out his window, his eyes vague.
I waited, feeling somewhat awkward.
Two things happened at once. Mac’s phone rang and the back door opened. Curt strode in.
Mac, all business once again, waved toward Curt as he reached for the phone. “Go assure him you’re all right while I take this call. Then come back here. I’ve got a feature assignment for you.”
As I went toward Curt, I was sure I was wearing a goofy grin. I still had a hard time believing that this tall, wonderful man loved me. Really loved me. At times my past “romance” with Jack came back to haunt me, bringing with it all the doubts it had created. I was learning to take Curt at his word, but sometimes it was hard. Right now it was easy because of the look of concern in his eyes.
When he pulled me into his arms, I melted. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my cheek against his chest. Thank You, Lord, I thought for the many thousandth time. When I recalled my previous relationship and what I had thought was love, I was appalled at my stupidity. The real thing with Curt made Jack appear a foolish narcissist and me an immature idiot in love with love.
“Are you okay?” Curt asked, his voice gruff with emotion. His cheek rested against my hair.
“I’m fine,” I said into the placket of his white knit polo. “Really.”
“That’s what you always say,” he growled. He kissed the top of my head. “As you race into danger.”
An old argument. I saw my experiences as my job. He saw them as my disregarding danger and being impulsive. He was doing better at learning to accept the situations reporting sometimes put me in than I was at learning to curb my fools-rush-in-where-angels-fear-to-tread tendencies, such as going in Martha’s place.
“No danger this time,” I assured him.
“You always say that, too.” His arms tightened.
I pulled back and looked up at him. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like finding someone dead is just an everyday occurrence.”
A picture of Martha flashed as quickly as a hidden subliminal ad might and I felt tears gather. Curt saw them and leaned down, giving me a brief, hard kiss.
“My tough little reporter,” he muttered in my ear.
A very loud throat clearing made me glance at Mac, who was standing pointedly at his desk, looking at us. I also noticed Jolene watching with great interest. At least Edie made believe she was working.
Curt waved at Mac and stepped back. “I can take a hint.”
Mac nodded and took his seat.
Curt grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll see you tonight.” He grinned and for the first time I noticed the suppressed excitement simmering about him. “I’ve got the most incredible news!”
“What?” I asked eagerly. “The big commission for a new painting?” I knew a large corporation was talking with him about an original work that would be reproduced as the cover of their annual report. The huge painting itself would hang in their corporate headquarters.
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you tonight. But think about how you like North Carolina.”
“North Carolina,” I said to his departing back, visions of the Outer Banks rising with memories of a camping trip with Mom and Dad and Sam when I was a kid. Or were they in South Carolina? Or both? I never could keep those two states straight. “I thought we were going to the Pacific Northwest for our honeymoon.”
SIX
“Are you familiar with Good Hands?” Mac asked me.
“As in the insurance people?” I held my hands together. “You’re in good hands with—”
“No, not them. The guys in town who do stuff for people.”
I felt a very faint flicker of memory, but nothing I could grab hold of. Can you have senior moments in your late twenties? “Stuff like what?”
“Repair houses for needy people. Fix cars for single moms and widows. Do minor plumbing and home decorating.”
“Guys do home decorating?” Now there was an interesting picture—guys hanging pictures and putting up curtains. No, no, Ben. You know orange doesn’t go with purple. Try it with the chartreuse.
“There are women who do that, I think.” Mac thrust a brochure at me. “They’re celebrating ten years of doing stuff and I’d like an article about them. Profile the guy who runs the organization, name of Tug Mercer. Get interviews with some of the people who work with him and quotes from some of the recipients of their help. You know the drill.”
I glanced through the brochure and noted Pastor Hal’s name as a member of what was called the Board of Overseers. Then that faint flicker burst into a full memory of a few months back when the Good Hands director had given a talk one Sunday morning, a combination testimony and pitch for more workers. I’d liked his enthusiasm for what he clearly saw as a mission from the Lord.
Senior moment survived.
“Sounds great, Mac. I’ll get right on it.” I turned to leave.
“Wait.” Mac shuffled through the stacks of papers on his desk. “Another assignment for you.” He pulled out a public relations article, the kind organizations and businesses regularly sent to us, hoping for coverage about some aspect of their activities. Usually the articles didn’t provoke much of a response, but every so often one was worth a follow-up. Obviously Mac felt the sheet he held represented one of those.
“They’ve finally hired Trudy McGilpin’s replacement at Grassley, Jordan and McGilpin.” He thrust the paper at me. “Guy named Tony Compton. Do an article on him.”
Trudy had been a hometown girl who grew up to be Amhearst’s mayor as well as a very good attorney. Her death had rocked the town. Taking her place would be a very hard job. Tony Compton better be tough, savvy and able. He needed to be able to live up to the near sainthood status now conferred on Trudy. I half expected that any day I’d receive word that she was about to be beatified, Amhearst style.
As I took the paper on Tony Compton, I saw that Mac had Dawn Trauber’s picture taped to the outside of the top drawer of his desk, a good place for it since it would be buried if he tried to set it on his littered desk. She was laughing, her eyes slightly squinted against the sun, her hair blowing in the breeze as she tried to hold it off her face. She looked absolutely lovely. And she was, inside and out.
What would be her reaction when she learned MAC was tattooed on the shoulder of a dead ex-girlfriend? I didn’t think she had any illusions about Mac, but emotions and intellect often don’t march in step. The hearts of smart people who should know better are regularly broken. I know that from experience.
Mac saw me looking at the picture and glanced at it himself. With a sad smile, he reached out and traced her cheek with a finger.
“It’ll all work out, Mac,” I said earnestly.
He didn’t exactly roll his eyes,
