His eyebrows rose. "Business? Here at the newspaper?"
"Yes."
He silently waited for her to elaborate.
"I'm here," she said at last, "to find Grayson DeBerg."
And so the mystery deepened, Gray thought.
"You found him," he said.
The magnetic pull the police chief seemed to have on Cara faded.
When he'd turned in his chair, she'd caught another full blast of deja vu. Although she hadn't expected to see him again, his face had been vividly imprinted on her mind. She looked into that face now, noting how his nearly black hair and eyebrows contrasted with the gray-blue of his eyes. Unlike the little boy who had vaporized into the air, he was solid and real.
He was also toying with her.
"You're not Grayson DeBerg."
"Sure I am." He leaned forward in his chair, dangling his hands between his legs. He wasn't wearing his cop's uniform today but a faded long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans that underlined his virility. "But you can call me Gray."
A nameplate was attached to the side of his cubicle. It said the impossible.
That didn't make sense. Gray DeBerg had written about Reginald Rhett III's death a quarter century ago, and this man couldn't be much older than she was. That would have made him five or six at the time of Reginald Rhett's death. Besides, he was the police chief.
"The Gray DeBerg I'm looking for is much older than you. He's been writing for the newspaper for..." Cara paused when she realized she didn't know exactly how long Gray DeBerg had been employed by the Secret Sound Sun. "...for years."
"Oh, you're looking for that Gray DeBerg." A gleam came into his eyes. For the second time in two days, Cara questioned her sanity. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I did say so."
"No. You said you were looking for Gray DeBerg. Everyone around here except me calls him Bergie."
"Bergie?" Another jolt of surprise overtook her. "As in the columnist who writes the 'Bergie's Sound’ column? The one about people doing good deeds for each other?"
"That's the one. He's quite the do-gooder," Gray said without any hint of mockery in his voice. Instead, Cara heard pride. "He also writes about people who need help, people and agencies that do help and projects and programs that should get help. Only one of his columns is nationally syndicated. The rest of the time, he writes about local issues."
"Wait a minute. If you don't call him Bergie, what do you call him?" Cara asked, already knowing the answer.
"Dad."
Cara pressed her lips together. Her situation was growing more complicated. It would have been better had Bergie been childless rather than the father of the one man who had seen her at her most irrational moment.
"Is your father here in the office?" She ignored the fact that he'd been having some fun with her. He must have known she'd been seeking the elder DeBerg.
"He'll show up eventually, although with Dad you never can tell exactly when. Punctuality is not one of his virtues."
"I need to talk to him."
"Why don't you tell me who you are first?" When she didn't immediately answer, he continued, "Or should I just make up a name for you?"
"It's Carissa Donnelly." She paid careful attention to see if her name seemed familiar to him. Not a flicker of recognition passed his face. "Everybody calls me Cara."
"So Cara," he said, and the name rolled off his tongue like a tiger’s purr, "why do you want to talk to my father?"
"I have some business he can help me with."
"What kind of business?"
Cara's instincts told her to trust him, but she'd been wrong about him before. She erected an invisible barricade. "Haven’t you ever heard of tact?"
A corner of his mouth lifted in what could have passed for a smile.
"What's funny?" she demanded.
"I just asked someone the same thing. I'll answer the same way he did. I've never had much use for it. It gets in the way when I’m doing my job."
She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she thought up another retort. If she could stand up to Sam Peckenbush’s angry pit bull, she could stand up to Gray, too. "Just because you're the police chief doesn't mean I have to answer every question you ask me."
"I'm not asking as a police chief. I'm asking as a son. Whatever concerns my father, concerns me."
"Does he know this?" Cara made her voice testy even though she admired his stance. She'd spent years caring for her own ailing parents, years believing their problems were her own.
"It doesn't matter if he knows it or not. It's the truth." His gaze met hers, and Cara couldn't look away. For a moment, she couldn't even breath. "Now why do you want to talk to him?"
