by Marta Perry
“It wasn’t bad.” The lukewarm words hid a rush of pleasure at hearing Amanda praised. She had really risen to the challenge he’d thrown at her.
“Guess it’s time to give her somethin’ substantial to work on.” Cyrus’s bushy brows drew down. “Unless we have to expose her daddy for a thief. I reckon we’ll see her back mighty fast if that happens.”
When Cyrus started sounding folksy, that meant that he was worried.
Well, Cyrus had company in that. Ross had let himself get involved with Amanda, despite all the good reasons not to. If this situation turned sour, a lot of people were going to get hurt.
He seemed to see Amanda’s face, turned up to his in the moonlight, and his heart clenched. If that happened, how was he going to live with himself?
Amanda dragged her mind back to the words on her computer screen. It was something of a comedown to go from the excitement of breaking the slumlord story to writing an article about the barbecue cook-off for charity the Bugle was sponsoring on the weekend. Too bad every story couldn’t involve controversy.
Still, it made her understand a bit about Ross’s attitude toward his profession. And why he felt his real life was back in D.C., where he could go from one important story to another.
He’ll go back to that, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. He’ll go back, eventually. And then where will you be? And even if he didn’t, were they really suited to each other? Each time they got close, it seemed she saw something in his values to push her away.
“Amanda.”
She looked up, startled, to find her cousin Adam standing in front of her desk. By the patient look on his face, he must have been standing there for a bit.
“Adam, sorry. The receptionist didn’t let me know you’re here.”
“She knows me by now. That must be some important story you’re working on to take you that far away.”
“Just daydreaming,” she said quickly. She waved toward a chair. “Have a seat. What’s up?”
He sat down, reaching over to drop a manila envelope on the desk. “Truth is that I need your opinion on something.” He tapped the envelope with one finger. “I’ve been doing some research, trying to find something that will tell us which one of our possible candidates is Uncle Ned.”
“If either,” Amanda said. “I know Miz Callie is convinced we’re almost there, but…”
“I know, I know. That’s why I want you to look at this. Be sure it’s not just wishful thinking on my part before I take it to Miz Callie.”
“What?” She reached for the envelope, but before she could take it, Adam emptied its contents onto her desk. A black-and-white photo slid out, as well as a magnifying glass.
“Take a look.” He put the photo in front of her. “You’ll need the magnifier to make out the faces. Tell me if you see anyone familiar.”
Amanda pressed the edges of the photo flat. It was a copy, she’d guess, of an old picture. Adam, with his latest photo software, would probably have sharpened it as much as possible.
The black-and-white photo showed a PT boat docked someplace where there was sandy beach and palm trees in the background. The boat’s crew posed for the camera, grinning self-consciously.
Her heart clenched at those young faces, staring out at her from more than a half century ago. They were filled with so much bravado.
“That was taken when she’d just arrived in the war zone,” Adam said. “She had a full complement then, not tested in battle yet.” He spoke of the PT boat with as much familiarity as he’d talk of his own patrol boat. “See if you recognize anyone.”
Obediently she took the magnifier. Were they going to find out what had happened to Ned Bodine at last? Her pulse beat rapidly, and she paused a moment to steady herself before bending over the image.
Take it slow, study each face methodically. Adam trusted her to do this right and not send Miz Callie off on a wild-goose chase.
She worked from the right to the left, focusing on each face, searching for any trace of familiarity. Nothing. Then she moved the glass to the group on the left.
The face jumped out at her, so clear that she couldn’t help a gasp. She planted her finger on the figure. “There. That’s Ned. It has to be.”
“You sure, sugar? The features are pretty washed-out on an old photo like this.”
“It’s not just the features.” She struggled to explain the sense of familiarity that gripped her. “It’s not just the features, although they’re right, what you can see of them. It’s the way he holds himself, the way his hand rests on the boat’s hull, like he’s caressing it.” She grinned, sure of herself. “I’ve seen you do the same, more times than I can count.”
Adam’s face relaxed. “I see something of our Win in him, myself. That tilt of the head, maybe.”
Funny how gestures and movements could pass through generations as surely as coloring. “Which one of the two names Miz Callie picked out is he?”
“Theodore Hawkins.” He didn’t need to explain that Hawkins was the name of Granddad’s mother’s family. “I guess he wanted to take something of family with him.”
“I guess he did.” She touched the photograph lightly. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“Not yet, but it shouldn’t take long now that we have a name. One thing I do know.” His face sobered. “The PT boat went down in the South China Sea in ’44.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she brushed them away impatiently. “Well, we thought from the beginning that he probably didn’t survive the war, since the family never heard from him. Miz Callie will be relieved to know the truth.”
He nodded, standing and scooping the photo and magnifier back into the envelope. “I’m gonna run over there a bit later to show her what we have. It’ll take a couple days, probably, to get the complete military records. You want to come with me?”
“I can’t, not tonight.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting someone for dinner. You go, and take all the credit. You deserve it.”
