Speaking of tidbits, his stomach had finally convinced him it was time to quit. Lunch was a distant memory, and he wouldn’t achieve anything useful by checking out the snack machine.
He paused automatically at the newsroom door. His attention sharpened. Someone was still there. In a few quiet steps, he had a clear view.
Amanda sat at her desk, her attention riveted on the computer screen. A strand of that sleek brown hair swung forward, brushing her cheek, and the glasses she habitually wore for computer work had slid down her nose, giving her a slightly disheveled look. Charming, but not her usual polished veneer.
Staying late to work didn’t fit with the image he had of her as the belle of the social ball. But then, he’d already figured out that there was more to Amanda Bodine than his snap judgment of her.
She’d found the courage to stand up to him today. While he didn’t welcome opposition, especially from a subordinate, he had to admire the grit it had taken.
He’d come down too hard on her, that was the truth, and it had been nagging at him for a couple of hours now. That conscience his grandmother had instilled in him could be a troublesome thing at times.
He didn’t want to feel that he’d been unfair to her. But he couldn’t ignore the truth.
Besides, he still needed her. Threatening to fire her wouldn’t encourage her father to come across with any information.
He realized he was gritting his teeth, and he forced his jaw to relax. Mending fences was clearly indicated. He’d never been especially good at that.
He walked toward Amanda’s desk. At the sound of footsteps she looked up, startled. When she recognized him, she slicked her hair back behind her ear with one finger and slipped the glasses off her face. He couldn’t mistake the aura of defensiveness that wrapped around her.
“Amanda.” He lifted an eyebrow, trying not to look intimidating. “What keeps you at the office so late?”
Her eyes widened, as if his genial tone was cause for astonishment. “I…I came back after supper to do a little work.”
He leaned against the corner of her desk, moving a silver-framed photo so that he wouldn’t knock it over, looking at it as he did so. Amanda and her twin, her parents, the two older brothers, all in jackets and jeans and looking windblown as they walked on the beach. A nice family portrait. His gut tightened.
“Doing some research for a story?”
“Not exactly.” Her lips pursed, as if trying to decide how much to tell him. The sight distracted him for a moment.
He managed a smile. “It doesn’t matter to the boss if you’re doing some early Christmas shopping online.”
That surprised her into a smile, and some of the wariness evaporated from her face. “It’s nothing like that. I’m looking into some family history for my grandmother, and I can get better access to records through the newspaper.”
“Family history?” He perched on the edge of the desk. It was proving easier than he’d expected to get past the barriers he’d erected between them this afternoon. “I should have thought your grandmother was an expert on that.”
“She is the family historian, but…” She paused, fiddling with the silver chain that hung around her neck. He had a sense that she was weighing what and how much to tell him.
“But what?”
“It’s sort of a…a bit of a family mystery.”
The stammer was a dead giveaway that poised, incontrol Amanda didn’t want to tell him about it, whatever it was. That just increased his curiosity.
“A mystery?” he said lightly. “Sounds intriguing. Tell me about it.”
“Well, I…” She bit her lip. “It has to do with a distant relative who dropped from sight during World War II. My grandmother is determined to find out what happened to him, and I promised to help her.”
It didn’t escape his attention that she was carefully editing what she said to him. Well, fair enough.
If he could gain her trust by helping her with her little genealogical problem, it might ease things between them in other ways.
“This relative—was he in the service?”
She nodded. “He ran away from home to enlist, as far as we can tell.”
“That’s simple, then. The military records—”
She was shaking her head, and that recalcitrant strand of hair swung back against her cheek again. His hand itched to smooth it back for her, and he clamped down on the ridiculous urge.
“It’s not that easy. He apparently signed up under a false name. That’s what upsets my grandmother—the possibility of never knowing what happened to him.”
He didn’t know a lot about World War II, but the problem intrigued him. “You’re assuming he died in service, are you?”
“I guess we are. I’d think he’d have gotten in touch with the family sometime if he’d come back safely.”
He prodded the problem with his mind, intrigued in spite of himself. How would you go about tracing someone in those circumstances?
