The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  “Do you want me to tell people the true story?” Peyton gently probed. “I could release your name or not, whatever you’d prefer.”

  “Please don’t.” Lila’s eyes met Peyton’s. “I don’t need that kind of attention.”

  Peyton reached out and tentatively, gently wiped a tear from the girl’s cheek. “I understand.”

  And as Lila straightened and walked away, Peyton bit her lip and struggled to constrain the cry that clawed in her throat.

  Comment by Lila Lugar, 19

  University of Florida Student

  I never meant to tell Peyton MacGruder as much as I did. I thought I’d meet her, explain about the note and my family, and calmly settle things. She’d give me the note, and then I could take home a piece of my mom and dad and hold on to it for the rest of my life.

  I certainly never meant to break down and bawl like a baby in her arms. I thought I’d cried everything out. But sometimes I see something—my mom’s slippers under the bed, a grocery list in my dad’s handwriting—and the next thing you know, I’m reaching for tissues.

  Last night I sat in my dad’s brown plaid recliner and went through his high school yearbook. I didn’t know a soul in those funny pictures; couldn’t place a name with a single crew-cut face. But Dad knew them. I stayed up until two, just staring at the flattops and poodle skirts and grainy black-and-white photographs.

  My parents’ friends say it’s okay to be fragile, but they don’t really know what I’m going through. It’s hard to lose both your parents at once, but it’s devastating to lose them when you’ve parted in anger.

  Funny, but I thought of myself as all grown up until June 13. On that day, after the crash, I felt like a little girl again. It wasn’t until several days afterward that I realized I could go on, because Mom and Dad had prepared me.

  My parents, Jerry and Martha Lugar, clothed me in the iron virtues of strength, compassion, understanding, and loyalty. I wanted to explain all this to Peyton MacGruder, but my tears kept getting in the way. She seemed so interested, and I wanted her to know that the parents God gave me are the ones to whom I owe almost everything.

  There are two other people—a man and a woman—to whom I owe my existence, and I don’t mean to belittle their involvement in my life. I respect them, I’m grateful for the way they put my interests above their own, but I don’t want to intrude now.

  All I want is to hold this note, to press it to my heart and know that everything’s okay. Though I can’t know for sure, I have a feeling Mom was holding Dad’s arm as he wrote this . . . and sending her love along.

  It’s hard to describe what the note means— having it is like walking in a garden after a sudden spring shower. The note is special to me . . . and I have a feeling Peyton MacGruder will be special, too. Her hard work has brought me a joy and assurance I would not have found any other way. I’ll always be grateful for her.

  Always.

  “Hey, MacGruder!”

  Carter Cummings’s voice cut through the newsroom clatter as the news reporters scrambled to file before their four o’clock deadline. Peyton had already asked for an extension. With all that had happened in the last few hours, she didn’t know how to end her series.

  Now she scowled at Carter, who would doubtless toss another distraction her way. “Go away, Carter,” she yelled, bringing a hand up to shield her face. “I’m trying to think.”

  Carter came closer, a sly grin twisting his features. “Just thought you’d want to know that your nemesis has just landed at TIA. They’re taping something for her special tomorrow, so she’ll be at the crash site for the next hour or so.”

  Surprise siphoned the blood from Peyton’s head, leaving her dizzy. “Julie St. Claire’s here?” She grasped the edge of her desk. “In town?”

  Carter grinned. “Heard it from a guy who works for the Buccaneers. Apparently he and some of the team were at the airport when the WNN jet landed. It’s a quick trip, but if you want to go toss a pie in her face, here’s your chance.”

  Peyton was on her feet before her conscious brain gave the command to move. “Pie tossing’s not exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do.”

  She grabbed her backpack, nearly hitting Mandi as she slung it over her shoulder.

  “Can I come?” Mandi’s voice rang through the newsroom as Peyton stalked away.

