by Marta Perry
She grabbed the sides of the slide. “You get yourself outta the way, y’hear? ’Cause I’m comin’ down.”
Amanda snapped quickly while C.J. scrambled out of the way. The child sailed off the end, bounced on her feet, and was headed toward the ladder again when a whistle blew.
“Crafts!” she yelled, and darted off toward the pavilion.
A smile lingering on her lips, Amanda shaded the camera with her hand to check the photos she’d taken, aware of C.J. watching over her shoulder. To Amanda’s amusement, C.J. now wore a neat pair of tan slacks with a shirt in Amanda’s favorite shade of turquoise.
The intern’s attitude had steadily improved since that pugnacious exchange the first day, which was certainly an answer to prayer. Maybe the plain talking Amanda had done had gotten through to her.
Amanda knew perfectly well that she was putting off another serious discussion. She’d spent a couple of hours with C.J. today, and she hadn’t mentioned the housing issue or the possibility of doing a story on it.
Maybe because that wasn’t really a possibility, not as far as Ross was concerned. Amanda’s jaw tightened at the thought. He was being unreasonable, dismissing the idea just because it came from her.
“Why didn’t they send a photographer with us?” C.J.’s question was abrupt, as if she was ready to take offense at their lack of a photographer. “I thought they had pros to do the pictures.”
“The paper does have a few photographers, but not enough to go around.” And too often, the stories she was assigned weren’t considered important enough to warrant a photographer. “If you have a chance to learn anything about digital photography, grab it. That ability improves your chances in a tough job market, believe me.”
C.J. frowned a little, but she nodded. “Did we get enough material from Miz Dottie for the story, do you think?”
Amanda glanced across the playground to the pavilion. A couple of eager high school volunteers were teaching crafts under the benign gaze of the elderly black woman who’d spearheaded the fight to provide this program for the poorest of the city’s children.
“I hope so. There’s plenty more I’d like to say about Miz Dottie, but we’re going to have limited column inches for this story.”
That fact annoyed her. In her opinion, Miz Dottie was a true hero—a woman who’d dedicated her life to her community, sturdily walking over the forces that would have stopped her.
But the paper, in the person of Ross, wouldn’t spare precious space for what he’d dismiss as a “feel-good” story. The old newspaper adage that “if it bleeds, it leads,” seemed to be his motto.
She lifted damp hair off her neck. The stifling heat didn’t seem to bother the kids, but she was wilting. “Let’s head back to the office and pull this together.”
They walked across the playground together, Amanda mentally composing the lead to the story.
“So if I learn to use a camera, I should put that on a résumé.” C.J.’s mind was obviously on her future, not the current story, but Amanda didn’t blame her for that. This internship ought to prepare her for a career.
“Definitely,” Amanda said. She hesitated, knowing the intern was prickly on the subject of higher education for herself. “You know, there are still plenty of loans and scholarships—”
“Not for me,” C.J. cut her off. “You don’t get it. I have my grandmother to take care of. She took me in after my mamma died. Now it’s my turn.”
“I understand. Really.” Wouldn’t she do the same for Miz Callie, if she were in C.J.’s situation?
They got into the car, and she turned the air to high, the movement reminding her again of C.J.’s problem with her landlord. But this time Miz Callie’s opinions on that subject came to the forefront of her mind.
Miz Callie thought she was meant to tackle this issue. If so, she’d have to risk disobeying Ross’s orders. And now was the time.
Come on, Amanda. Are you a woman or a mouse?
She glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled out into traffic. “Is the situation with your hot apartment any better?”
C.J. concentrated on fastening her seat belt. “Not much. I bought a fan. Gran sits in front of it and works on her baskets.”
“Baskets?”
“She makes sweetgrass baskets for the Market.”
“I didn’t know that. I wonder if I’ve talked to her there. I’ve been collecting interviews and photos to do a piece on the sweetgrass basket weavers.”
C.J. glanced at her, lifting her brows. “D’you actually think he’ll let you run it?”
There was no doubt in Amanda’s mind as to who that “he” was. She probably shouldn’t encourage C.J.’s attitude toward Ross, but she had to be honest in her answer.
“I don’t know. But I want to try. Preserving that heritage seems important to me.” The Gullah people of the islands had brought their basket-weaving skills with them from Africa generations ago. Without the dedication of the few who remained, the art would be lost, just another beautiful thing swept away by changing times. “Would your grandmother talk to me about the craft?”
“I guess. Long as you’re not going to make her look like an ignorant old woman.”
She gave C.J. a level look. “Do you think I’d do that?” C.J. returned the look, seeming to measure her. “No,” she said finally.
The level of trust contained in the word pleased her, but now she had to ask the more challenging question.
Please help me, Lord, to do the right thing for the right reason. That was the tricky part, wasn’t it? Miz Callie would say that the Lord expected not only the right actions, but the right heart.
“I was thinking about what you told me about your landlord. Would your grandmother and some of the other tenants talk to me about it? Maybe—”
“You can’t put them in the paper.” C.J.’s voice rose. “He’d kick us out for sure.”
