An Honorable Man

by Darlene Gardner

  “I know the truth,” she said.

  She proceeded to tell him, omitting nothing. She spared neither her mother nor her father, refusing to make excuses for them. He didn’t look at her as she talked, giving her the impression he couldn’t see anything but the past.

  “So my father was wrong,” he said in a thick voice when she finished. “My mother didn’t kill herself.”

  “There’s a convincing case to be made that she fell, just like you’d always been told.” Sierra couldn’t hold back. She needed him to have all the details, no matter how poorly they reflected on her father. “In some cases, the interaction of SSRI antidepressants and triptans can lead to confusion and disorientation.”

  “In some cases?” he asked.

  “There’s no way to know for sure what effect the drugs had on her,” Sierra said. “That’s how my mother convinced my father to switch the label on the blood sample. I doubt he fully bought into her argument, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your mother was seen driving erratically, which suggests she was suffering from side effects. It’s easy to imagine her getting too close to the edge of the cliff and falling. But logic isn’t the only reason I think my father blamed himself.”

  “What’s the other one?”

  “I wrote his biography for the festival,” she said. “He didn’t get involved in community service until after your mother died. My mother says he was trying to atone for his sin.”

  She swallowed the lump of emotion that had crept into her throat. “You were right. I built up this fiction around my father, just like you said. I found out today he had a drinking problem. I didn’t even know that.”

  His response was slow in coming. “Everybody has flaws.”

  “Not as serious as the ones my father had.” She drew a deep breath. “I understand you’re a reporter and you have to write the story about what my father did. I don’t have any right to ask this of you, but I’m going to anyway.”

  He said nothing, just waited for her to finish.

  “I couldn’t bear for my family to have to deal with the publicity during the festival.” She knew the enormity of what she was asking. Considering the obstacles she’d put in Ben’s way as he chased after the truth, he owed her no favors. “Will you wait until after the festival to publish the story?”

  Before he could refuse, she rushed to add reassurances. “I realize it would be hypocritical to allow my father to be honored.” Her voice cracked. “I promise to make sure the park won’t be named for him.”

  She could feel the thud-thud-thud of her heart as she waited for his answer. Her stomach rolled with nausea. It seemed a very long time before he said, “Why did you tell me this? If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found out.”

  They were sitting perhaps a foot apart, not touching, yet she could feel the heat of his body. She finally looked him full in the face, only to find his eyes trained on her.

  “It was something you said about wishing your mother had fought harder to stay alive.” She blew out a breath. “I didn’t want you to go through the rest of your life believing she didn’t love you enough.”

  There was another reason she’d come clean that was just as compelling: She loved him.

  Every other time the notion crept into her head, she’d discounted it on the basis she couldn’t love a man after so short an acquaintance.

  She didn’t reject it now.

  It was ironic that she’d waited to own up to her feelings until he had good reason to shun her. She swallowed in an effort to open her clogged windpipe and strove to keep the tremble from her voice.

  “Will you honor my request?” Her voice cracked, despite her best efforts. “Will you hold the story until after the festival?”

  His nod, when it came, was slow. “I can do that.”

  She rose on stiff legs from the porch. Quite suddenly, there was nothing more to say except, “Thank you.”

  He nodded in acknowledgement.

  She brushed off the bottom of her damp skirt and made the long, lonely trek to where she’d parked in the driveway. Before she got into her car, she surrendered to the overwhelming temptation to glance back at him. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. She longed to comfort him, but didn’t have the right.

  He must have sensed her watching because he lifted his head before raising one hand in farewell.

  She waved back, then turned away.

  It was, quite possibly, the last time she’d ever see him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE NEWSROOM OF the Pittsburgh Tribune was unnaturally quiet when Ben stepped off the elevator on Friday morning, the carpet muting even his footsteps. Only a few cubicles were occupied, the clacking of computer keyboards nearly too soft to be heard.

  Maybe the office was always slow to come to life. Ben wouldn’t know. He’d never arrived much before ten o’clock. It was before eight now.

  He wondered if Sierra was at work and how she was dealing with the disillusion of discovering her father’s mistake.

  He’d talked himself out of contacting her last night after he’d gotten back to his apartment and made the round of obligatory phone calls to his family. What could he have said to her? “You think you’re feeling bad now? Wait until the article comes out where I assassinate your father’s character.”

  “Nash.” Larry Timmons, the young reporter who was working on the group-home story, came up behind him carrying a can of caffeinated soda. “I thought you were still on vacation.”

  So Joe Geraldi, the paper’s managing editor, hadn’t revealed the real reason Ben had been missing in action. His relief didn’t make much sense. Once the story was published, everybody would find out where he’d been and what he’d been doing.

  “I’m back now,” Ben said. “How’s the story coming?”

  The kid, who was dressed in jeans and looked like he hadn’t had his hair cut in a year, twisted his mouth. “Not great. Joe keeps pushing and pushing but, I’m not convinced there’s anything there.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “The director of the place has this three-strikes policy causing all the problems,” Larry said. “The people who’ve been kicked out allege they’re getting a raw deal. At first it looked that way to me, too.”

  “How about now?”

