Tempting Faith (Indigo Love Spectrum) (2 page)

“The ol’ Faith Wheeler Thirty-Second Interview,” Daiyu said proudly.

“—of her time,” Faith continued, “I’d write a piece that would give her the chance to explain her surgery before other rags put out whatever scandalous version of the story they had cooked up.”

Magda spent a moment giving the pen a serious chewing.

“How’s the smoking-cessation program coming?” Faith asked.

“Fine. I’m down to three ballpoints a day.” She tossed the pen onto her desk. “I’m impressed, Faith. You’re the only scribbler on my staff whose human approach actually works. I’ll give you fifty-five lines for our little songbird and her new beak.” She looked at Daiyu. “You get a two-page photo spread to accompany the story.”

Daiyu raised her fists in triumph. “Thank you kindly, Mags!”

“Don’t call me Mags,” Magda said, turning to Faith. “What do we have on the Baron piece? Anything good, or was he his usual self?”

“He was usual,” Daiyu said, burrowing through Magda’s Italian crystal candy dish. “Answered questions without giving real answers. Faith was weird, though.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Faith said defensively. “I got three questions in.”

“Weird questions,” Daiyu remarked, her mouth stuffed with grape sourballs. “Freaked him out a little bit.”

Magda picked up a fresh pen. She used it to give Daiyu’s greedy hand a sharp tap, and then popped it into her mouth as though it were a cigarette. “Leave my balls alone,” she said.

“Is that a confession?” Daiyu joked.

“Get outta here before I reduce your two pages to a quarter-page vertical banner,” Magda threatened.

Daiyu swiped a handful of Magda’s “balls” before skipping out of the office. Faith was right on her heels, but Magda stopped her. “Not you, Scoop.”

Faith froze in the doorway for a second before returning to her seat.

“You volunteered—actually,
insisted
would be a better word—when I asked for someone to cover the Baron press conference,” Magda said. “After Daiyu’s report, I gotta ask. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No,” Faith answered, grateful for the wiggle room Magda’s phrasing had given her.

Magda slowly unwrapped a yellow sourball and toyed with it. “Okay. But I’m here if there’s anything you want to discuss.”

“Thanks.” Faith shot out of her chair and back into the newsroom. She worked her way through the maze of nondescript cubicles until she reached her own. Taking refuge in her leather swivel chair, she spun around so that her back was to the entryway.

She put on her headphones and pretended to listen to her tape of the Baron press conference so that she wouldn’t be disturbed.

Most of the other day staffers had gone. The night crew had arrived, but there wouldn’t be much to do until photos and reports came in much later from L.A.’s hot spots. A spirited game of office beach volleyball was going on around Faith, but she politely passed on invitations to participate.

Her mind was still on the Zander Baron press conference, which had been one of the most intense experiences of her reporting career. Of her life.

There were so many unanswered questions about Zander Baron. Where was he from? How old was he? What was his real name? In an Internet age, he had managed to exist as a deliberate unknown, keeping the most basic details about himself totally secret even as his star shone brighter with each of his films. With one film, he’d gone from a nobody to the most popular of somebodies. It was as though he’d been created by his studio specifically to occupy the role of film superstar.

His studio, agent and publicist guarded his privacy ferociously; lawyers seemed to stand at the ready to file suit against anyone, or any organization, that dared print any kind of unauthorized information about him.

His mystique certainly increased the public’s interest in him, but his good looks and talent guaranteed that he would not become a one-film wonder.

A multicolored, inflatable beach ball landed on Faith’s desk, scattering a few of the Baron photos spread over it. She tossed the ball back and rearranged the photos. Zander Baron’s ruggedly handsome face stared back at her from each one, as well as from the magazine covers, newspaper clippings and movie advertisements.

He had changed. He was just as handsome, perhaps more so since he was older. He was leaner, looked wiser, and somehow seemed sadder. But Faith was unmoved by the sadness, refusing to spend a shred of sympathy on a man who had broken her heart and scattered the pieces.

