The Way Home

by Irene Hannon

  Amy withdrew her keys and slung her purse over her shoulder before she looked up.

  “Hello, Cal.”

  Her voice seemed more throaty than usual, and he suddenly found it difficult to swallow. “Hello, Amy. This is a surprise. Isn’t this a bit off your normal beat?”

  She shrugged. “I go where the stories are.”

  He glanced at his watch. “How many hours a day do you work? You were in court at nine this morning.”

  She looked at him steadily. “How ever many it takes.”

  He frowned. “But why would they assign you to two stories twelve hours apart?”

  “They didn’t assign this one. I proposed it and got permission to put a piece together. I’m hoping it’s good enough to win airtime. But the rest of my work still needs to get done. So I do these kinds of stories after hours.”

  His frown deepened. “Have you had dinner?”

  The impulsive question surprised him as much as it obviously did her.

  “No.”

  He hesitated, unsure what had prompted that query. But he was in too far now to back out, and he didn’t have time to analyze his motives. “Would you like to grab a bite with me? I came here directly from the office, and I’m starving.”

  She stared at him. Was he actually initiating a date? With a woman he’d gone to great lengths to avoid? “Could you repeat that? I think my ears are playing tricks on me,” she said cautiously.

  Cal gave her a crooked grin. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m as surprised by the invitation as you are?”

  She couldn’t doubt the sincerity in his eyes. “Yes.”

  “So how about it?”

  She tilted her head and looked at him quizzically. “Can I ask why?”

  He paused to consider. “That’s a fair—but tough—question,” he replied candidly. “Frankly I have no idea. Maybe because I feel I still owe you a dinner. Maybe because I enjoyed our evening together. Maybe because it would make my grandmother happy.”

  She eyed him warily, but now there was a slight twinkle in her eye. “I’m not even going to ask about that last reason.”

  “Good. So?”

  She studied him for another few seconds, then gave a slight shrug. “Why not?”

  He smiled, and the warmth in his eyes brought a flush to her cheeks. “Great. Give me ten minutes to shower and change.”

  Cal headed back toward the boys still on the court as Amy stared after him.

  “What was that all about?”

  With an effort she tore her gaze from Cal’s retreating figure and looked up to find that Steve had returned. “He asked me out to dinner.”

  Steve’s eyebrows rose. “No kidding! What brought that on?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, maybe it will give you a chance to pump him for that angle you’re after.”

  “Maybe.”

  But oddly enough, for a woman who always put business first, the very last thing on her mind at the moment was the Jamie Johnson trial.

  Chapter Five

  By the time Cal reappeared fresh from the shower exactly ten minutes later—looking fabulous in worn jeans that fit like a glove, a cotton shirt with the long sleeves rolled back to the elbows and his wet hair even darker than usual—the modicum of poise Amy had regained during his absence immediately evaporated.

  “Right on time,” she remarked breathlessly, glancing at her watch as she struggled to control the sudden staccato beat of her heart.

  “My grandmother always told me never to keep a pretty lady waiting,” Cal said with a wink, which did nothing to restore her equilibrium.

  She was glad he wasn’t privy to her elevated pulse rate—although there was nothing she could do to hide the telltale flush that suffused her face at the unexpected compliment. “I think I like your grandmother,” she replied, struggling for a light tone.

  He chuckled. “She’s a hard lady not to like. Ready?”

  Amy nodded, and Cal fell into step beside her as they headed for the exit.

  “Is she still in Tennessee?” Amy asked.

  “Yes. Always has been, always will be.”

  “By choice or circumstance?”

  “Choice. She’s perfectly content with her cabin in the mountains and her work at the local craft co-op.”

  When they reached the door, Cal pushed it open, one hand in the small of her back as he guided her out. It was an impersonal gesture, born of breeding and good manners, but it nevertheless sent a tingle up her spine. Get a grip, Amy admonished herself. It’s okay to enjoy this impromptu date, but remember—there’s no future here. You are two very different people.

  “Where are you parked?” Cal asked as he surveyed the small lot.

  Amy pointed toward a late-model BMW. “Over there.”

  Cal noted the car, but made no comment. Instead, he turned to her, his gaze moving swiftly over her attire, taking in the royal blue jacket with black buttons, wide gold choker, black slacks and heels. “Where would you like to go? You’re dressed for the Ritz, but I don’t think they’d even let me in the back door,” he said with an engaging grin.

  She smiled and shrugged. “Anywhere is fine. Fast food, if you like.”

  “Oh, I think we can do a little better than that. Have you ever eaten at Rick’s?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a nice place—good food, comfortable atmosphere. And not too far from your apartment, so it will be convenient.”

  “For me, maybe. But what about you? I’m sure your day has been as long as mine. How about somewhere in between our places?” Amy countered. “Where do you live?”

  He named the modest suburb—a far cry from her upscale neighborhood. Considering his position, she was a bit surprised—but not too much. She was beginning to realize that Cal Richards was a man who preferred a simple life and didn’t have a pretentious bone in his body.

