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Jack majored in journalism in college, and used his military experience as a springboard to reporting news in foreign countries. Lately, all he seemed to see was death and destruction. He rubbed his hand across his eyes. He continued to see it in his dreams at night. But if he didn’t keep going, he might take time to rethink things. Who knew where that would lead? Look at Sam. From a detective in New Orleans to a sheriff in a backwater town in Mississippi.
Losing his wife must have been hard. Jack had liked Patty a lot. How had Sam stood it?
“Contentment?” Jack said, just to prod his old friend. “You sound like you’re ancient. What happened to the fire you had for righting wrong?”
“Hey, I can right wrongs here as well as in New Orleans,” Sam replied easily. “I know my neighbors. I’ve made some good friends over the last couple of years. And I don’t see the drug dealers or killers like I used to in the city. It’s realigned my thinking about mankind.”
“Don’t you get bored?”
Sam shrugged. “Not as much as I thought I would.”
“So what am I supposed to do while I’m here?” Jack knew he was whining, and didn’t like it. The thought of moving elsewhere didn’t help. Who else would put up with him while he convalesced?
“I’d suggest we go dancing, but with your bum leg, I don’t think that would work.” Sam laughed at Jack’s dour expression.
“I don’t go dancing even when my leg isn’t banged up,” he groused.
“I know. Tomorrow you can ride shotgun with me, see the town, meet some folks. Maybe you’ll find something to do. If not, you’re on your own. I’m not your keeper.”
Not like his mother or sister, Jack thought, who fussed over him every moment he was awake. They hadn’t wanted him to do anything more than sit in front of a television all day to rest his leg. That had driven him nuts. He wasn’t an invalid, just temporarily sidelined.
Maybe he was still a little nuts. He couldn’t settle down for a minute. He was restless sitting on the porch. Sam, on the other hand, seemed content to linger in the twilight and talk with an old friend.
Was he destined to seek that adrenaline rush all his life? Jack wondered. If he didn’t find some diversion soon, he’d head back to New Orleans.
To what? A motel room and television? He didn’t even have an apartment to call his own. Since he traveled all the time, it made no sense to have one. Mail was sent to his folks’ house, where they held it until he made one of his infrequent visits, or to the office in Atlanta to be forwarded to his latest posting. Any bills were paid through his bank.
He looked at the porch, at the yard. Not a lot to see in the gray of evening. “You buy this place?” he asked.
“Yep,” Sam said.
“So you’re staying.”
“I’ve been here a couple of years. Like what I have. I’m staying.”
Two years in one place. A house. Jack looked at his friend, feeling the gap widen. They’d been close as boys, even as young men, talking big, living for adventure. But their paths had diverged, and now Sam seemed to belong to another world, unlike the one Jack was familiar with.
Or was he the one who lived in another dimension? Risking life and limb daily to get the story. Seeing the hot spots in the world. Making a difference. God, he couldn’t wait to get back.
He stretched out his left leg, wincing at the pain that shot through it. His foot had all but been blown off. Only the skill of the surgeons at the military hospital in Germany had saved it. Whether he would ever regain full function was still questionable. He could walk, though, using a cane. That was what mattered now. He’d work on the mobility once the cast came off. With any luck, he’d be back on the front lines in only a few months—if he survived this interval in Maraville, Mississippi.
“Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” Jack said, knowing he didn’t have any choice.
They were silent for a while. Then Jack looked at Sam. “Been dating lately?” Patty had been dead for more than three years. He was curious as to whether Sam was moving on.
Sam shook his head. “You?”
Jack shrugged. “The front lines of a war aren’t exactly conducive to meeting women. Any prospects in Maraville?”
Sam laughed softly. “Not unless you like them really young. Anyone our age is already married, or has long left for brighter lights.”
“See, I was right. This town is dead. No one stays here if they can go elsewhere.”
“So I’m getting to be an old fogy, is that what you’re saying?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“I’m not ready,” Sam said softly. “I still miss Patty like she died yesterday.”
“At least you had five years together. I’m sorry as hell, Sam. She was the best.”
“You ever think about settling down?”
“Never. I’ll be reporting to you live from the next trouble zone when I’m in my eighties.” Jack hoped it was true. If his foot didn’t heal properly, he might never go on that kind of assignment again. He didn’t want to think about it.
“I told Etta Williams you were coming to visit,” Sam said.
“Who is Etta Williams?”
“The local librarian. She wondered if you would do a couple of talks at the library about being a foreign correspondent.”
“I don’t see myself talking to a bunch of gray-haired old ladies about the death and destruction in Iraq.”
