That’s when my final column will run. If you reveal the result of my search before then—” She shrugged.

  “I understand completely.” Tanner’s handshake was firm and final. “All right, Ms. MacGruder. I won’t breathe a word until Wednesday.” He shot a grin out the window. “Guess those folks will have to camp out on my lawn for a couple of nights.”

  “Thanks, Tanner.”

  Peyton moved toward the door, but stopped when he called out a question: “The note? When can I expect it?”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “I can mail it tomorrow—that way you’d have it by Thursday.”

  “Would you mind overnighting it?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’d like to have it by Wednesday—when I read your final column. I don’t think it will seem real to me until then.”

  Peyton narrowed her gaze. The question itself was an indirect insult, since only a fool would believe his story about wanting the note purely for sentimental reasons. The truth was as obvious as roach droppings in a sugar bowl—he wanted the note for Julie St. Claire. He’d seen the woman outside his house, and he’d undoubtedly seen the promo spots on TV.

  He was, after all, a newscaste
r.

  But what did she care? She’d held a contest and found a winner, so he could have the prize.

  “No problem,” she said, opening the door.

  Peyton felt a small thrill of victory as King pulled away from the house and left the TV newscasters filming their exit. She had the story. They didn’t. Yet.

  Score a big one for the team of MacGruder and Bernard.

  King listened without comment as Peyton told him all that had happened in Tanner Ford’s living room. “So that’s it,” she said, adjusting her seat belt so she could turn in the seat as they talked. “Ford says the note is his, so I promised to send it to him. I’ll write this up today and get it in before tomorrow’s deadline, then I’m done. Ford can tell the television people whatever he wants on Wednesday morning.”

  King nodded, then reached out and turned off the soft rock playing on the radio. “I don’t want to throw a wrench into the works”—he shot her a quick glance— “but there’s one thing that bothers me about all this.”

  “What?”

  He narrowed his gaze as he watched the road. “The three fathers—tell me their occupations again.”

  Peyton lifted her hand and counted on her fingers. “Timothy Manning’s father was a retired insurance salesman. Taylor Crowe’s father was a construction superintendent. And Tanner Ford’s father was an oil tycoon and real estate developer. Apparently he had lots of irons in the fire.”

  King nodded, then pulled left to pass a slow-moving RV on the interstate. “The note—the woman on Mariner Drive found it in a plastic bag, right? One of those zipper-type things you use to carry sandwiches and snacks?”

  Uncertain of where this train of thought would lead, Peyton nodded.

  “Okay . . . knowing what you do about those three men, which would you say was the most likely to carry food onto a plane?”

  The question crashed into her consciousness like surf smashing against a rocky cliff. Why would any of them need food? The flight from New York to Tampa would take less than three hours and had been scheduled to arrive shortly after six. Though the passengers would fly during the dinner hour, PanWorld had been scheduled to serve a meal.

  She stared at King while thoughts whirled in her brain. “Trenton Ford would probably be the least likely,” she said, a sick feeling assaulting her stomach. “He was a first-class passenger. He would have expected dinner complete with china and silverware. If the coach passengers got steak or chicken, he probably ate lobster and filet mignon.”

  King cocked an eyebrow at her. “What about the construction super?”

  Peyton frowned. “Maybe. He flew in coach class and he was coming from his home, so maybe his wife sent him off with a sack lunch. Maybe he hated airline food.”

  “What about the insurance salesman?”

  Closing her eyes, Peyton remembered how the plainspoken preacher had described his simple father. “Definitely, he could have carried food onto the plane. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a man like that carried cookies, lovingly packed by his daughter. He was coming from her house.”

  King looked at her then, and in his eyes she saw the truth.

  “Trenton Ford didn’t write the note,” she whispered, her heart sinking. “But why—”

  “The son is in television,” King answered, shifting his gaze back to the road. “Television people hunger for on-air time. They need it to survive. By claiming the note, Tanner Ford has guaranteed his role as the star of a prime-time special airing in two days.”

  Peyton leaned against the car door, one hand pressed to her stomach as she considered the possibility that her next column would be filled with lies.

  “Don’t beat yourself up.” King’s voice was heavy with compassion. “You did your job, you found the three prospects, and one of them claimed the note. You’ve done the best writing of your career in the last two weeks, so don’t worry. Write the conclusion with a clear conscience and let the chips fall where they may. Who knows?” He shrugged. “Maybe Trenton Ford did have a sandwich bag in his pocket. We don’t know him and we weren’t there. We can’t know what really happened.”

  Peyton closed her eyes, appreciating the comfort, but not certain she could accept the counsel.

  Alone in his bathroom, Tanner Ford surveyed his reflection in the mirror, then frowned when he lifted his chin and his forehead caught the light.

  Shine—sometimes you couldn’t do a thing about it.

