From the Heart

by Nora Roberts

  She felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Thorpe standing tall beside her.

  “Thorpe,” she managed as he stepped in front of them. Her eyes were eloquent. Thorpe lifted the old woman from the curb gently. She was still clutching the album. He slipped an arm around her, murmuring in her ear as he led her toward the paramedics. Liv let her forehead drop to her knees.

  She had to pull herself back together if she was going to do her job. A reporter couldn’t afford personal involvement. She could hear someone coughing violently as smoke clogged her lungs. The wind brought it still closer.

  “Liv.” Thorpe took her arm and drew her to her feet.

  “I’m all right,” she said immediately. She heard another explosion. Someone screamed. “Oh, God.” Her eyes flew back to the building. “How many people are still trapped in there?”

  “They haven’t been able to break through to the sixth floor yet. Anybody still on it, or in that plane, is gone.”

  She nodded. His voice was calm and unemotional—exactly what she needed. “Yes, I know.” She took a deep, cleansing breath. “I need something to put on the air. I have a stand-up to do.” She looked at him again. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was on my way in to the station.” There was a smear on her cheek from the smoke and ash. He rubbed it off with his thumb. He kept his voice light. “This isn’t my beat, Liv. I’m not here for a story.”

  She looked past him to where paramedics were working frantically on a burn victim. “I wish to God I weren’t,” she murmured. From somewhere to the left, she heard a child screaming for her mother. “I hate this part of it—poking, prying into people’s pain.”

  “It isn’t an easy job, Liv.” He didn’t touch her. He wanted to, but knew that wasn’t what she needed.

  She looked over as her crew made their way toward her. Liv took the scribbled note from the sound technician with a nod.

  “All right, we’ll shoot from here with the building at the back.” Drawing a breath, she faced the camera. “After I’m into it, I want you to pan the building.” She took the mike again and waited for the cue that would patch her into the station. “Then focus in on the plane before you cut back to me. Keep in the background noise.” In her earphone, she heard the countdown to cue.

  “This is Olivia Carmichael, outside the Livingston Apartments, where at nine-thirty this morning charter flight number 527 hit the sixth floor of the building.” Bob panned the building as she continued. “The cause of the crash has not yet been confirmed. Fire fighters are evacuating the building and working to gain access to the sixth floor and the plane. There were fifty-two people on board, including crew, en route to Miami.” The camera came back to her. “There is no report as yet on the number of casualties. Burn and smoke-inhalation victims are being treated here by paramedics before being transported to the hospital.”

  Thorpe stood back and watched as Liv continued the report. Her face was composed, but for her eyes. The horror was there. Whether she knew it or not, it added to the impact of her facts and statistics. There were still traces of soot on her cheek, and her skin was dead white against it. A viewer looking beyond the words would see a woman, not just a reporter. She was good at her job, he reflected, perhaps because she constantly struggled to tamp down her emotions. The effort showed from time to time and made her more accessible.

  “This is Olivia Carmichael,” she concluded, “for WWBW.” She waited until they were off the air, then whipped off the earphone. “All right, get some tape of the paramedics. I’ll find out if they’ve gotten through to the sixth floor yet. Get a courier out here. They’ll need whatever we’ve got for the noon news.”

  Liv felt the control slip back into place. She wasn’t going to fall apart again.

  “Very efficient,” Thorpe commented.

  Liv looked at him. He was all quiet intensity, all understated strength. It disturbed her that for just a brief moment she had needed him—simply needed to know he was there to lean on. It was a luxury she couldn’t afford to allow herself.

  “The trick is being good at it,” Liv repeated. “Let’s say we finally have a point of agreement.”

  He smiled and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Want me to hang around?”

  She stared at him, struck with conflicting emotions. Why was he so easily able to move her? “Don’t be nice to me, Thorpe,” she murmured. “Please don’t be nice to me. It’s simpler when you’re a louse.”