“That is tricky. Would he have enlisted locally?” He shook his head. “Probably not, if he didn’t want to be recognized. Unless he wasn’t very well-known.”
“That’s a thought.” She absently slid the hair back behind her ear, frowning at the screen. “I was trying to look at enlistments from Charleston, but you’re right. He’d have been recognized for sure if he’d gone there. But if he went someplace else, how do I begin finding him?”
He pulled over the office chair from the adjoining desk and sat down next to her. He didn’t miss the involuntary darkening of her eyes at his closeness. Didn’t miss it, but tried to ignore it, just as he tried to ignore his own longing to put his hand on her arm.
“Do you know anything about the circumstances? Exactly when he enlisted? Did he have a car? Any other means of traveling very far? Where were the enlistment centers in the area?”
“Some of that I know.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “But you’re pretty good at this investigative stuff, aren’t you?”
“I should be. It comes with the job. Any journalist should have an overdeveloped sense of curiosity.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I have to admit I’m wondering why you’re so eager to help me with this. This afternoon…”
“Maybe that’s why.” He forced the words out, not used to apologizing. “I guess I owe you an apology. I came on pretty strong.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure you want to admit that?”
“All the books on managing staff say that the good boss admits when he’s wrong.”
“I see.” The dimple next to the corner of her lips showed briefly. “I’m delighted to know that you’re trying to be a good boss. Is scaring everyone in the building half to death part of that?”
Was he really enjoying this semiflirtatious exchange? Maybe he ought to back away, but he discovered that he didn’t want to.
“You’re exaggerating. Nobody is that intimidated by me.”
Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Then why does Billy run in the other direction every time he sees you?”
“Billy?” He tried to think of a newsroom staffer by that name and failed. “Who’s Billy?”
“Billy Bradley. The mail room boy who delivers mail to your office several times a day.” Her expression said that he should have known that. “I’m sure those books of yours would tell you that a good boss knows something about all of his people.”
“Maybe so.” He could pull back from the intimacy of this conversation at any moment. Maybe he should. But he didn’t want to. “If you’re so smart, tell me three things about Billy Bradley.”
“That’s easy. Billy helps his mother support two younger brothers. He plays soccer in the little spare time he has. And he longs to be an investigative reporter.”
“Wants to break big stories, does he?” He knew that feeling. “He won’t do that from the mail room.”
“He has those two little brothers and the widowed mother, remember?” Her tone chided him gently. “At this point, he’s happy just to be working for a newspaper while he dreams of big stories. He’s determined to be the best mail room boy ever.”
“I see he has a big cheerleader in you.” He could almost empathize with the kid. Still, he’d never had to work his way up through the mail room. A position had opened up automatically for the congressman’s son.
“I like to encourage people.” The dimple peeked out again.
Intrigued by the dimple, he leaned toward her, his gaze on her face. He saw her eyes widen and her pupils darken as he neared. A pulse beat visibly in her neck, and he fought the urge to touch it, even to put his lips over hers.
Whoa. Back off.
He couldn’t do that. He was her boss. They were in the newsroom. Was he asking to be charged with harassment?
He eased away from her, seeing the recognition in her eyes that must mirror his. They were attracted. Okay, they both got it. And they also both got that they couldn’t act on that attraction.
He got up, the chair rolling soundlessly back. “Well. I’d better get on my way. Let me know if any of my suggestions pay off.”
“Suggestions?” For an instant her eyes were glazed. Then she blinked and glanced toward the computer screen. “Yes, right. Thank you.” She took an audible breath. “Good night, Ross.”
“Good night.” He turned and walked quickly away before he could give in to any of the impulses that rocketed through him.
Chapter Five
A
manda’s steps hastened as she went up the stairs to the beach house. It had been a tense day in many ways, mostly because of Ross, and she was relieved to be on the island, safe from the pressures of the newsroom.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected after those moments she and Ross had alone in the newsroom last night. Maybe a little easing of his attitude toward her, at least, or a sense that he remembered.
