Heart of the Matter

by Marta Perry

One thing—she wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding him. He’d never come near her after this. A quick retreat seemed in order, but before she could implement that, Cyrus swept down on them.

  “Just the people I wanted to see.” He put his arm around Amanda’s shoulders, effectively cutting off her flight. “Now, I don’t want to spend the evening talking business, but I do want to hear what the latest is on that troublesome landlord.”

  Amanda blinked. She hadn’t realized Cyrus knew anything about that, given the reluctance with which Ross was pursuing the story.

  “We’ve finished a lot of the background research.” Ross shifted into editor mode in an instant. “Jason Hardy owns several buildings in the area of C.J.’s apartment building, most of them in a questionable state. It looks as if he puts in barely enough repairs to keep on the right side of the housing inspectors, but he’s skirting the line. I think we could make a case that he ought to be looked at more thoroughly.”

  “Maybe it’s time we interviewed the man. Let him know the press is interested,” Cyrus said.

  The concerns C.J.’s grandmother had voiced echoed in Amanda’s mind. “If you do that, he’s going to think that C.J. is involved.”

  “Hardy lives down near Beaufort,” Ross said, ignoring her as if she hadn’t spoken. “I can go down and talk to him.”

  “Take Amanda with you.” Cyrus squeezed her shoulders. “I want her involved.”

  Oh, no. That was what her heart was protesting. It was what Ross’s expression said, as well.

  “I don’t think—” he began.

  Cyrus cut that off with a wave of his hand. “It was her idea, after all.”

  “But if we interview him…” Neither man listened to her.

  “Very well.” Ross’s voice was icy. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  Great. Ross didn’t want this. She didn’t want this. But they were both going to have to deal with it.

  Chapter Eight

  Amanda felt as if she’d been arguing with Ross all the way from Charleston to Beaufort. That wasn’t quite true, of course. Most of the way she’d actually been arguing with herself.

  How did I get into such a mess, Father? I thought this was going to help C.J., and instead it could cause her all kinds of heartache. I meant well.

  That was a feeble excuse. How much of the world’s trouble had been caused by people who were well-meaning? Too much, probably, and now she’d contributed her little bit.

  Please, help me see what’s best to do. Help me show Ross that we can’t pursue the story if it’s going to hurt more than it helps.

  Was that the right thing to pray for? She slid a sideways glance toward Ross, his face impassive behind his sunglasses as he concentrated on driving across the bridge from Beaufort to Lady’s Island. Her chances of diverting him from a course he’d decided upon seemed slight, at the least.

  She tried to still her doubts, staring out at the expanse of water, sky and islands. Beautiful, as always, but the dark clouds that hung on the horizon seemed to echo her mood.

  I’ll do my best to listen, Lord. Please show me the right thing to do for C.J. and her grandmother. And for Daddy.

  Her heart clenched into a tight, cold ball at the thought. Daddy. What was going on with him? What was Ross’s interest in him? Neither of them was likely to tell her, but she couldn’t just do nothing.

  Guide me, Father. She came back, in the end, to the simplest words. Guide me.

  Ross turned his head to look at her. She caught the movement in the periphery of her vision and tried to unclench the hands she’d had clasped in her lap.

  “Is something wrong?” He sounded reluctant to ask the question, as if he wouldn’t like the answer. Which he wouldn’t.

  “Just the same thing we’ve been talking about for the past hour or so. I don’t want C.J. and her grandmother to get hurt for the sake of a story.”

  Ross blew out an exasperated breath. “Maybe you should have been a social worker instead of a reporter. Our job is to get the story, that’s all.”

  “No matter who gets hurt?”

  His jaw clenched so hard that a tiny muscle twitched under the skin. “I’m not hurting anyone. The cheating landlord is the bad guy, remember?”

  “I know. I agree.” Why couldn’t he understand this? “But if C.J. and her grandmother get kicked out of their building because of what we did, I’m not sure they’re going to agree.”

  “May I remind you that you’re the one who brought me the story?”

  “That was before I’d talked to C.J.’s grandmother and realized what was at stake.” She shouldn’t have gone to him without more information.

  “I don’t want to see them get hurt,” he said. “They ought to have an attorney represent them in this, but I don’t suppose that’s occurred to them.”

  “I’ve already taken care of that.”

  He lowered his sunglasses so that he could look over them at her face. “You took care of it?” He didn’t sound as if he approved of that, either. “If it comes out that an employee of the Bugle is paying an attorney for the tenants, it will look as if we’re manipulating the story.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Anyway, I’m not paying anyone. My cousin’s fiancé is an attorney, and he sometimes takes pro bono cases. Surely no one can make an argument out of that, just because I’m sort of related to him. I’m sort of related to half the county, if you go back far enough.”

  He glanced at her again, seeming to weigh what he saw there. “You really do go the extra mile, don’t you?”

  It almost sounded as if he cared. “I didn’t think of it that way,” she said slowly. “It just seems to me that people are more important than any story.”

  “That’s a fatal mistake for a reporter.” He snapped the words. Clearly he was back to being annoyed with her after what had seemed a moment’s respite. “Besides, if this story pans out, it will benefit more people in the long run.”