  He bent and touched her lips with his. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  “Don’t,” she returned, but he was already walking away. Swearing, Liv spun around. She couldn’t worry about Thorpe. She still had information to gather and a story to finish.

  Liv watched the tape on the eleven o’clock news. It was a different feeling than she had experienced during her own earlier broadcast. Sitting behind the desk, giving her report and watching herself on the monitor, she could separate her emotions from her job. Now, alone in her apartment, watching the tape as any other viewer, the tragedy washed over her again. Sixty-two people had died, and fifteen more had been hospitalized, including four fire fighters. The reports weren’t official yet, but it looked as though a pilot error had been responsible.

  Liv thought of the woman she had tried to comfort on the curb—the precious photo album she had clutched, the stunned grief, then the mourning. There had been no survivors from the sixth floor.

  The time of day had been a blessing. Liv had said so herself in her report. Most of the apartments had been vacant. Children had been in school, adults at work. But the little Dawson boy in 610 had had the flu.

  Rising, Liv snapped off the set. She couldn’t think about it, couldn’t dwell on it. She pushed at her temples. It was time to take a couple of aspirin and go to bed. Nothing could change what had happened in the morning hours, and it was time to find her distance again.

  It occurred to her, as she crawled into bed, that she had missed dinner. Hunger might be partially responsible for the severity of her headache, but she was too weary to take anything more than the aspirin. Shutting her eyes, she lay in the darkness.

  This is what she had decided she wanted. Quiet, privacy. No one to depend on—no one to answer to. What she had now was hers; what mistakes she made were hers. That was the best way.

  She opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling, wondering just when she had begun to doubt that.

  The phone beside her shrilled, and Liv sat straight up. She fumbled for the bedside lamp, then picked up a pencil even as she lifted the receiver. Who but the desk would call her at midnight?

  “Yes, hello.”

  “Hello, Liv.”

  “Thorpe?” Liv dropped the pencil and lay back. He was incredible.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to say good night.”

  She sighed, then was grateful he couldn’t see her smile. She didn’t want to give him any encouragement. “You woke me up to say good night?”

  “I’ve been tied up. I just got home.” Thorpe yanked off his tie. If there was one thing he hated about the job, it was ties. “Want to know where I’ve been?”

  “No,” Liv returned dauntingly, and heard him chuckle. Damn it, she thought, then propped her pillow behind her. She did want to know. “All right, where were you?”

  “At a meeting with Levowitz.”

  “Levowitz?” Her attention was caught. “The bureau chief?”

  “That’s the one.” Thorpe pried off his shoes.

  “I didn’t know he was in Washington.” The wheels began to turn in her head. Levowitz wouldn’t make a trip from New York to D.C. without good cause. “What did he want?”

  “Harris McDowell’s going to retire at the end of the year. He offered me the spot.”

  The news wasn’t nearly as surprising as his casualness. Being offered McDowell’s job was nothing to take lightly. Exposure, power, money. To be considered ca
pable of stepping into McDowell’s shoes was no idle compliment. It was an accolade.

  Liv searched around for something to say, and settled on, “Congratulations.”

  “I didn’t take it.”

  Now she waited a full beat. “What?”

  “I didn’t take it.” Thorpe pulled off his socks and tossed them in the direction of the hamper. “You’re off this weekend—” he began.

  “Wait a minute.” Liv sat up straighter. “You turned down the most prestigious position in CNC or any other news organization in the country?”

  “You could put it that way if you want.” He lit a cigarette from his second pack that day.

  “Why?”

  Thorpe blew out a stream of smoke. “I like working the field. I don’t want to anchor, at least not in New York. About this weekend, Olivia.”

  “You’re a strange man, Thorpe.” She settled back against the pillows. She couldn’t quite figure him out. “A very strange man. Most reporters would kill for the job.”

  “I’m not most reporters.”

  “No,” she said slowly, considering. “No, you’re not. You’d make a good anchor.”

  “Well.” He smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. “That’s quite a compliment from you. Want some company?”

