by Hunt, Angela
She clicked on the in-box and gaped as a list of messages filled the screen. A soft chime dinged as two additional messages appeared at the bottom of the listing.
Scrolling down, she recognized only one of the return addresses—King Bernard’s. She clicked on the envelope icon and smiled as she read his note:
Way to hit one out of the park, slugger! Loved the piece this morning! You not only rounded all the bases, you played the game with real heart.
I would say I did not know you had it in you, but I have always suspected you could write like this.
Keep up the good work, MacGruder. And thanks for the breakfast.
She lifted a brow. King Bernard didn’t proffer praise easily, so this was one for the archives.
She clicked on another message, from an address she didn’t recognize.
Ms. MacGruder, I cannot express what your column this morning meant to me. I kept thinking— what would I have written to my children if I had been on that flight? Would I have thought of them at all, or only of myself? I hope you find the person you’re searching for. A father that selfless deserves no less than your best effort.
A new fan
Peyton clicked on several other messages, most of which were from readers. Several people wanted to know what the note said; everyone urged her to begin the search.
A final note seemed to sum up her morning mail:
Peyton M—
You’re my favorite righter, and I read you in the paper every time I can. I was sorry to hear about the plain crash. And I know that if it had been my dad on that plain, I’d give anything to get the note he wrote to me.
Thank you for trying to help. I hope you find the rite person.
Tasha Cole, age 10
Laughing softly, Peyton highlighted Tasha’s letter, clicked the print icon, then stood and made her way through the sea of desks to the print room. She couldn’t postpone her meeting with Nora any longer, but she could at least be well-armed for the firefight.
The Dragon Lady scarcely glanced at the letter Peyton slid across her desk. “At last count, I had nearly fifty e-mails this morning,” Peyton said, lowering herself into the guest chair. “And we don’t even know what the regular mail will bring.”
Nora eyed her with a taut, derisive expression. “You should have told me what you were planning.”
Peyton shrugged, feeling momentarily secure in the confidence of reader support. “You’ve never asked to preview my Monday columns. How was I to know you’d want to see this one?”
Nora’s stare drilled into her. “We were done with Flight 848. We’ve done all the crash features our readers can stand—”
“But what’s your favorite maxim?” Peyton rose halfway out of her seat, leaning forward and placing one hand on the desk. “There’s always room for breaking news, even in features. This was something different, and it came to me. I’d have been the worst kind of fool not to accept it.” She sank back in her chair. “Besides, I really do want to follow this thing through. It could be genuine, and if it is, just think—while everyone else on that plane was panicking or praying, one man had the presence of mind to write a farewell note. The least I can do is try to deliver it.”
“You don’t know what happened on that plane. You never will. You weren’t there.”
“Some things, Nora,” Peyton spoke with a confidence springing from an indefinable feeling of rightness, “you have to accept by faith. After all, I’ve never seen Pluto, but I trust the people who have evidence of its existence.” She leaned forward again, her hand gripping the edge of the desk. “This note is evidence of one father who cared enough to say good-bye to his child.”
Nora’s straight glance still seemed coldly accusing, but she didn’t reply for a long moment. Then her gaze dropped to the desktop as she picked up her pen and began to twirl it between her fingers. “Anyway, your column was good. I like this new approach—you’re asking questions now, not just giving answers.” She paused to clear her throat. “Um . . . any leads so far?”
Relaxing, Peyton shook her head. “Nothing except the note itself. I spent yesterday afternoon in the archives, printing out obituaries from the Tampa passengers of Flight 848. I haven’t gone through them yet, nor have I found obits for all the others. So, if it’s all right with you, I thought I’d ask Mandi to help me contact the other papers. We’ll gather biographical information on all the victims and go from there.”
Nora gave her a forced smile and a terse nod of consent. “Now that you’ve got the ball rolling, you might as well stick with it.”
Peyton tented her hands and stared at her boss, wondering at the root causes of Nora’s anger and her abrupt change of heart. Was she upset because the note hadn’t been given to one of the other writers? Or was she aggravated that Peyton, whose days as the Heart Healer were numbered, had been handed such a sure thing?
Sighing heavily, Nora shifted in her chair. “Let me know if you need any other resources from the office.” Her gaze fell to a folder on her desk. “A few moments ago I got a call from Mr. DiSalvo. He’s very interested in the outcome of your little search.”
Peyton sat still as a thrill raced up her spine. Curtis DiSalvo, the Times publisher and president, had read her column? She pressed her lips together in an unsuccessful effort to stifle a spontaneous smile. No wonder Nora was irritated. Mr. DiSalvo came from a hard news background and made no secret of his disdain for what he called “feature fluff.” The man seldom singled out the lifestyles department for special attention, so the fact that he’d mentioned “The Heart Healer” must have put the taste of bile in Nora’s mouth . . .
“I’ll let you know what I need,” Peyton said, standing. “And don’t worry, I’m going to try to wrap this thing up in two weeks. That’s all the time I have left, right? Two more weeks to broaden my readership?”
