by Hunt, Angela
Why, Pop sat on the front row when they held the dedication service of their new building! The TV cameras had picked up a great shot of him waving to the television audience the first Sunday they aired a worship service. People wanted to see that a pastor loved his daddy . . . and that his daddy loved him.
Swallowing hard, Tim swiveled his chair to face the window. He had loved his father, truly he had. He couldn’t help that he hadn’t seen the man in, what, three years? It didn’t seem that long, but the last time they were together was right after he finished his sermon series on seed planting and faith reaping. They’d planted a few seeds for Pop in Florida, hoping he’d reap a few new friends down there. St. Louis was too hard on him in the wintertime, and Tim knew Pop missed Mama something terrible. A sunny retirement community was just what he needed.
“Yes sir, just what he needed.” Tim folded his hands across his belt and stared out the window at the huge cross in the parking lot. Searchlights lit it at night, beaming the way to the cross to anyone who took the time to look up.
His dad had never seen the cross; they’d erected it last year. But he’d heard about it and he was proud of it, proud of everything Tim had accomplished. And it wasn’t as if Tim forgot about his father—his wife made sure cards and letters and the kids’ school pictures flowed to Florida like water. Tim knew for a fact that Pop watched his son on TV every Sunday morning.
He’d probably watched the program even at Vicki’s house, where he’d been visiting before he boarded Flight 848. That niggling fact was enough to assure Tim that the burning rock of guilt in his gut wasn’t going to dissolve. Since Pop had just come from seeing his daughter, maybe he was thinking of his son when the plane went down. And if he had been, did that mean Tim had done something to hurt him?
Surely not. His dad was nothing if not outspoken. He would have said something. He was always closer to Vicki than to Tim, always visiting her, quick to fly up every time she gave him a call. But she was only a housewife; she didn’t pastor a fifteen-thousand-member church. She had time for that sort of socializing, which was why she’d gone to Tampa to handle the funeral and all the arrangements. Tim would have gone, but he couldn’t get away. And why would he need to? His father was gone, and it was too late to change anything.
Too late. Those had to be the saddest two words in the English language.
Tim turned slowly and looked at the closed Bible on his desk. He hadn’t disregarded his parent. He’d treated his father with love and respect.
“And Dad knew I loved him,” he whispered. “As God is my witness, he knew.”
Leaning forward, he propped his head on his hand and stared at the blank page before him. “Lord, I hope he knew.”
Peyton fastened her lap belt, flashed an excuse-me smile at the man in the seat next to her, then leaned down to push his carry-on luggage out of her personal space. Honestly, ever since the invention of wheeled luggage, people behaved as though they had inherited an inalienable right to carry every stitch of their personal belongings aboard the plane. Peyton’s neighbor, who had conveniently shielded himself behind the latest Grisham novel, had carried on a camera case, an attaché, and a duffel bag the size of Texas. The duffel bag crowded Peyton’s feet even now. The gate attendant must have been asleep at her post to let this guy board with a body bag.
Peyton scanned the aisle, hoping to catch the steward’s attention, but the young man apparently had other things on his mind. He walked past her, his lips moving silently, either counting heads or praying for a better job.
For his sake, Peyton hoped it was the latter.
Sighing, she blew her bangs out of her eyes, then bent to pull her backpack from the space beneath the seat in front of her. The black duffel intruded, snagging the corner of her case, and she kicked at it, half-hoping she’d ejected the top of her seatmate’s toothpaste. Would serve him right to find Colgate smeared all over his underwear when he reached his final destination.
After pulling out her laptop, she stuffed her backpack beneath the seat again, then slowly exhaled. With a bit of luck, she wouldn’t have to move for a couple of hours. She could remain still and gather her thoughts. No sense in powering up the computer until they were airborne. No sense in even lowering a seat tray until then.