  “Now it’s not so clear. There are only eight spaces in the house and a waiting list ten times that long. Yeah, the director’s a little inflexible. He makes the argument he has to remove the people who don’t fit in for the greater good. The mentally ill, they don’t deal well with disruptions.”

  “What’s your take on the guy?”

  “He’s not somebody I’d grab a beer with, but I like what he’s about. He can’t succeed with everyone so he’s helping as many people as he can.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re right,” Ben said.

  “You agree with me?” Larry shook his head. “Man, that’s the last thing I expected from the Rottweiler.”

  None of his fellow reporters had ever used that nickname to Ben’s face before.

  “Yeah, well, I like to think I have a few surprises in me,” Ben said. “Is Joe here?”

  “If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be. I’m supposed to meet with him in a few minutes.”

  “Mind if I talk to him first?”

  “Go right ahead.” Larry popped the tab on his soda and took a swig. “I need time to wake up.”

  The door to Joe’s office was open. Ben knocked anyway, drawing the managing editor’s attention from the morning newspaper. Surprise wreathed his face. “Well, damn, thanks for telling me you were coming.”

  “Hello to you, too,” Ben said.

  “You think I’m not glad to see you?” Joe shut the newspaper and got up from the desk, bringing with him an empty foam cup. “I’m so frigging overjoyed, your cup of coffee’s on me.”

  Ben suspected Joe needed the caffeine more than he did. Everybody, even the reporters who didn’t start work until well a
fter dawn, knew the editor couldn’t start his day until he drank several cups.

  “Come with me to the break room and tell me what you found out.” Joe took Ben’s agreement for granted and headed through the silent office with quick, efficient steps.

  The break room was deserted, setting the stage for Ben to tell his boss about Dr. Whitmore’s role in his mother’s death.

  “I’d rather hear what’s been happening around here first,” Ben said.

  Joe slanted him an understanding look, probably concluding Ben needed to work up the fortitude to discuss his mother. Was that the reason? Ben wondered.

  “Okay, here’s the rundown,” Joe said under his breath, “This group-home story is kicking Larry’s ass. You need to step in and show him how it’s done.”

  A row of vending machines took up one wall of the austere, empty room. Joe headed straight for the contraption that dispensed coffee, putting an empty cup under the proper slot.

  “I ran into Larry on my way in and that’s not how it sounded to me,” he said. “Larry said there’s no story.”

  Joe jabbed the button that dispensed the coffee. Hard. “There’s always a story. You know that.”

  Did he? Ben supposed that was an accurate description of his philosophy. But what if he came across a story where, using the group home director’s words, the greater good wouldn’t be served by going to press?

  Joe handed Ben a full cup of black coffee then refilled his own while Ben sat down at the nearest table. Ben took a sip of the coffee, which left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “This is really bad stuff,” he told Joe when his boss joined him.

  “It’s not the taste that’s important. It’s the caffeine.” Joe took a healthy swallow. “Now here’s what I want you to do. Talk to this director and the families of the people he booted, then work with Larry on writing the story.”

  “What if I agree there is no story?”

  Joe snorted. “That’d be the day. You got to the bottom of who sent you that e-mail, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Ben said slowly. “It was the granddaughter of a woman who’d worked as a nurse for Dr. Whitmore.”

  “So there was something there, just like you thought.” Joe waited for him to elaborate.

  There was no reason why he shouldn’t. Dr. Whitmore had wronged his mother, then covered up the evidence. Ben had little doubt Joe would see the merits of publishing the piece: an investigative reporter’s successful probe into his mother’s death. The managing editor had suggested the angle himself.

  Ben could envision the story running on the front page of the opinion section in a Sunday newspaper, where it would get the most readership. The wire services would probably pick it up. The weekly paper in Indigo Springs would run it.

  “Well,” Joe implored, “why did the nurse’s granddaughter send the e-mail?”

  Ben pictured Sierra’s sad, lovely face when she’d told him what her father had done. He heard her voice quavering when she asked that he wait until after the festival to write the story.

  She’d included her mother and brother when making the request, but he suspected it would be hardest for Sierra to deal with the publicity.

  He swallowed. “The e-mail was a mistake. Dr. Whitmore acted as medical examiner after my mother died. The grandmother thought there was an irregularity with her blood sample, but there wasn’t.”

  “So how did your mother die?”

  “It happened just the way I was told.” Ben thought he’d have difficulty with his next statement, but the words slipped off his tongue. “She died in an accident.”

  Joe nodded. He wouldn’t have any reason to doubt Ben’s account. Nobody would. “You can still write the story if you like. Use the angle that sometimes things are exactly what they seem. It would still make a compelling piece.”

  “I’d rather not.” Ben knew what had happened to his mother. He’d shared the news with his father and brothers by phone last night. All three had left it up to him whether to expose the late doctor’s crime. Missy Cromartie wasn’t interested in vengeance, either. She’d made it clear her objective was enlightening Allison Blaine’s family about what her grandmother had witnessed.

  “Fine with me.” Joe took the news in stride. “So there’s nothing stopping you from getting to work on that group home piece.”