She removed her headphones and shoved them into the deep drawer on the right side of her desk. Glancing around furtively, she drew an old yearbook from her satchel. She set the book on her lap, and it fell open to a page she had visited frequently over the past decade.

She looked at the yearbook photo, and then at an eight-by-ten glossy of a movie still from
Reunion
. Zander had changed all right, but not enough to deceive her. His hair had been lightened from coal black to sun-burnished wheat; his teeth were straighter and whiter. He was taller because of improved posture. But he had done nothing to alter the stormy blue eyes that still made her heart beat harder and faster every time she looked into them.

With a frustrated sigh, Faith slammed the yearbook shut and returned it to her satchel. She sat back in her chair, slowly spinning from left to right. The volleyball game was growing noisier and more boisterous, but Faith scarcely noticed. Her mind was three thousand miles and ten years away.

* * *

Faith sat in a corner booth, her geometry textbook and a spiral-bound notebook opened, but neglected, on the table. Calculating the area of a trapezoid would have been much easier if her full attention had been on her homework. Instead, Faith kept stealing glances into the kitchen, hoping to see Alexander Brannon standing at the stainless-steel sink, his apron tied around his hips and a commercial sprayer clutched in his hand.

Alex wore the same dingy whites as the other two kitchen workers, but he filled them out much differently. His nineteen-year-old body was trim, with a lean, sinewy toughness, like an alley cat in human form. Black hair, which he kept rather too long, framed his face. His complexion was unbelievably perfect, probably from the daily steam facials he got from washing plates smeared with runny egg, ketchup, mustard and the various other leavings of the residents of Dorothy, West Virginia. Faith didn’t know what his teeth were like because she’d never seen him smile.

He shifted his gaze from the sink full of dishes and winked at Faith. Exhilaration jolted through her, and she smiled into the pages of her book.

Even though Alex had graduated from Lincoln the previous summer, he and Faith had struck up a friendship in her junior year. On her way home from ballet class, her car, an old Bronco II her father had purchased from one of his employees at the mine, had broken down in front of Red Irv’s. She’d gone into the diner to call AAA, but Red had sent Alex out to take a look at the car. He’d used a pencil to choke the carburetor and the car had started right up. Alex had refused to take money from her, and had only accepted a ride home from work because Faith had made such a scene outside the diner insisting on repaying him in some way.

For Alex, home was a rusting, unkempt single-wide trailer at the base of Kayford mountain, the very mountain Faith’s father’s company mined.

Stark and bleak, the neighborhood was bereft of the touches that made Faith’s cul-de-sac on the other side of town so inviting. There were no nylon banners hanging like family crests advertising the residents’ hobbies, new births or favorite sports teams. A big metal tub splotchy with rust patches served as a swimming pool, and no professional landscapers had ever touched any of the tiny lawns, which were overrun with dandelions, crab grass and clover.

A scrawny orange tabby with bald patches was licking the inner rim of an empty sauerkraut can on the patch of yellowing lawn in front of the Brannon home. The old Harley that Alex usually rode around town was up on blocks, a pan beneath it filled with a thick black substance Faith assumed to be oil.

Alex was about to thank her for the ride when angry voices came from inside the trailer. A man and a woman were arguing violently, but it ended abruptly with her shriek of rage, pain—or perhaps a combination of the two.

“I don’t know why you make me so mad!” the male voice wailed in his Appalachia-flavored accent. His voice softening, he said, “Let me get you some ice, baby girl.”

“You ain’t got no right to be takin’ my smokes, Orrin,” the female voice sobbed, the notes climbing higher. “Jimmy Earl, gimme that carton! I didn’t have to spend one red cent on em!”

Silence. When the man responded, his tone was low, menacing. “Jimmy Earl Latcherie don’t give nobody nothin’ for nothin’. You paid him somehow. You sure as hell better tell me now before I hear it from somebody down the mine.”

She continued sobbing, the sound growing more piteous as it progressed.

“Tell me!” The violent command startled Faith and Alex. It was accompanied by a sharp smack, followed by the crash of something made of glass, and then a heavy thud.