While she waited for the attendants to run through their preflight safety routine, she closed her eyes, grateful for a moment of silence. The airport check-in counter had been a zoo. She’d narrowly avoided being shoved in an altercation between two irate passengers, then she’d nearly missed her flight. But here she was, safely buckled in, and soon she’d be airborne and ready to write.
Until then, she needed to consider the implications of Julie St. Claire’s appearance at the church. How had St. Claire discovered the pastor’s identity? The knowledge could only have come from someone at the Times, and King and Mandi were the only two people who knew about Manning.
So—Peyton braced herself as the plane began to roar down the runway—who could have passed Timothy Manning’s name to Julie St. Claire?
The corner of her mouth dipped as the plane lifted. Would Nora have tipped WNN about Peyton’s visit? Not likely. She didn’t even know the television reporter, and Peyton doubted Nora cared much for the World News Network. Born and bred to the presses, Nora was constantly moaning that television news would spell death for the daily newspaper and American literacy unless something changed. Besides, Nora didn’t know about Timothy Manning. Peyton had sent her an e-mail about the necessity of a trip to St. Louis, but she felt sure she hadn’t mentioned the pastor’s name.
Could King . . . ? She shook off the unthinkable. He had too much respect for the journalist’s code of ethics—he’d never give away another writer’s contacts. He wouldn’t reveal his own anonymous sources, not even when pushed.
Peyton sighed as she considered the obvious. Mandi had practically fizzed with excitement when Julie St. Claire telephoned. Perhaps St. Claire had called again, and Mandi had picked up the phone while Peyton was out—
I faxed it ten minutes ago, along with an extra copy for you-know-who . . .
The memory of Mandi’s parting comment brought a twisted smile to Peyton’s face. The girl had to be the weak link. St. Claire, that charming little snake in the grass, had bewitched the naive intern.
Peyton clutched the armrest as the jet’s wheels clunked back into the well. Good grief, why was she so jumpy? She’d flown dozens of times and never been bothered by that particular noise, but that clunk had seemed ten times louder than usual. Was she sitting right above the well? Or had something come loose in the cargo bay?
She turned her head, searching for signs of concern among the flight attendants, but the only stewardess she could see was strapped into her jump seat and idly examining her manicure.
Peyton turned back to face the front of the plane. Her fears were ridiculous. Her nerves were on edge because she was working on a story about a plane crash; her heart pounding only because this plane would probably take the same approach Flight 848 took two weeks ago . . .
She drew a slow breath, alarmed to hear the sound amplified in her own ears. She felt as though she had shrunk somehow, withdrawn to a place deep inside her body, and the mechanism that kept her lungs pumping air had grown irregular and jerky.
The bell chimed; the seatbelt sign blinked off. From the back of the plane Peyton heard the metallic click of the stewardess’s lap belt, in a moment she’d be serving drinks and peanuts. Situation normal, time to relax.
Across the aisle, a mother allowed her toddler to kneel in the seat and press her hands to the window. “Oh, clouds!” the little girl squealed. “Wanna go outside.”
“No, honey.” The mother ran her fingertips through the girl’s golden curls. “You can’t go outside. Not now.”
“Wanna play in dem.” The toddler pressed a wet fingertip to the window. “Wanna play! Go outside!”
“You can’t play in the clouds.” The mother’s tolerant smile faded as the g
irl began to wail in earnest. “Shh, Hillary, not so loud. You’ll bother the other people.”
Peyton closed her eyes as the child began to scream. The high-pitched sound would have been loud under normal circumstances, but now, with Peyton’s strained nerves . . .
Fingers trembling, she reached up and pressed the attendant call button. The waiting seconds stretched into moments woven of eternity, then, when Peyton’s breathing seemed little more than sporadic gasps, a slender blonde stewardess appeared at her elbow. “May I help you?”
I-want-off-I-need-to-leave-I-have-to-escape-let-me-out!
By some miracle of will, Peyton’s rational brain overpowered the screaming voice of instinct. “Water, please,” she whispered in a voice she barely recognized as her own. “And could you get the kid some pretzels or something?”