“But maybe just the threat of publicity would be enough to make him mend his ways.” Amanda hoped she was right about that. “I have a friend who’s an attorney. He’s willing to make sure your rights are protected.”
“We can’t afford a lawyer.” C.J.’s face closed, turning her back into the sullen teenager she’d seemed in their first encounter.
“It wouldn’t cost you anything. He’s a friend of mine.” She smiled. “And you’re a friend.”
C.J. averted her face, staring out the window at the busy sidewalks, crowded with locals headed for their favorite lunchtime restaurants and tourists bedecked with cameras. The intern was silent for so long that Amanda was sure she’d blown it.
C.J. traced a line down the crease of her slacks with one finger. “I guess maybe we could talk about it, anyway. See what my gran says.”
Amanda let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “I can’t ask for more than that. I’ll stop by this evening, okay?”
C.J.’s gaze, dark with what seemed a lifetime of doubt, met hers. “Okay.”
Surely, if the door was opening to this, God meant her to walk through.
“This isn’t one of your brightest ideas, Manda.” Hugh, Amanda’s next older brother, peered disapprovingly at the apartment building where C.J. lived that evening. “Reminds me of the time you rushed into the neighbor’s house, convinced it was on fire because you saw an orange glow in the bedroom window, which turned out to be mood lighting.”
Would no one ever let her forget that? “This is different.”
“Let me go in with you, okay?”
“No way. C.J.’s leery enough of talking to me. Confronted with you, she’d clam up entirely.”
“Why?” He tried to make all six foot four of himself look innocuous. He didn’t succeed. “I’m harmless.”
“You know that and I know that, but oddly enough, most people find you intimidating. Useful in law enforcement, but not in this.” She patted his tanned cheek.
“Thanks for driving me. I sure wouldn’t want to leave my car on the street in this block.”
“Just be a good brother and come back for me in about an hour and a half. If I’m going to be longer, I’ll call you.”
Hugh, probably knowing from a lifetime of experience that he couldn’t dissuade her, nodded. “Daddy would scalp me if he knew I let you come here after dark. And you, too.”
True, this wasn’t an area she’d normally frequent, but she hadn’t been able to come until C.J. got home from her job waiting tables. At this hour, the stoops and sidewalks were empty of children playing and women gossiping. A couple of men came out of the tavern across the street, talking loudly, and a group of teenage males drifted down the street, silent as smoke.
“I’ll be fine.” She slid out before she could change her mind. “See you later.”
Despite her bravado, she was relieved that he waited at the curb, his size intimidating, until she’d been buzzed into the building. Once the door shut behind her, she waved through the glass. Hugh got back into his car and drove off.
There were definite advantages to having big brothers, annoying as they could be sometimes. She checked the row of mailboxes to be sure she had the number right and headed for the stairs.
She picked her way up, avoiding a few broken risers, her forehead damp with sweat before she reached the landing. The air was stifling, and the handrail had come away from the wall, dangling uselessly. That couldn’t make it easy for C.J.’s grandmother to get up and down. Whether the landlord had done anything illegal she didn’t know, but he certainly wasn’t taking care of his building.
The apartment C.J. shared with her grandmother was on the third floor. She arrived slightly out of breath and knocked. C.J. opened the door almost before she’d taken her hand down.
“Hi, C.J.” She hoped she sounded as if this visit was a normal thing for them. “I hope I’m not late.”
C.J. shook her head, glancing back over her shoulder into the apartment. “My gran’s not…Well, she’s not real happy about this. She doesn’t feel so good tonight.”
“No wonder, hot as it is.” She looked pointedly beyond the intern.
C.J. opened the door wider and motioned her in. “You’re welcome to come in. I’m just letting you know how things stand.”
Amanda stepped into a living room that was hot and airless, but scrupulously clean. Handmade lace doilies topped the backs of chairs and set under lamps. But it wasn’t the doilies that captured Amanda’s interest. It was the baskets.
Sweetgrass baskets, handmade by a master weaver, sat on every surface. A large one held newspapers and magazines, while a half dozen smaller ones were in use for everything from fruit to balls of yarn.
She picked up a shallow serving basket, its top edge intricately braided, the base striped in tan and brown that reminded her of the marshes in winter. “This is beautiful.”
“You know what that basket is for?” A sharp voice cracked the question.
Amanda turned, basket balanced on her palms, to see the erect elderly woman who stood in the doorway of what must be a bedroom. She was tiny, but she held herself erect with the dignity of a judge. Maybe she was a judge, at that, because she studied Amanda as if weighing her heart.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a pie basket, isn’t it? My grandmother has one like it.”
The woman inclined her head in a slight nod, as if awarding Amanda a point. “I heah from my granddaughter that you’re a Bodine. Miz Callie your grandma?”
“She is.”
Another point. She set down the basket. Judging by the perspiration that glistened on the elderly woman’s skin, they ought to sit down and take advantage of the breeze from the fan C.J. must have put in the front window. But she could hardly suggest it. Apparently, the woman hadn’t made up her mind whether Amanda was welcome or not.
“Gran, this is Amanda Bodine.” C.J. rushed the introduction, sounding rattled. Well, she was standing between two of the authority figures in her life. “Amanda, I’d like to introduce my grandmother, Miz Etta Carrey.”