“Etta seems to feel younger people would be interested in how to get into journalism, how to get into foreign reporting. The basics of the business, with an occasional personal story thrown in to showcase your unique style.”
Jack laughed. “My unique style?”
“Standing in front of firing artillery to report the latest developments,” Sam said drily.
“Hell, why not? It’s not as if I have a lot of other pressing engagements.”
“Yeah, I thought you’d feel that way.”
“So you already accepted for me?” Jack asked.
“No, it’s still your choice. But it’ll give you something to do. How about Wednesdays for a few weeks.”
“If I stay here that long.” Jack wondered if the medication was dulling his senses. He wasn’t used to giving speeches or answering questions. He reported news—hard news. He wondered when the last thing of any interest had happened in Maraville. Probably during the Civil War.
“Stay, or go,” Sam said. “But if you stay, try to fit in, don’t find fault with everything you see. I know we’re not Baghdad or Cairo. But this is a nice town. The people are real. These are the folks the soldiers are fighting for.”
“So maybe I can do a human-interest story.”
“Or maybe you can just live here for a while and not do a story,” Sam suggested. “When was the last time you lived your own life and not a news story?”
Jack frowned. It was what he was made for—getting the news out to the rest of the world. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
Until then, he might as well regale people with the realities of reporting. It wasn’t all glamour and excitement. A lot of it was drudgery—digging for facts, verifying each one, cross-checking references and sources. Making sure the report was as unbiased as possible.
“I’ll tell Etta in the morning,” Sam said.
A pickup truck drove down the street, passed the house, then braked. After backing up, it parked in front of Sam’s place. When a man got out and headed for the porch, Sam rose and went to the steps.
“Evening, Cade,” he said.
“Sam.” He glanced at Jack. “Am I interrupting?”
“Come on up. This business?”
“Not really. Just wanted to see if you had narrowed down the search for Jo Hunter.”
“No.” Sam made introductions and offered Cade a beer, which he took as he settled in a chair.
“April showed up today,” he said. “She and Eliza are talking a mile a minute, so I left right after dinner. It would be great if we could find Jo while April is here. Those girls were close. I know Eliza’s talked about nothing else since April said she’d come.”
“I’ll see about sorting through the lists we have and narrowing the search,” Sam said. “I didn’t think it was urgent.”
“Someone missing?” Jack asked, his curiosity aroused. Was there a story in this?
Cade explained about three girls who were raised by one of the local residents. “They lost touch when they were sent to separate foster homes twelve years ago. Two of the girls are back in town now and would like to locate the third.”
“One’s engaged to Cade,” Sam interjected. “Eliza Shaw.”
“Yeah, guess that’s my main reason for coming by,” Cade admitted. “I’d love to have Jo show up and surprise both her and April.”
Sam told Jack about the search he’d started for Jo Hunter and the lack of leads he’d turned up so far.
“She could be dead for all we know,” he finished.
“Or married, or living underground,” Jack said. Maybe there was no story after all.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” Cade asked. “You look familiar. Not from Maraville, but New Orleans maybe?”
“From CNN, probably,” Sam said. “Jack’s been in Iraq until recently.”
“You’re that Jack Palmer. I should have recognized you immediately. Sorry about that.” Cade looked at Jack with new interest. “Sometime, if you’re in the mood, I’d like to hear more about what’s going on over there.”
“Jack plans to give a series of talks at the library, starting on Wednesday,” Sam said.
“A series sounds long-term,” Jack growled. “I don’t know how long I’m staying.”
“Okay, one or two talks,” Sam amended. “I want to hear them myself.”
“Let me know the time, and I’ll do my best to be there.” Cade stood up to go. “Thanks for the beer. Call me if you hear anything that might help us locate Jo.”
Jack needed to rethink his approach to the library talks. Maybe his audience wouldn’t only be gray-haired ladies after all.
BY WEDNESDAY MORNING, April was feeling more acclimated to the Mississippi spring. The hot, humid days zapped her energy—what little she had—so she rested as much as possible. The nights were cooler, and she and Eliza stayed up late talking. They had so much to share. April couldn’t believe she’d been here several days and they still talked nonstop from dinner to bedtime.
This morning she had helped Eliza dust and vacuum the rooms they were using. The renovations seemed to spread dust everywhere. There’d been four men working on the project the past couple of days, and every time she walked by, they stopped to stare, strike up a conversation, make an excuse for her to stay and talk. She didn’t mind talking with the workmen, but whenever she was around they seemed to compete with each other for her attention. Maybe she should mention it to Cade, but on second thought she decided against it. There was no sense making a big deal time, and she’d do her best to be friendly but not encourage their flirting. She’d had to deal with situations like these before.
