Dismayed, Amanda recognized her crusading spirit rising. It was the same irresistible urge that led her to one lame duck after another, always convinced that somehow she could help them.
And she had, more often than not. Her brothers insisted that her victims, as they called them, responded because that was the only way they could get rid of her, but she didn’t buy that. That hapless Bangladeshi student at College of Charleston would have been sent home before he finished his degree if not for her organizing his fight to stay. And the article she’d written about endangered sea turtle nests had helped move along a new lighting ordinance.
Given C.J.’s attitude toward her, it was unlikely that the young woman would be one of her success stories. Still, she had to try.
“If you really mean to make journalism your career, an internship is a great place to start, especially getting one while you’re still in high school. I didn’t have one until the summer between my junior and senior years of college.”
C.J.’s eyes betrayed a faint spark of interest. “Where did you go?”
“University of South Carolina. I interned at the Columbia paper that summer. Writing obits,” she added, just in case C.J. had missed that part. “What schools are you looking at?”
C.J.’s dark eyes studied the floor. “Can’t afford USC, that’s for sure. Maybe I can work and take classes at Trident,” she said, naming the community college.
Amanda opened her mouth to encourage her and closed it again. She didn’t know what kind of grades C.J. had, or what her home situation was. It would be wrong for her to hold out hope without more information.
She hadn’t ever had to doubt that she’d be able to attend any college she could get into. Her parents had put a high priority on education for their four kids, no matter what they might have to sacrifice. C.J. might not be so lucky.
“How long you been here, anyway?” C.J. glanced around the newsroom, gaze lingering on Jim for a moment. As well-informed as she seemed, she undoubtedly knew that he wrote the kinds of stories Amanda could only dream about.
“Three years.” She’d had her reasons for coming home, good ones, but maybe it hadn’t turned out to be the smartest career path.
She was closing in on her ten-year college reunion, and still near the bottom of the journalism ladder, writing stories no one read but the people immediately involved.
C.J. eyed her. “If I had the edge you have, I’d sure be doing better by the time I got to be your age.”
Was C.J. the voice of her conscience, sent to remind her that it was time she accomplished something worthwhile? Or just an obnoxious kid who would alienate everyone who might be willing to help her?
She slapped one hand down on her desk, making the silver-framed photo of her family tremble. “Now you look.” She put some fire into her voice. “This internship can be the chance of a lifetime for you, but not if you go into it determined to annoy everyone you meet. You may be bright and talented, but so are a lot of other people. Talent won’t get you anywhere without hard work and plenty of goodwill. Got that?”
She waited for the kid to flare up at her. C.J. pressed her lips together for a long moment. Finally she nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered.
Well, that was progress of a sort. Maybe C.J. had what it took to get something from this experience. She prayed so.
As for C.J.’s opinion of her—there wasn’t much she could do to change that, because like it or not, it was probably true.
Ross’s finger hovered over the reply icon for a moment, then moved to delete. Finally he just closed the e-mail. He’d consider later what, if anything, he should say to his mother.
How long had it been since she’d been in touch with him? A month, at least. And that previous message had been much the same as this latest one—an impersonal recitation of his parents’ busy lives. A perfunctory question as to how he was doing. A quick sign-off.
As for his father…well, he hadn’t heard from his father since he left D.C. The last thing Congressman Willard Lockhart needed was a son who’d made the front page in the headline rather than the byline.
“Ross? Do you have a minute?”
He swung his chair around and rose, startled at the sight of the Bugle’s owner, Cyrus Mayhew. “Of course. What is it?”
“Nothin’ much.” Cyrus wandered in, moving aimlessly around the office.
Ross felt his hands tighten and deliberately relaxed them. When Cyrus got aimless and folksy, it was a sure sign there was something on his mind. He might not know a lot about his employer yet, but he did know that.
Cyrus picked up a paperweight and balanced it on his palm, then put it back. He moved to the window, walked back to the desk. Peered at Ross, blue eyes sharp beneath bushy white brows. Someone had compared Cyrus to Mark Twain, and he seemed to deliberately cultivate the similarity.
The tension crawled along Ross’s skin again, refusing to be dispelled. “Something special you wanted, sir?”
“Just wondering if you got that intern settled. Seemed like a nice youngster—maybe a little rough around the edges, though.”
That was an understatement. “I assigned her to work with Amanda Bodine.”
“Good, good. Amanda will take her under her wing. Might be a good role model for her.”
She would, but somehow he didn’t think that was all that was on Cyrus’s mind today.
“Was there anything else?” he prompted.
“Well, now, I wondered what’s going on with that tip we discussed. Anything in it?”
“It’s too soon to tell.”
Maybe he’d have been better off to keep that tip to himself. Was Cyrus really the elderly gadfly, intent on keeping the establishment honest? Or would he, like so many others, sell anyone out for a big story?
His stomach clenched. The face of his former mentor and boss flickered through his mind, and he forced it away. It didn’t pay to think about the mentor who’d sacked him without listening to explanations, or the friend who’d stabbed him in the back without a second thought.
“But you’re lookin’ into it, aren’t you, son?”
“I’m following up on everything we have, which isn’t much. An anonymous call from someone who said businessmen were paying graft to get contracts at the Coast Guard base. A couple of anonymous letters saying the same thing, but giving no other details.”
Cyrus nodded, musing, absently patting the round belly he was supposed to be dieting away. “We need to get on the inside, that’s what we need.”
“I’m working on that now, sir. I have an appointment with someone down at the base this afternoon.”
Maybe it was best not to mention who. And even more important not to mention that tantalizing fragment he’d overheard from Amanda’s grandmother.
“Good, good. Keep at it.” Cyrus rubbed his palms together, as if he were already looking at a front-page spread. “We can’t afford to let this slip through our fingers. This is the real deal—I can feel it.”
“I hope so.” For more reasons than one.
Like Cyrus, he wanted a big story for the Bugle, but even more, he wanted one for himself. He wanted to erase the pain and humiliation of the past year.
Irrational. No one could erase the past.
But one great job of investigative reporting could get his