  “Stay here in the sandbox, kiddo,” Peyton called, well aware that half the males in the newsroom were hissing, mocking the sounds of a catfight. “I’ll be back before deadline.”

  Peyton pushed the Jetta well past the legal speed limit, then set the brakes to squealing as she stopped at the end of West Cypress Street. Carter’s informant proved correct; already two television vans occupied the scrubby stand of beach, one with its microwave antenna already extended.

  Leaving her bag in the car, Peyton pocketed the keys and set off at a jog. A uniformed cop tried to stop her as she approached, but he lowered his hand when she flashed her Tampa Times ID badge.

  “You got business here?” he called.

  “Indeed I do.” Peyton kept moving. “I’m the Heart Healer.”

  He let her pass without another word.

  Julie St. Claire sat inside the second van, a mirror in her hand as a young man fussed at her hair. “It’s the wind,” he said, one hand fluttering up and down in what Peyton assumed was frustration. “We can’t do the fringe bang in this wind. You’ll have to let it—”

  With the arrogance of a warrior, Peyton leaned into the open doorway. “Julie St. Claire? I need a word with you.”

  The startled hairdresser dropped his pick, but St. Claire only lifted a delicately shaped brow. “Peyton MacGruder,” she said, a hair of irritation in her voice. “How nice to finally meet you up-close and personal.”

  “I wish I could say the same.” Peyton’s breath came in short gasps, her lungs squeezed by tamped-down anger.

  Leaning forward, Julie gestured languidly toward the beach. “Did you see our friend Tanner Ford? They’re filming on the beach. He’s tossing a rose into the waves, probably just around that bend—”

  “I didn’t come to see Tanner Ford. I came to see you.”

  The brows rose again, graceful wings of contempt, then Julie reached up to touch her hair. “Thanks, Jacques. Would you mind leaving us alone a moment?”

  Jacques shuddered as if the thought of abandoning an imperfect creation grated upon his ethics, then he gave Peyton a disdainful look and slipped out of the van.

  Julie waited a moment, then pressed her hands together, the manicured talons meeting tip-to-tip. “All right, you came to see me. What’s on your mind?”

  Taking a deep breath, Peyton struggled to master the passion that had her nerves in a knot. “I could talk about how you convinced Tanner Ford to break his confidentiality agreement,” she began, her fists clenching, “but now that’s pretty much water under the bridge. If you’re the sort of person who cares nothing about integrity, then I doubt there’s anything I can say to change your mind.”

  St. Claire showed her perfectly white teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “So what did you come to talk about?”

  “The truth, Julie. You’re planning to tell the world that Trenton Ford wrote the note, and that’s a lie. Today I learned who really wrote it—and I gave the original to the child for whom it was intended.”

  St. Claire lifted her head slightly, like a cat scenting the breeze. “And who was this mystery person?”

  Peyton crossed her arms. “My contact has asked for anonymity, and I’m going to grant it. I won’t publish the name, and neither will you.”

  For a moment St. Claire merely stared at her with a bland half-smile, then her expression hardened. “So kind of you to come down here and say hello. We’ll be finishing up in an hour or so and heading back to New York.”

  Words bubbled up and spewed out of Peyton’s mouth in a flood. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? You’re taping a lie, Julie. Tanner Ford is only out for
publicity; he wants a ticket out of Gainesville! His story rings about as true as a front-page headline of the National Enquirer!”

  “I think you’re wrong.” St. Claire smiled as if dealing with a temperamental child. “The story has been confirmed by Blythe Ford, his mother. The pieces fit together perfectly.”

  Peyton snorted. “Oh, yeah? How many first-class passengers do you know who load their briefcases with Zippup sandwich bags?”

  The wattage of St. Claire’s smile dimmed slightly, then brightened again. “People are eccentric, Peyton, and wealthy people are more eccentric than most. You can’t be sure Trenton Ford didn’t reach out and take the bag from his neighbor.”

  “How likely is that, Julie?”