That didn’t bring the smile she expected. “This date—it wouldn’t be with Ross Lockhart, would it?”
“Yes, why?” She sat up straighter, prepared to do battle. Adam’s attitude toward Ross was just ridiculous, and she didn’t mind telling him so.
“Look, sugar, don’t fly off the handle with me.” He obviously had no trouble interpreting her mood. “I just…I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t trust him.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “For pity’s sake, Adam. I’m a big girl now. I don’t need the Bodine boys to protect me from my dates.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Adam frowned, planting one fist against her desktop. “Maybe he’s a nice enough guy in some ways, but I’d say there’s not much he’d stick at when it comes to getting a big story.”
True, but…“That’s what makes him a good reporter.”
“Even if he’s after a story that involves your family?” The question burst out of him, and then he clamped his mouth shut as if instantly regretting it.
She shot out of her chair, facing him over the width of her desk. “What are you talking about? What could he possibly want to write that would affect us? If you’re talking about that business with Ned—well, we’ve practically got the proof in hand that he wasn’t a coward.”
Adam dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “His digging is more up-to-date than that. If he—” He stopped, shook his head. “Look, I can’t say more.”
“Adam.” Her voice warned. “You tell me what’s going on right this minute.”
“I can’t.” To do him credit, he looked miserable at having brought it up. “Maybe I’m imagining things, but has it occurred to you that this series he’s supposed to be doing about the Coast Guard base might be a cover for something else?”
“No.” She tried for an indignant tone, but it didn’t quite ring true. Daddy’s unexplained animosity toward Ross, Ross’s insistence on information that didn’t seem to have much to do with t
he supposed purpose of the articles…
“I’m sorry, sugar.” His voice went soft. “I don’t want to cause trouble. Just—be careful.”
Before she could say anything, he turned and walked quickly away.
Chapter Twelve
Amanda was still troubled by Adam’s words when she stepped through the front door of the Shem Creek Café that evening. She shook the rain from her umbrella and shoved it into the old-fashioned milk can that held a number of similarly wet umbrellas. The storm that was making its way up the coast promised them a couple of inches of much-needed rain before all was said and done.
The rain hadn’t kept folks away from the popular restaurant, and the tables and booths were already crowded. As the hostess moved toward her, she scanned the dining area and spotted Ross, half rising to catch her eye from a table next to the window.
“That’s okay, I see my…” What? Date? Boyfriend? She wasn’t sure either of those words applied to her tenuous relationship with Ross.
Fortunately, the waitress didn’t bother to wait for her to finish the sentence, waving her into the dining room with a smile.
Amanda wove her way between the tables, trying to suppress the flutter that arose somewhere in her mid-section when she saw Ross waiting for her, his eyes warming as he watched her.
Ridiculously aware of his gaze on her, she nearly stumbled into a tray rack that had been left between the tables to trip up the distracted. Get hold of yourself, she lectured. This isn’t just about being with Ross tonight. You have to find out if what Adam hinted at is true.
If she didn’t, the suspicion would poison whatever relationship she and Ross had. She couldn’t pretend the feeling wasn’t there. She had to deal with it.
Adam’s words had crystallized the amorphous concern that had been drifting like fog in the back of her thoughts. She’d realized after he left that she’d already been wondering why she’d never seen any indication that Ross had written a word about the interviews she’d set up.
Certainly he’d been researching something. Jim had commented on that, saying he’d surprised Ross searching through some records late in the evening, when he’d thought the offices deserted. And Ross never had asked to see any of the photos she’d taken, or checked with her on anything to do with the Coast Guard.
“Amanda.” He said her name with a caressing note that he’d never use in the office. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.” She slid into the chair he pulled out for her, too aware of the treacherous effect his nearness had on her as he bent to push the chair in. She could only hope the anxiety she felt wasn’t written on her face.
Anxiety—that was probably the right word. The truth was that she’d rather not face this. She’d rather pretend everything was fine and enjoy the moment.
“I’ve just been here a few minutes,” he said. “Cyrus advised me to come early so I could get a table at the window to enjoy the view.”
“Cyrus knows we’re out tonight together?” She wasn’t sure she liked that thought.
“Cyrus knows everything. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t have a closed-circuit television watching our every move.”
“Not here, I hope.” She glanced around with a mock shudder.
“Just at work.” His face relaxed in a smile.
Her heart clutched. She hadn’t ever seen quite that much ease in his expression. Even when he’d been enjoying himself as he had, she felt sure, with Miz Callie, there’d been a hint of restraint, of things suppressed and guarded.
This was the way he could be, if he weren’t so eaten up with the wrongs that had been dealt him.
Please, Father. The prayer formed almost without volition. Please help him set himself free from all that holds him back from being an open, giving person.
“Have you had a look at the menu?” She’d been silent too long, caught up in her reactions to him. “I highly recommend the she-crab soup. And the shrimp and grits.”