Instead he’d been curt to the point of rudeness all day. She’d finally escaped the newsroom, taking C.J. with her. They’d wandered around the Market—Charleston’s venerable open-air institution. She’d been gathering photos and interviews over the summer with some of the women who made sweetgrass baskets, hoping at some point she’d be able to do a story on them. Certainly it was more interesting than most of the pieces she did.
She hurried inside. “Miz Callie?”
“Right here, darlin’.” Her grandmother emerged from the kitchen, beaming at the sight of her, and enveloped her in a hug. “Did you remember the rolls?”
“I sure did.” She handed over the bag of still-warm rolls from the Magnolia Bakery and brushed a kiss on Miz Callie’s soft cheek.
Sometimes she thought that no one in her life ever expressed such obvious pleasure at the sight of her. It was a good feeling, to be so clearly loved, and every one of Miz Callie’s grandchildren knew it.
“Supper’s almost ready, and Georgia and Matt and little Lindsay are joining us. Come along in.”
They found Georgia in the kitchen, forking fried chicken onto an ironstone platter. Through the glass doors, Amanda could see her cousin’s fiancé, Matt Harper, and his eight-year-old daughter, Lindsay, knocking the sand off their shoes. They must have walked across the beach from Matt’s house next door.
She went to open the sliding door for them and stood for a moment, inhaling the wind-borne salt scent of the sea. The tide was out, leaving long tidal pools and a swath of wet sand that glistened, beckoning her to plant some footprints there among the ghost crab trails.
“Hi, Amanda.” Matt, tall and tanned, bent to press his cheek briefly against hers. “It’s good to see you. Lindsay, come give Amanda a hug, honey.”
Matt was beginning to sound like a good old boy after nearly a year on the South Carolina coast. As for Lindsay, she looked like all of them had when they were children, sun kissed and wind tousled.
“Hey, sugar, how are you?” Amanda gave the child a quick hug. “I declare, you’ve grown an inch this summer.”
Lindsay grinned, displaying a space where a front tooth used to be. “Maybe I’ll be the tallest one in my class when school starts.”
“Could be.” If she’d inherited Matt’s height, she might well be.
Lindsay crossed the kitchen immediately to wrap her arms around Georgia’s waist. Georgia said that she and Matt were taking their relationship slowly because of the child, but it looked to her as if Lindsay was ready to claim Georgia as her mother.
“Everyone grab a dish to take to the table,” Miz Callie declared. “It’s ready.”
Amanda watched her cousin during the cheerful bustle of getting the food on. Georgia had never looked happier. The glow in her face when she looked at Matt and Lindsay shouted her love to the world.
Amanda suppressed a tiny pang that might have been jealousy. Georgia deserved every bit of the happiness she was experiencing. It was childish to use that as a reason to wonder when or if it might happen for her.
Once the blessing had been said and the platters of food started around the table, Georgia fixed her with an enquiring glance. “What’s wrong, Manda? You look like someone’s been picking on you. Is it that boss of yours again?”
“Not exactly.” She forked a golden chicken breast onto her plate. “He’s…” Her wayward imagination took her back to those moments when she’d felt lost in Ross’s warm gaze. “Sometimes he can be human. He actually gave me a few pointers on the search for Ned.”
Georgia dropped the spoon she held into the mashed potatoes. “You didn’t tell that newspaper editor about Ned. For goodness’ sake, Amanda…”
“Relax, honey. I didn’t tell him anything except that I was trying to find out what happened to a relative of my grandmother’s. He’s an outsider. He’s not going to know that old story.”
“You said he helped you?” Miz Callie leaned forward, blue eyes bright with the question. “Did you find something?”
“Not exactly, but he gave me some ideas. For instance, Ned wouldn’t have enlisted in Charleston, because he’d have been recognized there. And if he didn’t have access to a car—”
“He didn’t,” Miz Callie said surely. “Goodness, it was so tough to drive then, with gas rationing and all, that folks just didn’t drive anyplace they could get to by some other means.”
“That’s what I thought, so I’ve started checking up on buses and trains. Seems like he’d go someplace within fairly easy reach.”