It was all she could do to keep from laughing at the exasperated look on Nora’s face.
A few moments later Peyton stood on the sports department side of the newsroom, her hand poised to knock, her mind reeling with doubts. The same process of elimination that had driven her to ask King for advice over the weekend had brought her to his door again, and a part of her brain warned against making a habit of the practice.
She never had a chance to knock. The door swung open as she deliberated, and Carter Cummings stood before her. His eyes widened when he saw her, then he looked back at King and grinned. “I knew something was going on between you two!”
Peyton didn’t have to look toward the desk to know King was growling. “Nothing’s going on, Cummings,” she said, stepping back so he’d take the hint and leave.
“Sure.” Carter sent her a wink, then turned back to King. “I told you she was too classy for you, so why are you leading this woman on?”
Peyton sputtered. “He’s not—”
“I’m not doing any such thing.” King cut her off, glowering at his coworker. “Get out of here, will ya? Get busy on that grouper fishing piece or I’ll have you covering shuffleboard tournaments in St. Pete.”
Apparently not even King’s glare could dampen Carter’s spirit. He winked again as he passed Peyton, and for a moment she stood in the hall and seriously considered fleeing. A half-dozen desks lined this aisle, and at least that many sports reporters had to be listening behind her back with smart-aleck smiles on their faces . . . Steeling herself to her task, she walked into King’s office and slammed the door.
Behind the desk, King winced in phony remorse. “Sorry. Was it my crack about the cold eggs?”
Peyton blew out her cheeks. “Forget the other day, will you? I’ve more important things on my mind.”
Grinning, King motioned toward the empty chair. “Take a load off and tell me about it. Good piece this morning, by the way.”
Peyton sat. “I got your e-mail. Thanks.”
“Was Chilton happy?”
“No, she was breathing fire. She called me at Dunkin’ Donuts, if you can believe it, and told me to see h
er ASAP. But by the time I got to her office, she’d spoken to DiSalvo, who likes the concept of a search. He’s all hyped about the note, so like it or not, Nora has to support me.”
King leaned forward, all traces of mischief gone from his face. “That sounds good, Peyton, honestly. This could be your ticket to something really big.”
“If I can handle it.” She bit her lip, a little amazed that the admission had slipped past her lips. She’d made a living out of pretending to have all the answers, and her presence here proved she didn’t.
King’s brow furrowed. “You feeling insecure?”
“I don’t know.” She raked her hand through her hair. “If this search were only a matter of looking things up, I’d be home free. But this project will entail interviewing people.”
“So what? You’ve done scads of sports profiles.”
“But these people won’t exactly be professionals. They may not even want to be interviewed.” She pressed her hands together and noticed that her palms were slick with dampness. “And—this is the part that really gets me—they’ll be grieving people. The accident happened less than two weeks ago, so I may be touching on some sensitive issues.” She dropped her hands and met his eye. “I’m not a therapist, King. I don’t have the faintest idea how to deal with people who’ve come through this kind of situation. The idea makes me uncomfortable.”
King said nothing for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “What about the grief counselors at the airport—did you happen to meet someone you can call for a few pointers?”
Peyton shook her head. “I stayed out of their way. Any time I saw tears, I backed off.”
“MacGruder”—her name was faintly underlined with reproach—“when are you going to learn? You can’t run from honest emotion if you want to succeed as a writer. No matter what you’re writing, the root of the story always lies in the heart.” He snorted softly. “People don’t care if somebody hit a home run in a Devil Rays game. They want to know how he feels about hitting that homer.”
Peyton lowered her eyes, not certain she wanted to answer the challenge in his words, but what choice did she have? She’d taken the first step, stood up to Nora, and announced her plan to her readers. She couldn’t turn back now, no matter how badly she wanted to.
With an effort, she raised her chin and met his steady gaze head-on. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. That’s why I’m asking for help.”
King lifted a brow. When his lips parted Peyton braced herself for a quick retort—Why weren’t you this committed when I was continually on your case?—but he only drew a breath and reached for a notepad.
“This is a woman I’ve known for years,” he said, his pencil driving across the page. “She’s retired now and lives in Clearwater. She’ll be able to give you some pointers, I think.”
“Was she a reporter?”
King ripped the page off the notepad and handed it across the desk, his eyes twinkling. “For a while. She wrote features for the Post.”
Peyton crinkled her nose. Sending her to a veteran member of the competition was bad enough, but feature writers covered everything under the sun. “I don’t get it.” She took the page. “How is this woman going to help me?”
“Because now she’s a preacher.”
Peyton looked up. For a moment she thought she detected laughter in King’s eyes, but his mouth remained firm as he leaned toward her.
“Not officially, of course, I don’t think her church goes in for the woman minister thing. But that’s what she is. Spends most of her free time down at the Pinellas County Jail, listening to people and talking to them about whatever preachers talk about.”
Peyton felt the corner of her mouth droop. “I don’t know, King. My story has nothing to do with religion; it’s more about people.”
“That’s why you need Mary Grace. The woman knows people like nobody I’ve ever met. She’ll be able to help you.”
