“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