“I suppose he could have gotten someone to drive him,” Miz Callie cautioned. “Though if so, he still couldn’t have gone far, what with the rationing.”
“Is there a record of where all the enlistment offices were in ’42?” Matt asked.
“There must be. I’m working on that. And on what name he might have used.”
“Eat, sugar,” her grandmother said. “You don’t need to let your supper get cold while you tell us.”
Amanda put a forkful of fragrant fried chicken into her mouth, relishing the flavor. Maybe Miz Callie’s fried chicken wasn’t good for you, as her mother reminded the family each time she tried yet another vegetarian entrée, but it surely was delicious.
“What name would he have used?” Matt asked. “A middle name? A family name?”
“That’s a thought. We ought to make up a list of possibilities to check out.” Georgia traced her fork along the tablecloth, as if writing a list. “I’m getting excited all over again, just talking about it. I think Manda’s really onto something.”
She could search through military records, using some of the family names this time. For an instant she was back in front of her computer, with Ross so close she could smell the fresh scent of his aftershave.
She didn’t want to keep remembering that, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
She’d have to find a way. Ross’s curtness today had to mean that he regretted what happened. Recognized it and regretted it.
That was the best course, surely. Nothing real could ever develop between them, and she’d be smart to accept that.
She forced her attention back to the table. Matt had begun telling an anecdote about one of his clients, an elderly man who wanted to sue his landlord for letting pigeons roost on the gables of the house he rented over in Mount Pleasant’s old town.
She laughed with the rest of them, but the story reminded her of C.J.’s housing problems. Matt, as an attorney, might have some insight.
“What if you had a tenant with a real problem? For instance, he or she had a landlord who refused to fix the air-conditioning in a building where folks were really suffering from the heat.”
“I’d have to know a bit more about it to give advice.” Matt focused on her. “But certainly they have legal recourse if they have a signed lease that includes air-conditioning.
It’s a violation of the warrant of habitability. Is this someone you know?”
“In a way. My intern at work. She lives with her grandmother somewhere in Charleston, and they’re having a lot of trouble with the landlord.”
Matt frowned. “Too often, people are afraid to fight in situations like that. Or they can’t afford to.” His lips twitched as Georgia and Amanda both looked at him. “And, yes, I would take a case like that pro bono, if that’s what you’re planning to ask me. But as I said, I’d need a lot more information.”
“I can talk to C.J., my intern, about it.” Amanda recognized the enthusiasm that gripped her. It was what her brothers liked to call her Joan of Arc response to the little guy getting hurt.
Well, good. Maybe it would keep her distracted from the stupid attraction she kept feeling for Ross.
“Well, now, Amanda, it seems this might be just what you’ve been looking for.”
Amanda stared blankly at her grandmother. Had Miz Callie been reading her mind?
“You’ve been talking about wanting to write an important story, haven’t you?” Miz Callie said. “Seems to me you’ve just found one.”
The idea took root with a sureness that made it seem as if God was sending a message to her through Miz Callie. She reached over to squeeze her grandmother’s hand.
“You know, you might be right about that.”
If this guy got any more evasive, Ross decided, he just might slide right out of the booth at the coffee shop and on out the door.
“Your contracts with the Coast Guard base must be pretty important to your business, Mr.Gerard,” he prompted.
The list of suppliers had finally come through from Amanda’s father, and he’d picked Gerard Plumbing as a good place to start. Now he was starting to wonder about that. Amos Gerard had balked at coming to the newspaper, but finally agreed to meet for a cup of coffee at the coffee shop across the street. So far the coffee was the only thing that had crossed his lips.
Gerard shrugged, wiping a ham-size palm on his jeans. “I guess so. They’re good folks to work with.” His gaze shifted from the coffee cup to the spoon to the sugar bowl without coming to rest on Ross.
“How did you come by that contract?”
He considered himself pretty good at reading the people he interviewed, but he couldn’t decide whether the man had something to hide or was just nervous at talking to someone from the press.