  “Likely enough for TV—this isn’t a court of law. I’m making a logical assumption, and if the situations were reversed, you’d do exactly the same thing.”

  Peyton drew a breath, about to protest, then stopped. Truthfully, she might have done exactly the same thing two weeks ago. But she wouldn’t now.

  The note had made the difference.

  The realization was so unexpected she actually began to laugh.

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing,” St. Claire drawled. “Now, if you will excuse me, I really must have Jacques do something with my hair.”

  Peyton pushed her way into the van, moving forward until she bent within two inches of St. Claire’s perfectly powdered face. “You are going to broadcast a lie,” she said, lowering her voice to the pitch of cold steel. “And you don’t care. You’d rather deceive the world and have people believe this note was intended for the idiot out there on the sand.”

  For the first time, St. Claire’s brows creased. “I have to give them something,” she hissed. “The show’s been booked; the advertisers are on board. What am I supposed to give them, if not Tanner Ford?”

  “Give them the truth.” Peyton paused to let her words sink in. “Tell them about a father who loved his child enough to concentrate his final thoughts on an offer of reconciliation. Don’t single out one person—let the message go out to the world.”

  A cold, congested expression settled on Julie St. Claire’s face. “That won’t play to my audience,” she said, her voice flat. “I’m a serious journalist, and serious journalists don’t deal in generalities. My people want specifics; they want names and faces and details. And that’s what I’m going to give them.”

  Peyton moved back as the bitter gall of frustration burned the back of her throat. No truth here—not even compromise. And that’s the way it would remain.

  She drew a deep breath, straightened her posture, and turned to look toward the water. After shading her eyes with her hand she could see a cameraman squatting in the foreground, his lens pointed toward Tanner Ford’s long form. Ford stood near the waves, his face turned out to sea.

  He’d claimed the note . . . but he’d never know its true power.

  “All right, then,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Cold, clear reality swept over her in a powerful wave, leaving her breathless.

  If the truth were to be told, she’d have to tell it.

  Back at her desk, Peyton pounded the computer keys, concentrating so fiercely that the sounds of the newsroom retreated into static. She wrote without thinking; words and feelings and truths seeming to pour from her. Finally, she gave the story a quick glance, ran a spellcheck, then clicked the send key.

  She was staring at the empty computer screen when King’s voice cut into her consciousness. “Solve all the world’s problems today?”

  Grief welled in her, black and cold, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Then the words came, a confession: “I need help, King. I need to talk to someone.”

  When she turned, his eyes brimmed with compassion. “You’re in luck,” he said, extending his hand. “Come on. I happen to know someone who likes to listen.”

  The Lakeview Trailer Park had not changed since Peyton last visited it, but somehow it looked softer in the diffused light of dusk. King parked his Jeep in front of lot 137, then cut the engine and gave Peyton a questioning look. “I hope you’re hungry. When I told Mary Grace we were coming, she promised to make tuna fish sandwiches.”

  “Sounds great.” Peyton pressed her hand to her empty stomach, suddenly aware that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  As she and King walked up the driveway, Peyton tipped her head back and breathed in the scents of mown grass and gardenias. Someone on the opposite side of the park was grilling—steak, if the smell wafting their way could be trusted.

  Strains of classical music drifted through the trailer’s open window, and Peyton felt her mouth twist as King knocked on the door. The Magic Flute? Mary Grace liked Mozart?

  A moment later the door opened. Mary Grace’s sturdy form filled the doorway, then reached out to trap King in a bear hug. “King Bernard, it’s been too long!”

  “Likewise, Mary Grace.”

  A moment later Peyton found herself on the uppermost concrete step, then the woman’s arms reached for her, too. “How are ya, honey?” she whispered, breathing a kiss on Peyton’s cheek as she clasped her in a warm embrace. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you in the last couple of days. Reading your column, too, though I usually take the Post.”

  “I’m fine.” Peyton’s voice, like her nerves, was ragged, but Mary Grace seemed not to notice.