  “Thorpe, I’m in bed.”

  “If that’s an invitation, I accept.”

  Unable to do otherwise, she laughed. “No, it’s not. I haven’t had a conversation like this since high school.”

  “We can go out and neck in the back seat of my car.”

  “No thanks, Thorpe.” Relaxed, she snuggled down into the pillows. When was the last time, she wondered, that she had had a foolish conversation in the middle of the night? “If you only called to say good night . . .”

  “Actually, I called about tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What about it?” Liv yawned and closed her eyes.

  “I’ve got two tickets for opening game.” He stripped off his shirt and tossed it to follow the socks.

  “Opening game of what?”

  “Good God, Liv, baseball. Orioles against the Red Sox.”

  He sounded so sincerely shocked by her ignorance, she smiled. “Dick Andrews handles sports.”

  “Broaden your outlook,” he advised. “I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty.”

  “Thorpe,” she began, “I’m not going out with you.”

  “It’s not a seduction, Liv; that comes later. It’s a ball game. Hot dogs and beer. It’s an American tradition.”

  Liv turned off the light and pulled the covers up over her shoulders. “I don’t think I’m making myself clear,” she murmured.

  “Try it again tomorrow. Palmer’s pitching.”

  “That’s very exciting, I’m sure, but—”

  “Twelve-thirty,” he repeated. “We want to get there early enough to find a parking place.”

  Sleepy, she yawned again and let herself drift. It was probably simpler to agree. What harm could it do? Besides, she’d never been to a ball game.

  “You’re not going to wear one of those hats, are you?”

  He grinned. “No, I leave that to the players.”

  “Twelve-thirty. Good night, Thorpe.”

  “Good night, Carmichael.”

  She was smiling as she hung up. Just before she drifted into sleep, she realized her headache had disappeared.

  6

  Memorial Stadium was packed when they arrived. Liv was to learn that Baltimore was very enthusiastic about their Orioles. There were not, as she had presupposed, only men wearing fielders’ caps and clutching beers in the stands. She saw women, children, young girls, college students, white- and blue-collar workers. There must be something to it, she concluded, to draw out so many people.

  “Third base dugout,” Thorpe told her, gesturing down the concrete steps.

  “What?”

  “That’s where we’re sitting,” he explained. “Behind the third base dugout. Come on.” Taking her arm, he propelled her down. She frowned out at the field, trying to put together what she knew of the sport with the white lines, brown dirt and grass.

  “Know anything about baseball?” Thorpe asked her.

  Liv thought a moment, then smiled at him. “Three strikes and you’re out.”

  He laughed and took his seat. “You’ll get a crash course today. Want a beer?”

  “Is it un-American to have a Coke instead?” While he signaled a roving concessionaire, Liv leaned against the railing in front of her and studied the field. “It seems simple enough,” she commented. “If this is third base here, then that’s first and second.” She gestured out. “They throw the ball, the other guy smacks it and then runs around the bases before someone catches it.”

  “A simplistic analysis of the thinking man’s sport.” Thorpe handed her the Coke.

  “What’s there to think about?” she asked before she sipped.

  “Strike zones, batting averages, force-outs, double play balls, switch hitters, wind velocity, ERAs, batting lineup, bull pen quality—”

  “All right.” She stopped him in midstream. “Maybe I do need that crash course.”

  “Have you ever seen a game?” Thorpe leaned back with his beer.

  “Snatches on the monitor during a sportscast.” She glanced around the stadium again.

  The sun was bright and warm, the air cool. She could smell beer and roasted peanuts and hot dogs. From somewhere behind them, a man and woman were already arguing over the game that was yet to be played. There was a feeling of involvement she had completely missed in her occasional glimpses of a ball game on the television screen.

  “This is a different perspective.” She studied the scoreboard. Its initials and numbers told her little. “So, when does it start?” Liv turned to face Thorpe, to find him studying her. “What is it?” The unblinking stare made her uncomfortable. The distance she had planned on hadn’t worked. Now she began to wonder if the casual friendliness she had decided upon would fare any better.

