Heart of the Matter (6 page)

For a moment Amanda stood on the hot sidewalk, glaring at him. Then, chin held high, she marched into the building.

He followed, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Amanda was already almost to the elevator. Maybe he’d use the stairs.

She’d taken offense at his decision, not surprisingly. What else was new? It seemed impossible for the two of them to meet on neutral ground. He constantly fought the urge to throttle her.

Or kiss her.

Chapter Six

“C
ome on, can’t you give me a smile?” Amanda coaxed, watching the child’s face in the screen of her digital camera. “Please?”

The little girl sat at the top of the sliding board, dark hair in multiple braids tied with pink ribbons that matched the pink shorts and T-shirt she wore, her lips pressed together firmly.

Amanda glanced at C.J., who’d accompanied her on this assignment. “She’d be an adorable example of the summer playground program if we could get a smile.”

C.J. took the hint and crawled onto the bottom of the slide. “Hey, is this the right way to use this thing?” She planted her palms on the slide and made as if to pull herself up toward the girl. “Is it?”

The child shook her head, solemn for another moment. “No.” The corners of her lips curved up just a bit.

“It must be.” C.J. pretended to scramble upward. “How’d you get up there? You slid up on your tummy, didn’t you?”

“No, ma’am!” The child grinned, eyes lighting up.

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.”

“Then you ought to understand why I don’t want to leave my sister in this block,” he retorted, fixing her with the look that probably made wrongdoers confess on the spot.

“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.”