The Way Home

Chapter Two

Amy took a sip of her drink and glanced around glumly. A charity bachelor auction was the last place she wanted to be on a Saturday night. If her TV station hadn’t bought a table and their lead anchorwoman wasn’t the MC—making this a politically expedient event to attend—the proverbial wild horses couldn’t have dragged her here. Spending an entire evening watching women bid on dates was not exactly her idea of a compelling way to use her precious—and rare—free time.

“Why the long face?”

Amy turned to find one of the younger copywriters from her station at her elbow. She shrugged, groping for the woman’s name. Darlene, that was it. “I can think of other places I’d rather be.”

“Yeah? Spending an evening mingling with a bunch of hot-looking guys doesn’t seem so bad to me. Have you checked out the program?” She waved it in front of Amy’s face. “It’s got all their pictures and bios.”

“No. I’m not planning to bid.”

“I wasn’t, either, until I got here. But I met several of the auctionees during the cocktail hour and now I’ve got my eye on Bachelor #12—over there, by the bar.” She gazed at him longingly. “Man, a date with that dude would be worth a couple hundred bucks! Did you meet anyone interesting?”

Amy shook her head. Actually, she’d only just arrived, putting off her appearance as long as possible. It had been a grueling and frustrating couple of weeks and she was exhausted. Though she’d tried repeatedly to contact Cal Richards—even waylaid him a couple of times enroute to the courthouse—and spent hours in the courtroom after the trial began, he’d hardly spoken to her. Apparently he’d said everything he intended to say at the one encounter when he’d made it clear what he thought of the news media.

Amy sighed. She hadn’t given up on finding an angle on this story. But the assistant prosecuting attorney wasn’t making it easy, that was for sure. Still, she was due for a break. In fact, she deserved one. After all, she’d paid her dues. She’d put in the long hours, sacrificed her personal life, worked the midnight shift in the newsroom, all in the name of career advancement. And she’d accomplished a lot. But not enough. She had her sights set on an anchor slot. And she’d get there, just like Candace Bryce, she vowed, as the celebrity MC stepped to the microphone.

“Ladies, please take your seats so the wait staff can serve dinner—and we can get to the real purpose of this evening. You’ll have about an hour to enjoy your food and plan your strategy. Bon appétit!”

“Our table’s over there,” Darlene indicated with a nod, leaving Amy to follow.

Amy knew most of the women from the station either by name or face, although she didn’t consider any of them “friends.” The broadcast news business was too competitive to foster real friendships. She smiled pleasantly and sat down in the one empty chair, her back to the stage. Obviously her table mates had vied for the seats with the best view, she thought wryly. As far as she was concerned, they could have them. She’d much rather focus on the chocolate mousse promised for dessert than the dessert the other women had in mind.

By the time the mousse was served, Amy was beginning to plan her escape strategy. She’d put in her appearance, been noticed by Candace and stopped on the way to the ladies’ room to chat with the station manager. Her duty was done. In another few minutes she could sneak out, head back to her apartment, take her shoes off, put on some mellow jazz, dim the lights and do absolutely nothing for what little remained of the evening. It sounded like heaven!

As Candace stepped once more to the microphone, a buzz of excitement swept over the room and there was a rustling of paper as the women reached for their programs. While the ladies focused on the stage, Amy focused on her dessert.

The first auctionee was introduced to cheers and whistles, and Amy rolled her eyes. How could grown women behave in such a sophomoric way? she wondered in disgust. And they complained that men acted juvenile! She eyed the exit longingly, but it was too soon to leave. The bidding had barely begun. Resignedly she reached for one of the programs and fished a pen out of her purse. She might as well put the time to good use. In the car this evening, on the way to the dinner, she’d had some ideas about the trial coverage and she wanted to jot them down before they slipped her mind.

As Amy made her notes, she tuned down the surrounding cacophony of sound until it was no more than a background buzz. She’d learned that technique early in her career, when she realized she would often have to compose broadcast copy in the midst of chaos for live feeds. It was a skill that had served her well in the years that followed.

In the one real conversation they’d had, Cal Richards had suggested some angles for her coverage that she hadn’t yet explored. She’d also picked up a few ideas since sitting in on the first couple of sessions of the trial. They had all been filed away in her mind for emergency use, just in case she wasn’t able to break through his wall of reserve. Up until now, she’d been confident she’d find a way to do that. But her confidence was beginning to slip, she admitted. She’d tried everything she could think of, and the man simply refused to budge. It was time to put some of her emergency plans into action.

Amy ran out of room and turned the page to continue her scribbling. Her name fell on Bachelor #5 just as Candace introduced him.