  “I’ve told you. You have a fantastic face,” he returned easily.

  “You weren’t looking at my face,” Liv countered. “You were looking into my head.”

  He smiled and ran a finger down her fringe of bangs. “A man should understand the woman he’s going to marry.”

  Her brows drew together. “Thorpe—”

  Her intended lecture was cut off by the blast from the organ and the roar of the crowd.

  “Opening ceremonies,” Thorpe told her, and draped his arm behind her chair.

  Liv subsided. Just humor him, she cautioned herself. The man is obviously unstable. She settled back to watch the hoopla of the season’s start.

  By the end of the first inning, Liv was lost, and completely fascinated. “No one got any points,” she complained, and crunched a piece of ice between her teeth.

  Thorpe lit a cigarette. “Best game I’ve ever seen was in L.A., Dodgers and Reds. Twelve innings, one to nothing, Dodgers.”

  “One point in twelve innings?” Liv lifted a brow as the next batter stepped into the box. “They must have been lousy teams.”

  Thorpe glanced at her a moment, saw she was perfectly serious, then burst out laughing. “I’ll buy you a hot dog, Carmichael.”

  The batter dropped a short single into left field, and she grabbed Thorpe’s arm. “Oh, look, he hit one!”

  “That’s the wrong team, Liv,” Thorpe pointed out wryly. “We’re rooting for the other guys.”

  She accepted the hot dog and peeled off a corner on the packet of mustard. “Why?”

  “Why?” he repeated, watching as she squeezed the mustard on generously. “The Orioles are from Baltimore. The Red Sox are from Boston.”

  “I like Boston.” Liv took a healthy bite of the hot dog as Palmer whipped a mean curve by the next batter. “Shouldn’t he have swung at that one?”

  “Don’t like Boston too loudly in this section,” Thorpe advised. The crowd roared as the batter grounded into a double play.

/>   “Why didn’t the man on first just stay where he was?” she demanded, gesturing with her hot dog.

  Thorpe kissed her, surprising her with a full mouth. “I think it’s time for that crash course.”

  By the bottom of the fifth, Liv was catching on to the basics. She’d taken to leaning over the rail as if to get a closer view. The score was tied at three to three, and she was too involved to be surprised her adrenaline was pumping. In her excitement, she had forgotten Thorpe was a lunatic. Her shield was slipping.

  “So, if they catch the ball in foul territory before it hits the ground, it’s still an out.”

  “You catch on fast.”

  “Don’t be a smart aleck, Thorpe. Why are they changing pitchers?”

  “Because he’s given up two runs this inning and he’s behind on this batter. He’s lost his stuff.”

  She leaned her chin on the rail as the relief pitcher took the mound to warm up. “What stuff?”

  “His speed, his rhythm.” He liked the way she was absorbed in what was happening on the field. “He isn’t getting his change-up over, and his slider isn’t working.”

  She gave Thorpe a narrow look. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “How long have you been coming to games?”

  “My mother took me to my first when I was five. Washington had the Senators then.”

  “Washington still has plenty of senators.”

  “They were a ball team, Liv.”

  “Oh.” Again, she rested her chin on the rail. He grinned at her profile. “Your mother took you? I would have thought baseball a father-son sort of thing.”

  “My father wasn’t around. He wasn’t much on kids and responsibilities.”

  “I’m sorry.” She turned her head to look at him. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s no secret.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t traumatized. My mother was a terrific lady.”

  Liv looked out to the field again. Strange, she mused, she hadn’t thought of Thorpe as ever being a child, with a family, growing up. She tried to picture it. Her vision of him had been limited to a tough, hard-line reporter with a gift for biting exposés. Thinking of him with a childhood, perhaps a difficult one, altered the view. There were entirely too many facets of him. She had to remind herself she didn’t want to explore them.