“Saw the announcement and bid on it, like everyone else.” Now Gerard’s gaze did meet his, but with a suspicious glare. “If you’re saying there was anything wrong with my work, you’re way off base. The Coast Guard got exactly what they ordered from me, and at a fair price, too.”
“I’m not questioning your work at all,” he said quickly. If Gerard thought that, he’d clam up entirely. “I’d just like some insight into how the contracts are awarded. Who decides on the supplier, and how they make that decision.”
Gerard’s cheeks rounded, and he puffed out a breath. “I guess they decide who can do the job cheapest, same as everyone else does.”
“It’s a valuable contract for the supplier. Maybe there’s a little extra consideration expected if your company is chosen.”
He’d expect an honest man to take offense at the comment. Gerard just stared at him blankly. Then his gaze slid away again. “I guess…”
He let that trail off, his eyes riveted on the person who had just come into the coffee shop and was coming straight toward them. Amanda Bodine.
Something that might have been anger washed over Gerard’s face and was gone so quickly Ross couldn’t be sure of what he’d seen. Then he slid from the booth, tossing a handful of change on the table.
“We’re done,” he said, and walked quickly away with a curt nod to Amanda as he passed her.
Ross stared after him, speculation flooding his mind. Had Gerard been about to admit something? And if he had, was it the sight of one of the Bodines that had changed his mind? He didn’t want to read too much into that, but Amanda’s entrance had done something.
She paused at his table. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s something I’d like to—”
He cut her off with a jerk of his head in the direction of the closing door. “Do you know the man who just left?”
She turned to look out the plate-glass window at the retreating figure. Gerard’s Plumbing was clearly visible on the back of his shirt. Her brow furrowed.
“Gerard’s Plumbing? I think they’ve done some work for my folks over the years. I don’t think I know him personally. Is there some work you need done?”
That encounter could mean something or nothing, but all his instincts told him that Gerard had been a little too eager to get away from him once he’d spotted Amanda Bodine.
In any event, he couldn’t afford to let Amanda start inquiring into what he was doing.
“Just a casual conversation.” He rose, putting his payment on top of the bill. “I’m headed back to the office. I’ll let you get your coffee.”
Instead of heading for the counter, she fell into step beside him. “I really wanted to talk with you. About a story idea.”
“Bring it up at the editorial meeting.”
She stayed doggedly at his side, and her face was alive with enthusiasm. “C.J. told me about something that’s going on in the apartment block where she and her grandmother live. It seems the landlord is refusing to take care of routine maintenance, not even getting the airconditioning fixed in this heat.”
They stepped out onto the sidewalk as she spoke, and the hot, humid air settled on him like a wet wool blanket. Trying to ignore it—ignore her—he strode across the street.
“That’s not a story, Amanda. It’s a personal annoyance. C.J. and her grandmother should complain.”
“To whom?” She had to hurry to keep up with him. “The landlord ignores the tenants, and from what I can tell, they’re too afraid of being kicked out to raise a fuss. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that. If we ran a story—”
He stopped in front of the building, then immediately wished he’d taken the conversation on inside to the lobby. Where it was cool.
He scowled at her. That didn’t seem to dampen the zeal that shone in her green eyes. “I repeat, it’s not a story. The landlord could have a dozen perfectly good explanations, and you don’t know any of them.”
“But—”
“You’re a reporter, Amanda, not a social worker or a crusader.”
She flushed a little at that. “If I got more information about the landlord, talked to the tenants, then would you consider running it?”
That was the last thing he needed, to have Amanda running off half-cocked and getting herself into trouble. He was starting to feel responsible for her, and that annoyed him.
“Just let it go, Amanda. Get on with the article you already have on tap. If there’s anything in this—”
“There is,” she interrupted, anger sparking in her eyes.
“That decision is mine to make, not yours.”
He held the door open, welcoming the blast of cool air. He could have someone look into the situation and get a handle on whether this was worth an investigation, but that someone wasn’t going to be Amanda. If by any chance that landlord was pulling something underhanded and probably illegal on his tenants, he wouldn’t be too happy to be confronted by a reporter.