A booming voice that carried from halfway across the office nearly obliterated Gray's question, breaking the strange spell. She turned and saw a tall, heavyset man walking slowly toward them.
"Gray, my son. I hope I haven't kept you waiting long." He had an abundance of snow-white hair and tinted glasses that partially obscured his face. He was wearing dark pants in a stretchy material that paid more attention to comfort than fashion. Over his long-sleeved white dress shirt was an eye-catching sterling silver bolo tie imprinted with a turquoise stone in a starburst setting. "I know I'm late again, but I got to talkin' to Mamie over at the tackle shop, and I lost track of the time."
He didn't acknowledge Cara until he was a few steps away. His leathery face had been abused by the sun, but when he smiled she saw the resemblance between father and son in the squareness of his jaw and the even whiteness of his teeth. Cara judged him to be in his early seventies.
"Well, well, well. What have we here? I haven't seen you around before. Please tell me you're with Gray. I have this hankering for grandchildren, but I won't get any if this son of mine doesn't get married again soon."
Married again? Not once since they’d met had it occurred to Cara that Gray could be married. Now she wanted to know everything about him, including what had happened to his wife. She forced herself to remain silent. Gray DeBerg already thought she asked too many questions.
"Your hankering for grandchildren is not a good enough reason for me to get married," Gray said dryly. "And the lady is not with me."
"Is it because he’s a police chief?" Bergie asked, disappointment clearly stamped on his face. "Because, I've got to tell you, police work isn't as dangerous here in Secret Sound as it is in other cities. Sure, we have crime, but I can't remember the last time we had a shootout."
"Dad..."
"Mr. DeBerg, I barely know your son," Cara interrupted. "My name is Cara Donnelly, and I’m here to see you."
"Me?" Bergie pointed to his barrel chest. "If you're here to see me, you must have a problem. That's why people come to me. Problems. They all have problems. And they all need help."
"Actually, I don't need help." Cara slanted a look at Gray. If only he'd go away so she could speak freely. "What I need is information."
"Information?" Bergie covered what looked like momentary puzzlement with a grin that crinkled his eyes and the deep, well-used creases around his mouth. "You've come to the right place for that. Information is my business. But I'm not discussing anything on an empty stomach. If I don’t get some dinner in me soon, I'm going to raid the vending machine and wreck my diet. Your name's Cara, right. Well, Cara, join us."
She hesitated. Although she wanted an audience with Bergie, she didn't need his too-suspicious son listening in. "That's very kind of you, Mr. DeBerg, but I wouldn't want to intrude."
"First of all, call me Bergie. Secondly, it's nonsense to think you'd be intruding. The more the merrier is my motto."
"Then I'd very much like to have dinner with you." She slanted a skeptical look at Gray. "That is, if your son doesn't mind."
"Of course he doesn't mind," Bergie said. "Gray’s as susceptible to a pretty woman as the rest of us. Isn't that right, son?"
"It’s fine by me if she comes to dinner with us," Gray said. She notice
d he'd deftly sidestepped his father's question.
"That's settled then." Bergie held out an arm to Cara. "C'mon, Cara. Take me away from my desk before I eat that candy bar I have tucked away in the upper drawer."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bergie’s stomach grumbled as he followed the ponytailed, fair-haired waitress through the restaurant to a table on a wooden patio that hugged the intracoastal waterway.
He settled heavily into one of the high-backed wooden chairs, his spirits buoyed by the feel of the salt-flavored wind rustling his hair and the sight of his son holding out a chair for the pretty young stranger.
He hadn’t been joking about the grandchildren. He didn’t have much living left, not when the short walk from the parking lot to the restaurant winded him. Besides, he was already seventy-three, way past the age when most men had the satisfaction of seeing their genes passed down to the next generation.
He’d about given up on Gray succumbing to the charms of any of the women in Secret Sound. However, he could tell his son was interested in this Cara Donnelly. Gray shut up tighter than a clamshell when something was bothering him. For the sake of his continued lineage, Bergie hoped that something was Cara.
