by Hunt, Angela
Mindful that someone might be peering through the window with a long-range lens, he turned the newspaper page. “Thanks, Dad,” he said, staring at a column of meaningless words. “It may sound callous, but dying is the best thing you’ve ever done for me.”
FIFTEEN
TUESDAY, JULY 3
Distracted by the incessant ringing of the phone, the near-constant chime of arriving e-mail, and the questions of curious co-workers, Peyton carried her notes and her laptop to an unused conference room on the south side of the Times building. After crawling on her hands and knees to find an outlet, she plugged in her laptop and settled down to work, keeping her back to the door and her eyes fixed to the computer screen.
She’d fully intended to write this column last night after returning from Gainesville, but the trip had left her exhausted. She went to bed at eight, thinking she’d nap a couple of hours and then sketch out a rough draft, but she slept deep and long, not awakening until sunlight fringed the bedroom blinds.
She’d mentally written this column a dozen times in her kitchen, in the shower, and on the way to work, but the words that sprang easily onto center stage during rehearsal balked in the unwavering light of her deadline. Leaning her elbows on the conference table, she raked her hands through her hair. Unbelievable, that she should develop a case of writer’s block now.
It should have been easy—yesterday Tanner Ford did all the right things and evidenced all the right emotions—disbelief, shock, despair, sorrow, and finally, joy at the thought that his father had written the note. But that orderly display of emotions now felt fake, almost as if he’d rehearsed his reactions. And King’s assertion that Ford had claimed the note for reasons of publicity left a sour taste in Peyton’s mouth.
She glanced at her watch—eight-thirty. With an eleven-thirty deadline, she couldn’t procrastinate any longer.
Drawing a deep breath, she began to type:
Yesterday I drove north to meet the young man whose name was third on my list of people for whom the note of Flight 848 might have been written. This final prospect is a young man—mid-thirties, tall, and striking—and his good looks have served him well. He is Tanner Ford, the weathercaster for WJCB TV, an ABC-affiliate in Gainesville.
Ford was waiting for me when I arrived— he and half the news people from at least two counties, or so it seemed. Interest in the note from the doomed PanWorld flight has grown to a level that surprises even me. I suppose it’s only natural the nation should fixate on a bright bit of hope that survived our country’s worst air disaster.
But as I consider all that has happened over the last few days, I have to ask myself: Are we really concerned about finding a home for the note, or are we—myself included—more concerned about how the attendant publicity can advance us?
I’ll confess that my motives in undertaking the search are not completely altruistic. When the note was first presented to me, my initial thoughts were of my column. But as I’ve taken a copy of the note to three grieving people, its message has worked upon the innermost part of me.
What does the note say? Only six profound words, and I’m happy to reveal them now. The man who wrote the note used his last minutes of life to write: I love you. All is forgiven. Only the word Dad identifies the writer; only the letter T identifies the child.
My assistant and I methodically searched through all the obituaries of passengers and crew from Flight 848, and found only three T names. And so I traveled to meet with three children, all adults, who lost fathers aboard that plane. All three fit the basic criteria for the note, but none of the three were eager to accept its message.
The first candidate, the pastor of a large church in Midamerica, claimed his father would never have written the note. Though he assured me the handwriting did not match (a disputable assertion, given the circumstances in which the note was penned), his basic argument against the note’s ownership was that he did not need forgiveness. He had enjoyed a happy and productive relationship with his father, they never argued, nor were they estranged. Forgiveness, therefore, was unnecessary.
My second interview took me to the port of Boston, where a wealthy and successful woman conceded that her father might have written the note. But, she assured me, the distance between herself and her father was too wide to be crossed, even by a bridge of forgiveness. She had strayed too far, she told me, to deserve reconciliation.
My third candidate, the one closest to home, claimed to recognize both the handwriting and the man behind the message. He and his father had had an argument, he told me, and the note was a loving father’s attempt to set things right. Tanner Ford, weathercaster and grieving son, took the message to heart and—
“Hey, boss!”
Peyton flinched as Mandi’s voice broke her concentration. She turned to see the younger woman in the doorway, her face a study in chagrin.
“I think you’d better come see this.”
Alarmed by the note of panic in Mandi’s voice, Peyton rose and followed her to the news desk. A group of reporters huddled beneath the television set hanging from the ceiling, but they parted like the Red Sea as Peyton approached.
“Sorry,” Karen Dolen murmured, folding her arms. “Tough break.”
A closeup of Julie St. Claire filled the screen, and when the camera cut away, Peyton saw Julie sitting with Tanner Ford . . . on the set of the Early Show. Bryant Gumbel was seated in a chair opposite them, his brows lowered in concern. “So how did you feel when you saw the note for the first time?” he asked.
“Well, Bryant,” Julie said, crossing her long legs in full view of the camera, “we brought a tape. I had a hunch Tanner might be the one we were searching for, so we—well, why don’t we let the video speak for itself?”