  Nothing except a woman with huge, sad eyes who believed his need to expose the truth was greater than his feelings for her.

  “Is it okay if that waits until Monday?” Ben asked, although the question was a formality. He couldn’t work on the story when he wasn’t in Pittsburgh. “I need some personal time.”

  “If you need until Monday,” Joe said, “you need until Monday.”

  “Thanks.” Ben drained the rest of his bad coffee and stood up, calling over his shoulder on his way out of the break room, “I’ll see you Monday then.”

  “Hey,” Joe’s voice trailed him. “Where you going in such a hurry?”

  Ben stopped only long enough to answer, “To do what I should have done days ago.”

  The right thing.

  SIERRA STOOD BEHIND a table stacked with T-shirts in the tent that served as festival headquarters on Friday night. She’d been helping with T-shirt sales since getting off work even though she wasn’t officially on the schedule until later in the weekend.

  She needed to stay busy to keep her mind off the way her father had so grievously wronged the family of the man she loved. The man who had every reason to hate her father and think poorly of his daughter.

  “What do you think?” Laurie Grieb held up a size XXL T-shirt in front of her, the voluminous material obscuring most of her body. “Is this the right size for when I start showing?”

  “That’s the right size if you’re carrying quadruplets,” Sara Brenneman quipped as she sank into a folding chair, the first time Sierra had seen her sit down tonight. The attorney was in charge of assuring that the festival’s first day ran smoothly. With the last band getting set to play on the nearby stage, things were finally quieting down.

  “Twins run in Kenny’s family so you never know how many babies I’ll have,” Laurie said merrily as she handed over cash for the T-shirt. “And who knows. I might gain sixty pounds like my sister did when she got pregnant. Isn’t that right, Sierra?”

  Sierra dragged her mind away from Ben and made an attempt to smile. “I’d advise keeping the weight gain under sixty, but it can’t hurt to buy clothes in a larger size.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” Laurie gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “I just thought of something. My bridesmaid dress won’t fit!”

  “My wedding’s not even two months away, and the dresses have empire waists,” the attorney said. “You won’t even be four months pregnant. You do not need a gigantic size bridesmaid dress.”

  “You don’t know that.” Laurie turned to Sierra. “Does she know that, Sierra?”

  “Oh, no.” Sierra put the double extralarge T-shirt in a bag and handed it to Laurie. “I am not, under any circumstances, disagreeing with the bride-to-be.”

  “I knew there was a reason I was really starting to like you,” the attorney said to Sierra. “Now if only you could convince Laurie to start agreeing with me.”

  “Hey, I’m pregnant.” Laurie placed her hands on her slender hips. “That gives me at least as much right as a bride-to-be to have people nod whenever I say anything.”

  Her friend and employer groaned. “This is going to be a long seven months.”

  “What’s going to take seven months?” Annie entered the tent wearing a cute casual outfit Sierra had helped her pick out. The cropped green shirt matched her eyes, and the tight shorts that skimmed her knees highlighted her slender legs.

  “My pregnancy,” Laurie announced.

  “And here I thought those things lasted nine.” Annie’s eyes sparkled. To the group, she said, “I love the band that’s about to play. Ryan and I spread out a blanket in front of the stage so there’s lot
s of room. Who wants to join us?”

  “I do!” Laurie said. “Let me find Kenny and we’ll be right there. You know what they say. It’s never too early to introduce a baby to music.”

  She hurried off, leaving all three women smiling after her.

  “You’ve been working all day, Sara. You go ahead and enjoy yourself,” Sierra told the attorney. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Sierra said.

  “It’ll only be until someone comes by to help you pack up the T-shirts. We’re storing them in an office nearby. Quincy said he’d round up someone to carry the boxes.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “You’re a doll, Sierra.” Sara turned to Annie. “I’ll meet you out there. I roped in Michael to be a stage manager so it’ll be just me. I’m going to check to make sure he’s got things under control.”

  Annie hung back until the hospitality tent was empty except for her and Sierra. “Thanks again for stepping in for me on the committee,” her sister-in-law said.

  “No problem.” Sierra smiled ruefully. “I’m glad to be busy this weekend. It gives me a legitimate reason to avoid my mother.”

  Rosemary Whitmore had turned deathly pale when Sierra confessed Ben knew everything, then walked away without a word. Annie and Ryan reacted much differently. They’d agreed Sierra had done the right thing, no matter how dire the consequences.

  “So Rosemary still isn’t talking to you?” Annie asked.

  “Afraid not,” Sierra said. “A little while ago, she pretended she didn’t see me. She’s pretty disappointed in me.”

  “You could be wrong about that,” Annie said. “Last night I came across her crying. At first I thought it was over your father, but she said she was sorry that poor woman had died. In her heart she knows what she convinced your father to do was wrong. She’ll come around.”

  “She doesn’t understand why I had to tell Ben everything,” Sierra said.

  “Did Ben understand?” Annie gazed at her through shrewd eyes. Her sister-in-law knew, Sierra thought. She knew Sierra loved Ben Nash.

  “To Ben, I’m the daughter of the man who played a part in his mother’s death,” Sierra said sadly.