  “Come on in. There’s lemonade in the fridge and sandwiches and chips on the counter. I didn’t have time to make much and it’s too hot to cook, but—”

  “It all looks great, Mary Grace.” King announced his approval from the sink, then gestured toward the small table in the kitchen. “Come on, ladies, let me seat you. I’m starving.”

  They laughed, and Peyton felt her spirits lift as she sank into the chair King offered. After a moment of silence, during which Mary Grace murmured, “For all we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly grateful,” they began to eat. The tuna fish salad was cold and crunchy, the lemonade tart. As King and Mary Grace munched and made small talk, she swallowed her first bite, then held the cold glass to her cheek, relishing the sting of its icy touch. She should have been hungry, but her appetite seemed to have vanished along with her scoop on the story of the note.

  “Don’t you like tuna fish, honey?” Mary Grace’s voice brought her back to the present.

  “Oh, it’s good; I like it fine. I’m just not very hungry.”

  With a look that said she understood completely— understood what?—Mary Grace nodded. “We’ll finish up here,” she said, scraping a fallen bit of tuna off her paper plate with a potato chip. “Then we can talk in the living room or outside.”

  “The kitchen is fine.” Remembering the baby dolls in the living room, Peyton dropped her gaze to the mica tabletop. “Please, don’t go to any trouble on our account.”

  Mary Grace chewed her last bite, then propped her elbows on the table and folded her hands. She glanced at King for a moment, then said: “It’s all right, child. I hear you need to talk, and we’re ready to listen. Go ahead. Share that burden on your heart.”

  Peyton waved her hands. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Really.”

  “If you were fine, you wouldn’t look like a wide-eyed kid who’s seen something she shouldn’t have.” Featherlike laugh lines crinkled around Mary Grace’s blue eyes as her hand reached out to squeeze Peyton’s. “Tell me all about it, honey. You came to see me because you wanted to know how to deal with grieving people. So tell me what you learned.”

  Beneath the table, Peyton’s knees began to shift back and forth, touching and parting like the knees of a girl about to be kissed for the first time. “I interviewed three people—well, four, really. With each of them I shared the story of the note, and each of them had a different reaction.”

  “The note from the crash? The one I’ve been reading about?”

  Peyton nodded. “The first man, the minister, didn’t accept the note because he and his dad were on good terms
. The second prospect, a woman, didn’t accept it because she and her father were on terrible terms—isn’t that ironic? Completely opposite situations, but neither of them wanted anything to do with what I had to offer. The third man claimed the note, but I don’t think he did it sincerely and I know his father didn’t write it. He sees the note as a ticket to fame and fortune.”

  She lowered her gaze, her mind darkening as she thought of Tanner Ford and the upcoming TV special. She could almost hope something bad would happen, something that would prevent him from making it to New York. But long ago she’d learned that life isn’t fair.

  King spoke up. “You said there was a fourth person?”

  As she nodded, all the emotions that had been lapping at her subconscious suddenly crested and crashed. She’d been holding them at bay for hours, and she wanted to tell someone, she needed to spill the entire story.

  She looked up, trying to control herself, but her chin wobbled and her eyes filled in spite of her efforts. “The girl I met this afternoon,” she said, balling her hands into fists and fighting back the sobs swelling in her chest. “Well, maybe I should begin at the beginning.”

  A shiver spread over her as she lowered herself into the cold well of memory. “I married Garrett MacGruder between my sophomore and junior years of college. And though my father didn’t approve of my dropping out of school, I was very happy with my husband. I’d never felt close to my father, you see, and wanted nothing to do with his new wife and kids. So while Garrett taught at the university, I worked to help put food on the table and we rented a little house in Gainesville. Poor and happy, that was us. But one day—New Year’s Day, 1982—Garrett crashed the car into an oak tree and died.

  “It seems odd to think of it now, but at the time I thought I was totally alone in the world. Garrett’s parents were deceased. And with my mom dead and my dad a million miles away—”