"Of all the restaurants in Secret Sound, this one is my favorite," Bergie said when they were all seated.
Bergie enjoyed the appreciation that came into Cara’s eyes as she surveyed her surroundings. A wooden railing surrounded a deck with plank-covered floorboards that supported heavy oak tables. In an adjacent marina, the masts of docked sailboats pointed toward the night sky like giant, white toothpicks.
"It’s very pretty," Cara remarked. Whatever else she might have said was cut off by Gray’s snort of laughter.
"Don’t let Dad fool you. He doesn’t like it here because it’s pretty. He likes it because they give you the biggest portions on the coast."
"Nothing worse than going away from the dinner table hungry," Bergie said, laughing. A waitress approached their table. She’d served him countless times before, but the hell of it was he couldn’t remember her name. "Isn’t that right, darlin’?”
“Absolutely,” the waitress said.
“I need something to fortify me before dinner so bring us an order of clam strips and whatever's on tap,” Bergie said. “Hell, bring us a round."
"Just water for me," Cara interrupted.
Bergie wondered if she were one of those health nuts who steered away from all things tasty. Damn if he could do it.
"Make mine a light beer. I’m watching my weight." He said the last as an afterthought, although it would have been more accurate to say he was watching his weight go up. He knew he should be more diligent, but he just couldn’t make himself care enough to stick to a diet.
If it hadn’t been for Gray, he wouldn’t have cared much if he lived or died for going on thirty years.
"I want you to know how much I admire the column you write, Mr. DeBerg." Cara folded her hands in front of her on the table and smiled at him. "It must give you a wonderful feeling of satisfaction to be able to help people like you do."
"Bergie, the name's Bergie. And I don’t do anything more than present facts and let other people do the helping."
"I don’t know about that, Dad," Gray said. "You have a way of phrasing things that really moves people.”
Bergie waved a hand, trying to shrug off the praise, but Cara heaped on some more. "He’s right. You wrote a column about a month ago that was particularly touching. About a teenage girl with leukemia who couldn’t find a bone marrow match.”
"Five or six people from around the country held bone marrow drives for her. Right, Dad?"
Bergie nodded. "All those people concerned about that girl, they’re the ones who deserve to be praised. It gives you reason to believe in the goodness of human nature again, it does."
"What happened?" The question came from Cara, who was leaning forward on her elbows, intent on his answer.
"That’s the subject of tomorrow’s column, as a matter of fact. One of the people who read the column got tested and was a match. Doctors are going to schedule the surgery soon.”
"It must be a great feeling," Cara said, "being responsible for finding a match for that girl.”
Bergie shook his head, and absently fingered the turquoise stone on his bolo tie. "I already told you. I didn’t find her a match. I simply wrote the column.”
"But—"
"But you haven’t told me what you want yet, Cara,” he said, changing the subject.
Gray, usually so difficult to get off his bandwagon, transferred his attention to Cara. "I’ve been wondering that myself.”
"I want information," Cara answered, and Bergie thought she made a point of looking at him instead of his son. "That is, if you don’t mind answering questions on an empty stomach.”
"I'm hungry, dear, not famished." Bergie removed his glasses and wiped them with a napkin. His eyes, he knew, were a washed-out blue, like a garment that had been left on a clothesline too long. He kind of felt that way all over. Dry and used up. "Ask away. I've been wondering what an old man like me can do for a young woman like you."
"I want to know about the Rhett family," Cara said, and he saw her take a breath before she continued in a rush. "I'm a freelance writer working on an article about independently owned small-town newspapers. The Sun has succeeded while so many papers around the country have failed. I thought it would be a wonderful addition to the story."
"If you’re a journalist," Gray cut in, sounding skeptical, “why didn’t you say something about it yesterday?"
Bergie watched her eyes flash, her spine stiffen, her voice sharpen. What was going on here?
"We didn't say more than a few words to each other yesterday,” Cara told Gray.