Peyton stared at the television in hypnotized horror. Tanner Ford must have left for New York right after his interview with Peyton. The ink on the confidentiality agreement had barely dried before he went out cavorting with the enemy. He was probably sipping wine with St. Claire en route to Manhattan before Peyton even made it home . . .
The cozy setting with Gumbel disappeared from the TV screen, replaced by a shot of Tanner in a chair, a small table at his right hand, and a window—his living room window—behind him. Peyton was not on camera—of course not, they didn’t get her permission—but she could hear herself saying, “Well, Tanner, 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.”
The camera captured every emotion on Tanner’s face—amazement, shock, horror. Then he pressed his hands to his cheeks. “Oh my.” The audio was weak, but the words came through. “Dear God in heaven, help me.”
Fear and anger knotted in Peyton’s gut. She turned away. “Let me by, please,” she said, shouldering her way through the crowd. Her pulse pounded thickly in her ears, blurring the voices from the television and the soft sounds of sympathy from her coworkers.
“I think you ought to stay.” King appeared next to her, his hand reaching out to grip her upper arm. “Don’t run, MacGruder. Let’s see what they’re up to.”
Surrendering to the strength in his voice, she turned around. The camera had returned to Julie St. Claire, stunning in a red suit. The coy reporter was now dashing a tear from her eye. “I was so moved when I saw this tape,” she told Gumbel. “And I know your viewers won’t want to miss tomorrow night’s special. We’ll show video footage of this incredible man”—her hand fell over Tanner Ford’s—“his late father, and the family. We’ll have an interview with Mrs. Ford and those who knew Trenton Ford best, then we’ll follow up with the latest FAA findings about the crash.”
“Look at the bright side,” King said, his voice low in Peyton’s ear. “Apparently Trenton Ford is a big enough fish that she’ll leave the others alone.
Taylor Crowe and the preacher won’t have to worry.”
Peyton listened, her senses numb. She couldn’t see a bright side in this mess, and at the moment she didn’t feel terribly protective of either Taylor Crowe or Timothy Manning. Julie St. Claire hadn’t slit their throats; she’d cut Peyton’s.
A dozen sympathetic eyes turned toward her when the Early Show cut to a commercial. Under the concentrated weight of attention, Peyton looked down, faltering in the unexpected silence. “Well,” she said, finding her voice, “that wraps up my series rather neatly, doesn’t it? All I have to do is write up the obvious—Julie St. Claire stabbed me in the back, and Tanner Ford broke his confidentiality agreement. Maybe I should sue them. That’d make a heck of a surprise ending.”
“That wouldn’t be wise.” The words, chilly and clear, came from Nora Chilton. She turned to Peyton, and her smile actually seemed sympathetic. “St. Claire’s allied with us, remember? The relationship may not be close or even friendly, but I still don’t think Adam Howard would appreciate your writing anything that would put his star reporter in a bad light.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Nora crossed her arms. “What you call unethical, she’d call bold and aggressive. Face it, Mac, you’re playing by yesterday’s rules. And no court in the country would even hear your case because you can’t prove she’s hurt you. You can still write your column and you might not lose a single reader. So cut your losses, kiddo, and wrap this thing up according to the party line. Otherwise, you’ll be the one who loses.”
Peyton moved back to the conference room, her mind reeling. Why even bother to write a final column? What could she say that all of America wouldn’t have already heard? By breakfast time tomorrow, every man, woman, and child in America with a television set would know about Julie St. Claire’s upcoming interview with the note’s rightful owner. “The Heart Healer” column would be nothing more than a print commercial for St. Claire’s prime-time presentation.
Peyton closed the conference room door behind her and leaned against it, breathing in the stale scents of cigarettes and coffee. A temptation rose in her mind— to hit the delete key, forget the entire ending, and take a real vacation—but she’d brought her readers too far to desert them now.
Comment by King Bernard
For a few minutes back there, I was afraid that conniving St. Claire witch had broken Peyton’s spirit. She went pale as she watched that video, and I knew what she was thinking—why bother to do good work and maintain your integrity when you’re surrounded by people who are flashier, faster, and unethical?
When I followed Peyton into the conference room, I found her standing by the table, her fingertips barely touching the keys of her laptop. Without looking up, she said, “You were right about the baggie and the sandwich. I don’t know who wrote the note—or if anyone from Flight 848 did—but that’s not the important thing.”
“What is?” I asked.
She shook her head, and when she looked at me, her eyes shone with tears. “I’m not sure yet. But when I figure it out I’ll let you know.”
She straightened, swept her laptop off the conference table, then moved past me and out the door. I didn’t know where she was going, but I knew why. Sometimes you’ve got to get away and get alone before things can sort themselves out.
I hope Peyton can make sense of this madness. Because if she continues to be hurt by this, I just might go out of my way to run into Julie St. Claire at a future press conference. If I see her, I think I’ll forget all about being an enlightened twenty-first century male and deck the broad.
Might as well make a few waves in the press pool.