“Miz Carrey, I’m glad to meet you. We think a lot of C.J. at the newspaper.”
That must have been the wrong thing to say, because the woman’s lips tightened. “My grandchild says you’re talking about putting something in the paper about our troubles with the landlord. She shouldn’t have mentioned our business. It’s private.”
Nothing like getting right to the heart of the matter. “If your landlord is breaking the terms of your lease, it’s not right. Maybe the threat of publicity will do what complaints won’t.”
“Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t. We’re not going to know, ’cause you’re not writing anything about us for that newspaper.”
“Gran—”
“You, hush.” The woman turned on C.J., dark eyes snapping. “You think he’s not gonna know it came from us if something’s in that paper, with you working there every day? Next thing we’ll be out in the street, lucky if we get our belongings out with us.”
“Amanda has a lawyer she says would help us.”
“No!” The woman showed the first sign of strain, reaching out to grasp the door frame, her hand twisted by arthritis. “It can’t be, Catherine Jane, and you should know that. You can’t go against your family, just because of that job at the newspaper.”
For an instant Amanda didn’t know who she meant, but of course C.J. must stand for Catherine Jane. An elegant name, but one that must sound hopelessly old-fashioned to a teenager.
C.J. went quickly to put her arm around the elderly woman’s waist. “I’m not, Gran. I’m not.” She sent Amanda a look that seemed to say this was her fault. Which, she guessed, it was. “You’d better go.”
Miz Callie would say that a lady always knew when to end a call. That apparently was now.
Amanda nodded and moved to the door. “I’m glad to have met you, Miz Carrey. I hope sometime you’ll let me talk to you about your baskets.”
C.J. pulled the door open, all but shoving Amanda through. “Just go,” she muttered. She closed the door firmly in her face.
Amanda started back down the stairs, her stomach twisting. That had been short, but not sweet. She hadn’t handled it well. She ought to have…Well, she didn’t know what. She felt as if she’d stumbled in the dark and didn’t know where she was.
She’d thought she was doing the right thing. Maybe the truth was that she was doing what she so often did—rush into a situation on impulse instead of waiting for guidance. Just as Hugh had pointed out.
She’d reached the sidewalk, with the building door closed behind her, before she recognized an unpalatable fact. She was in trouble. Hugh wasn’t coming for her for over an hour, and this wasn’t a place to stand around with a handbag and a camera slung over her shoulder. At night. Alone.
A burst of noise and music spilled out of the bar across the street. She took a couple of hurried steps toward the curb. The bar wasn’t the sort of place she’d normally enter, but at least there’d be people around while she waited for Hugh. She dragged her cell phone out to call him, its screen a welcome light in the dark.
She’d reached the curb when she saw them—figures, hardly recognizable in the dim light. The teenage boys she’d noticed going in? Maybe. They drifted closer, and her stomach turned over.
Hugh really would have something to say about this. She should have called him before she ever left the building. She glanced behind her. If she ran for the door, could she get inside before one of them reached her? With a shiver that must have been fear, she knew the answer was no.
Fragments of advice from the self-defense class she and Annabel had taken jostled in her mind. Fight? Run?
Before she could decide, a car sped down the street and screeched to a stop next to her. The driver leaned across to open the door.
“Get in. Now.” Ross sounded fully as angry as she’d been imagining her broth
er to be. Maybe more so.
Never mind. She was too glad to see him. She slid into the car and slammed the door.
Chapter Seven
Ross wasn’t sure which emotion was stronger—sheer anger that Amanda had put herself in danger by disobeying a direct order or the fierce protectiveness that had swept him when he’d seen her on that curb. Now that he knew she was safe, it was probably anger.
“What were you thinking?” he erupted, accelerating down the dark street. “Did I or did I not tell you to leave that story alone? Instead of listening, you walk right into a situation a ten-year-old child would know better than to get into.”
Speaking of listening, she didn’t appear to be paying the least attention to his tirade. Instead, she was twisted around in the seat, staring out the back at something behind them.
“What are you doing? Is someone following us?”
“No.” She turned around again.
In the light of an overhanging streetlamp, he caught a quick, clear image of her face before shadows fell over it again. Her expression stifled any words that were on his lips.
Fear. Amanda—behind that cool, competent facade, Amanda was afraid.
“You’re safe now.” Reluctant sympathy softened his voice. He ought to be delighted she’d been scared. Maybe that was what she needed to keep her from committing such idiocy.
But he wasn’t. Instead, he had an equally idiotic urge to stop the car and take her in his arms. He clamped the steering wheel nearly as tightly as he was clamping his jaw.
“Thank you.” She was staring down at the cell phone in her hand. At least she’d had sense enough to call for help. She shot a sideways glance at him. “How did you happen to come along at just the right moment?”
“No happen about it. I called C.J.’s number earlier this evening and reached her grandmother. She told me you were coming.”
Amanda’s expression said she didn’t quite know which question to ask first. “Why did you call her? You said there was no story.”
He was afraid she’d zero in on that. “I said there was no story without more facts. That’s what I was after.”