"Yeah, but—"
"Sounds like a good reason to me not to mention it," Bergie interrupted before they could get into a verbal battle. He sent a warning look at Gray, who clenched his teeth and leaned back in his chair.
"But I don’t understand why you picked me to talk to," Bergie continued, once more at ease. He didn't like conflict of any kind, and he was glad he'd diffused it. "The newspaper's crawling with Rhetts. Reggie Jr. is the publisher, and his brother Curtis is the managing editor. Reggie's daughter Karen is a features writer. Any one of them can tell you more about the family business than me."
"Surely you realize you're part of the story," Cara said. "A bonafide celebrity working at a small-town newspaper."
"Wait a minute," Gray said. "You didn't know anything about my father when you came into the office. You were surprised that he wrote Bergie's Sound."
"You have that wrong," Cara countered smoothly, but Bergie noticed she wouldn’t meet his son's eyes. "I was only surprised that you were trying to pass yourself off as him."
"You tried to tell her you were me," Bergie cut in. "Now why would you do a thing like that, son?"
"I didn't—" Gray began.
"Yes, he did," she interrupted. "But now that I’ve found you, Bergie, it hardly matters anymore."
Bergie couldn't help but chuckle. "You have to admit, though, that it is interesting."
Gray didn't appear to share his belief. His face grim, he lapsed into silence once more. Again Bergie wondered what was going on. He'd been interviewed on plenty of occasions.
"I wanted to start with the publisher, but the newspaper receptionist told me that Reginald Jr. is out of town," Cara said, getting down to business. "Since you've been working at the newspaper for so long, Bergie, I was hoping I could get a little background from you before I talk to the others."
Bergie picked up his beer and took a drink, seeing no reason he shouldn't relate the history of the Rhetts. For the next hour, through the ordering, delivery and consumption of their meal, he told her about Reginald Rhett Sr. The newspaper's founder was a conservative businessman who had made a fortune because he steadfastly resisted expansion until the proper resources were in place.
Then he told her about Regi
nald’s blood son Reginald Jr., who had been born to his beloved first wife only weeks before she died, and his stepson Curtis, the child of his second wife.
Cara didn’t say much of anything until he got to the part about Reginald Sr. leaving his namesake with his newspaper and his stepson with nothing.
"How sad," she said. "I imagine it left Curtis quite bitter."
"Reginald Sr. died thirty years ago." Gray, who had been quiet for most of Bergie's discourse, finally spoke. Bergie knew why. His son knew Curtis was still bitter over the raw deal he'd been handed — who wouldn’t be after being treated that way? — but he didn’t want that mentioned in a magazine article. "Reginald Jr. gave his brother Curtis the job of managing editor. The paper is where it is today because of that decision."
"True. Very true," Bergie said. "Anybody who knows anything about the newspaper business will tell you that Curtis Rhett is a damn fine managing editor. He's tough, but fair. A man who makes a fine ally." Bergie chuckled. "And, I imagine, a rotten enemy."
Bergie grew silent. His well of stories about the Rhetts was running dry. He didn’t think Cara needed much more background for her project, anyway.
"There's just one more blank I need you to fill in, Bergie." She sat up straighter in her chair before continuing. "I want to know how Reginald Rhett III died."
Bergie’s heart went still, as it always did whenever somebody mentioned the little boy, who had died mere days before the light had gone out of Bergie’s world. He couldn’t think of that time without picturing Maggie, his beloved Maggie, looking at him through eyes made old by pain and suffering. Looking at him as though he could rescue her from anything, even the claws of death.
She’d thought he was her hero, because by marrying him she had escaped an abusive father. In the end, he’d done nothing more heroic than hold her hand as she slipped away. Her face had been ghostly pale, as though her diseased heart had already stopped pumping the blood through her veins, and her hand had been cold. So cold.
"Are you talking about the little boy who was hit by a car thirty years ago?" Gray put down his beer mug with an audible thump.
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