Peyton sat on the stone bench by the lake, her backpack by her side. She hadn’t been able to talk herself into leaving the property—that would feel as if Julie St. Claire had managed to run her out of her own newsroom, and Peyton wouldn’t give her enemy that satisfaction. But she couldn’t stay in a building where the walls seemed to be closing in on her.
The sun was perilously close to its zenith, a sure sign that her deadline was fast approaching. But what was she supposed to do? The easiest course of action would be to type up a column supporting everything Julie St. Claire would say in tomorrow evening’s special, but something in Peyton recoiled from that idea. She didn’t want to do anything to smooth Julie St. Claire’s path. And she couldn’t write a lie.
So what should she write? She could always go off on another tangent and discuss, for instance, the importance of closure after a tragedy, but her readers had been following her column with one question uppermost in their minds. She’d be cruel and unfair not to answer it. And she’d be a coward to hedge and say no one would ever know for certain who’d written the note.
She could subtly damage St. Claire’s presentation by mentioning the plastic sandwich bag . . . and the unlikelihood that a first-class passenger would have one in his possession. While that tactic certainly wouldn’t win her any praise from St. Claire or Adam Howard, at least she could say she was being honest.
But her readers wanted closure. The stream of e-mails that had been filling her computer cried out for finality. The search for the note’s author had become inextricably linked to the tragedy, and a definitive answer would help the nation put the catastrophe of Flight 848 to rest.
Peyton lifted her gaze. Overhead, a breeze cajoled a live oak, which answered in a soft, swaying whisper. Why had the note been given to her? Gabriella Cohen had brought the note to the Heart Healer, but Peyton had never felt less capable of healing hearts in her life. All she’d done for Timothy Manning, Taylor Crowe, and Tanner Ford was stir up pain and awaken old memories.
The same thing she’d done to herself.
Wouldn’t it have been more convenient for Pastor Manning if the note had never been found? Taylor Crowe would have had one less tragedy to milk, and Tanner Ford wouldn’t be tempted to use his father’s death for blatant self-promotion. If the note had sunk to the bottom of the sea, life would go on as it always had, and Peyton wouldn’t be feeling so exposed.
She took a deep breath as a dozen different emotions collided. Nora said her writing had deepened, that readers were finally beginning to understand the woman behind the byline. King said she was doing the best writing of her life, but something in the compliment sent a thrill of fear rippling through her veins. Writing shouldn’t be so . . . revelatory. In college, she’d been taught to cover the who, what, when, where, why, and, if she had space, how. Professional writers, she’d been told, should never reveal too much of themselves lest they come across as sentimental or sappy.
The wind freshened, ruffling the surface of the retention pond, and Peyton squinted at a ripple in the water. She’d heard that a six-foot gator lived here, and a few of her coworkers had named him Walter. But Walter, like most gators, tended to be nocturnal, and she hoped he wasn’t thinking of a midmorning stroll on the bank.
“Miss MacGruder?”
The voice came from behind her, and for an instant Peyton considered not turning around. No one who knew her would call her Miss MacGruder, and she wasn’t in the mood for a stranger’s company.
But strangers rarely went away until after they’d had their say. Slowly, she turned her head. A woman was coming toward her, her strides purposeful and quick, her head tilted at an inquisitive angle. She was petite, almost Peyton’s height, with strawberry blonde hair and regular features. A pretty thing—who probably wanted a tip on how to get into television reporting. As she drew nearer, Peyton could see that she was young— probably early twenties, if even that. Not exactly in her column’s usual demographic.
The girl waited until she had reached the curb before speaking again. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, clutching a maroon backpack to her chest. Her voice was high and uncertain, the voice of youth. “When I told the receptionist I wanted to see you, the security guard said you were out here.”
Peyton grimaced. Some security they had around here—why didn’t he just d
raw the woman a map? This girl could be anyone, even a madwoman with a gun, and he wouldn’t think twice about sending her straight toward her target.
She forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”
The girl stepped forward, then hesitated as her gaze drifted toward the lake. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
“You could begin with your name.”
The tip of the girl’s nose went pink. “It’s Lila. Lila Lugar.”
Peyton leaned back, taking in Lila Lugar’s appearance. She certainly didn’t look like a lunatic. She wore a long floral skirt and a summer sweater, the typical garb of a college student. Her hair hung off her shoulders in a casual style, and she carried nothing but the backpack—but who knew what it contained.
Why not let the girl talk? Perhaps she had a story worth using for “The Heart Healer,” and Peyton needed some new material. She hadn’t gone through her reader mail in days.
She shifted on the stone bench, leaving room for the girl. “Why don’t you sit and tell me about it?”
Smiling her thanks, Lila came forward and sat on the bench, dropping the backpack to her side like a barrier. She swallowed hard and squared her shoulders, then stared out at the pond. “I live in Clearwater,” she said, a small smile hovering at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve lived there since I was six days old, when my parents adopted me.”
Peyton nodded, hoping the story would soon pick up its pace. She had her own worries to consider, and she didn’t have time for a day-by-day replay of this girl’s life, short as it was. But she could be patient a few moments more. She had never done an adoption story, so perhaps there was a column here.