Alex threw open the car door and leaped out, scaring away the hungry tabby. He drew up short, Faith right behind him, when the screech of the woman’s garbled curse words, a sufficient sign of life, hit his ears. His shoulders slumped, he hung his hands loosely on his hips, his face turned up to the darkening sky. His chest rose and fell with his deep breaths.

Faith lightly rested a hand on his forearm, silently offering what comfort she could.

“You don’t belong here,” he said quietly, facing her but not quite meeting her eyes.

“Neither do you,” she replied.

“You’d better go,” he said. “They don’t always keep their arguments behind closed doors. They’ll both be looking for a piece of me once they finish with each other.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Her grip tightened on his arm.

“I can take care of myself.”

Faith eyed the raised scar tissue curving an inch away from the outer corner of his right eye. She also scoped out the big burn scar on his left forearm, a souvenir of a wound she knew had not been sustained at the diner, according to town gossip.

Seeming to read her mind, he said, “I’ll be fine.”

“If I came in with you, maybe he would calm—”

He took her by the shoulders and gave her a little push toward her car. “If you want to help, just get in your car and go home. Please.”

His tone was firm, but his eyes…his troubled, lovely eyes telegraphed his need. But she had no choice but to do as he asked. She had moved through the rest of that night and most of the following day convinced that he would never speak to her again.

So she was delighted and surprised the following Saturday when he cornered her in the regional history section of the Whitesville Public Library.

“I want to talk to you,” he said in a whisper. Even though they were alone in the research section of the small library, he kept his voice low, as if fearing the librarian would kick him out if she found him there.

“Okay,” she’d managed over the piece of her heart plugging her throat. Either he had been off work or he’d skipped the diner to come find her. And he’d dressed for the occasion in clean but very faded jeans, work boots and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He might have even passed a comb through his long black hair, but six miles on his Harley had undone its work. Faith liked him windblown, but she found herself wanting to reach up and brush the hair from his forehead to better see his eyes.

“What d’ya got there?” He nodded at the three books in her arms.

One by one, she displayed them for him and read the titles aloud. “
Celebrating Freedom: African-Americans in West Virginia 1865 to the Present
,
African-Americans in Raleigh County
, and
A Timeline of West Virginia: The Black Experience
. The last one is kind of old.”

“Looks new to me,” Alex said, tapping the unbroken binder.

“I’ll bet I’m the first person to ever check it out.”

“Are you working on a school project?”

“Term paper. For Mr. Taylor’s class.”

“What’s your paper on?”

“The role African-Americans played in West Virginia’s coal mining history,” she answered.

“Seems like your dad would be the best resource for that information,” Alex remarked.

“My father knows the history of the mining company he bought and the business of running it, but he doesn’t know all that much about the role African-Americans played in one of this state’s vital industries,” she said. “Mr. Taylor seemed really interested in my thesis. He says no one has ever covered this topic in his class.” She sighed and glanced at her books. “I can see why. There’s not a whole lot of information in the library system here. My parents are taking me to Chicago next weekend to do some research at the Newberry Library. It’s right near Washington Square Park and Michigan Avenue, so we’re going to make a weekend of it. Mom wants to take me shopping on the Magnificent Mile, and Dad wants to bore me senseless with a tour of the historic architecture of the houses surrounding the park.”

“Sounds nice, actually,” Alex said wistfully.

“Have you ever been to Chicago?”

He lowered his eyes and shook his head. “Farthest I’ve ever been from Dorothy is Roanoke. Went there after graduation last year to see about a job as a rigger. Decided not to take it. Found a reason to stay in Dorothy for a little while longer,” he said, raising his eyes and meeting hers.

Even though he hadn’t given his specific reason, Faith blushed deeply, her skin warming in a new and exciting way.

Alex changed the subject. “Taylor is such a hard-ass. Is he still assigning four term papers a year to his honors American history class?”

“How do you know that?” Faith leaned against one of the bookstacks. “And how did you know I was in honors American history?”

“You’ve been in honors everything since you started at Lincoln,” he said. “And I had Taylor for honors history my junior year.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You were in an honors class?”