  “Frankly, unless you have some other preference, I’d enjoy going to Rick’s. It would be a nice change of pace. By the time I get around to dinner most nights I’m too tired to go out, so I usually just nuke something.”

  Amy acquiesced. “That’s fine with me, then. I’ll just follow you.”

  He waited until she was in her car, with the doors locked, before he headed to his own. She watched in the rearview mirror, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when he stopped beside an older-model compact. Despite his prestigious position, Cal Richards obviously saw no need for conspicuous displays of success. The man continued to amaze—and impress—her.

  When they arrived at the restaurant, he was out of his car and beside her door almost before she turned off the motor. As she reached for her purse and stepped out, she smiled. “My compliments to your mother. She obviously raised a gentleman.”

  Though he smiled in response, a fleeting pain passed across his eyes. “Actually, my grandmother gets most of the credit. My mom died when I was twelve.”

  Amy’s gaze softened in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. It was a hard time for everyone. Dad was beside himself, so Gram suggested we move in with her until we got past the worst of the grief. It worked out so well, we never left. I always missed Mom, of course, but Gram was great. She did a terrific job as a surrogate mother. And Dad went above and beyond, trying to make up for the fact that I only had one parent. I don’t think he ever missed a single event in my life, from spelling bees to camping trips with the Scouts.”

  “I take it the three of you are still close.”

  “Very.” He ushered her inside the restaurant, and smiled at the hostess. “Hello, Steph.”

  “Cal! It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said ruefully. “Life’s too busy. But I’m overdue for a dose of Rick’s cooking.”

  She picked up two menus and led the way to a quiet corner table. “I’ll let him know you’re here. Enjoy.”

  Once they were seated, he took one brief glance at the menu then laid it aside.


  “A man of quick decision, I see,” Amy remarked.

  He flashed her a grin. “No, just in a rut. I always seem to get the same thing here.”

  “Which is?”

  “Seafood pasta and the house salad. It’s a pretty tough combination to beat.”

  Amy put her menu down. “You convinced me.”

  A moment later the waiter arrived with a basket of crusty French bread still warm from the oven, and Amy helped herself while Cal gave their order. She closed her eyes and smiled as she took the first bite.

  “Now this is the way to end a long day,” she declared.

  Cal chuckled and followed her example. “It sure beats a microwave dinner.”

  “Amen to that,” she replied fervently. “Unfortunately, that’s my usual fare.”

  He smiled. “I take it the kitchen isn’t your favorite room.”

  She tilted her head and considered the question. “Actually, I like to cook. But there’s never any time.”

  “That commodity does seem to be in short supply these days,” he agreed with a sigh.

  “Yet you manage to find time to help out at Saint Vincent’s.”

  He shrugged dismissively. “A lot of people do a lot more.”

  “Maybe they’re not as busy as you are.”

  “Some are busier. And the basketball is only one night a week.”

  “Michael Sloan hinted that your support went way beyond that.”

  Cal shifted uncomfortably. “I help out here and there in different ways,” he said vaguely. “I believe in the work they do. Those kids need all the help and encouragement they can get. I’ve been very blessed, and I feel the need to give something back, to demonstrate my gratitude in a concrete way. Saint Vincent’s lets me do that.”

  He made it sound as if Saint Vincent’s was doing him a favor, she thought, once again impressed by the way he downplayed his obviously significant contribution to the boys’ center. “You certainly have a fan in Mark,” she observed.

  Cal smiled briefly, then grew more serious. “Mark’s a great kid. He’s smart, ambitious and willing to learn. Which is saying a lot, considering he comes from a single-parent home headed by an alcoholic mother, has no idea who his father is and lives in one of the poorest—and roughest—sections of the city. He and his brother are the kind of kids we’re trying to help at Saint Vincent’s. We want them to understand that they do have options and that there are people who care.”

  “You seem to be doing a good job of it, to hear Mark talk. How did you get involved there, anyway?”

  “Through my church. We sponsor an annual field trip for the kids, and I volunteered a few years ago. I’ve been helping out down there ever since.”

  Amy tilted her head and studied him. “So you’re a churchgoing man.”

  He nodded. “All my life.”

  Their salads arrived, giving her time to digest his comment. “I admire that,” she said frankly when the waiter departed. “In fact, I envy it a little.”

  “You don’t go to church?”

  “Not much anymore. We went every Sunday when I was growing up. But once I was out on my own— I don’t know, other things somehow took precedence. Time was at more and more of a premium, and somehow religion dropped to the bottom of my priority list.”

  “That can happen,” Cal said without censure. “When I first came to Atlanta I was tempted to skip church. It was just one more obligation to fit into a schedule that was already too packed. But every time I missed a Sunday, I felt somehow out of sync for the rest of the week. I know going to church is just an outward sign of faith, but it reminds me to keep my priorities straight and helps keep me grounded.” He paused and studied her for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Since you attended church most of your life, do you ever miss it now that you’ve stopped going?”