  Opening his medicine cabinet, he pulled out a plastic container of loose powder specially formulated to match his skin tones, then brushed the puff over his forehead, nose, and chin. There. He’d be ready for whatever happened next.

  Sighing, he closed the cabinet door, rechecked his reflection, and stood for a moment. He really didn’t look a thing like his father, thank goodness. He had inherited his mother’s chiseled looks, her thick hair, her elegance. His parentage had served him well.

  The college drama classes had served him equally as well. The tears he’d displayed for Peyton MacGruder were real, but that part wasn’t hard. Truth was, he did love his father, but he hadn’t spoken to him since walking out of his office and telling him to take a flying leap off an oil derrick. He fulfilled any familial responsibilities by calling his mother once a month, but his father never entered the picture. Why should he?

  He hadn’t been around much when Tanner was growing up—at least Tanner couldn’t remember him being there. So why should he miss the old man now? When he tried to remember his childhood, he came up with a fuzzy mental image of his father as a benevolent Santa who brought him the presents he asked for, put food on the table, and paid his college tuition. He pretty much did whatever Tanner asked as long as the son’s requests fit into the father’s idea of what a Ford son should be and do. So Tanner had a horse, a car, and ten thousand Texas acres to tramp and enjoy.

  But he never got the thing he wanted most—freedom from the family, from the reputation, from the old man.

  Truth be told, the old man was an embarrassment. Not because he was stuffy or uncool or strict like some of Tanner’s friends’ parents, but because he was Trenton Ford, one of the richest oil magnates in Texas. Everybody knew his name, and when gas prices shot up, everybody took his name in vain.

  Tanner had always figured people would find it hard to believe an important person like Trenton Ford could take time from running his world to even consider having a son. He knew they’d find it impossible to believe Trenton Ford’s offspring turned out to be a normal kid who got into as much trouble as the boy next door.

  One of Tanner’s teachers had once made a (rather obvious) point of telling the class that all men put on their pants one leg at a time. But in his heart of hearts, Tanner knew people in Dallas didn’t believe anything about Trenton Ford was ordinary. Sometimes Tanner wondered if he even put his pants on. The tailored suits he always wore seemed to sort of grow on him.

  Tanner lifted his hand and touched his hair, smoothing a few wisps that had blown out of place when he opened the front door. Had to be perfect and camera-ready when the door opened again.

  He left the bathroom and walked back to the living room, then slipped his hands in his pockets and looked out the window. He grinned at the encampment on his curb. Finally, he’d done something to merit the attention he deserved! Still smiling, he sat on the sofa, where he could see anyone coming up the sidewalk. He picked up a newspaper and stared at the newsprint, but his mind refused to follow the words.

  He doubted his father had even noticed when he left town. His mother said he did—she said he was heart-broken when Tanner walked away from the corporate kingdom he’d prepared, but Tanner didn’t want any part of his father’s world. His dad’s work would swallow him alive, smother him in petitions, paperwork, and people. He would rather do his own thing, be his own man.

  His father had never approved of the newscasting idea—he kept saying he had better things in mind for his only son. He didn’t like Tanner wearing pancake makeup, or carrying around his
own camera, video deck, tripod, battery belt, and microphone. Tanner had thought his father was going to slip under the table the time they went out to eat at the old man’s favorite French restaurant and Tanner used his announcer voice to order from the menu.

  He’d never castigated his son in public, but always in private, with quiet little suggestions that his son could do better, be more than a painted pack mule who read the weather. When Tanner realized he couldn’t escape all the nudging, he left.

  He frowned at the paper in his hands. Had his father written the note? He honestly didn’t know. It was hard to imagine he would . . . but he hadn’t spoken to his father in so long he had no idea what was going through his mind when that plane went down. He could have been thinking of his son . . . or he could have been worrying about his all-consuming universe.

  His mother had inherited everything, of course. She would probably give Tanner anything he asked for, but he had never particularly enjoyed spending the Ford fortune. He’d rather live on his own terms, in a little house and in off-the-rack suits, until he made it on his own.

  Which he was about to do. Thanks to the note.

  He smiled at the irony. This was a great story, and Peyton MacGruder had been wise to jump at it. She seemed like an okay reporter, and he was glad to do her a favor and give her an ending to her series, especially since the other two people she’d interviewed had turned coward and run from the publicity. The preacher probably didn’t want anyone digging into his finances, and the songwriter—well, she didn’t need help. Rumor had it that she was already sitting pretty.

  But he, Tanner Ford, was ready to move up and out of a hick town populated by Joe and Martha Sixpack clones. The Gainesville television market was small time, ranked 165th in the nation, but with the publicity from this prime-time special he figured he could find a job with a station in the top five . . . maybe the top three markets. Chicago was nice, but L.A. would be better. And if Julie St. Claire liked him as much as she’d seemed to, maybe he’d be joining her at the top in New York.