by Neesa Hart
“He wanted to grow up and join the Beatles. He hadn’t planned on being a superstar because of his death.”
Jackson looked directly at the camera, and Cammy’s heart skipped a beat. “Then, as if to make sure I knew it was all right with all of you, you offered to give me an award for the noble deed of exploiting the tragedy of Leo’s life.” He shook his head. “And fool that I was, even that didn’t help me find the truth.” His voice had turned raw.
“I didn’t really see what was happening here until five weeks ago, when I walked into the office of Dr. Cameo Glynn.”
Cammy swallowed. Macon’s eyebrows lifted. “Wow.” Cammy continued to stare at the screen. Jackson glared at the camera. “It was a remarkable experience,” he was saying.
Macon made an exultant noise. “I couldn’t have written this better myself. Maybe we should go over there.”
“We can’t,” Cammy told her, transfixed. “I want to see the rest.”
“We could listen to it in the car.”
She shook her head. “I want to see it. What I can see is the best part of listening for me.”
Jackson was talking about the meeting they’d had in Mike’s office. Cammy looked first at the TV, then at Macon, then back at Jackson’s beloved face. How in the world, she mused, had she failed to realize how much she loved this man?
He’d looked at her with that same rough tenderness when he’d finally acceded to her wishes at the hospital last night. She’d first seen it, she realized, the morning he’d made love to her without the benefit of her transmitter. He’d been trying to tell her, even then, how much he valued her, flaws and all.
For an expert in nonverbal communication, she mused, she certainly had managed to make a mess of listening to him. Like an idiot, she’d ignored every sign he’d ever given her, set him up to disappoint her, and then judged him wanting without evidence or reason to support her decision. She’d stake her life on the fact that he was trying, now, with his words and his actions, to reach her.
A vision of her mother weeping over Durstan, clinging to her hand, popped into Cammy’s mind. What had destroyed her parents’ marriage was a stack of unreasonable expectations, compounded by an unwillingness to forgive one another’s faults. Surely, if Jackson could forgive himself for Leo’s death, he could forgive her, just once more, for being a blind fool.
Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on her desktop. “Do you know where he is?”
“National Press Club. Third-floor briefing room. I recognize the wallpaper. Sure you don’t want to go?”
A final look at his face as he explained how Cammy had berated him that morning gave her the courage to take the final leap. “No,” she told Macon. “I want to watch the rest of this.- Then I want you to schedule that press conference you’ve been pressuring me to hold.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. He shouldn’t be the only one out there on that limb.”
“While you’re in this agreeable mood, can I convince you to let Jacob and me go with you to the memorial garden today?”
Cammy hesitated. “I think I’d like that.”
“May I call Jackson and tell him to meet us there?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
eighteen
“I pursued the story,” Jackson continued to explain, “against Dr. Glynn’s wishes. She feared that with our usual rabid attention to the spectacular and our reckless disregard for lives, we might exploit some of the children she treats.”
He paused. The tension in the room was palpable. Chris Harris would probably have his head for this, but it didn’t matter. About the only thing that really mattered in his life right now was convincing Cammy that he’d go the distance with her. He’d lain awake most of the night wondering how in the hell he was supposed to get past the fortress she’d built around herself, and knowing that his life wouldn’t be worth living if he couldn’t.
Somewhere around three or four o’clock in the morning, he’d begun to remember all the things she’d ever said to him about journalists, and their selfish motives and selfish tactics. He’d taken a long look at himself and not liked what he’d found. Was it any wonder, he’d asked himself as he’d crawled out of bed and begun to write the statement he was now making, that she doubted him?
“She was right about all of it,” he said aloud. “Without any concern for the consequences, we, the media, latched on to Amy Patterson, and her personal struggle, and made it a quixotic crusade that involves everything from Congresswoman Meyerson’s political aspirations to Jeffrey Herrington’s personal ambition. And I am just as guilty as every one of you.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, things are going to change. Starting now. First, I want to go on record as saying that I have personally observed Dr. Glynn’s methods with the children she treats, and find her to be both deeply committed to their welfare and personally concerned about their individual development.
“Amy Patterson suffered a great disappointment, and Dr. Glynn shared her grief. To any extent that I failed to properly represent that to you, I ask your forgiveness. I fully understand why the public found themselves engaged by that child. She has more spirit and courage than most of us—certainly more than I have shown in recent weeks. In that, she has an excellent role model in Dr. Glynn. Dr. Glynn is responsive to the needs of her patients, honest, generous and ethical.
“Which is more,” he said firmly, “than I can say for the lot of us. People trust us to be truthful and thorough. They read what we write, or watch us on television, and believe that we have the right to give them that information—that we’ve researched it, studied it, and are relaying only what we know to be true. I, for one, am willing to admit that I have betrayed that trust.”
He held up the file he’d been working on since late yesterday afternoon. “For the past two weeks, we have relied on the information both Jeffrey Herrington and Anita Meyerson have provided to attack Dr. Glynn, exploit Amy Patterson’s story, and sell papers and air time. America wanted more. We gave it to them. Unfortunately, on our way to high ratings, we turned a blind eye to the facts.