A moment later the stewardess returned with a cup of water, which Peyton hastily threw back, then closed her eyes as the stewardess turned to the mother and toddler.
She’d planned to write on the plane, but she couldn’t. Not next to a screaming baby.
In an instant of soul-searing reality, she knew she’d be lucky to make it home with her wits intact.
She’d been home—where all seemed blessedly ordinary—for only ten minutes when the doorbell rang. She laughed with relief when she saw King standing on her front porch, a bag of Chinese takeout in his hand.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, not waiting for an invitation to enter. “The airlines don’t want to feed people these days, have you noticed?”
“I have.” She closed the door behind him, suddenly grateful for what had become a blessedly low-maintenance friendship. She kicked off her shoes by the door, then followed him into the kitchen, the cats tagging along at her heels.
“How was St. Louis?” he asked, unpacking the bag at the table. The scents of fried rice, chicken, and spices tinged the air.
“Fine.” She sniffed appreciatively. “Smells good. Kung Pao chicken?”
“Spicy and crunchy is the only way to go.” He poured a smaller bag of accouterments—chopsticks, napkins, and squeeze bags of duck sauce—onto her small table, then took a seat and looked up at her. “So? Was this guy the one you’re looking for?”
“Not according to him.” Turning, she pulled two plates from her cabinet. “He gave me a list of reasons why his father wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—written the note. It wasn’t his handwriting, wasn’t his style. Most of all, he kept insisting there was nothing wrong between them—nothing that deserved forgiveness, anyway.”
“Did you believe him?”
She paused, a plate in each hand. “At first—yes, I did. He seemed . . . quite confident. The man could sell a prison term as a time share; he’s that persuasive.”
King’s eyes glinted below his dark brows. “But now?”
Shrugging, she set the plates on the table. “I don’t know. Can anyone really be certain about other people? I mean, we think we know someone, but every time John Doe is arrested and found guilty of a crime, you can find half a dozen relatives who will swear he could never have committed the dirty deed.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a spoon, and plunged it into the open container of rice. “I mean—I know you reasonably well, right? When you leave here tonight, I’m fairly sure you’re going to go home, get ready for bed, and maybe watch a little ESPN before you fall asleep. But how can I be certain? Maybe you have a secret life I know nothing about.”
King’s smile deepened into laughter. “Now that you mention it, I am moonlighting at a second job. But I’m out of costume at the moment; my tights and cape need mending.”
Peyton lifted a brow. “Let me guess—is there a big S on the back of this cape?”
King shook his head. “It’s a K. For Kingman. I go out every night and search for hungry damsels in distress—damsels who like Chinese, that is.”
“Very funny.” Peyton pushed Samson off her chair, then sat down and reached for a spoon, wondering what King meant by that crack. He couldn’t have known about her irrational attack of nerves on the plane . . . and she wasn’t about to tell him.
Silence fell over the kitchen as they piled their plates with rice and chicken. Peyton considered asking whether King had spoken to Julie St. Claire, then realized Mandi had to be the weak link.
She reached for a fork.
“Uh-uh.” King picked up a pair of chopsticks and waved them before her eyes. “When eating Chinese, you’ve got to use these.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You’ve probably never tried.”
“I’ve tried, and it’s silly, especially when there’s a perfectly functional fork at hand.”
“If the vast majority of people in the world can eat with these, so can you.”
Scowling, she slipped the wooden sticks out of the paper wrapper, then unsnapped them. “Real expensive pair of utensils.”
“Disposable,” King said, chasing a slippery hunk of chicken around his plate with his chopsticks. “And that reminds me, Curtis DiSalvo came out to mingle with the troops today. He was looking for you.”
Peyton swallowed hard. “Really?”
King nodded, then stuffed in another mouthful. She waited while he chewed, but her patience, like her energy, had nearly evaporated. “What on earth did he want with me?”