  “Is that really why you’re doing it?” The question was out before she thought that it might be offensive. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know exactly what you meant.” His voice turned icy. “I’m doing my job. If you can’t do yours, maybe you’re in the wrong line of work.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anything to say at all. As far as their values were concerned, she and Ross were miles apart.

  Following the signs, they drove along the narrow road, salt marshes pressing close on either side, until they reached the gated community that occupied its own small island. To her surprise, Ross stopped before he reached the gatehouse, turning to zero in on her face.

  “I’ll focus my questions on the other buildings Hardy owns,” he said abruptly. “This is about more than just the apartment house where C.J. and her grandmother live. That should keep him busy defending himself. There’s no reason he’d assume C.J. was involved. If he does, between your lawyer friend and the newspaper’s clout, we’ll protect them.”

  Funny. He sounded as annoyed at himself for the concession as he was at her. His offer wasn’t a great solution, but it looked as if it was the best she was going to get.

  Ross kept what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face as he surveyed Jason Hardy. The man had met them on the putting green that was apparently part of the landscaping of his luxurious property. The sprawling low country-style home was screened from other, equally expensive properties by the artful use of palmettos and crepe myrtles. Yes, Jason Hardy had it made, and he was clearly eager to show off.

  “Had to have a putting green right here.”

  Hardy gestured expansively with a gloved hand. He couldn’t be much over forty, tanned and groomed to perfection, from the carefully tousled hairstyle to the tips of his costly leather golf shoes.

  “With the hours I work, it can be impossible to get in eighteen holes on a regular basis.” He cast a look at the dark clouds massing on the horizon. “Wouldn’t you know? I’ve
cleared my schedule for the afternoon, and now there’s a storm moving in.”

  “You don’t find it inconvenient for your work to live clear out here?” Ross would gladly keep the man bragging about his success for a few minutes before letting him know that this interview wasn’t going to be a puff piece about the rising young businessman.

  “Cybercommuting,” Hardy said quickly. “With the right use of technology, a busy man can be anywhere in the world in seconds.”

  “Is that right?” he murmured, as if he’d never heard of such a thing.

  Amanda moved quietly around them, taking one photo after another. Without a word being spoken, she’d picked up on his idea. Show the man playing with his expensive toys while his tenants sweltered in the heat, his buildings falling down around them.

  Amanda had good instincts. Unfortunately, she also had a soft heart that was going to get in her way when it came to being a decent reporter.

  He was abruptly tired of buttering up this sleazeball. “So, your investments in slum housing in Charleston—are they doing well for you?”

  Some of the bonhomie slid from Hardy’s face. “I’m not sure what you mean. I am invested in some rental properties in the city, I believe.”

  “You’re underestimating yourself, aren’t you?”

  He held out his hand. Amanda put the file folder into it without missing beat. He flipped the folder open and pretended to study it. Never mind that he’d committed its contents to memory. Hardy didn’t need to know that.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “That’s twenty-six rental buildings all together, owned by you either directly or through a subsidiary company.”

  Hardy’s eyes narrowed. “I guess that might be about right. It’s a small part of my portfolio.”

  “And out of those twenty-six, there have been two hundred and forty-seven complaints to the housing department. A hundred and ten investigations ensued. Fifty-four citations issued, ranging from broken heat pumps not fixed to questionable evictions to contaminated water.”

  Hardy held the golf club between them as if he felt the need for weapon. “What is all this? I thought you wanted to do a profile piece on me.”

  “A profile has to include both sides,” he said gently. “Surely you realize that. Now, about the situation with the broken air-conditioning at…let me see…hmm, twenty of twenty-six buildings. That’s a fairly large number, don’t you think? A person might almost think the air conditioners in your buildings were deliberately put out of commission so you didn’t have to pay those high electric bills this summer.”

  He let a smile play around his lips. There was nothing like it when an investigation came together—that wave of exhilaration knowing that the creep wasn’t going to wiggle off the hook this time.

  “You don’t dare print that. It’s speculation, that’s all.” Snatching his putters, Hardy stalked off the green. “Get off my property. You’re not going to get away with ambushing me like this.”

  “Don’t you want to give us a statement, Mr. Hardy? I’m sure our readers would like to hear directly from you.”

  This story was small potatoes, he knew that. CNN wouldn’t pick it up; there’d be no national interest. But for the first time in months, he felt like a reporter again.

  Amanda moved around, the camera up to her face, snapping picture after picture. Hardy swung toward her, anger darkening his face.

  “Stop taking pictures. Give me that.” He grabbed for her.

  Fury swept through Ross, but before he could move, Amanda slipped easily away from the man.

  “You don’t want to do that.” Her voice was cool. “Think how bad it would look on the news if you assaulted a photographer.”

  Baffled, Hardy swung back to Ross. “Any of those pictures get in your second-rate rag, and I’ll sue. I’m calling your publisher. We’ll see about this.”

  Ross couldn’t help but grin at the thought of Cyrus being intimidated. It would make Cyrus’s week if Hardy actually called and threatened him.

  “You do that, Mr. Hardy. I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.” He gestured to Amanda and started walking toward the car. “Thanks for the interview.”