  Amy propped her chin in her hand and considered the question. “Sometimes I feel guilty about not going. But I can’t say I miss it, per se.” She did, on occasion, however, sense that something was missing from her life. And she suspected it had to do with her lapsed faith. In some vague way she felt she had disappointed God, and the longer she stayed away from church, the harder it became to go back. But she wasn’t about to reveal that to Cal. “I really don’t think about it too often,” she finished. “And I certainly don’t live it the way you do.”

  “I don’t know. Look at the story you were working on tonight. That will help a lot of people.”

  “I’d like to say I did it for purely selfless reasons. But my motives weren’t really altruistic,” she said frankly. “Yes, I hope the story benefits Saint Vincent’s. But I also hope it gets me noticed.”

  Cal studied her for a moment. “Can I ask you something else?”

  There was something in his tone that made her cautious. “Maybe.”

  “Are you ever off duty?”

  “Of course. I’m not working right now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He steepled his fingers and gave her a direct look. “I guess I’m wondering if you’re still hoping to get something from me you can use in the Jamie Johnson coverage.”

  Amy stared at him, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “You think I accepted your invitation just because of that?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t think of any other reason. Not that I’m complaining, you understand.” He gave her a wry smile. “It beats eating alone.”

  Amy continued to stare at him as the waiter refilled their water glasses. He couldn’t think of any other reason? Was he kidding? She could think of about a dozen without even trying. He was intelligent, handsome, articulate, generous, had a good sense of humor and, considering his comment, was obviously completely without ego—a refreshing attribute and a definite plus as far as she was concerned.

  Amy laid her fork down carefully and cleared her throat. “Look, I know you think I’m a workaholic, and that everything I do has an ulterior motive, but will you believe me when I say that my only reason for accepting your invitation tonight was because I wanted to? Because I enjoyed our last evening together? And because, like you, I prefer not to always eat alone?”

  He chose to focus on her last comment. “If you eat alone, it must be by choice. I can’t believe you lack for male companionship.”

  She shrugged indifferently, pleased nonetheless by the backhanded compliment. “Relationships are demanding. And I don’t have the time. So why start something I know will simply fizzle out as soon as the guy realizes he takes second place to my career?”

  “Your job is that important to you? So important that you’re willing to give up your personal life?”

  She grimaced. “Now you sound like my mother.”

  “And what do you tell her when she makes those kinds of comments?”

  “That of course I want a husband. And children. But marriage and kids aren’t compatible with the demands of my career. I’ll get around to those things eventually.”

  “After you do all the ‘important stuff’?”

  She gave him a startled look, then frowned. “I didn’t say that. And besides, who are you to talk? You spend an inordinate amount of time at your job, too, and as far as I know you haven’t made time for a wife or family, either.”

  He couldn’t argue with her on that. And they were heading toward turf he preferred to avoid.

  “Touché,” he replied lightly. “How did we get on this subject, anyway?”

  Amy shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “How about we get off it?”

  “Good idea. I don’t want to end the evening with indigestion. So…tell me what you do for fun.”

  “I’m not sure I remember,” he confessed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he chased an elusive piece of lettuce around his plate.

  She rolled her eyes. “See? You are as bad as I am. Well…what about vacations, then? Where do you go when you manage to get away?
”

  “Back to the mountains.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes. I’ve been other places, but there isn’t much that can rival a morning in the Smoky Mountains, with the mist floating over the valleys and the blue-hued mountains forming an ethereal backdrop. The majesty of it never fails to take my breath away. And the incredible peace there—it’s a balm for the soul.”

  Amy hadn’t expected such a poetic description from an assistant prosecuting attorney—nor one so heartfelt. “I can see now why you said you had to think long and hard about leaving,” she said slowly. “I can hear in your voice how much you love it there.”

  He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. He was rarely so open in expressing his feelings about the mountains, and he wasn’t sure what had prompted him to be so candid tonight. “So where do you go?” he asked, turning the tables.

  “Cancún. The Caribbean. Europe now and then.”

  “Ah…a world traveler. What’s your favorite place?”

  She considered his question as the waiter replaced their salad bowls with heaping plates of pasta. “You know, I don’t think I’ve found it yet,” she replied thoughtfully. “I guess I’m still searching for the ideal spot.”

  As the meal progressed, they hopscotched around a half-dozen topics, deliberately staying on safe subjects. When they finally left the restaurant, long after most of the other diners had departed, he walked her to her car.

  “So when will the piece on Saint Vincent’s air?”

  “It’s not ‘when,’ but ‘if,’” she reminded him. “It was done on a purely speculative basis. But if they’re going to use it, it will probably be in the next couple of weeks on a slow news night. Most likely the six o’clock program. I’d offer to alert you, but I probably won’t know until right before it airs that it’s going to run.”