King lowered his chopsticks. “He said he wanted to congratulate you. Your columns about the note have been a hit. Apparently his office has been fielding calls— some from New York.”
Peyton groaned. “I’m afraid I know about New York,” she said, her voice dull. “Julie St. Claire and a news crew showed up at the church as I was leaving. They wanted to interview the pastor, but he refused.”
King’s forehead creased in concern. “That’s bad. You’ve got some real momentum going, not to mention genuine public interest—”
“And if she steals my thunder, I’m sunk.” Peyton bit her lip, thinking. “But she doesn’t know the names of our other two candidates, and I’m going to talk to Mandi about keeping her mouth shut. I also asked the pastor to sign a confidentiality agreement.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. And he says he’s a man of his word. I think I can trust him. And if I can’t, I can always threaten to sue.”
“You’d sue a preacher?”
“Probably not. Threaten is the operative word.”
King picked up the chopsticks and began to eat again, but a distant expression filled his eyes. After a moment of silence, he looked at her and lifted a dark brow. “You’re building something here, MacGruder, and intensity is going to be the key to success. You can’t afford to let a television reporter, or any reporter for that matter, take the lead. If someone else gets ahead of you, you’ve lost your edge. Columns run on a fast track, but television news is even faster.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Peyton pounded a peanut with her chopstick and felt the satisfying crunch as it broke into three pieces.
TEN
THURSDAY, JUNE 28
After a good night’s sleep, Peyton felt better than she imagined possible. Rather than be distracted by curious coworkers at the office, most of whom had to know she’d begun the first leg of her search, she decided to write the Manning column at home. Samson and Elijah were just as curious as her coworkers, but they were definitely less vocal.
Given Reverend Manning’s conviction that his father could not have written the note, she refrained from naming him or his church, identifying her first prospect only as “a successful minister in a Midamerican city.” By keeping his identity a secret, she would not only indemnify the paper from a possible lawsuit (she could just see the headlines: “Manning v. Tampa Times—Television Ministry Contributions Drop Off When Pastor Denies the Note of Flight 848), but she’d also prevent any other sharp-eyed reporters from discovering the link her prospects shared.
She worked from 8:00 until 11:00 A.M., stopping only for a cup of coffee and a quick peek at the paper, then plugged her
laptop into the telephone extension and clicked the send icon.
Done.
Peyton leaned back in her chair, her concentration dissipating in a mist of fatigue. Odd, how this story had drained her. She usually felt like celebrating in the hour when she filed a column; today she felt more like crawling into bed for a catnap.
Leaving her desk, Peyton decided to obey her feline instincts.
ELEVEN
FRIDAY, JUNE 29
Not My Pop
By Peyton MacGruder
“The Heart Healer” is a regular feature of the Tampa Times
Dear Readers:
I have just returned from a typical Midamerican town, complete with neat houses, white picket fences, and welcome mats before the front doors. The journey, however, took me not to a house, but to a church. It’s an unusual church by most standards, with a membership larger than many American towns. But this institution is home to the man who was my first prospect to receive the note: a successful pastor I’ll call Jim.
Jim is an attractive fellow—in his early forties, slim, and intellectual-looking. Our interview was pleasant, and I came away impressed with his abilities and his honesty. As a minister, I’m sure he often deals with people who are overwhelmed by sorrow, perhaps that’s why he seemed to handle his own grief with dignity and reserve.
But after I showed Jim a copy of the note, it took only a moment for him to decide it could not have been written by his father. The handwriting was not familiar, he told me, and he usually referred to his father as “Pop,” not “Dad.” His most important reason for refusing the note was simple: though separated by many miles, apparently this father and son remained close, so his father didn’t need to pen a final farewell. Though I don’t want to reveal the note’s message until I have found its rightful owner, I can say the writer offered forgiveness—and forgiveness, Jim told me, would have been unnecessary.