“Now, ladies, here we have a real coup. One of Atlanta’s most eligible and elusive bachelors, who only agreed to participate because of his interest in Saint Vincent’s Boy’s Club, which will benefit from this event. He’s gorgeous, articulate, charming and very available. If I wasn’t already married, I’d bid on this one myself. Ladies, please welcome one of Atlanta’s finest assistant prosecuting attorneys, Cal Richards.”

Amy practically choked on the sip of coffee she’d just taken as the room erupted into wild applause and more catcalls. She stared at his name and photo in the program, then jerked around to confirm that her nemesis was, indeed, present. Sure enough, there he was, looking incredibly handsome in his tux—and extremely uncomfortable in the glare of the spotlight, judging by the flush on his face and his strained smile. Cal Richards, who shied away from publicity, was allowing himself to be ogled by a roomful of raucous women and auctioned off for charity! It was incredible! It was unbelievable! It was…the chance she’d been waiting for, she realized with a jolt! If she bought a date with him, he’d have to talk to her, she reasoned, her mind clicking into high gear. Sure, there was a chance he wouldn’t tell her anything of value. But she was pretty good at ferreting out information. It couldn’t hurt to try, considering she’d run out of other options.

Amy turned to Darlene. “How much are these guys going for?”

Darlene gave her a distracted glance. “What?”

“How much are these guys going for?” Amy repeated impatiently.

“So…someone caught your eye.” Darlene glanced back at the stage and gave Amy a sly smile. “I can’t say I blame you. He’s a hunk. Even if he wasn’t a prosecuting attorney, my defenses would crumble with him in five seconds flat.”

The bidding had already started, and Amy needed information—fast. In the interest of time she restrained the impulse to throttle Darlene. “It’s for a good cause,” she replied with a noncommittal shrug.

Darlene wasn’t buying. “Yeah, right.”

Amy gave up the pretense of disinterest. “So how much?” she repeated urgently.

“The last guy went for three-fifty.”

Amy cringed and glanced back toward the stage. Was it worth the gamble? Cal Richards didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would bend. But even if she got one lead, one piece of information that gave her an edge, it would be worth the money. It was almost like an investment in her career, she rationalized.

Amy glanced around. Women were holding up numbers and calling out their bids. She turned back to her table, spotted the large number in the center and reached for it as the bid rose to three hundred.

She waited until the bidding slowed at four-twenty-five.

“Okay, ladies, is that it? Any more bidders? No? All right, then…” Candace raised her gavel. “Going…going…”

Amy took a deep breath, turned her head slightly away just in case Cal Richards could see past the glare of the spotlight, and held up her number. “Four-fifty.”

There was a momentary hush, and her heart thumped painfully against her rib cage.

“Four-seventy-five,” someone countered.

Amy gulped. “Five hundred.”

A murmur swept the room.

“Now, ladies, that’s what I call a bid!” Candace said approvingly. “Do I hear five and a quarter?”

Amy stopped breathing. Five hundred was about her limit, especially when the odds of hitting the jackpot were about on a par with winning the lottery.

“No? All right, Bachelor #5 is going, going, gone, to table thirty-two and one very lucky lady.”

As enthusiastic applause swept the room and her table mates congratulated her, Amy hoped Candace was right. Because she could use a little luck about now.

“Cal, there’s a woman on the phone who says she won you in an auction. Is she a nut, or is there something you haven’t told me?”

Cal closed his eyes and felt the beginning of a headache prick at his temples. He hadn’t mentioned the auction to anyone in his office, especially not Cynthia. She was a great friend and legal assistant, but ever since she’d walked down the aisle a year ago, she’d made it her personal goal in life to watch him do the same. And she was nothing if not tenacious. “She’s not a nut, Cynthia, and yes, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

As the silence lengthened, he could feel her growing impatience over the line.

“So are you going to come clean of your own free will or do I have to drag it out of you?” she finally demanded.

A bemused smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. “Have you ever thought about going into police work, Cyn? You’d be great at the third degree.”

“Hah-hah. Spill it, Richards.”

He sighed. There was no way around it. He and Cynthia had been co-workers and friends a long time, and she wouldn’t rest until she had the whole story. “I agreed to be one of the bachelors auctioned off at a charity dinner last Friday. A good chunk of the money goes to Saint Vincent’s, so I couldn’t say no.”

“No kidding! Mr. Particular, who finds fault with everyone I suggest as a potential date, is actually going to go out with some strange woman?”

“I certainly hope she’s not strange.”

“Very funny. So do you want to talk to her or not?”

Cal sighed again. No, he didn’t. But he’d have to face this sooner or later, and he might as well get it over with. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Do try to restrain your eagerness,” Cynthia said dryly. “Remember, this woman paid good money for you. You could at least show a little enthusiasm. How much, by the way?”

“Five hundred.”