“Do they guarantee that only she-crabs went into the soup?” The teasing note in his voice turned her determination to jelly.
“I’m sure they do. Anyway, it’s the best I’ve ever eaten.”
“Okay, then. She-crab soup and a grilled sirloin.”
She raised her eyebrows at that. “You did notice that saltwater tank when we came in, didn’t you? Why would you order steak in a place that has seafood only a step from the boats?”
She nodded to the window beside them. A lone fishing boat made its way up the creek, its captain swathed in a yellow slicker against the rain.
“You’re not going to let me get away with this, are you?” He flipped the menu open again. “I’m not ready to try shrimp and grits yet. Will you be satisfied if I get the grouper?”
“I guess. But sometime you have to give in and try grits.”
They could go on all evening like this, as far as she was concerned. Keep the tone light and easy, enjoy the moment. Not think about the questions she had to ask.
“Maybe I can have a bite of yours,” he said softly, reaching across the table to touch her fingertips with his in a gesture that set her pulse fluttering.
The server came then, and after a consultation as to what the catch of the day was, she brought drinks and headed back to the kitchen with their order.
“This is in the nature of a celebration,” Ross said, tipping his glass of iced tea toward hers.
“It is?”
He nodded. “We’ve put the story to bed. In the morning it will be all over the city. Cyrus was very complimentary about your writing, by the way.”
Cyrus was? “I’ll have to thank him,” she said.
“All right.” His fingers enveloped hers. “Your piece was better than good. You’re not quite the lightweight I thought you were at first.”
“At first? You’ve had me pegged as the stereotypical Southern belle right along, and I’m not sure you’re over it yet.”
“Maybe so,” he admitted. “You have to admit, you do look and sound the part.”
“Scarlett O’Hara has a lot to answer for,” she said darkly. “And let me tell you, Scarlett was a lot tougher than she looked.”
“Got it,” he said, lifting one hand in a gesture of surrender. “I promise not to make that mistake again. I couldn’t, not now that I know you.” His voice deepened on the words, and his eyes seemed to darken.
Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t have given him a flippant answer if her life depended on it. Adam’s worry sounded in her mind, adding its weight to the doubts she couldn’t get rid of.
Their food arrived then, and she was grateful for the distraction. They ate, they sampled each other’s entrées, and then Ross pinned her with a direct gaze.
“I saw you and Adam in the newsroom today. It looked like a pretty serious discussion.”
She smoothed her napkin out in her lap. It seemed she was being forced to have this talk no matter how she tried to avoid it.
“He brought a photo over to show me.” She was still avoiding, and she knew it. “He’s been trying to identify which of our possibilities is the right one, and he found an old picture of the crew of a PT boat that Theodore Hawkins served on. It was Uncle Ned. I’m sure of it.” Her eyes filled with tears at the memory of that young face. “The family will be so relieved to know the truth about him at last.”
“After all these years,” he said, shaking his head a little. “There’s a human interest story there, if you’re not too close to write it.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Her nerve endings prickled. She hadn’t, but that could be the resolution to all their worries about Miz Callie and the memorial to Ned Bodine. If the world, meaning Charleston in this case, learned first that Ned hadn’t been a coward, but had served honorably, then no one could argue about Miz Callie establishing a memorial to him.
“Is that everything?”
She looked up, meeting his gaze, to find a question in his eyes
.
“I…I don’t know what you mean.” She certainly was feeble as a liar.
“Yes, you do. Something’s been weighing on you.” His dark brows furrowed, setting three vertical lines between them. “Was Adam warning you against me again?”
“Not the way you mean.” She couldn’t leave it at that. Despair settled on her. What she said next was going to send Ross back behind his armor. She’d prayed that he’d be set free, but accusing him wouldn’t do that, would it?
“What then?” His tone turned impatient.
She took a breath. There was no way out but to say it. “Are you really writing a series of human interest articles about the Coast Guard base? Or is it a cover for something else going on?”
She watched it happen. His face tightened into a mask. His eyes grew cold and suspicious.
“What makes you think that?”
They were both answering questions with questions. That didn’t get them anywhere.
“I don’t just think it. I feel it. There was something going on when you talked with my father. You went in there with an agenda, and it didn’t have anything to do with writing a profile piece.”
She waited for the ax to fall, knowing she’d said nothing more than the truth.
“People who haven’t done anything wrong don’t have to worry about publicity,” he said finally. “That’s all I have to say about it, so you might pass that on to your cousin. And the form these articles take is my business and Cyrus’s.”
Not yours. The words were unspoken, but there.
All the barricades had gone up between them again. And any chance she had of finding out who Ross truly was at heart had just moved further away.
Amanda tried to put aside her worries and enjoy the air of celebration that permeated the newsroom the next day. The slumlord exposé had been everything Cyrus might have wished for—a splashy story of wide interest, a clear villain and, best of all, the Bugle had beaten out the competition.