  Ross spent the first ten minutes of the drive back recording his impressions with the aid of a microcassette recorder. He was pleased with the way the interview had gone. Amanda could hear that in his voice.

  And see it in his eyes, for that matter. As the sky continued to darken, he’d pulled off his sunglasses, allowing her to see the intent focus of his gaze.

  He took pride in what he was doing. She might not like the “ambush” aspect of the interview, but she had to admit that probably nothing else would have worked with a man like Jason Hardy. She’d have been out of her depth if she’d been alone.

  The thought was sobering. Maybe Ross was right. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be a reporter, if that was what it took.

  A few fat raindrops splattered on the windshield, and Ross clicked on the wipers. “It looks like Hardy isn’t going to get in his golf game this afternoon.”

  “He’s probably too busy anyway, what with needing to exert his influence to kill the story.” A rumble of thunder sounded, and her hands clenched on her pant legs.

  “Is something wrong?” He darted a look at her. The man had eyes that noticed every little thing.

  “Nothing,” she said, knowing it wasn’t true. “I wanted to say…you handled him exactly right, even though I don’t suppose much that he said will actually make it into the article.”

  “No, but it would be a shame to run the piece without having interviewed him.”

  “Do you really think he’ll call Cyrus?”

  Ross grinned. “I hope he does. Cyrus will have him for lunch, and probably get a quote out of it besides. But he won’t. Hardy has undoubtedly called his attorney, who’ll tell him he was an idiot for even talking to us.”

  “Hardy thought we were there to do a profile piece on him.” That still bothered her.

  “He’s not smart enough to play with the big boys, then.”

  Obviously it didn’t bother Ross.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next,” Ross said. “By the time we get back to the office, we’ll have received a carefully worded statement from the lawyer, which we’ll be obliged to print.” He smiled thinly. “This is one place where your photographs will speak more loudly than his words, I think.”

  A clap of thunder punctuated his words, and then the storm was on them. Rain came down as if someone had emptied an immense bucket over their heads. In a moment, it was so dark it might have been dusk except when lightning forked toward the ground, illuminating everything in flickering bursts like a crazy series of still pictures. She couldn’t keep a gasp from escaping.

  “You really don’t like storms, do you?” Ross said.

  “Not much.” She had to loosen tight lips to answer. “I’m such a wimp about it. When I was a kid, I used to hide in the closet. Or under the bed.” She tried to smile. “No closets here, unfortunately. Just ignore me.” She was thirty now, for pity’s sake. It was time she acted like a grownup.

  “We can do better than that.” He flicked the turn signal on. “Looks like a restaurant of some kind ahead, though I never really trust a restaurant whose sign just says ‘eats.’”

  “You don’t need to…” she began, but he was already pulling into the crushed-shell parking lot.

  “I’m getting hungry anyway. We’ll get something to eat and wait out the storm.” He pulled up next to the porch so that she could get from the car to the shelter of its roof in a quick step. “Ready?”

  She nodded, took a shaky breath and opened the door.

  Wind and rain struck her, but almost before she felt it, Ross had grabbed her arm and propelled her into the restaurant.

  “Hey, folks.” The grizzled elderly man behind the counter was the only occupant. “Y’all brought the rain with you.”

  “Not our idea,” Ross said. “How about some coffee?”

&
nbsp; “Comin’ right up. You, missy?”

  “Sweet tea, please.” She headed for a booth on the inside wall, safely away from the windows, and slid in. She looked up at Ross in belated apology. “Sorry. Is this okay?”

  He smiled, face relaxing. “Fine. Would you like me to ask him if he has a closet?”

  The arrival of their drinks saved her from answering that. “What you folks want to eat?” The man, who was apparently server as well as cook, and maybe the owner, too, didn’t seem inclined to offer a menu, but his apron was spotless and the aromas from the grill were all good. “The shrimp-burgers are nice today. And I got me some sweet potato fries.”

  “That sounds good to me.” She’d learned, hitting some questionable roadside cafés coming and going from school in Columbia, that it was usually safest to order the day’s special.

  “A burger.” Ross obviously didn’t hold to that philosophy.

  She lifted her brows after the man returned to his kitchen. “Don’t care for the local cuisine?”

  “Some things. What exactly is a shrimp-burger?”

  “That depends on the cook. It might be a cold shrimp salad on a roll. Or it might be something like a crab cake, only made with shrimp. You take your chances.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll just play it safe.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who plays safe.” She took a sip of the tea. Sure enough, it was sweet enough to make teeth ache.

  Ross frowned down at his coffee, as if he suspected an insult she hadn’t intended. “You asked me something earlier,” he said abruptly. “You asked if publishing the truth was my only reason for pursuing this story.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Luckily she didn’t have to, because he went on.

  “I chase the story because that’s who I am.” He gave a wry smile. “An investigative reporter. This pretense of being an editor is wearing pretty thin. Cyrus knows that. That’s why he pushed me to do this story.”

  “But if this job isn’t what you wanted, why did you take it?”

  If he hadn’t, they’d never have met. She wasn’t sure where that thought had come from, but she didn’t like it.