She gave a low whistle. “All I can say is, you better make this date something to remember. I’ll put her through.”

“Wait! Did she give you her name?”

“No. Don’t you have it?” Cynthia asked in surprise.

“I cut out early that night. She hadn’t gone back to pay yet. They said she’d be in touch with me.”

“Well, it’s payoff time now. Have fun, lover boy.”

Cal grimaced and took a deep breath. This was the most awkward thing he’d ever done, even if it was for a good cause. He just hoped the woman could at least carry on a decent conversation, or it would be one very long evening.

He heard the call go through and, remembering Cynthia’s comment about how much money the bidder had paid, forced a pleasant note into his voice. “Cal Richards speaking.”

“Mr. Richards, I believe we have a date.”

He frowned. The voice was oddly—and unsettlingly—familiar, and a wave of uneasiness swept over him.

“Yes, I think we do,” he replied warily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name the night of the dinner, although I have a feeling we’ve met.”

“Yes, we have. This is Amy Winter.”

Amy Winter? The reporter? Impossible! Fate wouldn’t be that unkind, not after he’d endured being auctioned off in front of hundreds of women, let himself be humiliated for charity. It couldn’t be her!

“Mr. Richards, are you still there?”

It was her, all right, he realized with a sinking feeling. Now that she’d identified herself, he recognized that distinctive, slightly husky voice. His headache suddenly took a turn for the worst, and he closed his eyes. “Yes, I’m here. Look, Ms. Winter, is this a joke?”

“Hardly. I paid good money for this date. And I have the receipt to prove it.”

“But why in the world…?” His voice trailed off as her strategy suddenly became clear. He wouldn’t talk to her in a business setting, so she figured he’d have to in a social situation. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and his headache ratcheted up another notch. “It won’t work, you know,” he said coldly.

“What?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Ms. Winter. You’re still trying to get me to talk about the trial. Well, forget it. You wasted five hundred dollars.”

“It went to a good cause. Besides, how do you know I didn’t bid on you because I really wanted a date?”

“Ms. Winter, anyone who looks like you doesn’t need to buy dates at an auction. Let’s stop playing games. You bought a date, I’ll give you a date. And that’s all I’ll give you. How about dinner Friday night?”

“How about sooner?”

“Sorry, that’s the best I can do.”

“Okay. Just name the time and place.”

“I’ll pick you up. That was part of the deal.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

Cal frowned. She sounded miffed. And she had a right to, he conceded guiltily. As Cynthia had said, she’d paid good money for their date, whatever her motivation. He took a deep breath and forced a more pleasant tone into his voice. “I’ll be happy to pick you up. Just give me your address.”

She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. But in the end she relented and they settled on a time.

“I’ll see you Friday, Mr. Richards. It should be interesting.”

That wasn’t exactly the word he would have chosen, he thought grimly as he hung up the phone, reached for his coffee and shook out two aspirin from the bottle he kept in his desk drawer. On second thought, he made it three. Amy Winter was definitely a three-aspirin headache.

As Amy replaced the receiver, she realized her hand was shaking. The strain of keeping up a breezy front with the recalcitrant assistant prosecuting attorney had clearly taken a toll. She’d always been out-spoken and assertive, but “pushy” wasn’t her style. Which was unfortunate, given the career she’d chosen. Though she’d learned to be brash, she hadn’t yet learned to like it. The in-your-face approach just wasn’t her. But it was part of the job, and she figured in time it would get easier. The only problem was, she’d been telling herself that for years now.

Amy took a sip of her herbal tea and gave herself a few minutes to calm down. Cal Richards didn’t like her, and though she knew she shouldn’t let that bother her, it did. She liked to be liked. But she’d chosen the wrong business for that, she reminded herself wryly. Investigative reporters didn’t usually win popularity contests. Acrimony went with the territory.

For a fleeting moment Amy wondered if she might have been happier using her reporting skills in some other way. But she ruthlessly stifled that unsettling thought almost as quickly as it arose. It was way too late for second-guessing. She’d invested too much of her life and energy building this particular future to question it now. She’d very deliberately set her sights on a career as an anchorwoman, and she knew exactly why.

First, she liked the glamour. She enjoyed being in the spotlight, relished her pseudocelebrity status.

Second, she liked the big-city lifestyle. Unlike her sister, Kate, who had actually enjoyed small-town farm life, Amy had always dreamed of the bright lights and the excitement of the city. If the lights were more garish than dazzling up close, well, that was more a reflection of the nature of her work—which often took her to seedy areas—than of the actual city, she assured herself.