“In the briefing folders you received when you came in is all the information you and I both should have been looking at all along. I think you’ll find that not only do dozens of experts agree that Dr. Glynn’s methods and programs are above reproach but that evidence suggests that Dr. Glynn’s detractors are motivated by greed and ambition, not their concern for her patients, or for the public good.”
Now for the hard part, he mused. If he got through this without his heart breaking in a million pieces, it would be a small miracle. “I want to interject one personal note, and then I’ll take questions. Most of you are aware of the rumors about my relationship with Dr. Glynn. In my experience, Dr. Cameo Glynn is a remarkably gifted woman with a deep capacity for caring. If the world had more people in it like her, and less people in it like us, we might be out of a job. Chances are, there’d be no muck for us to rake. As regards any personal relationship Dr. Glynn and I may have, I would only say that I should be so fortunate, and that if Anita Meyerson and Jeffrey Herrington are looking for a schoolyard fight, they’d better stick with me. Cameo Glynn is way out of their league.”
A week later, he slipped his hand into his tuxedo pocket and fingered the engraved invitation with a vague sense of hope. He stepped off the elevator and glanced at the large ballroom full of people. Cammy’s fund-raiser, it seemed, was a rousing success.
In the days since his press conference, he’d barely heard from her. He’d heard from Costas that he’d missed her mother’s interment. That had almost killed him. He’d tried, several times, to call her, but he had missed her. He’d finally ended up sending her flowers with a note begging her to contact him. She’d sent him a note in return, thanking him for the flowers and his defense. He’d carried it around in his wallet like a lovesick fool. The next afternoon, he’d sat quietly in the audience and watched her handle herself like a seasoned pro at a pr
ess conference of her own. She’d met his gaze just once, her expression unreadable.
The fallout from his public diatribe hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. Chris Harris had been almost pleased with the way the public had responded. No one had gotten fired, which Jackson considered to be a very good sign. As he’d hoped, Meyerson and Herrington had begun to face enormous pressure to justify their attacks on the Wishing Star Foundation. Jackson had written an article citing the views of experts, parents, doctors, scientists, and, perhaps most persuasively, the patients that Cammy had treated. Response had been swift and overwhelming.
The day after Jackson’s press conference, President Stratton had ended a Q&A session with a public announcement of his support for Cammy and the foundation. Chris had authorized the release of the Meyerson story, with its allegations of foreign campaign contributions and misconduct. In the days since the story broke, several key members of the House Ethics Committee had called for hearings into the matter.
Anita Meyerson had been the first to see the light, and she’d called off her investigation of Cammy and the foundation. It had taken Jackson, several of his colleagues, and Gordon Stratton to convince her that Herrington had suckered her, but she’d finally given in.
When she turned the full force of her anger on Jeffrey Herrington, the little bastard had squirmed. While Jackson had guessed, rightly, that Anita Meyerson was somewhat misguided but capable of doing the right thing, he didn’t hesitate to level Herrington, who represented everything Jackson despised about politics. Releasing all the information he had and making sure it got into the right hands, Jackson had brought coals of fire down on Herrington’s head. With Meyerson’s help, Jackson had ensured that Herrington would have to choose between backing down and political ruin.
For the rest of the week, every news agency in town carried the story of Cammy’s amazing grace under pressure. In the multiple appearances she made, appearances Jackson knew were personally difficult for her, she never wavered. She came across as the gem that she was. Long ago, Jackson realized that in a world filled with fakes and forgeries, Cameo Glynn represented the genuine article. He loved her for it. And now, the world loved her too.
As a result of her meteoric rise to fame and her unrelenting charm, the Wishing Star Foundation fundraiser had become the talk of the town. With the White House announcement that the president himself would attend, invitations became scarcer than snow in July. Every reporter he knew was begging for a press pass, and he’d seen Cammy on the evening news, talking about the incredible outpouring of research support and corporate sponsorships for the foundation.
To Jackson’s delight, the executive board of the Associated Wire Service had voted to give Amy Patterson a complete dance scholarship to the Duke Ellington School for the Performing Arts.
By all accounts, he should be ecstatic. Things could not have worked out any better.
But the one thing that really mattered, his relationship with Cammy, remained in a quagmire of doubt.
And now as he stared at the open archway into the ballroom, he had the unmistakable feeling that his future lay inside. His thumb stroked the invitation again. Had Cammy not couriered it to his office this afternoon, he might not have mustered the courage to attend. He was a coward, he was beginning to realize, when it came to her. The thought that he might lose her absolutely scared the wits out of him.
His heart had almost exploded when he’d removed the invitation from its vellum envelope. Cammy had scrawled one word across the raised print of the invitation: WHISTLE.
If you want me, just whistle. He’d jokingly tossed off that statement a half-dozen times, never realizing that it would come to have such significance. Dragging in a deep breath, he headed for the door.