She’d gone to visit Maddie both days. April wasn’t sure who had changed, her or Maddie, but their visits were going well. Maybe that was partly due to the fact Maddie couldn’t talk, but April didn’t think so. She skimmed over her marriages, focusing on her life in Paris. Maddie seemed to love hearing about her flat, about the fresh baguettes from the boulangerie, and the lively cafés on the Left Bank. April tried to give her career a bit of a spin, glossing over how hard it was to maintain her slim figure by constantly watching what she ate, and getting enough sleep to keep circles from beneath her eyes.
Today Maddie had been tired from her physical therapy, so April had stayed only a few minutes. She should stick to late afternoon or evening visits, rather than right after lunch. With nothing else to do, she walked down the main street of town, reminiscing as she went. Passing Ruby’s Café, she glanced inside, debating whether to stop for a cup of coffee or not.
Before she made up her mind, the door burst open and a waitress came rushing out.
“April Jeffries. Eliza said you were here. I’m glad to see you.”
April was embraced in a friendly hug.
“Betsy?” She hugged the woman back. Betsy had been more Eliza’s friend than April’s. She and Eliza had embarked on a fledgling catering business in Maraville, though Betsy was keeping her regular job until their new company was financially secure. She was the first friend from school other than Cade that April had seen in the two days she’d been in town.
“You look fantastic,” Betsy said. “I can’t believe you’re a supermodel in Europe. All I’ve ever done is stay in Maraville and marry Dexter Bullard.”
“Sounds like as good a way to live as any,” April said diplomatically. Truth to tell, she’d once hoped to do something very much like that. After two failed marriages, those dreams had changed.
“Come in and have something to eat,” Betsy said.
“Not just now. Maybe tomorrow. I ate lunch before I went to see Maddie.”
No matter how glad she was to see Betsy, April didn’t feel up to talking with an old acquaintance. Tomorrow, she promised herself.
“Okay, then. Maybe I’ll stop by the house later and we can catch up.”
April nodded. She’d heard a lot about Betsy from Eliza already. She’d have to look up some of her own friends—if any had remained in Maraville. But not today.
Continuing her walk down the main street, she passed the library, noticing a poster with a picture of Jack Palmer, CNN correspondent, prominently displayed on the door.
She did a double take. Jack Palmer here in Maraville? She often saw him on television at home, where her satellite connection pulled in both CNN and his feed to the BBC. What in the world was a reporter of his reputation doing in Maraville? According to the poster, giving a series of lectures starting today.
Intrigued, she walked into the cool building. The scents of old books assailed her and she smiled at the once-familiar smell. She’d spent many afternoons in this place as a child. Fewer afternoons as she grew older.
Following the signs to the public meeting room, April wasn’t surprised to find it almost full. Glancing at her watch, she saw Jack was scheduled to begin his talk in a few moments. Taking a chair in the last row, she leaned back. She was tired, but she might as well rest here as at home. At least she’d be entertained and feel less guilty for not helping Eliza more.
JACK HOBBLED to the chair before the small table and sat down. He’d walked over from Sam’s place and his leg was throbbing. The librarian introduced him and he nodded, letting his gaze travel around the room. It was crowded. He wouldn’t have thought this many people in Maraville would be interested in anything he had to say.
There were the older people he’d expected. Sam had stopped by. He saw several other men their age, and some teenagers. In the back of the room his regard paused a moment on one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Blond hair seemed to float around her head. Even from this distance he could see the deep blue of her eyes. Probably a wife of one of the town’s leading citizens.
“Thank you for coming,” he began. “I didn’t expect such a turnout. Television often portrays news reporting as glamorous and exciting. I can attest to the exciting part, on occasion. But glamour is often missing.” He launched into the talk he’d roughed out the night before. He didn’t need notes. He knew what he had to say. He wanted these people to know how difficult it was to get unbiased information, and the hardships reporters and camera crews faced. He provided insights into what drove the men and women who reported the news, interspersing his lecture with incidents he or one of his friends had experienced. Sometimes he drew laughter. Sometimes he saw tears in the eyes of his audience. One teenager seemed to hang on his every word.
Finishing up, Jack asked if there were any questions.
“When are you giving another talk?” the teenager asked eagerly.
“Same time next week. I’ll cover a different aspect, so if you come back, you won’t hear the same thing.”
“Awesome,” the kid said, grinning.