Third, she liked the money. Or at least the freedom it gave her. The freedom to travel to the Caribbean on exotic vacations, the freedom to live in an upscale town house, the freedom to walk into any store in Atlanta and buy whatever designer outfit she chose without having to give up something else to do so. Money had always been tight on the farm. Her parents had done their best, but she had vowed to put the days of homemade prom dresses and hand-me-downs far behind her.

Fourth, she liked feature reporting, especially human-interest stories that uplifted and inspired and made people feel optimistic about the goodness of the human race. True, those rarely came her way. Someday, though, when she made her mark, she would be able to pick and choose her assignments, decide when and if she wanted to come out from behind the anchor desk. But that was still a long way down the road. In the meantime, she did what she was told and worked hard to get the best possible story. Including bidding on a date with a man who clearly disliked her.

Amy sighed and took another sip of tea, trying to find something positive in the situation. She thought back over their conversation and suddenly recalled Cal’s comment about her not needing to buy a date. So he thought she was attractive, she mused. It wasn’t much, she acknowledged, but it was a start.

“Hi, Gram. How’s everything at home?”

“Cal? My, it’s good to hear your voice! We’re both fine. Jack, it’s Cal,” she called, her voice muffled as she apparently turned her head.

Cal smiled and leaned back, resting his head against the cushion of the overstuffed chair as he crossed an ankle over his knee. Just hearing the voices from home made him feel better.

“Your dad’ll be right here, son. How’s life in Atlanta?”

“Okay.”

“Hmph. I’ve heard more enthusiasm from old Sam Pritchard.”

Cal smiled again. Sam Pritchard was legendary in the mountains for his blasé reaction to life. As usual, his grandmother had tuned right in to Cal’s mood. Probably because she was one of the few people who knew of his growing dissatisfaction with city life.

“Sorry, Gram.” He modified his tone. “I can’t complain. The job is demanding and stressful, but it’s worthwhile work, and I’ve been blessed in a lot of ways.”

“Are you taking any time for fun?”

Cal pondered that question. Fun? The only time he really had any fun was when he went home, and that wasn’t often enough. When he was in the city, he was too busy for much socializing. His job ate up an inordinate amount of his time, and most of the little that remained he spent at Saint Vincent’s.

“I get out once in a while,” he hedged.

“You need to take some time for yourself, son,” the older woman persisted, the worry evident in her voice. “A body needs more in life than work and responsibilities. You meet any nice women lately?”

For some reason, his social life—or lack thereof—had become a hot topic over the past year. His grandmother seemed to think that if he got married and had a family, many of his doubts and issues would be resolved. Frankly, he thought a romantic entanglement would just complicate matters. He needed to get his life in order, make some decisions about his future, before he got involved in a relationship. That was only fair to the woman. And it was that sense of fairness, not lack of interest, that kept him from serious dating. In fact, in the past couple of years he’d begun to long for the very things his grandmother was suggesting, had become increasingly aware of an emotional vacuum in his life. He’d lain awake more nights than he cared to admit yearning for warmth, for a caring touch, for someone who would listen to the secrets of his heart and share hers with him. He wanted to fall in love. It was just that now was not the time.

“Cal?” his grandmother prompted. “It wasn’t a hard question. ’Course, if it’s none of my business, that’s okay.”

“Actually, I have a date Friday night,” he offered, to appease her.

“Well! Now that’s fine.”

He could hear the surprise in her voice, could tell she was pleased, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He should explain the situation. After all, it wasn’t a real date.

“It’s no big deal, Gram. Just dinner.”

“Everything has to start somewhere. Where did you meet her?” she asked eagerly.

He felt himself getting in deeper. “At the courthouse. But Gram, she…”

“Is she a lawyer, too?”

“No. She works in TV. Actually, that’s how…”

“My! That sounds interesting. What’s her—oh, your dad’s ready to talk to you. We’ll catch up some more later. You call us again over the weekend, okay?”

Cal sighed as the phone was passed on. He’d certainly handled that well, he berated himself. Now his grandmother would get her hopes up, jump to all sorts of wrong conclusions. But he’d be better prepared when he called the next time. He’d use the old “we just didn’t click” routine, and that would be the end of that.

“Cal? How are you, son?”

Cal settled deeper into the chair. “Hi, Dad. Fine. How’s everything there?”

“Same as always. Quiet. Things don’t change much in the mountains, you know. But tell me about you. I know there’s a lot more going on in Atlanta than there is here.”

Cal relayed some recent events that he knew his father would enjoy hearing about—the black-tie dinner, though he made no mention of the auction part of the evening, a meeting he’d had with the mayor earlier in the week, the publicity the Jamie Johnson trial was receiving. As usual, his father ate it up.

“My, son! You sure do lead an exciting life. But you deserve all your success. You worked hard for it. And I’m proud of you. I was just telling Mike Thomas about the governor’s commission you were appointed to. He was real impressed.”