He spotted her almost immediately. She stood near the dais, wearing that black dress she’d worn the night of their “date” at the observatory. A good sign, he hoped, despite his very irrational surge of jealousy at the looks of masculine appreciation she was receiving.
As if she sensed his presence, she glanced across the room to meet his gaze. He couldn’t read the expression in her eyes, couldn’t decipher the way her lips parted, or the slightly nervous sweep of her hand when she tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. Frustrated, he began the torturous process of making his way through the dense crowd. Every couple of steps, someone stopped him to comment on his press conference, congratulate him on his Pulitzer nomination, or make small talk. He managed, he hoped, to avoid being rude, but he wasn’t willing to bet on it.
He was within thirty feet of the dais when he saw Macon give Cammy a silent cue. Cammy glanced at him once more, then broke free of the group she was in to make her way to the platform. He froze, riveted by the look of promise he’d seen in her eyes.
She walked gracefully to the podium, with the poise of a queen. He had come to recognize her picture-perfect calm as a mask for her nervousness. She stepped up to the microphone, placed two fingers between her lips, and gave a shrill whistle. Jackson’s heart stopped beating.
A startled crowd fell suddenly silent. Every eye in the room turned to the platform. With a slight smile, Cammy apologized. “I’m sorry for the racket. My father was always telling me to act more like a lady, and I’ve had the insatiable urge to do that for years. Besides,” she said with a shrug, “it’s my party.”
The crowd laughed. Everyone, Jackson noted, except for him and Cammy. She found his gaze. Her expression softened and he felt the blood begin to move in his veins again. “And that particular whistle,” she went on, “has a special significance I’ll explain later.”
He watched her carefully begin to disarm the crowd with her indefinable charm, and his heart swelled with love for her. One smile, and she had them eating out of her hand.
“Many of you know,” she was saying, “that the journey to tonight’s event has been more than a little tumultuous. For those of you who supported the foundation during its darker hours, I offer you my eternal thanks.” A devilish smile played at the corner of her lips. “For those of you who’ve finally seen the light, I’ll let you know now that generous donations go a long way toward easing my wrath.” The crowd laughed again.
She continued, “Before I introduce President Stratton, whom I know you’d all rather hear than me, I did have one item of personal business I wanted to address.”
She met Jackson’s gaze again. “Several weeks ago, a man came into my office and turned my life upside down. I wasn’t even remotely prepared for what he was going to do to me. I’d never relished living in the spotlight, and I didn’t exactly know what to do when he cast it on me.
“At first, I didn’t want to trust him. Reporters, in my experience, and I wish I could say present company excluded . . .” That won her a collective laugh. Jackson almost didn’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. This woman who had stolen his heart and taken him captive, who hated speaking in public, was about to save him from a lifetime of misery. Cammy waited for the murmur to die down. “. . . are generally more interested in stories than in people.
“But this reporter was startlingly different. He took an interest not only in the children I work with but in me personally.” She drew a deep breath. “And I unfairly tried to decide for him what he should and should not want.”
She was looking right at him now. The crowd, he knew, was hanging on her every word. “I believed,” she continued softly, “that I was in a better position than he to make decisions about the future. That I knew more about the risks, and that I could more adequately decide how to manage those risks. But then he taught me something.
“Jackson Puller taught me that men of honor and character are willing to go to extraordinary lengths for the sake of justice and compassion. I’m hoping,” her head tilted to one side, “that he’s also willing to go to great lengths for the sake of a foolish woman who should have known what love looked like when she saw it.”
Holding his gaze for a few breathless seconds, she silently pleaded wi
th him. A nudge at his left shoulder had him pushing his way forward again. He barely had time to glance back and send Jacob Blackfort an appreciative look for the shove.
“He used to tell me that if I ever wanted him, all I had to do was whistle.” She paused as he neared the stage. “I’m whistling. I hope he’s listening.”
“He’s listening,” Jackson said. He strode onto the platform, grabbed her hand, and edged her away from the microphone. “If you’ll excuse us,” he told their now rapt audience, “Dr. Glynn and I have something to discuss.” In his peripheral vision, he saw Gordon Stratton waiting near the stairs to the dais. “Besides, the president’s here. I’m sure he’s got a speech ready.”
Without giving Cammy a chance to respond, afraid he’d lose her if he did, he pulled on her hand until she followed him off the platform. He shouldered his way through the crowd toward a door at the back of the ballroom. Vaguely, he heard the president say, “Well, that’ll be a hard act to follow,” but the ringing in his ears had turned into a full-blown carillon.
He shoved open the door and tugged Cammy into the close confines of the supply closet. Surrounded by stacks of linens and dishes and stemware, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly. Starving, he realized. He was absolutely starving. His hands roamed over her. He couldn’t get close enough. His breathing came in harsh pants. “I told you once,” he said, “that I love to listen to you.”
In the dim light, he saw a tremulous smile touch her lips. “Even when I say really stupid things?”
“About the only thing you ever said that I didn’t listen to is that you wanted to get rid of me.” In the ballroom, the crowd burst into laughter. Jackson eased her closer.