“She wrote features, King. Which means she covered everything from lawn ornaments to Little League—”
“And she did her job well because she focused on the people behind the lawn ornaments and baseball games.” He rapped on the desktop. “Get yourself over the bridge, MacGruder. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you dinner when you get back.”
Still frowning, Peyton stuffed the paper in her pocket and stood. “And if I end up wasting my afternoon?”
King leaned back, propping one sneaker on the edge of an open desk drawer. “I’ll still buy you dinner.”
Shaking her head, Peyton moved toward the doorway, but before she left she waved and called, “Done.”
Mary Grace Van Owen was home when Peyton called to set up the appointment, but in a hoarse voice—the woman either had a cold or had puffed on a few too many Winstons in her time—she said she had to be at the jail by two-thirty. So if Peyton wanted to talk, she’d best get herself to Clearwater in a hurry.
The sun had disappeared behind a thick cloud by the time Peyton made it to the parking lot, and within minutes of reaching her car the sky opened. Thick bullets of water, blown by the wind from the bay, cracked against her windshield as the wipers thrummed in a steady rhythm. Peyton moaned as the thunder rattled overhead, and for a moment she considered abandoning the trip altogether. She hated driving in rain, hated the long bridge to Clearwater, and hated the thought of spending the afternoon with some old biddy who had a thing for God and criminals.
But she’d made a deal with King, and the biddy was expecting her.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Interstate 275, which would take her to the Howard Frankland, one of three long bridges leading to the Pinellas County peninsula.
She reached the three-mile bridge with no problem, but as she began the long drive toward the “hump” she couldn’t help glancing toward the bay. The restless waves to the north of the bridge were steel gray and capped with white. With a shiver of vivid recollection she remembered that only a few days ago they had been calm, content to swallow the remains of Flight 848.
She looked away, choosing to concentrate on the four-lane, westbound highway. The heavy sky, swollen with rain, sagged toward the high point of the bridge, enveloping the summit with gray mist. Peyton considered pulling over to the narrow emergency lane until the storm had passed, but she’d read about too many hapless drivers being smacked when they stopped to change a tire. Besides, her watch said one-thirty, which left only a little time for her meeting with Ms. Van Owen.
For no reason she could name, the thought of a face-to-face interview raised the hair on the back of her neck. How long had it been since she’d sat down with an ordinary subject? She hadn’t had a face-to-face since she’d begun writing “The Heart Healer,” and before that most of her interviews had been little more than screaming matches with professional athletes who viewed her as just another PR mouthpiece. Even Tiger Woods—in the interview King had been so impressed with—had given her his standard spiel, then concentrated on his golf game.
“It’s okay.” Peyton pounded the steering wheel with the heels of both hands, then squinted through the streaked windshield. At her left, the rain made long, wavering runnels down the window, while a slash of lightning stabbed at the roiling water to her right.
Peyton turned the radio to Q105, the local country station, and wailed along with the Dixie Chicks, deciding to sing rather than curse the idiots who rode the left lanes and blew past the careful drivers. Every so often a semi would roar past, tires spitting water onto the driver’s side of the Jetta, but Peyton only clung to the steering wheel and sang louder.
She’d always been a careful driver, but ever since Garrett’s accident she’d been a paranoid one as well. His life had ended on a rain-slicked road much like this, and the two nice cops who came to her door had been quick to assure her there had been no alcoholic beverages in the car. The accident was one of those things— a wet road combined with wet brakes, the force of momentum combined with velocity. Garr
ett had been embracing a live oak before he even realized what had happened. (The cops didn’t come out and say that, of course, but she could read between the lines.)
And then I turned around and you were gone—
She sang with the Chicks, drowning out the memories with her not-so-subtle voice.
Never had you ’round too long,
And yet you left an empty beat in my heart song—
At the top of the bridge she leaned forward to peer through the ineffective arc made by the wipers. Sunlight lit the road ahead, beginning at the end of the bridge. Blowing out her cheeks, she relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. Thunderheads like this one, apparently confined to one space, were common enough in Florida. She might find the streets in Clearwater as dry as a desert.
Cheered by the sight of streaming sunshine ahead, Peyton eased forward on the gas and sang on.
Mary Grace Van Owen, Peyton soon discovered, lived in a tornado magnet: the Lakeview Trailer Park, off Belcher Road. This park, like most in Pinellas County, consisted of rectangular white trailers parked in diagonal lines around a horseshoe-shaped road. Each trailer featured a tidy carport, usually of painted concrete, decorated with petunias or begonias hanging from a striped aluminum awning.
Cedar signs adorned each trailer in the Lakeview Park, where burnt-in carving identified the lot number and the resident’s last name. Peyton found Lot 137, Van Owen, in the first curve of the road.
She parked the Jetta in a stretch of grass beside the street, then got out and walked toward the door. Mary Grace’s carport was like the others, but a set of four molded plastic chairs sat in the shade, gathered around a small table like wagons around a campfire. Obviously, the woman liked company and conversation.
